
# THE CROSSOVER

# THE CROSSOVER

# INSPIRED BY TRUE PARANORMAL EVENTS

##### E. Clay
The Crossover

Copyright © E. Clay 2014

New Paradigm Publishers-All rights reserved

ISBN 978-0-9891548-1-9 (ebook)

ISBN 978-0-9891548-6-4 (paperback)

Typesetting by wordzworth.com

Conversion to eBook by www.wordzworth.com

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by photocopying or any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book.

This book is inspired by true paranormal events, but names and some events have been changed to protect the privacy of those portrayed both living and deceased.

# Contents

 | Twenty-Year Reunion  
---|---  
 | Mind Games  
 | Maxine's  
 | Dinner at the Olive Garden  
 | Rewind to go Forward  
 | Hypno Expo 2011 Part I  
 | Hypno Expo 2011 Part II  
 | Room Service  
 | The Dance  
 | Dark Shadows  
 | Bumper to Bumper  
 | Three Sheets and a Pen  
 | Seat of Power  
 | Person of Interest  
 | I See Smart People  
 | The Debt  
 | Makeover  
 | The Serenade  
 | Virtual Crime Scene  
 | Phone Sex  
 | Legacy Part I  
 | Legacy Part II  
 | Remember My Name  
 | Book Signing at Barnes and Noble  
 | Rude Awakening  
 | The Unforgiven  
 | The Departed  
 | Screen Play  
 | Night Flight  
In Memory of Jo  
From the Author

# Prologue

The Crossover is a book about secrets, dark ones. Clay, the lead character, lives in England and rekindles a relationship from 1991 with Monet. They have a secret, his name is Robert.

Clay visits his mother in Detroit, Michigan and finds his deceased father's journal from 1959. The last entry in the journal reveals a family secret that involves a dead husband and wife. Their names were Gerald and Delcine.

Clay's neighbor, Carl, a London-based detective has a secret that he's keeping from the Press. A secret that's killing single women looking for love online. Carl receives a lead from a star witness who is dying to help. Inspired by true paranormal events.

The Crossover tells the story of a retired psychic entertainer who encounters a strange old woman who delivers a message from the dead. The retired entertainer, a non-believer of the paranormal, is disturbed by the message and searches for its meaning. His journey becomes an indoctrination into the real paranormal against the backdrop of a secret love from the past. The end culminates into a true murder mystery that will keep you guessing.

Do ghosts really exist? This is his account.

# ONE

* * *

# Twenty-Year Reunion

### 12 February 2011, 7:30pm

### Smokey Bones Restaurant, Woodridge, Virginia

My heart was racing a million beats per second as I sat in the back of a yellow cab. It was subzero temperatures that night and the wind was howling. I was so nervous just thinking about being reunited with a love that eluded me over twenty years ago. Vivid flashbacks of days and nights of endless passion were on constant loop in my mind. I thought I would never see Monet ever again after she just disappeared without a trace. I was still numb over the recent revelation that she was pregnant with my child when she decided to go back to her husband back in 1991. It remained a well-guarded secret all these years, even from me. I was on my way to meet them both at a restaurant nearby. I wasn't sure how I was going to be introduced but I would leave that up to her. I wondered if he resembled me.

Every once in a blue moon, I deliberately took steps that I knew would ultimately change the course of my life forever. This would be one of those times; but nothing could make me turn back. I was convinced Monet was back in my life for a reason. Since we were now both single we had a genuine chance of having a life together. I knew exactly what I wanted but I was unsure about her perspective.

"That will be seven dollars please," the cab driver stated as he stopped the meter.

As I reached into my wallet I spotted a woman inside the restaurant whom I believed to be Monet sitting down in a booth near the front entrance. I tipped the driver and watched his bright tail lights disappear into the madness of bumper-to-bumper traffic. I breathed into my cupped hands and I could smell Jack Daniels as steam jetted between my clasped fingers. I downed a couple of miniatures to chillax after hearing about our love child only hours before. I threw back a couple of mints to mask my breath. I didn't want Monet to think I'd become an alky over the last twenty years.

Should I kiss her on the lips, the cheek or should I shake her hand? I was getting more and more nervous as I approached the main entrance. Wow! It was her, and she was just like I remembered but more alluring. My feelings were still very much intact after all these years. Monet was strikingly beautiful with light brown eyes, jet black, shoulder-length hair and a smile that could warm your heart. She was wearing a red lace top and a pair of jeans. No one wore jeans like Monet. She had a small waist that was accentuated by womanly hips, my weakness. Perhaps there were prettier women in the world, but not in my eyes. My hands began shaking and I placed them in my coat pockets to hide them. As soon as she noticed me she smiled and waved. That's all it took to calm and settle me. I took a deep breath and walked over to her table where she sat opposite the son I'd never met, until now.

"Clay, over here, over here," Monet called out as she stood.

"Monet? Wow, you look great. You look exactly the same as you did back in ninety-one," I replied as I sat next to her and kissed her on the cheek.

Monet was vibrant and I could tell she was glad to see me by the excitement in her voice and the effervescence in her eyes.

"Robert, this is... Clay. We go way back to the Camp Pendleton days, before you were even born. He lives in the UK now and is here on business," Monet said as she helped remove my coat and sat closer to me in the booth.

Robert smiled and shook my hand. I felt butterflies in my gut as our hands clasped. I kept looking for distinct traits and facial features that were common in my family. Robert was one hundred percent Monet. He was much more of a Dawson than a Thompson. I paid close attention to his smile and I noticed the slight gap in between his front two teeth, a trait that my dad and all his brothers had. I took this as confirmation he was my son. He was delightful and a joy to converse with. You could tell he was a Marine from a mile away. His upright carriage and mannerisms were telltale signs, not to mention his high fade haircut. Apparently he was leaving for Afghanistan in the morning. He seemed to be excited about his imminent deployment. I could tell Monet was not happy about it.

"Mr. Clay, so how did you meet my mom?" Robert asked with intrigue.

"Ah, um, ahhh," I stammered.

Monet immediately turned to me and answered.

"Clay, how could you forget? You hypnotized me to overcome my insomnia. Remember?"

"Oh, yeah. That's right, you were my first client."

Robert was fascinated.

"Wow, never met a hypnotist before. So when you did my mom did it work?"

Monet interjected.

"Yes, dear. I was a huge skeptic at first, but Clay made a believer out of me. I went to a few of his stage hypnosis shows and I think he converted a lot of non-believers," Monet said as she reached for my hand underneath the table.

"Mr. Clay, do you think you could hypnotize my mom to get back with my dad?"

Monet shook her head and with her free hand placed it over Robert's.

"Now, Robert, we've talked about this. I know you want your dad and I to get back together but that's not possible. Not after what happened."

I wanted to be nosey but I restrained myself.

Monet turned and faced me in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

"So, Clay, are you still doing magic shows? Robert, Mr. Clay is a trained fire-eater. If I remember correctly a stripper taught him, what was her name?"

Monet was starting to reminisce and I had to be careful to prevent Robert from knowing there was more to our relationship.

"I retired from magic a few years ago. And she was not a stripper, she was a retired stripper," I said sarcastically, as I drew within inches of her face in jest.

I had to quickly look away as I found it increasingly more difficult to suppress my passion. Sustained eye contact with Monet was not possible if I were to stay in character.

"So, Mr. Clay, did you know my dad?"

"I'm afraid not, Robert. He was on ship when I met your mom, but I've seen pictures of your dad back in the day. We both proudly sported flat tops; that was the nineties."

Within moments a waiter with a pen and notepad was ready to take our order.

We had a great meal. Throughout the night Monet and I traded quotes from our favorite In Living Color episodes. We laughed so hard. It was almost like time had stood still for us. I loved Monet's and Robert's company, we were more than just friends, we were family. A family with a secret.

### Room 132, Hilton Hotel, Woodbridge, Virginia

### 12:30am

"Mr. Thompson, you have a female guest, would you like to greet her or should I send her to your room?"

"Okay, I will be right there, just give me a few minutes."

I was a fifty-two-year-old man scrambling around like high school freshman getting ready for my first date. But this wasn't just any date, this was Monet. You only get one Monet per lifetime. I lost her once and this was my second chance.

My suite had a contemporary living room with a large, flat screen TV and fine furniture. The bed was a super king and really too big for just one person. I particularly liked the recessed dim lighting over the headboard, giving the room a desirable ambience. The bedroom had an amazing white granite adjoining bathroom with heated and illuminated mirrors. I had visited Woodbridge before on business and was hooked on radio station 105.9 for smooth jazz. The room was perfect but I was a wreck. I didn't want to read too much into Monet's acceptance of my offer for a nightcap. Before I dashed to greet Monet at the front desk I looked in the mirror one last time. I no longer had the sculpted and toned body of a 30-year-old, hard charging Marine. I wished I was in a little better shape. Oh well...

Sigh. Showtime.

Monet was standing right in front of me as I opened the door with a great big smile. Wow!

"Monet. You always do that to me," I said as I opened the door.

"Do what?" she said as she stood there with her arms crossed.

Monet sauntered into my room and marveled at the beautiful décor.

"You have this habit of just magically appearing out of nowhere," I said as I stood behind her and removed her form-fitted coat.

Once again, the sight of her put my mind at ease and it felt just like old times again. I needed to be mindful that although I still felt a strong bond between us, twenty years had passed. For a split second I wondered, how would I have handled this situation if I were still engaged to April, my exfiancée, whom I just recently broke up with? But, if I were still engaged, Monet would not be standing right in the middle of the living room of my hotel suite.

"Clay, do you mind if I take a shower, I've been in these clothes all day?" Monet said as she dropped her overnight bag next to the coffee table.

"Shower? Ah yeah. I mean no. I mean of course. The shower is just to the right over there," I replied anxiously.

There were few sights in life that were more beautiful than Monet stepping out of the shower. Those images were burned and seared into my subconscious years before. My biggest question was this... Was this a prelude to lovemaking?

I followed her into the bedroom area and opened the en suite door. I narrowed it down to just two options. In the morning, I would either be the happiest man in the world or the most tormented man in the world, depending on how the night went.

Monet kissed me on the cheek as she walked into the en suite and shooed me away so she could close the door.

As I heard the water running, I thought to myself, why did she close the door? I'd seen all parts of her gorgeous body a million times before. I sat on the bed fidgeting with my hands and tapping my right foot waiting for what seemed like an eternity. A part of me wanted to get undressed and wait for her under the covers. No. That would be too bold and assuming. As I heard the shower subside, I decided to open a complimentary bottle of champagne and poured two glasses.

Monet opened the door and came out with just a white terrycloth towel draped around her. Once again, I had to keep in mind that we had not been intimate in over twenty years. Her being half-naked in front of me was not a license to thrill, or was it?

As she sat on the bed next to me I handed her a glass of champagne; in the background I could hear Luther Vandross singing So Amazing.

"So Ms. Dawson, what should we toast to?"

Monet scooted even closer to me and put her leg over mine like she used to back in the day.

"How about we toast to Robert having an uneventful and safe tour in Afghanistan?" Monet said with the glass tilted in my direction.

"Cheers. To Robert, our son. May he have an uneventful and safe tour," I toasted as we touched glasses.

"Monet, we have a son together? Wow, I can't believe it. I remember we practiced safe sex in the beginning, but we stopped for some reason."

"Clay, we used condoms at first but they kept breaking, remember? It was pointless."

"That's right. I remember now."

"I can't believe we took such risks back then. But we were in love and love is... well you know. Clay you gotta promise me that no one will ever find out."

"Monet, I promise. I don't want to hurt anyone. I understand."

"So, Clay, what do you remember most about the time we spent together?" Monet asked as she placed her head on my shoulder and her arm around my waist.

Reminiscing about the good old days really eased my mind. I went there effortlessly.

"There is so much that I remember, but what I remember most is the intensity of my feelings and how my whole world hinged on us. I remember hypnotizing you and seeing you coming out of trance. I knew something happened to you during the session, something that gave you an instant connection to me. Monet, I remember everything there is to remember about you. You never left my mind, not for a second."

"Hmm. I find that hard to believe, it's been a long time. Let's play a little game. It's a game that I think you'll like."

"Okay, sure. What kind of game?"

"I will ask you four questions, and if you answer all four questions right I will lose my towel and I will be yours all night and all morning," Monet said seductively.

"Well, you might as well drop the towel now because I remember everything."

Monet took a big sip of her champagne and I followed suit. This would be fun.

"Okay, remember the Jeopardy game we use to play?"

"Yes, Ms. Dawson."

"Okay, first question. What is my favorite color?"

I over-dramatized my confoundedness. Pretending not to know the answer. Monet gave me a sassy look.

"Ah, Alex, that's a tough one. How about... purple for 100 please."

Monet nodded with approval. One down, three to go.

"What was our second favorite song back then?"

"Hmm, that's a hard one. I know our favorite song was Johnny Gill's My, My, My, but it's a toss-up for second place. It's between Alexander O'Neal's If You Were Here Tonight or Keith Washington's Kissing You. Alex, I will take Kissing You for 200 please."

Monet caressed the side of my face and smiled. It was the right answer.

"Okay, Mister. Besides the obvious, where is the most sensitive part of my body?"

Her question did not require a verbal answer. Immediately, I moved her wavy hair behind her shoulder and passionately kissed her neck just inches below her earlobe.

She shuddered and her head tilted to the side exposing her neck. We lost ourselves in passion to soft music and dim lighting.

### Five Minutes Later

"Oh, I'm sorry, Monet, I got a little too carried away. I think there was one more question."

Monet's eyes were glassy and she was moving in slow motion. She looked at me with lust in her heart. I could have easily continued and progressed into pure decadence.

"Whew Clay, that brought back memories. Okay, one last question for the night. Are you in a relationship?" Monet asked as she sat back up.

"Monet, my final answer is, I am not in a relationship."

I stood and turned the lights completely off. I began to undress but her mood suddenly changed. For some unknown reason she just snapped out of it. She tightened the towel around her midriff and stood in front of me.

"Clay, I want to make love to you, but I can't. At least not right now. Things are happening too fast. I need to take it slow. Yawn. Look, it's almost 1am. I'm tired, really tired. I think I'm going to sleep. Goodnight," she said as she kissed me on the cheek.

Monet walked into the closet and reached for an extra blanket before lying down on the sofa in the living room. Something was wrong and I had no clue what it was.

"Clay, can you kill the lights, please."

I killed all the lights all right, including the flicker in my heart.

### 5:30am

My alarm was just about to go off, but I hit the button just seconds before. I was already up. All night I replayed memories of Monet and me from the past. Despite our lack of intimacy, I was falling deeper for her. I spent all night analyzing things in my head. I think I figured it out. Monet fell for me at a time when I was almost penniless and unsure of my path in life. She never had a hidden agenda; all I could offer her was love. That was enough for her.

Over the years as my situation improved I met a few women who shared a very different perspective and boldly stated:

"So, how do I get my name on the mortgage?"

"We love Marines everyday; we love our husbands on payday."

"I really don't care about a man's wallet; I just care about what's in it."

I think what bonded Monet and me together more than anything was absolute trust. I never looked at another woman when I was with her, I didn't need to. Monet ticked all my boxes and gave me new ones.

While I showered I decided to ask Monet if she could extend her stay a few more days so we could spend time together. She was in town to see our son Robert off, but then she was headed back to Indiana.

As I stepped out the shower I saw Monet in my bed under the covers and I could smell the aroma of hazelnut coffee.

"Good morning, Gunny," Monet said as she sat up.

"Gunny? Okay, then I order you to be here at 17:30 when I return. Is that clear?" I commanded in jest.

"Aye, aye, sir," Monet replied, with a firm salute.

"Monet, could you stay a few days with me? The room is all paid for and feel free to order anything you want. Just put it on the room."

Monet motioned for me to join her on the bed. Now it was my turn to cover up with a towel after showering.

"Drink your coffee, it's getting cold. While you were in the shower, I rescheduled my flight back home. I leave when you leave."

As I got dressed for work, I kept thinking about how I could make this better than before. I needed to take some of the emphasis off sex and focus more on her. I wanted to date her properly.

"Clay, I've seen you get dressed so many times for work. But it's strange to see you put on a suit and tie, and not your Marine uniform."

"Don't let my appearance fool you. I haven't changed, I'm still me."

Monet followed me to the door still wrapped in her towel. But when she kissed me, it fell to the floor. It was hard not to look.

# TWO

* * *

# Mind Games

### Russell Knox Building, Conference Day One

### Quantico, Marine Corps Base

While checking into visitor control, I saw several retired Marines behind the counter checking in newly-arrived personnel. When I was on active duty I remember the old retirees that hung around base. I never understood why they felt it was so important to make a beeline to active duty Marines. It was always the same routine.

"Hey devil dog. Whatcha know good? What are they paying sergeants these days?"

No matter what you said, they had the same response.

"I'll be damned. Back in the old Corps we only got..."

I made a promise that I would never be like that. One of them.

It wasn't until I retired that I truly appreciated retirees and understood their desire to connect with the younger generation.

While waiting in line I overheard a woman Marine (also referred to as WMs back in the day) talk about her next assignment in the counter-intelligence field. I was pleasantly surprised because when I retired from Marine Corps counter-intelligence, women were not permitted to sign up.

"Excuse me, Sergeant."

"Sir?" replied the tall and slender female Marine.

"Are you an 0211, counter-intelligence specialist?"

"Yes, I am," replied the sergeant.

"That's great. Glad to see they finally opened up the field to WMs. Back when I was in it was male only."

She seemed to take offense to my comment. It wasn't until lunchtime did I find out that the term WM was no longer PC or acceptable as it was considered offensive to women. The new Marine Corps no longer distinguished between males and females. We were all Marines, period. I suddenly realized I had become one of those old fogies that I resented during my time in.

The food court at the Russell Knox Center was upscale compared to any other Marine base I had been stationed. There were so many choices, Italian, Southern, Chinese and subs. I ordered the baby back ribs with mac and cheese as a side. Although I had acquired an English palate from being in the UK for so long, I never forgot my first love, American-style cuisine.

As I took my last bite, I was kindly interrupted by a pat on the back.

"Gunny T?"

"Ramirez? Is that you?"

Ramirez and I served together in Mogadishu, Somalia during Operation Restore Hope in 1993. Ramirez was a distinguished marksman and was one of the best shooters in the Armed Forces. During an assault on a warlord's stronghold in Mogadishu, Ramirez took out a sniper from about 600 yards with one shot. It was rainy and cloudy that morning and we were getting sprayed with rapid machine-gun fire from an unknown location. Ramirez took the shot standing from behind the corner of a building. The sniper never saw it coming. I believe he saved a lot of lives that day. I put him in for a medal but it was denied for political reasons.

"Congratulations on your many promotions. Master Gunnery Sergeant," I said.

"Thanks, Gunny. Lots of changes since you retired. It's always something new. But, I've got two more years to go then I'm putting my papers in for retirement. So what brings you here?"

"I work for INTERPOL in the UK now. I'm here for a seminar on African organized crime. It's really interesting so far. Our last guest speaker just came out of the Moroccan witness protection program six months ago. So what are you doing here at Quantico?"

"I'm on the Marine Corps Shooting Team and we have a lot of new blood. We did well at the Inter-service competition last year and I think we may have a couple of Marine Olympians on the 2012 Olympic squad."

"So are you shooting or coaching?"

"Both. But now it's my time to give back to the Corps what the Corps gave to me," Ramirez stated proudly.

It was nice to see Ramirez was still such a humble and great guy after almost 20 years.

"Hey, Ramirez, I gotta run soon, but I've got a date tonight. Any recommendations?"

"Gunny, if you really want to impress a girl, take her to Maxine's. She will love you for it," Ramirez replied as he walked with me to the main conference room.

"Maxine's? Is that a club, restaurant?"

"No, it's a spa and massage. They even cater to men. But all the women around here rave about it. At least that's what I hear."

I patted Ramirez on the back and wished him the best of luck at Inter-services. I was really proud of him and thankful for the recommendation. After a little enquiring around, I was able to acquire two free guest passes at the services deck. I had my date night planned. A dozen roses, a personalized romantic card, dinner for two at the Olive Garden and two guest passes to Maxine's. I was excited; I couldn't wait to see the smile on Monet's face. She loved pampering and a good meal.

Monet always had a knack for sneaking up on me, so this time it was payback. On my cellphone I called the hotel room disguising my voice from around the corner in the corridor.

"Room 132, you need to register your guest with the front desk."

I saw Monet leave the room and walk toward the lobby. As soon as she was out of sight, I swiped my key and closed the door behind me. I set up the beautiful yellow roses in a nice display on the coffee table with the card at the base of the vase. I sat on the couch and unloosened my tie. I held an envelope with the spa massage guest passes inside. I heard the electronic key swipe.

I frightened her momentarily.

"Clay! You scared me. Where did you come from?" Monet said.

She was wearing a black spandex body suit with satin black workout trunks. She was slightly sweaty from working out at the fitness center on the premises.

"You see, that's how it feels. Gotcha," I said as I stood and walked towards her to get my kiss.

"Clay, I'm all sweaty, you're gonna ruin your nice suit," Monet said as she tried to pull away.

"Come here, girl," I said as I grabbed her from behind and pivoted her in line of sight of the roses.

"Clay, they're beautiful. I love roses. Ooh."

"Monet, there's more," I said waving the envelope in my hand.

"I love surprises. Speaking of surprises, I have one for you Mister."

Monet went into the bedroom and returned with an envelope of her own. After a long and very passionate kiss, we exchanged envelopes.

Monet opened her envelope first.

"Maxine's Spa and Massage. Honey, you know me so well. This is exactly what I need right now. Feel my shoulders."

I obliged.

"Wow, babe. So tense. Must be all the stress you've been under."

I put the envelope to my nose. Monet sprayed the envelope with light perfume. My eyes rolled to the ceiling as I opened the envelope.

It was the best surprise I had had in years.

"Whoa. These are tickets to Hypno Expo 2011. These must have cost a fortune! I always wanted to attend but the tour was always on the east coast. Thank you, sweetheart."

Monet was excited that I was excited. We both sat down on the couch and just held hands smiling at one another. I knew she felt the same as me. I wanted to tell her my feelings, but it felt too premature. Something was lurking in the back of her mind and I was still clueless as to what it was.

Monet placed her leg on top of mine and we discussed what we would do first. We decided to go to the spa and massage that night and go to the Expo the following night. I was particularly excited because Mason Tylor was on the program that night. Mason Tylor was an icon in hypnosis who started out as a magician. We watched his tapes in the hypnosis academy. He was billed as the Fastest Stage Hypnotist in the World and toured all over. He was the master of the Rapid Induction and could induce trance in two seconds. He came to San Diego once to conduct a mass tobacco cessation hypnosis session. There were over a thousand patrons in the auditorium paying fifty dollars to attend. He hypnotized the entire crowd to quit smoking. TV crews waited outside to interview the crowd. Over seventy-five percent of those interviewed swore they had quit for good. Tylor made over seventy-five thousand dollars that night, including sales from his Mind Control CDs. Not bad for two hours work. Mason Tylor always wore all black and sported his signature dark glasses and never took them off unless he was inducing trance. He claimed his eyes were too powerful for direct eye contact. The only flaw Mason had in my opinion was he was so much show and flair; there didn't appear to be much room for real empathy. I looked forward to meeting him.

I quickly showered and started to change into a black sweatsuit and my Nikes. Once again I could hear Monet in the shower and I really had to suppress my urge to join her like I always had in the past. The thought of the water splashing across her soft, sensuous, nude body created waves of nervous energy inside of me. As soon as she stepped out the shower I turned my back out of respect and my inability to control myself. I was mind-jacked.

To keep my mind from succumbing to my instincts I began to surf the Net on my laptop. I googled Hypno Expo 2011 and found their website. My excitement faded quickly.

"Why do they do this? These should be separate events," I said with dismay.

"Do what baby?" Monet asked as she lotioned her legs.

"Hypno Expo has three themes this year. Be Fearless, Past Life Regression, and Developing Your Psychic Ability."

"Sounds really interesting, I'm excited," Monet commented.

"I just don't like it when they mix hypnosis and psychic stuff. That really bothers me. Hypnosis is real, we both know that. But when hypnosis is presented in the same conversation as mediums it confuses people and lessens its credibility. Hypnotists are practitioners, mediums and psychics are charlatans."

"I dunno honey, maybe some are fake. But what about the ones that are real?"

I was starting to get just a tiny bit annoyed because this was such a passionate issue for me. I felt a need to discredit the psychic phenomenon every time it was raised. I felt psychics and mediums exploited innocent people for greed.

I turned around and faced Monet as she was lacing her up sneakers. I had something important to say.

"I know mediums are fake because once you die you are dead. Spirits don't come back. I'm sure about that," I said emotionally.

Monet quickly ascertained that this issue had a strong undercurrent and she motioned for me to sit next to her on the bed.

"Clay, how do you know for sure the dead don't come back?"

It took all I had to keep it together, but a few tears slipped before I could wipe them away. I answered her.

"Because, my dad would have come back for me. At least once. But he can't because he's dead. I would give anything just to see him one last time to let him know I followed his plan and it worked. I owe him so much. At age 67 he was gone from a heart condition."

My dad and I did everything together. We loved competitive sports. He taught me to throw darts and how to bowl. He also taught me how to talk trash. I reminisced. Shortly after his death I had the same reoccurring dream. It started out pretty much the same every time but got weird towards the end. In one dream, after bowling, my dad insisted on paying with his credit card and it was declined. He couldn't figure out why his bank rejected the transaction. It was rejected because he was dead and all his accounts were closed. He was frustrated with the attendant behind the counter so I paid. On the way home dad wanted to show me newly installed pews in the sanctuary of his church, Alpha Baptist. His key wouldn't open the door. His frustration escalated and got the best of him. I had to calm him down. I could never bring myself to break the news, that he was dead. In my dreams dad didn't know he had died and it broke my heart to see him so confused.

Reminiscing was painful. I missed my dad.

Monet looked at me and embraced me with a supportive and loving hug. Then she kissed my face and told me she loved me.

I soon snapped out of my self-induced fog and wiped my eyes. I was back to normal.

"I stopped performing mentalism in my magic shows after dad died."

"Mentalism? What's that?"

"It's a psychic routine. Instead of me telling you, how about if I show you? Hand me your purse, please."

Monet reached behind her and grabbed her purse watching my every move. She handed it to me, very slowly.

"What are you looking for?"

"I know you're an avid reader. I'm looking for a book. Found one. Hmm, Ann Rice, Sleeping Beauty. Interesting."

I leaned over beside the bed and unzipped my garment bag. I retrieved my latest novel The Mogadishu Diaries . I held up both books and asked Monet to pick one.

"I don't trust you with your own book, so I pick Ann Rice."

I handed Monet her own book. I began fanning the pages of my book and told her to tell me when to stop.

"Stop."

I immediately stopped and looked at the page number in the book I was holding.

"Okay. So page 74 it is. Go to page 74."

Monet stood clutching her book and walked into the living area to prevent any sleight of hand.

"Okay. I'm on page 74. Now what?"

I went straight into character.

"Monet, concentrate on the first word of the first sentence on page 74. Now close your eyes and see the word in your mind's eye."

"Okay. I see it," Monet replied.

"The word I am getting is a command. Am I right?" "Keep going," Monet replied.

"It's a command to end or to halt. The word I see is the word... stop. Is that your word?"

Monet poked her head in the doorway.

"How did you do that?" Monet asked cagily.

"I'm not done yet, babe. Go back into the room and focus on the last word of text on the page."

"Okay, got it."

"Hmm, I see emotion, expression. Close the book, babe."

I walked into the living room where she was sitting on the sofa with the book in her lap. I sat beside her and kissed her face.

"Is it the word... face?"

Monet was spooked.

"Honey, that's not possible. There's no way. That's really creepy. I don't know how you did that but it was powerful and kinda scary."

"Sweetheart, that was kid's play. There is one mind-reading act that I have to be careful with."

"Why?" Monet asked with intrigue.

"Because it freaks people out. They think it's some kind of witchcraft or sorcery. But if they only knew, it's all smoke and mirrors. I'm a professional fake."

# THREE

* * *

# Maxine's

Good evening. Do you have a membership or is this your first visit?" asked the receptionist behind the counter.

"We have guest passes," I replied as I slid them across the desk.

Maxine's was a contemporary and upscale spa. It was a white complex that had large one-way mirrors facing the street. The parking lot had a uniformed valet to park your car. There was a large canopy outside that led you to the main entrance. You almost forgot you were visiting a spa. Inside the facility, the décor was an elegant ivory and there was a large smoothie bar off to the left with members on bar stools listening to piped in music. There was a steady stream of patrons coming and going. Behind the counter was a LED sign of services provided. It was as if the staff were the most beautiful of the races they represented, Hispanic, Asian, White and Black. Everyone had noble facial features and sculpted bodies that were suitable for magazine spreads.

Maxine's was once a car dealership that folded when the Cash for Clunkers government scheme failed to honor some of its financial commitments.

I reached for my wallet and retrieved my VISA.

"Today is a special day, and I would like my girl to have the VIP treatment," I said, as I placed my arm around her waist.

"Clay, all I really need is a massage," Monet whispered in my ear.

"All right, babe. Whatever you want."

While reading the LED sign something caught my attention so I enquired.

"Excuse me, but what does Gay Friendly mean?"

The woman smiled and was eager to explain.

"Gay friendly simply means we are respectful of all people and their relationships. Our staff and our patrons are from all walks of life and we embrace that."

From a business perspective it made sense so I dropped it at that.

Monet presented her VISA and offered to treat me to the VIP treatment. My first instinct was to decline because it was very expensive but I reluctantly said yes.

The guest passes only covered use of the machines and the sauna.

The receptionist hit a few strokes on her keyboard and within moments a strikingly attractive male masseur emerged from the double doors to our left. He was Italian-looking, about 6'2", built like an Olympic gymnast and dressed in all white. His entrance could have been accompanied by a theme song. His eyebrows were arched and he had short, black, gelled hair. Monet noticed him and her reaction made me feel a little insecure. It wasn't what she said, it was her body language. I prayed to dear God that Mr. Fabio was not her masseur. I couldn't bear the thought of her being alone in a room with him with just a towel to cover her half-naked body.

I seized the moment to take control.

"Hey, sweetheart my masseur is here. Guess I'll see you in an hour. Love you, babe," I said as I walked to the gentleman with the Superman physique.

The receptionist intervened to my dismay.

"Sir, you have the VIP treatment. Your appointment is with Tammy, she's a new trainee. She will be here very soon. Mario, please show our new guest to the women's changing room."

Damn.

Monet waved at me as Mario kindly escorted her past the lobby down the corridor.

I think she sensed my unease. My poker face sucks.

"Don't worry, sir. She's in good hands. Mario will take good care of her."

"Yeah, okay," I said as I watched them engage in chitchat until they passed through the automatic sliding glass doors.

I stood like a spoiled brat with my arms crossed trying to suppress my frustration.

"Excuse me, how long is her session with Mario?"

"It's an hour, would you like extra time?"

"Ah, hell no. I mean, no thanks."

My inside voice slipped out.

"What's the VIP treatment?" I asked.

While leaning over the counter, someone tapped me on my back and winked.

"Hi, I'm Tammy and welcome to Maxine's."

Okay. Monet gets Adonis and I get Tammy the tranny. Nice.

Tammy could have played point guard for the Lakers. She was taller than Mario and had humongous hands. Tammy was African-American and had an orange tint afro. Tammy's big, hooped earrings constantly swung in motion as she used a lot of head movements when she spoke. She was definitely a man.

"Follow me, sweetness."

Again I felt less than manly. I followed Tammy down the opposite corridor to the men's changing room. I wanted to cancel but Monet paid up front.

I took the longest time to undress and don my complimentary robe. I peeked outside and Tammy was patiently waiting tapping her feet and chewing gum.

"Don't be shy, sweetie. Let me check to see if our room is free."

I prayed that it was occupied. That was my ticket out.

"C'mon precious, I won't hurt you," Tammy said as she opened the door.

It was spotless inside. The ivory décor was a nice touch and gave it a sense of cleanliness. A burgundy leather massage table was the focal point of the room. There was a partition for me to disrobe and tie a towel around my waist. The only redeeming factor of this experience was I momentarily forgot about the love of my life being halfnude alone with what's his face. I felt vulnerable. I reluctantly laid on the table face down, my cheeks in clinch mode.

Across from me were a mix of lotions and other accessories to be used during the session.

Tammy stood in front of me and gave me her well-rehearsed spiel.

"This is a legitimate establishment. I don't give hand jobs and don't ask me for a blow job. So let's get that straight, okaaay."

Wow. If she only knew how distasteful that sounded.

"Okay."

"Also, it's perfectly natural if you get an erection; we can work through that."

"Yeah, somehow I don't think that's gonna be a problem."

"Just sayin' if it happens, it happens. No big deal."

"So what's the VIP treatment?" I asked.

"Hun, this is top-shelf pampering. First you get a fab wax job and then you'll get a royal massage that will make your toes curl," Tammy said enthusiastically.

"Waxing?" I had flashbacks of the movie Forty-Year-Old Virgin.

"Honey child, we wax everything from the back to the sack to the crack."

"Okay. I'm outa here. I need to check on Monet," I said as I got up from the table and went to get my robe.

"Sorry, no offense. I'm just a little uncomfortable." Tammy was taken aback by my attitude and my abruptness. "Would you prefer a man instead?"

"You are a man."

My inside voice slipped out again.

Tammy became upset and highly emotional. I could tell I hurt her feelings. I felt terrible. She reached for her wallet.

"Here, this is my driver's license. What does it say?" Tammy asked.

I stuck my hands in my robe pockets and squinted to read the print on Tammy's license.

"It says, Tammy Monroe, Sex: Female?"

"Damn skippy. If the State can recognize me as a woman, why can't you?" Tammy said, waving her forefinger all around my face.

I felt like I was being unduly chastised so I walked towards to the door in silence. Exit stage left. I paused for a moment and then I looked over my shoulder and Tammy's eyes were welling up.

Guilt consumed me.

I did an about face.

Sigh.

"Okay, I owe you an apology. I'm sorry for calling you a man."

Tammy reached for a tissue and wiped her eyes before blowing her nose. It sounded like a foghorn.

"I don't want your pity, all right?"

I sat back on the massage table and asked her to sit next to me.

"Tammy, this isn't about pity. It's about trying to right a wrong. I've got some insecurities and that's on me. I shouldn't have projected them onto you. You seem like a very nice person."

Tammy sat next to me, balled up the tissue and threw it into the trash can way on the other side of the room. Maybe she really was a point guard in her former life.

"I don't even know your name sweetie."

"All right. Let's start from the beginning, okay? Hi, my name is Clay," I said as I extended my hand to shake.

I could tell Tammy was coming out of her defensive shell. She seemed more relaxed with me and she shook my hand.

"I'm gonna call you Cassius," she replied, with a smile.

As Tammy let her guard down, she opened up to me.

"Cassius, I left a six-figure gig in marketing to work here. It's really hard trying to maintain my champagne lifestyle on a beer budget, you know what I'm sayin'?"

That had to be a serious cut in pay and I was curious why someone would do that deliberately.

"Six-figures is good anywhere. What made you quit?"

"It's a long story, but I'll give you the CliffNotes version. I spent three months on a multi-million dollar account, developing a marketing strategy. It was the first time my VP didn't review my presentation before it was unveiled before the client."

"So, I take it the client didn't like your ad."

"They crucified it. It was a beautiful poster of two women holding hands applying for a mortgage. What's so wrong with that?"

"I guess some people aren't ready to turn the page on gay marriage."

"I don't believe in gay marriage either. I believe in marriage, marriage between two loving people. No one calls it straight marriage, so why do they feel the need to call it gay marriage? It's not gay sex, it's sex. It's 2011 and we need to move past the point of tolerance to acceptance. Straights really need to get over themselves," Tammy explained from atop of her soapbox.

That was an earful, but I wasn't offended.

"Okay, Tammy. How about a wet shave instead of a massage? Can you handle that?" I asked, as I rubbed my hand across my five o'clock shadow.

"Sweetie, by the time I get through with you, your face will be smooth as a baby's behind."

I laid comfortably on the massage table and Tammy went to work.

As I lay on the table I remembered all the gym rats sporting near-perfect bodies.

"You know, Tammy, I really need to get back in the gym. My girl has a body to kill for; I need to step up my game. Standing next to Super Mario didn't do much for my ego."

When I mentioned Mario, Tammy froze in place with the razor just under my chin.

"Mario? I thought he took the day off. His boyfriend's birthday is today. Philippe's gonna have his ass on a stick. I better remind Mario to pick up a gift on the way home."

"Mario is gay?" I asked, with delight.

"Pleeeease. You couldn't tell? Sweetie you need yo eyes examined."

What a relief. I was so glad I stayed. Otherwise I would have tortured myself for no reason just waiting for Monet in the lobby.

Tammy was right, my skin never felt so soft. I looked in the mirror and appreciation was written all over my face. Tammy and I had a brief conversation just before I left and she had a few helpful tips.

"Cassius, some girls love big arms and some girls love a nice ass. But every girl loves a man with a tight waist. Work your abs and work them hard. And one mo thang. The Olive Garden has fab raspberry cheesecake. It's orgasmic. Get a piece for your lady," she said.

As I headed out Tammy winked and then waved goodbye.

As I waited for Monet, sitting at the juice bar sipping on my mango smoothie, I felt like I gained something from my experience with Tammy. I requested a customer survey sheet and gave Tammy a rave review. She deserved it.

# FOUR

* * *

# Dinner at the Olive Garden

I'll take the mixed grill please," I said as I placed the napkin in my lap.

Monet studied the menu intently as her head scanned up and down each selection.

"Hmm, I will take the Seafood Alfredo," Monet said as she gave the lovely waitress her menu.

I reflected on the past and I challenged Monet's memory of one of our old traditions.

"Shall we?"

"Sure, why not?" Monet replied as she motioned for the waitress.

"Yes, ma'am. Is there something else you'd like to order?"

"No. But if you take our picture when the food comes we'd be really appreciative."

Wow! Monet remembered after all this time.

The waitress was so courteous and accommodating. She was a bubbly young woman about twentyish and just under five feet in height. I think she was Jamaican. Her name was Mary.

Monet always liked to sit next to me when we ate, but this time she let me sit across from her. I preferred it that way because it allowed me to get lost in her beautiful eyes.

"So, here we are. Just like old times," I said as I held her hand across the table.

"Yeah. Thanks for the massage babe. I really needed it. Mario was a strange man. I kinda expected him to be a little flirty but he was so business-like once he started. Couldn't quite figure him out."

"Oh, really?"

"Were you worried, babe?" Monet said as she stroked my hand.

"Who me? I was cool as the other side of the pillow."

"Not even a little bit?"

"Okay, maybe just a little."

"Clay, how was your VIP treatment?"

"It was stimulating. Feel this," I said as I ran her hand across the side of my face.

"Your skin is so soft."

Mary brought our meals to the table and we indulged.

For the next ten minutes all I wanted to talk about was Robert our son. I could see the excitement in Monet's eyes as we discussed Robert. She was very proud of him and I loved hearing every detail she had to offer. I was impressed with how he successfully balanced his academics with his demanding sports schedule. Robert was an A-student and an all-state candidate for track and soccer. Robert also was semifluent in Japanese and had a steady girlfriend named Aiisha. I could tell Monet was hoping that relationship would taper off when he joined the Marines, but it seemed to grow stronger, according to Monet.

"So how does Robert get along with Marc?" I asked.

"Robert idolizes his dad, I think that's why he joined the Marines. In the end, Marc wasn't a good husband, but he was always a great dad. Too many back-to-back tours in Iraq and Afghanistan screwed him up. Marc was driving a HUMVEE and hit a roadside bomb in Kabul, Afghanistan and the blast killed two of his troops. Marc suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and I couldn't deal with the mood swings and violence."

"So, did Marc recover from his PTSD?" I asked as I licked the steak juice off my fingers.

"He's better now. I think getting into bodybuilding helped him vent some of that pent-up guilt and anger. He's huge and at 6'2" I was no match for him that last night."

I froze with my fork in my mouth. I really didn't want to hear what happened but I had to know.

"Okay, tell me what happened."

"Clay, it was over something petty but he lost it. We got into an argument over a Facebook post from one of his exes from high school. He backhanded me at the dinner table and dared me to talk back to him. When a man puts his hands on you the first time it's never the last time. I wasn't going to give him a second chance. So I asked him to leave... for good," Monet said, with sadness.

"Clay, Marc knows about our affair in 1991."

"What? How did he find out?"

Monet pushed her empty plate to the side and leaned toward me.

"I had to tell him. I had no other choice."

I started to whisper because I didn't want anyone to overhear our private conversation.

"No other choice? Hmm," I said, a little unnerved.

"Clay, Marc saw the tape."

"What tape?"

Monet gasped.

"I forgot. I never told you. The sex tape."

What the F? I thought.

"Monet, we didn't make a sex tape. I am sure I would have remembered that."

I was furious and I could feel myself starting to perspire.

"Clay, I am so sorry. I didn't tell you because I knew you would have wanted a copy," Monet said remorsefully.

"So how did he find it?"

"In 2000 we went from VHS to DVD and Marc gave the VCR away to a friend. I had nothing to watch it on so I had the tape transferred on to DVD at the local Radio Shack. I came home from work one day and saw Marc watching it in our bedroom. You had me pinned against the wall from behind with my work clothes still on."

"Shit!" I couldn't believe it. I crossed my arms and shook my head. "Monet, this isn't good. What the hell happened after that?"

"Marc said if I didn't tell him who was fucking me he would throw all my shit out the bedroom window."

"And?"

"He threw all my shit out the bedroom window. Through the bedroom window. I couldn't tell him who you were. I know what he would have done."

Before Monet could finish, we were interrupted by the nice waitress.

"Can I take your plates away?"

Perfect timing. I was about to catch the express train, first stop Paranoia City.

I let out a huge sigh and wiped my mouth with my dinner napkin. I started to calm down. First of all the incident was over a decade ago and Monet was divorced from him. I dropped it and Monet was glad that I was able to move on. We changed the subject.

"Are you still doing the stage hypno thingy?"

Monet knew me very well. Hypnosis was one of my passions and I was more than happy to chat about it.

"Not doing the stage stuff anymore, just hypnotherapy. That's where my heart is. Even though it's been 20 years since I went to the academy, it is still just as exciting as it was back then."

"So where do you want to go with it? There are so many possibilities."

The excitement in my eyes affirmed my love for the misunderstood discipline of wellness.

"My dream job is to one day become a forensic hypnotist. I would gladly volunteer my services for free to help solve criminal cases. In trance I can tease out crucial information buried deep in the subconscious, much more effectively than a detective. Now that is my dream job."

"Have you ever done anything like that before?"

"Kinda. But it didn't work out the way I planned."

"Well, did it work?"

"Yeah. A friend of mine was deploying to Operation Desert Storm and just before he got his orders he found out his 14-year-old daughter was raped by some college football jock while she was visiting her grandmother in Kentucky The problem was she couldn't remember who raped her."

"That's bullshit. How could you not know who raped you?"

"Babe, she was drunk and the whole incident was blacked out."

"Oh, okay, that makes sense."

"Eric was an Arabic interrogator and all of his interrogation skills were useless in getting her to remember. So he had me hypnotize Britany under the premise he could take the information to the police to get an arrest."

"Okay, don't leave me hanging. Did they get the guy or not?"

I felt a little uncomfortable retelling the story because Monet wasn't going to get the ending she was looking for.

"Eric never planned on going to the police. He went AWOL and failed to report for Operation Desert Storm. Instead he went looking for the guy. Eric was AWOL for 63 days. On his final day of AWOL he called the Military Police from the gate and said that he was turning himself in. He lost a stripe and served three months in the brig on base. I went to visit him after he was in for about a month. When I asked Eric why he missed his flight to Kuwait he was eager to explain. He said, 'I had a funeral to attend'."

Monet wasn't sympathetic to the guy as I expected her to be.

"Serves him right."

Once again the lovely waitress's timing was impeccable.

"Can I interest you in a dessert?"

Monet was quick to respond.

"No, that will be all."

"Are you sure?"

"I heard your raspberry cheesecake is to die for. I will take two servings please."

Monet rubbed her mid-section and leaned back.

"No, thank you, honey. I've eaten too much already."

"Okay. You can have a bite of mine. Just one serving please."

"Clay. I'm serious. No."

Monet stood her ground. And the waitress took my order and winked at me. I didn't know why.

Five minutes later, Mary, our waitress, returned with two servings of raspberry cheesecake. I looked at Monet and she looked at me. Obviously there was a misunderstanding.

Mary would explain.

"Sir, I just spoke with the head chef and he said if the lady didn't like the cheesecake the meal was on the house."

"How much is the bill?" I asked.

"In total the bill comes to just over $45 including drinks."

I looked at Monet with look of pleading.

"Okay, okay. Just one bite. Lordy," Monet reluctantly agreed.

I cut off a small piece of cheesecake with my fork and fed my sweetheart, trying to keep a straight face. She looked at me with contempt.

She took a bite. She started chewing slowly at first. Then I could sense the synapses in her brain beginning to fire. She started chewing at a normal rate.

"Hmm, not bad. What kind of cheesecake is that?" she asked as she looked for it on the menu.

"Raspberry cheesecake, ma'am."

"It's so rich. Is this made from scratch?"

Before I knew it, Monet devoured her piece and was working on mine.

"Hey, that's my piece."

"Ah, Mary, could you get us one slice to go. Thanks."

It was funny watching Monet lick the icing off the fork.

Mary returned with the card swiper.

I handed Mary my VISA and she ran the transaction. I also handed Mary my cellphone to take a picture of Monet and I at the table. Monet sat on my lap and put her arm around me.

Click.

Mary returned my phone after admiring the picture.

"Would you like to add a tip on the card?"

"No, I'd rather leave a cash tip to make sure you get it."

"Oh, thank you, sir."

I reached into my wallet and retrieve a one dollar bill.

Monet was disappointed but remained silent as she stood gathering her coat and gloves. We headed towards the car.

As I started the engine Monet confronted me.

"Clay, one dollar? If you were short on money you should've just asked me. I could've tipped her. She was very nice."

I smiled at Monet and chuckled.

"Baby, I know what you think you saw, but that's not what you really saw."

Monet turned around and saw Mary waving from outside the front entrance as we pulled out of the parking lot.

"Why is Mary jumping around like that?" Monet asked as she faced me in the car.

"Because, what I actually gave her was much more than a one dollar tip. A lot more," I said.

After Monet realized that she had been hoodwinked she laughed aloud.

"You and your magic tricks."

Just before we got to the hotel Monet had nearly polished off the rest of the cheesecake. She fed me what remained.

That was some damn good cheesecake.

Thanks Tammy.

# FIVE

* * *

# Rewind to go Forward

2011 began to feel like 1991. As Monet and I walked to our hotel room I felt like I had found what the world was searching for, a very special love. Every moment I spent with Monet deepened my desire and my longing to be intimate with her. I had been with her just over 24 hours and we were still in restraint mode. Maybe she was observing a 90-day rule. The only problem was, time was not a luxury; I was scheduled to fly out at the end of the week.

I undressed in the bedroom and rolled the covers back and slid in. Monet changed in the living room for some reason. It would only be moments before she emerged wearing just a bra and panties. I had to comment.

"Hmm, back in the day, when you wore panties to bed that meant the area was declared a no-sex zone. Is that still true in 2011?" I asked with a sly look on my face.

Monet walked toward the bed and whipped the covers from me and climbed on top of me.

"Maybe, we'll see. But Clay, we really need to talk. Twenty years is a long time and I need to take it slow. I need to be careful, that's all. So tell me, what have you been up to all these years? You dated some strange women in your past. Whatever happened to that psycho who almost bit your lip off and sent you to the emergency ward?"

"Oh, you mean Kay. Wow, now that's going waaay back. I heard that she got married to some guy at her church. I read in the Blade Tribune that she shot her husband after he threatened to annul their marriage."

Monet slid off me and nestled her head onto my chest.

"I told you she had a screw loose. Did they get divorced?"

"I don't think so. I think they worked through it."

"That has to be the stupidest thing I've heard, ever. Men can be such fools. If I shot you would you make up with me?"

"If it was just a flesh wound, probably," I responded sarcastically.

Monet elbowed me in the side.

I turned my head toward Monet and placed my hand on her thigh.

"Do you drive these women crazy, or are they like that when you meet them?" Monet asked, while walking her fingers from my navel to my chest.

"Probably a combination of the two. Except for Lorraine, she was trouble from the start."

"Who's Lorraine?"

"Ahh, she's an ex from 1995. She had two warrants for her arrest."

Monet gave me a look then rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

"Didn't go out much did you?" Monet asked, with a slight tinge of disappointment in her voice.

"No, just chilled most of the time."

"Clay, that's not chilling, that's harboring. Harboring a fugitive. You could've got yourself in big trouble. Where do you find these women?"

I felt a little defensive talking about my checkered past and decided to turn the tables.

"Okay, your turn. I know you've got some dirt too. Confession time."

Monet sighed and reflected.

"Well, there was this one guy. We dated the summer after my divorce in 2008. He wasn't really available."

"Was he married?"

"Yes, to his fans. He's a celebrity."

Her response gave me a bit of insecurity.

"Oh. NBA, NFL? I'm assuming he's a jock, right?"

"No. He's a rapper. In fact we heard one of his songs on the radio during the drive home."

"Don't tell me. You dated Flava Flav? How could you babe?"

Once again I found her elbow in my side.

"No, silly. I'm not telling you who he is. I fooled myself into thinking I could be enough for him. I think I might have been for the first two weeks, but that's all. After a while he stopped me from attending his shows. And whenever I called him on his cellphone a different girl answered. Why can't men just be faithful? That's one issue I never had with you. You could never get enough of this," Monet said, as she exposed her beautiful breasts.

"Wow!"

"Clay, there's one thing I regret we never did," Monet said somberly.

"What's that sweetheart?"

Monet caressed my face moving it closer to hers. I thought she wanted to kiss me as my lips nearly touched hers.

"We never slow-danced together. I want my dance before you leave."

"Okay, babe. We'll dance."

Monet began to reminisce about the old days as we lay in bed.

"Clay, did you finally have the birds and the bees talk with your son? You kept talking about it but did you ever follow through with it?"

I laughed to myself just thinking about it. I went back in time in my mind's eye.

"Junior, I think it's about time we had a talk, okay?" I said as I was clearing the dinner table.

"Dad, as long as it's not The Talk."

My son, Clay Jr. was nine at the time and I thought it might be a little too early, but I figured better too early than too late.

"You know Junior, there are some things that men and women can do but are inappropriate for boys and girls."

"Dad, I know this. Mom and I already had this conversation," he said as he rose up from the table.

"Oh, really. Sit back down and let me finish."

Clay Jr. rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest.

"Okay, Mister Know-it-all, give me three examples," I demanded holding up three fingers.

"Sigh, staying up late, smoking cigarettes and, and... drinking coffee. Dad, I already knooow."

"Hmm, you know there are some nasty diseases out there. Inappropriate contact has its consequences. You know what I mean?"

"Dad, been there, done that, got the T-shirt, geez."

I looked at my son out of the corner or my eye.

"What? You're nine. Nine years old."

I was shocked. I was speechless after that.

"Mom got me treated. I was itchin' like crazy."

"So your mom knows about this? She must think I'm a terrible single father. Was she mad?"

"No, she was relieved. She said since I had it as a kid I couldn't get it again as an adult. She had it too when she was little."

Whew, I thought to myself.

"Dad, are we finished with The Talk?"

I rubbed my son on the head and responded.

"Yes, we're finished, for now. Go play."

Monet and I spent the rest of the night cuddling, talking about our past and reminiscing. The biggest surprise was that she also had a teenage daughter named Michelle who hated every boyfriend that Monet ever had since the divorce. Michelle was a daddy's girl. I immediately envisioned Michelle throwing rocks at my car to scare me off as I pulled into the driveway. This would be a challenge but not an insurmountable one.

There was a lull in conversation for almost a minute. Then I felt the muscles in her legs twitch. She was in snoozeville with her right arm across my chest. I kissed her lips goodnight. I wasn't disappointed we didn't have sex, I was just happy that she wasn't on the couch, a million miles away. She was where she needed to be, in my arms.

# SIX

* * *

# Hypno Expo 2011 Part I

How do I look, honey?" Monet asked as she did a pirouette in front of the full-length mirror.

Monet looked absolutely stunning. She wore a black skirt that hugged her hips and a pink blouse with black buttons. I love that color combination on women, and on Monet it was hypnotic. I wore black slacks, a plum shirt (her favorite color) and a black blazer. I loved date night with Monet because I felt so lucky to have such a beautiful woman on my arm. But more than that, it was how she made me feel.

The expo was held at a new convention center on the outskirts of town.

Every rap song I heard on the radio on the way, I kept asking, "Is it him?"

Cars were backed up waiting to find a spot to park. The new Impala I'd rented didn't quite measure up to the luxury cars vying for space in the underground lot. Maseratis, Mercedes and a few Ferraris captured my attention. The patrons were dressed in formal wear and had an air of snootiness. I felt like I was under-dressed. I had no idea that a hypnosis and psychic convention would appeal to the upper crust of society. As Monet and I walked toward the underground elevator a few couples looked at us like we didn't belong. Trophy wives were as far as the eye could see. I was paid a mental compliment when we passed a couple exiting a black limo. The driver and the husband stared at Monet's gorgeous figure as she strutted by. The wife was not impressed.

The elevator opened up to a swarming crowd of well-dressed and smart-looking couples scurrying about the large ballroom. There were psychic exhibits alongside the walls and rows of brass chairs with red leather seat cushions in front of the stage. There was a large, sparkly chandelier in the center of the hall, complemented with red carpet beneath our feet.

A uniformed member of staff politely handed Monet a program. I was excited about the idea of meeting Mason Tylor, the embodiment of success and confidence. I scanned the area hoping to spot him. I planned on having him autograph my program.

The background music faded as the master of ceremonies approached the stage and people took their seats.

"Ladies and gentlemen! On behalf of Centerstage Productions, welcome to tonight's show. Are you ready?! Who wants to be fearless!?" the emcee exclaimed as he paced the front of the stage with enthusiasm.

The crowd responded to the emcee's swagger and presentation. He got a well-received standing ovation, with women in the audience doing much fist pumping.

I reached for Monet's hand and squeezed it. The excitement was infectious and we both were eager to be in the thick of it.

"Tonight, we have a very special guest. Ladies and gentlemen, the world's fastest hypnotist. The one and only Mason Tylor! Mason Tylor!"

A spotlight scanned the crowd and stopped in the middle of the second row. Mason Tylor stood and turned around waving at all his fans. He was dressed in his signature all black attire with dark glasses. He looked just like he did almost twenty years ago, very much in great shape. He sat between two super models, one was a platinum blonde the other a Hispanic beauty.

The first part of the program featured success stories told by a few celebrities who had recently been hypnotized to overcome anxiety and fear. When I thought of A-listers, I always perceived them as invincible; but they were not. They were plagued by the same fears and phobias as the rest of us.

After a brief break in between segments, I heard the Rocky theme song playing. The audience quieted and the lights dimmed slightly. In the rear, a large sports time-counter lit up and it was set at sixty seconds. Sixty seconds flashed in red lights. I was curious about the hype surrounding the next event. The Rocky theme song added to the hype.

I looked over Monet's shoulder at the program. It read Fearless Demonstration. We braced ourselves for what might just be the main event.

"Ladies and gentlemen, in keeping with our tradition, who wants to challenge Mason Tylor's record? One session in one minute? If you want your fifteen minutes of fame, this is your chance."

The spotlight scanned the crowd looking for volunteers. As the spotlight approached my row I became anxious and was glad when it passed.

Monet looked at me and spoke but I could hardly hear her with the music blaring. She repeated herself, slightly elevating her voice.

"I said, why don't you give it a try?"

"Yeah, right," I responded.

"Clay, I've never seen you back down from anything. I always enjoyed seeing you do your thing on stage back in the day. Oh, well."

That cut me deep. I remembered watching Mason Tylor's videos in the hypnosis academy. His catch phrase motivated and inspired me.

Fear is a choice.

What did I have to lose? I wanted Monet to be proud of me and sitting idly in my chair was becoming less of an option. I knew what had to be done. I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing allowing myself to enter trance. I chose to be empowered over being fearful. I stood. Monet was pleasantly surprised. The spotlight backtracked to where I stood, the disc jockey pumped up the volume. To my surprise the audience applauded my decision to come forward.

The emcee pointed at me and waved for me to accompany him on stage.

My heart was thumping, I mean thumping in my chest. Despite twenty years of performing, this was a challenge. I walked past Monet but she wouldn't let go of my hand without giving me a kiss for support.

As I proceeded to the stage I clocked Mason Tylor to my right. He was also applauding but in an irregular tempo.

As I walked toward the stage my meek steps became more of a strut of confidence. I had done this a thousand times before.

The emcee placed his arm around me and put the microphone in my face to introduce myself.

My initial instinct was to introduce myself by my stage name, Smokehouse. I caught myself.

"My name is Clay Thompson and I'm here with my lovely woman Monet sitting right there," I said pointing in Monet's direction against the bright lights.

The emcee gave a hand signal to the disc jockey. The music stopped and he made a brief announcement.

"How many survivors do we have in the house? Let's kick it!"

He spun one of the most motivating girl power tunes of all time causing a frenzy.

"I'm a survivor, I'm not gon give up,

I'm not gon stop, I'm gon work harder,

I'm a survivor, I'm gonna make it,

I will survive, Keep on survivin'"

All the ladies in the house stood clapping and some danced in the aisles. It was like a rock concert. Amidst all the chaos and music a timid, redheaded schoolgirl nervously approached the stage. She stood on the opposite side of the emcee. We had a show. What kind of show? I didn't know but I was happy to be a part of it. What I found most calming was I was about to help someone. Hypnosis was second nature to me and my mindset shifted from Smokehouse the entertainer to Clay the hypnotherapist.

The emcee applauded the young woman's courage, the audience followed suit. The frenzy slowly faded with the end of the music.

"Good evening, young lady. What's your name and what brings you here?"

The woman flipped her hair over her shoulder and adjusted her glasses before speaking.

"My name is Sarah and I have a fear of elevators. I took the stairs," she said pointing to the exit sign at the back of the room.

"Imagine what it would be like to erase that fear for ever?"

"Oh, wow, I would love that more than anything. But I don't think I can be hypnotized."

Sarah was very nervous and made little eye contact with me and no eye contact with the audience. I felt empathy for her and wanted nothing more than to help her. I felt a tremendous feeling of humbleness and purpose. I wasn't concerned about the crowd; my focus was this young, distressed woman.

The audience was absolutely silent and the emcee fitted Sarah and me with headless microphones.

"Clay, just tell me when you are ready to begin and we'll start the clock."

I'd completely forgotten this was timed, but I quickly dismissed it. I saw Mason Tylor sitting in his seat slowly stroking his temple with his forefinger. I knew I couldn't do a conventional induction. I had no other option than to do a rapid induction. But before I could induce her, I had to quickly gain her trust and confidence in my ability.

The emcee backed off the stage leaving me alone with Sarah.

I slowly closed the gap between Sarah and I. I smiled.

"Sarah, look at me. I know you're nervous but for the next few moments it's just you and me. We're gonna do this together. When you leave here you won't be taking the stairs."

I deliberately omitted the word elevator from my prehypnotic suggestion.

Sarah slowly raised her head until our eyes locked. She saw no fear or concern which gave her a comfort level.

"Can you help me?" Sarah asked, with her hands clasped behind her back.

"Yes, I can help you. But I will need you to place your hand in mine. Can you do that, Sarah?"

Sarah swirled her body slightly left to right before placing her hand in mine.

I drew just a little closer to Sarah never breaking eye contact. Within a few seconds our breathing was in synch and her eyes fixed on mine.

"I'll see you on the other side," I said while raising her hand to chest level.

I jerked her arm downward in a startling motion before I gave the command.

"SLEEP NOW!"

Sarah slept and swooned into my arms. I was poised and ready for her fall. The audience sighed in wonder.

The emcee gave the signal to start the clock.

"Sarah, I'm going to count from five to one. When I get to one, you will take me back to the time when this fear first emerged. Five-four-three-two and one! Give me a report, are you inside or outside."

Her voice was faint so the sound tech turned up the volume on her mic.

"I'm outside. I'm in a stroller. My nanny is pushing me. We're over a bridge. I'm only a few months old."

The clock continued to count down. The crowd watched the time intently. I was oblivious.

"Sarah, okay, you're in a stroller. Fast forward to the initial sensitizing event. Tell me when you are there."

"I'm there," Sarah responded, still in my arms.

Her rapid eye movement was indicative of trauma. Her eyelids were fluttering like butterflies.

"Sarah, where are you?"

"I'm sinking to the bottom of the river, still strapped in my stroller."

My mind began to process and interpret her response. She must have survived because I was holding her in my arms.

"Sarah, what happens next?"

Sarah's eye movement stilled.

"I drown and die alone."

A tear fell from her eye.

I recognized what was happening. I responded with the appropriate course of questioning.

"Sarah, what year is it?"

"The year?" she said, slurring her voice.

"Yes, the year you died."

"It's 19... it's 1922. Tuesday June 6th."

Just as I thought, Sarah was in a past life with fragments of past trauma spilling over into the here and now.

I glimpsed the counter briefly. There was 20 seconds left. I didn't care.

"Sarah, your fear is from another life. You can see that now. Would you be willing to let go of that little girl so she can rest in peace? So you can live your life?"

"Yes, yes," she responded.

The fear from her face was yielding to peace.

"Sarah, imagine tightly holding onto a rope anchored at the bottom of the river. It's trying to pull you in. Does the rope serve any noble purpose in your life?"

"No."

"Then let go of the rope and grab my hand. When our hands interlock you will feel the rope slide through your hands, for ever."

Sarah's right arm slowly drifted upward with no economy of motion. Our hands interlocked.

"Let go now."

Once again her rapid eye movement experienced an electrical storm of violent movements.

Her hand fell from mine and her body became dead weight.

I glanced at the clock and it flashed 10 seconds remaining.

"Sarah, when I count from five down to one you will awaken having no memory of what happened here, your fear replaced by confidence. Five-four-three-two and one. Awaken."

As soon as I spoke the word awaken, a loud buzzer sounded. The counter was at zero.

To my surprise the crowd went berserk and gave me a standing ovation. Except for Mason Tylor who remained seated.

The emcee was initially at a loss for words, but quickly joined in the applause.

Sarah came to and stood on her own power. She wiped her eyes and straightened her blouse and skirt.

I saw Monet in the crowd and she was applauding like she did back in the day when she attended my early shows. I wanted her to be proud of me. I smiled at her from on stage.

During the applause, Mason Tylor bolted out of his seat and soon joined me on stage. He was given a microphone and he stood between Sarah and I.

"My name is Mason Tylor. Trust but verify! Is that fair ladies and gentlemen?"

His fan base cheered him on.

"Trust but verify!" they chanted.

"Allow me to be the verifier," he said, like the smooth operator he was.

I had no idea what was taking place. I was just coming out of my own trance.

It wasn't too long before I realized my hero would re-induce Sarah back into trance to test if the hypnotic suggestions held. He did so with amazing flair and showmanship.

Mason Tylor winked at the audience then he placed his arm around Sarah.

Sarah gazed into his dark glasses almost fearful.

He removed his glasses and Sarah was out lying lifelessly in his arms.

Wow!

The audience was mesmerized.

I knew all the inductions of trance, but that was like nothing I have ever seen. There was more to come.

"Sarah, I would like you to validate my parking downstairs. Here is my ticket. Hurry."

In a zombie-like fog Sarah exited the stage with the ticket in her hand. I was just hoping she wouldn't run into anything or fall and hurt herself.

The audience cast their eyes on Sarah following her to the rear exit. Everyone wanted to know if she would take the stairs, or would she choose the elevator. I looked at Mason Tylor and it was as if he wanted to prove me wrong. He wanted me to fail. I didn't care about his stupid record, I cared about Sarah.

Sarah paused and stood in front of the elevator. This was the moment of truth. Everyone was doing the rubber neck to observe her next move.

Sarah chose the stairs. She disappeared into the stairwell.

The crowd became deflated. So was I.

Mason Tylor seized the moment.

"Many are called, but few are chosen. No need to worry. This story has a happy ending. When Sarah returns I will break my own record and show you how it's really done."

I was humbled by the ultimate showman and returned to my seat. Monet was not disappointed as I thought she would be.

"Honey, I didn't think you'd go up there. I'm proud of you."

That's all that mattered to me. I sighed and put my arm around my sweetheart. I was so nervous at first. I was just glad to overcome it and not let negativity control me.

Mason Tylor stood at center stage waiting for Sarah to return. It took a little longer than expected and the audience became a little restless.

Then everything changed.

The emcee signaled to the disc jockey something was happening. Beyoncé's song I'm a Survivor began to blast from the speakers. Everyone stood and looked behind. There was a lot of commotion.

"Clay, what's going on back there?" Monet asked.

"I'm a survivor, I'm not gon give up,

I'm not gon stop, I'm gon work harder,

I'm a survivor, I'm gonna make it,

I will survive, keep on survivin'"

The audience was applauding Sarah's return as the elevator doors opened. Still very much in trance she gave her ticket back to Mason Tylor and returned to her seat.

I was waiting for Mason Tylor to terminate her trance. He did so with the flair of a true showman.

With the snap of his fingers he commanded, "Awaken now!"

The emcee and Mason Tylor had a few words off-stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to inform you that Mr. Thompson had a five second head start on the clock. Mason Tylor's record remains intact."

The crowd had mixed responses, most were not in support of the emcee's announcement, but the fan base came through for my former hero.

For the rest of the night Sarah would not remember me or what happened on stage. She left with her girlfriend about twenty minutes later, via the elevator.

# SEVEN

* * *

# Hypno Expo 2011 Part II

After an incredible inspiring message of selfempowerment, Mason Tylor took a bow and exited the stage to his theme song We are the Champions by Queen. He was the real deal and it was an honor to share the same stage with him. Despite a less than favorable encounter, it would not be my last.

The emcee approached the stage and concluded the hypnosis portion of the program and suggested the audience patronize the psychic vendors aligned along the walls. Almost half of the patrons vacated and I was keen to head home and spend time with Monet.

"Honey, I'm going to look for the ladies restroom, I'll meet you by the elevator, okay?"

"Sure, babe," I replied as I escorted Monet to the outer lobby.

I reentered the ballroom and it annoyed me to see such gullible men and women clinging onto every word these charlatans spewed. I had nothing but contempt and disdain for these amateurs. But they had a captive audience that wanted to believe. The patrons managed to twist readings to suit their needs. They all had one thing in common; they wanted to connect with loved ones who had passed on.

Some of the psychics performed basic and elementary mind-reading tricks that I learned early on in my magic career. Some of them struggled with even the basics of mentalism. But they all got paid, twenty-five dollars for a reading. I stopped at one booth and listened in. It proved to be minutes of my life wasted that I could never get back.

"I see you are in a relationship, is that right?" asked the woman psychic dressed in 1960s garb.

"No, actually I just broke up with my fiancé."

"Well, it looks like you still have deep feelings for him, is that right?"

"Yes, I still love him. His name is James."

"I see James is in communications."

"No, he's a fitness instructor."

"Well, that's a form of communications. He has to communicate with his clients, right?"

I wished I had a bullshit alarm, 'cause I would have set the sucker off so freakin' fast.

I saw an empty booth by the elevator and sat in the empty seat waiting for Monet. I noticed an old, bedraggled, biracial lady who seemed very much out of place. She had large dark circles around her eyes and she wore a dated headscarf. She looked like a peasant swaddled in dull and drab clothing. She reminded me of the Oracle in the movie the Matrix. She creeped me out because every time I looked around I saw her staring at me out the corner of her eye.

Before long, a distinguished-looking mature woman approached the booth where I sat and mistook me for a psychic.

"Excuse me, I got here late. I heard Mason Tylor was brilliant. Did you see his show?"

"Yes. He was in rare form," I said, as I looked around the room for Monet.

"So, are you a psychic?"

I couldn't resist.

"Why, as a matter of fact I am."

The lady reached into her purse for some cash. All she had were fifties and hundreds.

"Do you have change, sir?"

"Ma'am, this show is on the house. There's no charge."

Guests that overheard I was doing free demonstrations began to crowd around my booth to check me out.

My new client was named Mary and she gladly placed her wallet back into her purse.

I went straight into my routine.

"Mary, being psychic is much more than being able to receive messages from the other side. It's also the ability to project messages. Allow me to demonstrate. Do you have a pen and piece of paper?"

"Of course," the woman replied, eventually placing them onto the table.

"I want you to pick a playing card in your mind."

"Any card?"

"Yes, any one of the 52."

"Okay. Got it."

"Now, write it down on the piece of paper and show everyone around you."

Mary scribbled the six of clubs on the paper and everyone jockeyed for a glimpse.

"I will need the use of a cellphone with an international calling plan. I'll pay for the call."

A man standing in the back of the crowd made his way to the front and handed me what looked like a company smartphone.

I continued.

"I will call a very close friend of mine in England, a person whom I share a psychic bond with. She will tell you the card you picked. Sir, thank you for the phone. Have we ever met before?"

"No," he replied.

I called Keisha, my partner in crime in England. She was also my assistant in my magic act years back. I placed the call on speaker so the crowd could hear.

Ring, ring, ring.

"Hello? Who's calling me this late at night?"

"Hey, Keisha, it's Clay. I'm in the US."

"Clay, I'm gonna kill you. I was almost asleep. This must be important. What do you want my brova?"

"Keisha, you are on speaker at the moment and I would like to introduce you to Mary. Mary has selected a card and I want you to tell her the card she selected. Can you do that for me sis?"

"Okay, but you owe me."

I took the phone off speaker.

"Keisha, when I count to five I will hand the phone to Mary."

The crowd expanded in numbers and all eyes were on me as I counted very slowly.

"One, two, three, four, five!"

I looked around and let the suspense marinate for a moment.

"Mary, Keisha would like to speak with you."

I handed Mary the phone. She hesitantly placed the phone to her right ear.

"This is Mary."

Mary froze like a statute.

The audience responded in unison.

"What's happening, what's happening?"

Mary gave the gentlemen his phone back and started shaking her head repeating the same words over and over.

"That's not possible, that's not possible."

For a bunch of psychic fanatics the crowd seemed in awe of what happened. If they only knew how simple that trick was. The crowd wanted more. I had time for one more act.

"I wish I had a set of cards but, unfortunately, I don't," I commented.

"I have a set," said a man from the back whose voice I was all too familiar with.

The crowd gave way to Mason Tylor who was standing there with his arms folded. He had an unopened deck of cards in his right hand. Mason Tylor was a big time gambler and it made sense why he had a deck of cards in his possession.

After a brief moment he approached the table and tossed the deck in my direction.

"Mr. Tylor, would you be so kind as to open the deck, shuffle the cards and fan them across the table?"

With the finesse of a Las Vegas pit boss, he demonstrated why he was the one and only Mason Tylor.

I needed a volunteer. I selected a man in a black tux with a pink cummerbund. His name was Marty.

"Sir, I would like you to point to any six cards."

He did.

"Now, out of those six cards make a mental selection. Just in your head."

"All right. Done."

I scooped up the deck and shuffled them a few times and fanned them on the table facing up Smokehouse style.

"Marty, look closely. Do you see the card you selected?"

Marty scanned left to right and back again.

"It's not there. The other five cards are. How did you do that?"

Mason Tylor would not take a back seat to some unknown con. He made a bold move.

"Trust but verify, is what I always say," he said as he hurdled over the table to shake me down.

First he stuck his hands in my coat pocket, then my rear pocket. After no success, he went there. He stuck his hand in my front pocket in front of everyone.

"I think I feel something," he said.

I couldn't help myself.

"Careful, if you keep doing that, I can't be held responsible for whatever might come of it."

A few snickered and that infuriated him. His face was flushed red.

"Aha! I found it, I found it. Right here," he said as he held a playing card high in the air for all to see.

The card he held had a fool in the center. It was the big joker, not one of the cards initially selected.

He realized he had been played and threw the card at me.

I carried on with my routine.

"Marty, as a token of my appreciation may I validate your parking?"

"Sure," he said as he reached for his wallet.

He opened his wallet and removed his ticket... with the King of Hearts paper-clipped to it.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your time. Good night."

There was no applause, just a lot of confused guests trying to wrap their minds around what just happened. I did get a few smiles which made my night.

My new and embarrassed friend was not impressed and had a few terse words for me.

"Who the fuck are you and who sent you? Listen pal, this is my house, you got it? Now get lost before I have you thrown out," he said with his finger in my face.

"Mr. Tylor, it was an honor to finally meet you and as a token of my appreciation..."

"Beat it!" he said as he walked away, giving me the middle finger.

As soon as I sat down Monet returned.

"I can't believe the line back there, it's like everyone had to go at once. You look so lonely by yourself, did you miss me?"

As Monet and I walked toward the elevator we bumped into the blonde super model who accompanied Mason Tylor.

"Excuse me, ma'am. This belongs to Mason Tylor. Could you return it to him?"

"Sure thing."

Monet stopped suddenly with eyebrows raised. She had questions.

"What did you just give her?"

It was Mason Tylor's Rolex.

I gave Monet the condensed version of events.

"You and your magic tricks. Let's go home."

As soon as the elevator opened to the underground parking lot I spotted my black Impala a short distance away. Standing in front of the driver side door was the old lady who had been spying me the whole night. It made me nervous. Monet spotted her too.

"Honey, there's a beggar next to our car. Do you have a few dollars we could give her?" Monet said as we slowed our pace.

"Let's see what she wants first, maybe she needs a lift or something."

Monet was a soft touch and reached in her purse and grabbed a ten dollar bill. We got within a few feet of the woman and it was like a standoff.

"Excuse me, ma'am, is there something you need?"

Monet offered her the money.

"I don't want your money, but thank you for your kindness."

Monet placed the money back into her purse and grabbed my hand.

"I saw your demonstration after the show."

"Oh, what did you think?" I asked feeling a little more relaxed.

"It was a mockery," the lady replied.

She drew closer to us. Monet stepped behind me.

The old woman had an energy that was almost electric. I could feel her aura. It was strong but I was not afraid.

"You have the gift, yet you don't believe."

She said it as if she felt sorry for me.

"I don't believe because it's not real. I'm proof of that. I admit it, I'm a fake. But at least I didn't rob those people of their hard-earned money."

The old woman noticed my watch on my right arm.

"Your watch. May I see it?"

"Ahh, sure."

She examined my watch and then closed her eyes. I looked at Monet, she shrugged her shoulders.

The old woman opened her eyes and let go of my arm.

"You are not the original owner of the watch. It has two previous owners before you."

I pulled my sleeve down over my watch and had a hard time looking directly at her. Her eyes were piercing right through me.

She was right. But how?

"The watch belonged to my dad, and his dad before that. How'd you know that?"

"You see, when we come in contact with items, like jewelry we imprint on them, leaving a recording behind."

"Okay, where do you fit in all this?" I asked.

She smiled at the both of us.

"Me? I am the tape player."

The woman's eyes cast on Monet.

"Child, I see it in your eyes. You believe."

Monet looked away and held onto my hand. She did not confirm or deny.

"Don't look away, I mean you no harm."

Monet gazed into the old woman's piercing brown eyes.

The old woman studied Monet intently.

"I see you are reacquainted with an old love. I also see your heart is guarded like a fortress."

Monet was reeled in by the woman's uncanny accuracy.

"Yes, we met over twenty years ago and now it looks like we're back in each other's lives," Monet responded excitedly.

"No, child. The love you share with him is an old love from another past, long before this life. Soulmates are destined to be together."

This woman, whoever she was, had almost a celestial presence about her. She was too wise for this world.

"Okay. If this spirit stuff is real, explain one thing to me. Why is it that only a few spirits return?"

"Spirits can be troubled and may not be ready to transition. Especially if their lives were cut short or if there was trauma in death."

Monet interjected.

"I believe that."

I was captivated and very much intrigued by this wise old soul.

"Well, if it's true that spirits can return then..." I choked on my words.

"Your father?" the old woman replied.

"Yes. My father would have. I know he would've."

"How many times does a father peep outside the kitchen window to check on his child playing? How many times does a mother check on her sleeping baby? But the child is unaware. Your father has not abandoned you. You need to know that."

It was getting to deep for me. I needed to go.

"Well, it's been nice talking to you, but we have a long drive home. If you'll excuse us."

The woman moved aside and continued to smile. I don't think she blinked the entire time we talked.

Monet and I buckled ourselves in and I started the car. There was a tap on the window; I lowered the window.

"I didn't catch your name, but we're in a hurry."

"I'm Winnie. I have a message, from your father."

I was paralyzed from the waist up. A part of me wanted to burn rubber and get the hell away from her. But there was another part of me that said, "What if?"

The woman stuck her head in and whispered in my ear. She took a couple of backward steps and waved goodbye. I watched her vanish amongst the stream of cars heading for the exit.

Monet let out a big sigh.

"Wow. What did she say Clay?"

"Clay? Clay!" Monet yelled as she started to shake me.

"Clay, come back to me, please."

I could hear Monet but it was like background noise, almost as if her voice was on mute. I was in a state of mild shock. I was unresponsive for almost a minute before I snapped out of it. Monet was worried.

"Sorry, babe. I'm okay," I replied, with my head hanging down and tears streaming down onto my jacket.

"Clay, what's wrong? What did she tell you?"

"She said... Hold up the light. That was the message from my father."

"So, did your father ever say that to you?"

"No, he never said those exact words but it's the kind of thing he would say to me. He always referred to the light, always. He said the light represented the truth and the way. He addressed the light in so many of his sermons. She couldn't have known that. There's no way."

Winnie was so close to converting me that night. I almost believed. But almost wasn't good enough.

# EIGHT

* * *

# Room Service

### 5:30 The Next Morning

Babe wake up, wake up," Monet urged, nudging me in bed.

"Waz wrong, sweetheart?" I asked as I unhitched myself from our intertwined bodies.

"Clay, it's time to get up for class."

I looked around in a daze, I was so out of it. I rubbed my eyes and looked at Monet. Then I looked under the cover. I quickly became coherent.

"Monet, you're naked."

"Of course, silly. You are too."

"Did we do anything last night?"

Monet sat up and her beautiful naked body disarmed

me.

"No, we didn't. After we left the convention you were in another world. I've never seen you like that before. You didn't touch me. I think Winnie had an effect on you."

"Winnie? I thought I dreamt that. Damn."

"No, babe. She was as real as you and me. She was special, that's for sure."

I flashed back to our encounter the night before. It was just creepy, no other way to describe it.

"It's coming back to me. Wow, she was straight out of the movie The Sixth Sense. I See Dead People."

"Oh, so you do believe in ghosts?" Monet asked.

"I believe in spirits but not ghosts. Monet, Winnie called you out. She said you believe in that stuff."

"Honey, I'm from Detroit but I grew up in Evansville, Indiana."

"What does that mean?"

"You mean to tell me you've never heard of the Willard Library and the Grey Lady?"

"Nope."

"The library is known worldwide as one of the most haunted places on Earth. It's a huge tourist attraction and the library is fitted with ghost cams that stream a live feed 24/7. Everyone in town knows about her, it's common knowledge."

"I bet she's been wearing the same underwear all these years, that's nasty."

"Clay, I'm not joking. YouTube it."

After a little convincing, I fired up the laptop and clicked on a YouTube link.

"Okay, what am I looking at?" I asked Monet.

Monet sat on my lap like it was nothing. It was something all right. I had to refocus.

"Clay, this is police dash cam footage. They are responding to an alarm from the library. It's 3:30am so no one should be inside."

"Okay, I see them flashing lights inside a window. Oh shit! What was that!" I shouted.

Monet turned around and faced me.

"Not what, but who. Most people think she is Louise Carpenter the daughter of the proprietor of the building who died before its completion in the late 1800s."

You could see a full-bodied apparition floating from room to room. She vanished in thin air and appeared in the window and stared at the police officers. That scared the shit out of me.

The cops screamed like little girls before racing back to the car. They reported the sighting.

My sexual urges took a backseat to one of the most frightening things I had ever seen. I closed the laptop.

Monet stood and returned to bed. My eyes tracked her sultry movements and I followed her. I rolled the covers back and crawled on top of her.

"Hey, just what do you think you're doing?"

I kissed her on the lips softly before responding.

"Not what, but who?"

"Clay, let's talk. Remember Winnie said my heart was guarded?"

"Yeah. That's understandable considering the divorce. I get it."

"No, it's not the divorce. It's you."

"Me? You lost me, babe. What do you mean?"

I could tell Monet was serious so I slid off of her and placed her head on my chest. I held her.

"Clay, I'm going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me?"

"I can't lie to you and why would I?"

"Okay. Just one question? Who is April?"

I paused. I wondered how she knew.

"April is my ex-fiancée. We officially broke up before I left England but we haven't been together for a while now."

Monet turned towards me and sat up.

"Why did you break up?"

"It's a long story but the passion just died and after a while the juice wasn't worth the squeeze anymore. I don't blame her, I'm sure I was just as responsible. Guess it wasn't meant to be. How do you know about April?"

"She's all over your Facebook page. Your status says, Engaged to be Married."

"Yeah, I need to update my page. She changed her status a while ago. I probably go on Facebook maybe once a week if that. Tell you what, watch this."

I got out of bed again. This time I opened up my laptop and logged on to Facebook. Within thirty seconds the world would know I was available. I rejoined Monet in bed.

"Okay, it's done."

"Clay, you mean all this time you weren't engaged?"

"When you asked me the first night, I told you I wasn't in a relationship."

"But, I thought you were..."

"Lying? Monet, I can't lie to you. I love you."

"Do you know how hard it is to sleep with you and not violate you like old times?" she said.

"Tell me about it. So what is our chance of redeeming ourselves over a misunderstanding?" I asked.

Monet climbed on top of me and sat up running her fingers over my chest.

"Our chances? Hmm, I would say about 70 percent."

Her hands across my chest and her naked body on top of mine was almost too much. I looked at the clock and I should have been on the road already. We both knew I would be playing hooky from work.

"Why 70 percent?" I asked with glassy eyes.

"You might change your mind," she replied.

"I've been waiting and waiting for this. What's gotten into you all of a sudden?" I asked.

"What's gotten into me? How about you ask me that in a couple of hours?"

Monet scooted off the bed and closed the curtains and put the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside doorknob. As she returned to bed she reached for the remote and turned the flat screen TV on with the volume way up.

Monet gave me the most passionate and softest kisses I'd had in 20 years.

"Like you always tell your clients, 'I'll see you on the other side'."

After days and nights of deprivation I slipped into a familiar trance that meant only one thing. Our twenty year wait would be over and we would experience something unprecedented and reserved for the sex addicts we were.

### Fade to black.

### 4:00pm

"Timeout, I need a break, sweetheart," I panted as I rolled off Monet onto my back, sweat pouring everywhere.

"Yeah, me too. It's hot in here. Turn on the AC, honey," Monet replied.

The AC was already on.

"I feel like I've been rode hard and put away wet," I commented.

"You have," Monet replied, winded.

"Clay, it's 4 o'clock! You'd better make a call," Monet said as she got up from the bed and stared at the clock.

On the way to the bathroom Monet passed a mirror and she stopped suddenly.

"Clay, what did you do to me? Look at me. I have love bites all over me. Is that a handprint on my right cheek?"

I got up from bed and stood behind her. I placed my hand directly over the print on her cheek. It was a perfect match.

"Yup. Guilty as charged," I said as I placed my arms around her waist.

"Clay, you do know I have two cheeks. Feel free to spread the love, babe. Just sayin'."

I loved it when she caressed my face with her back to me. I admired our nakedness in the mirror. I took a mental snapshot.

"Monet, I can't believe you let me go on and on and on."

Monet turned around and faced me.

"Clay, you didn't come 6,000 miles for me to say no. Anyway, I wanted you just as much."

"I still owe you a dance. I haven't forgotten," I said.

"Baby, as much as I would love to dance with you tonight, I don't have any strength to do anything tonight. It's a shame we only have two more nights together. Hopefully, I can get my dance before you go back to England."

I made my call and was glad to find out it was a library day. One of my Marine buddies in class covered for me.

Monet and I got dressed and we had breakfast for dinner at Cracker Barrel. I had steak and eggs and she had French toast with grits and bacon. We both downed at least three glasses of water before we ordered our food. While we waited for our meals, I looked at all the couples in the restaurant. I truly felt no one was as happy as we. No one.

# NINE

* * *

# The Dance

Twenty years is a lot to make up for in two nights, but we tried. I couldn't leave her alone and she proved just as insatiable. However, all the extended lovemaking would eventually take a toll.

"Clay, whenever we make love it's a one way ticket to the ends of the earth, first class. Well, I just got the bill and I'm paying for it right now," Monet commented, lying next to me in bed in obvious discomfort.

"I'm sorry, babe. I'll be gentler next time."

"Next time? Clay, if you so much as breathe on her I will strangle you in a leg lock," Monet replied wincing.

She was half-kidding. But half-kidding means half-serious.

We had two more nights together and the dance she wanted before I left seemed less of a possibility. That night she fell asleep in my arms in record time; I wasn't too far behind her. We both were pretty exhausted.

### 5:30pm

### The Last Night

"Honey, I'm home!" I called out while unloosening my tie and hanging up my blazer.

I looked around the room and Monet was out. On the center nightstand was a box of my favorite cookies in the world, Famous Amos cookies with pecans. She remembered after all this time. I turned around and saw a yellow sticky on the CD console, it read, Play Me.

The CD was a mixed tape that featured most of our favorite R&B artists from the nineties. Memories flooded my mind and it made me smile. When she returned from Walmart I gave her the biggest hug and kiss ever. While at Walmart she purchased a long-distance calling card to call me in the UK.

As our time together slipped away like grains of sand, we knew we needed to put things into perspective. We ordered room service and chatted over hot wings and a mammoth cheeseburger and fries.

"Clay, so where do we go from here?" Monet asked sitting across the bed.

"Sweetheart, do I really need to answer that? I hate to break the news to you but, you're pretty much stuck with me. At least for this lifetime."

"I think I can handle that. There's only one thing..." she said.

"Is it a big thing or a little thing?" I asked reluctantly.

"It's my daughter Michelle. I need to wait until she graduates next year before we make serious plans. Just fourteen more months that's all. She's going to Vincennes University in Indiana. She plans to stay with her dad not far from campus. Does that sound reasonable?"

I was relieved.

"Anything that involves us being together sounds very reasonable."

"I've been thinking a lot today while you were in class. The insurance company I work for is opening an office in Birmingham, in the UK. How far is Birmingham from where you live?"

"Birmingham is not that far at all. It's right up the M6 motorway. Who do I have to hypnotize to make sure you get the position?"

"We'll see. They have to advertise the position first. The CEO, Ms. Deveraux, will be onsite next week. I might just mention it in passing."

When Monet showed me the calling card she purchased I immediately thought of her racking up an expensive phone bill. I recommended we sign up for Skype accounts. In less than half an hour we both had Skype on our cellphones and we practiced skyping lying next to one another on the bed.

Around 9pm the reality of our last night began to set in. I wanted to be happy but I wasn't. I didn't want to leave her. It felt so natural just being around her. Monet was also concerned, mostly about April, my ex-fiancée. It took a while, but I think I eased her mind, especially when I told her she could call me anytime day or night.

Around 11pm we showered together and just enjoyed each other's company under the warm, splashing water. I got out of the shower first and dried off. Monet remained behind a few minutes after me. By the time she dried off I was already in bed waiting for her. As she hung up the towel she looked nervous. She stood at the foot of the bed in the nude with a look of uncertainty. She was apprehensive and I didn't know why. She eased into the bed to join me.

"Well, tonight's our last night. I guess you want to make love, right?" Monet asked still wincing a bit.

I looked at Monet and kissed her forehead. I didn't answer her.

Monet's body made contact with mine underneath the duvet. She immediately looked underneath.

"Clay, you're wearing boxers. You never wear underwear to bed. Why tonight?" Monet asked, sitting up.

I got out of bed and put on the CD. The song Love Won't Let Me Wait played softly. I dimmed the lighting.

I grabbed Monet's hand and escorted her to the center of the suite's living room. She looked into my eyes.

"Monet, the reason I'm wearing boxers to bed is because tonight it's a no-sex zone. And that's official. Would you like to dance with me?"

"Yes, but you are overdressed," she said as she kneeled down and removed them.

She stood and placed her hand in mine. I lead and she followed. We danced well into the early hours of the morning cherishing the precious moments we had left.

### En Route to Dulles Airport

### 7:30pm

Checking out of the Hilton was difficult. Room 132 was our little home and it was sad to close the door behind us for the very last time. Monet kept finding reasons to go back to the room to ensure we didn't leave anything behind, but we did... special memories of a renewed love. Monet and I kept our room keys as mementos.

Monet rebooked her ticket so she flew out of Dulles Airport one hour after my redeye flight to Heathrow. She was returning to Evansville on Delta Airlines.

The drive to the airport elevated our imminent separation anxiety and we were quiet for about the first fifteen minutes or so before Monet broke our silence.

"I read your book The Mogadishu Diaries."

"I know you did, darling."

Monet turned down the radio and faced me.

"How did you know I read it? Oh, I forgot, you're psychic."

"No, I'm not psychic. I read your review on Amazon. You gave it a five-star review. I knew it was you. It was like you were speaking to me."

"I was," she replied.

"I want to be your beta reader for your next novel," Monet volunteered.

With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on her thigh, I replied, "So what makes you so sure there will be another book?"

"Because I know my man. And I say there is another book in you."

"Babe, I dunno. I lost two close friendships over that book. After I wrote the book I reached out to two Marines that served with me in Mogadishu. Marines that in my opinion defined the Somali experience with valor and courage. Both parlayed their experiences into successful careers. But once they found out that I wrote a book about Operation Restore Hope things changed. I never intended on treading on their domain, I only wanted to stake my own. After the book was published I never heard from them again and I don't know why. It was disappointing and hurtful if I'm honest."

"Clay, then they were never really your friends. Real friends support you. And that's what I'm gonna do for your next book every step of the way."

"Writing a book is so consuming. Anyway, what would I write about?"

Monet paused in deep thought.

"Hmm, write about something you're passionate about, excited about. I'm sure you'll come up with something."

"You just gave me an idea. Something that I'm passionate and excited about? That's you and me."

"Anything but that. No way, Jose," Monet replied defensively.

"Why not? I think it would be a good read," I commented.

"Clay, women would judge me for having an affair on my husband. Not to mention Marc would go on a warpath if he found out. End of conversation."

Monet thought she talked me out of the idea of writing our story, but she was far from it.

Together we spotted the exit sign to Dulles Airport and the reality of separation was like a kick in the stomach. I started to feel depressed because of uncertainty and the thought of losing her again.

"Clay, I promise not to cry. We're gonna be okay, right?"

The uncertainty in her voice started to set me off. But I managed to hold it in. I couldn't look into her brown eyes without losing it, so I avoided direct eye contact.

She wouldn't let go of my hand even while I checked my luggage. Then came the hard part.

As I walked to security control I could feel my legs wanting to buckle. I didn't want to leave her, and it was just killing me knowing I would have to say goodbye in a few moments.

"May I see your boarding pass, sir?"

"Sure. Are the international flights on time?" I asked.

I was praying for a cancellation or at least a delay so I could spend just a little more time with Monet.

"You can check the monitor after you pass through. Mr. Thompson, you're good to go. Please proceed to the line on your left."

I kept wiping single tears from either eye as I turned around to give Monet one last hug. Monet nervously reached into her purse for a tissue but by the time it was in her hand it was too late. She sobbed, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

Seeing her burst into tears just completely overwhelmed me with emotion. The security control officer asked us to move aside to allow other passengers through.

Monet repeated the same words over and over.

"We're gonna be okay, right?"

I wiped the tears from her face and tried to assure her.

"Look at me, look at me. I'm still here. I will always be here. Don't ever forget that, okay? I love you, Ms. Dawson."

"Okay, I'll hold you to that. You'd better go now."

We kissed one last time before I reentered the security line. My heart was heavy. I looked back to wave at every opportunity. She remained in place waving back until I passed through the X-ray booth. I couldn't see her anymore. I felt loneliness setting in. I desperately wanted to hold her in my arms. But in my heart I knew it would be a while before I could make that happen again. She was gone.

# TEN

* * *

# Dark Shadows

Welcome to England. May I see your passport and landing card," asked the nice lady at UK Customs and Immigration.

"I have two passports, ma'am. My work visa and componency stamp are in my expired passport," I explained.

Normally this response results in a five-minute delay and the paging of a supervisor. But this young woman was knowledgeable and expeditious. My passport was stamped and I found myself at the baggage claim in record time.

All the jockeying I had to do to get out of the car park reminded me why Heathrow Airport was one of the busiest airports in the world. Once I was on the M25 motorway it was a smooth 90-minute drive north to Huntingdon where I called home. What a difference a day makes. Just 24 hours ago I was with Monet.

I turned right onto my street and, although I was experiencing a bit of separation anxiety, it was nice to be home. I missed my cat Missy. Missy was abandoned when her owner deployed to Afghanistan. One day after work I came home to a cat carrier with a fat tabby inside, courtesy of a neighbor. She looked like she was about to deliver a litter of kittens so I took her to the vet for a checkup. I spent £25 ($40) just to find out she wasn't pregnant, she was just fat.

I opened my door and Missy was sitting at the top of the stairs as if she was expecting me. She didn't act excited but I knew she missed me. I dropped my bags and gave her a hug knowing she would jump out of my arms in seconds. Missy was a dignified cat; any display of affection was on her terms.

I knew she wanted to go out so I let her out the back door. The weather was overcast and gloomy but that was the norm and I was accustomed to it. I saw Gabby, the next door neighbor's nine-year-old daughter, bouncing on her trampoline singing We Will Rock You by Queen. Ever since I did a magic show for her last birthday party she and I were pals.

"Mr. Clay, Mr. Clay, do a magic trick, do a magic trick," Gabby asked while doing back flips.

"Mr. Clay is tired Gabby, but maybe later. Did you look after Missy while I was gone?" I asked as I peeped over the fence.

"Yes."

"So, how's Carl and Louise?"

"Daddy is working long hours now. He's not very happy at the moment. Mummy's at Tesco. I told her I needed some rubbers and a pad for school."

"Well, if she forgets, I have a spare note pad and a few erasers in my study."

"Mr. Clay, I think my bouncy ball is in your yard. Can you throw it back?"

If I ever had a daughter, Gabby would be her. Her dad was Irish and her mom was from the Seychelles. The result was a beautiful little girl with long locks of sandy colored hair and a perfect smile. Gabby was an angel.

As savvy as I was when it came to beating jet lag, this time it was more of a struggle. For me, the key to beating jet lag was simply staying up and going to bed at your normal time. It was just after 11am but I was tired as hell. Maybe if I could just take a half-hour cat nap I could recharge my batteries and make it through the rest of the day. I'll just snooze for 30 minutes, that's all.

### 6:00pm

Yawn. I lifted the pillow from my head and looked at the clock. I had overslept by six hours. Missy was sleeping at the end of the bed and it was dark outside.

I was mad at myself. Not so much because I overslept but I hadn't called Monet to tell her I made it home. I checked my cell and I had 11 missed calls from her. I looked at my watch and knew she was still at work. I sent Monet an email to explain what happened.

Missy jumped off the bed and I could hear her scratching on the back door so I let her out.

As I opened the backdoor the smell of cigarettes wafted past me like a stink cloud.

"Hey, Carl is that you?" I asked, looking through a slot between the fence.

Carl was a Cambridge police detective who worked in Britain's Serious Organized Crime Agency, also known as SOCA. SOCA was an elite agency that existed to protect Britain from the greatest threats to society, to include terrorism and organized crime. Only the best of the best were recruited to work in SOCA. Carl never talked about his job but you could always tell when he was working on something big. He would start smoking again.

Carl had a shaved head and wore studded earrings in both ears. He was a proud Brit and proudly displayed the Union Jack flag on his front porch. He wasn't a big guy but he was gruff and probably had a mean streak. We got along because we both had a law enforcement background and he knew some of the coppers I worked with at INTERPOL.

"Hiya, mate," Carl said between drags.

"Gabby is growin' up fast; I hope you have a shotgun for when she gets older."

Carl popped his head just over the fence.

"The world's a scary place. I wish hormone-raging, teenaged boys was all I had to worry about," Carl replied as he took his last drag.

Carl spoke with such intensity it had to be work-related so I didn't go there.

"Clay, there's a storm coming. Good night," he said as he put his cigarette out on the heel of his shoe.

### INTERPOL Morning Pass Down

### The Next Day

"Good morning, Clay and welcome back. A lot has happened while you were away. At the moment, we have no play in Operation Searchlight, so we remain in a holding pattern until we get the word. Any questions?"

I shook my head.

"Dismissed," said the Branch Chief.

I felt like an idiot for not reading the pass down messages before the briefing, but I overslept and walked in late.

The agents and analysts gathered their notes and whispered amongst themselves. I felt paranoid. I tapped my coworker Ann on the shoulder as we headed to our office spaces down the hall.

"Ann, there seemed to be a dark cloud floating around in pass down. I haven't read the message traffic, what's goin' on?"

"Clay, Operation Searchlight, that's what. If the Press gets a hold of this it will be absolute pandemonium."

"Operation Searchlight? That must be a new Op. What is it? Terrorism, human trafficking, white collar?"

I followed Ann to her office and she handed me a SECRET folder that read Limited Distribution Only.

"Here, this should bring you up to speed. The latest message is an executive summary. Read the first paragraph."

After being in the game for a while it was hard to alarm me. This was an exception, it jolted me.

"Oh, my god. All this in a week? How many deaths are we talking about?" I asked while speed-reading through the message traffic.

Ann was normally a very bubbly woman and I had never seen her so serious.

"Seven. There may be more. Whoever he is, he's good, real good. I talked to our guy in London and he said it's like chasing shadows. They got nothin' to go on."

"Why do they call it Operation Searchlight. That's a weird name for an Op?"

"Maybe because they're lost on this one."

I handed the folder back to Ann.

Over the course of the last seven days a serial killer had emerged, randomly targeting women of all ages around Central London. All the women were found in the trunks of their cars; their bodies in large black duffle bags. No incriminating DNA traces were found on the padlocks or anywhere inside the vehicle. Comparisons to the Ripper case abounded within the department. This appeared to be the perfect crime, no witnesses, no motive and no end in sight.

The work day zipped along and by the time I clocked out, I was a little too emotionally invested in the case. This wasn't an episode from NCIS or Law and Order, it was real life. The reports I read were sanitized and redacted information was blacked out. The raw reporting, complete with pictures of the victims, had to be absolutely deplorable and unviewable. Each of the girls was someone's daughter, maybe someone's wife, somebody's close friend.

I parked my car in front of my house and noticed Louise carrying a blue wheelie bin to the curb.

"Hey, Louise. I can always count on you to remind me it's rubbish collection day. I'd better get my bin before I forget," I said as I met Louise near her perfectly manicured front lawn.

"Carl's hardly around these days, somebody's got to do it. After a long day at work, I can't be bothered to wash up anymore. In fact, I haven't washed up for a few days now. Maybe Carl will get the message," Louise commented.

"Yeah, my son hardly ever washed up, he just let the dishes pile up. Since it's just me now I only have myself to clean up after."

"Clay, I think you have a new neighbor. I've only seen her once. She only leaves the house to get groceries. Her car didn't move all weekend."

"Hmm, does she have a family, any kids?" I inquired.

"I think she's a spinster. Carl asked around and I think she's a writer. I think you'll get along with her."

"Okay, why is that? Because she is a writer?"

"No, because she speaks your language, she's a Yank."

I'd lived in England for just over a decade and it always tickled me when Brits referred to every American as a Yank no matter what part of the States they come from. Whenever my Brit friends would try to imitate an American, invariably they defaulted to a thick southern accent.

I found myself checking my watch every now and then wondering what Monet was doing at that moment. The five-hour time difference was inconvenient but workable. I usually had to wait until midnight to Skype her.

Ring, Ring, Ring.

"Clay, I can see you but you are frozen. Can you see me?"

"Yeah, but there's just one problem?"

"What? Am I pixelated?" Monet asked.

"No, just overdressed. Too much clothing."

"Well, you will just have to use your imagination then. I hope you have a good memory," Monet responded.

"Monet, I have to come clean. There's another female in the picture and she lives with me."

Monet didn't say a word but her eyebrows were slightly raised. She crossed her arms.

I left the camera's view and returned with the lady of the house on my lap.

"Monet, meet Missy," I said, just before Missy sprung from my lap onto the floor.

"Clay, don't make me come across the pond. Because you know I will," Monet said, relieved.

My picture finally unfroze and Monet was glad to see my face again. We got disconnected a few times but it was worth the hassle to see her face and hear her voice. This would become the new norm.

Skyping with Monet really helped me take my mind off work.

While lying in bed I found myself thinking a lot about my strange encounter with Winnie at the Hypno Expo. Her conversation looped in my head and I tried to make meaning of it.

"You have the gift, yet you don't believe."

I needed to know what she meant by that. Then I remembered Monet's comment about psychics. Maybe Winnie was the real deal. The rest of the night I kept asking myself, What gift? I also thought of the message from my dad, Hold up the light. I believed it was a message from my dad. I now had a better understanding of those people I once ridiculed as gullible.

 British term meaning to wash the dishes after a meal

# ELEVEN

* * *

# Bumper to Bumper

I was pleased that I had a writer for a neighbor, especially an American. As a writer, I took that as a good omen. Maybe she could help me land a mainstream publisher. The only problem was I never saw her. She appeared to be a recluse. It would take three weeks for us to be formally introduced but it would be a less than desirable introduction.

One morning on my way to work I saw a note on my windshield.

Your car is hogging up the driveway, I can't get past. That's what garages are for!

I took the note off the windshield and looked over to her house. She was watching me from her living room window. She closed the curtains.

I normally would have knocked on her door and apologized but I really wasn't in the mood for confrontation so early in the day. I balled up the note, put it in my pocket and drove to work with an attitude. Anyone who's ever lived in Britain knows that garages aren't for parking your car, they're too small. To avoid any more nasty notices I decided to park my Range Rover on the street, against my better judgment.

### Two Weeks Later

While feeding Missy before work, I heard a loud crash in front of my house. Cat food spilled all over the kitchen floor as I rushed outside to see what happened. It was ugly. My neighbor from hell hit my car from behind as she accelerated out of our drive. The force of the impact pushed my SUV halfway on the sidewalk. I was furious. She was standing by the point of impact.

"That's just great. I just got this car a month ago. I hope you have insurance." I argued with serious attitude.

I was expecting an apology.

"Well, if you wouldn't have parked in my blind spot!"

"Blind spot? Blind spots are behind you."

It takes a lot to get under my skin, but her attitude just made the situation insufferable. She had more to say.

"Excuse me, the hedge here obstructed my vision. That's called a blind spot."

"Whatever. We need to exchange insurance details. I'm gonna let my insurance handle this. I'm through with it."

While exchanging information, a local police officer stopped to investigate.

I was happy to see a neutral third party who could put this right.

"Is anyone here hurt?" asked the police officer.

"No," we both responded.

The officer ran our plates and inspected the damage to both cars.

While the officer took copious notes, I examined the insurance details of the offender.

Ironically we had the same surname but she spelled it Tompson, without the h. Her name was Joanne Tompson. Joanne was white, 50ish and the most unappealing woman I'd ever met. Not only did she have a bad attitude but she was as plain as they come. No makeup, straight, reddish hair and she was dressed like she was a '60s hippie . She looked absolutely ridiculous with her floppy denim hat. Underneath her jacket she wore a tie-dye shirt and stone-washed jeans.

The police officer then began writing a citation. I was happy; she deserved to be cited for hitting a parked car. Joanne and I took turns trading evil stares.

"Well, at least there are no injuries, but I'm afraid I have to issue a ticket," the nice policeman stated.

I felt vindicated and smiled at Joanne sarcastically.

"Here you go Mr. Thompson, you have 7 days to prove you have insurance."

"Wait, I do have insurance. I'm insured with Aviva and I have a monthly debit."

The officer explained.

"Mr. Thompson, DVLA indicates your insurance is expired. Your car should not be on Her Majesty's road. If your car were on private property this incident would not have happened."

This was easily solved. I calmly excused myself to retrieve my latest insurance letter. I opened the letter.

Mr. Thompson, please electronically sign your renewal to extend coverage. You must respond within seven days.

Of course, if the accident would have occurred one day earlier I would have been covered. Shit!

I regretted ever parking my car on the street. I was just trying to be nice.

By noon, both Joanne and I were in our rentals.

It was Sunday and it was the day Monet and I had our longest Skype sessions.

"Monet, I can hear you, just can't see you."

"My camera is off. I'm not dressed yet. Hold on," Monet replied.

"Babe, I have seen it all before. Last month even. C'mon, how about a little peek?"

Monet turned her camera on.

"You're covered up. You really don't need that robe," I pleaded.

"Clay, you're such a guy. I'm not gonna be your get-off girl."

"Hmm, well spoken, from the girl who secretly videotape us having sex," I replied.

"Touché, but I'm not getting naked. Anyway, I got the promotion at work babe! I'm a department head for Eastern Financial. My old office gave me a going away, and I just moved upstairs. Gonna miss my old office."

"Congratulations, sweetheart. A girl with the three B's, what more can a guy ask for?"

"Three B's?"

"Yeah, beauty, brains and booty. I ain't goin' nowhere."

After much reminiscing, Monet mentioned Barbara, a neighbor of hers whom I got to know pretty well back in 1991.

"Clay, remember Barbara?"

"You mean the woman who shot her husband in the middle of the night claiming she thought he was an intruder. I never bought that story."

"Yeah, but she said something that I never forgot. Marriage is like a long boring meal where dessert is served first. I don't want us to be that boring meal."

"Monet, everyday I'm with you is a special day. Anyway, we're soulmates. That's what Winnie said and I believe her."

"You think so?"

"I know so. I ain't goin' nowhere. I love you for ever."

"And I love you back Mr. Thompson."

It was Saturday morning and I did my early morning shopping at Tesco to avoid the rush.

"Morning, love. That will be eighty pounds and thirty pence."

I opened my wallet and began frantically searching every crevice. My VISA wasn't there. I gave it a shot with my American debit card.

The cashier examined my debit card both front and back.

"I'm so sorry, sir, we only accept chip and pin cards. Do you have a British credit or debit card?"

I looked at the long queue of shoppers behind me and I could tell they were losing patience.

"I have a Halifax debit card, but I think I left it at home," I replied, frustrated.

"I'm sorry, I guess you will have to put your items back."

I got some really nasty looks from shoppers behind me, especially the ones with only a couple of items in their basket.

I always say life is about timing and timing is everything. This morning would underscore that sentiment. A shopper emerged from the back of the line and presented his card for payment. It was Carl.

"Clay, I'll sort you out. Eighty quid won't break the bank," Carl said, with a carton of Marlboro cigarettes in his basket.

I was surprised by Carl's generosity, but £80 ($120) was a bit much to cover. But Carl insisted and added the carton of cigarettes to the bill. I thanked Carl profusely on the way to the car park and promised to settle the debt that day. Carl didn't want money as payment he wanted Mountain Dew. While visiting Disneyland in Florida on holiday last year he got hooked on Mountain Dew. Mountain Dew wasn't sold anywhere in our area except on the military base and you needed a military ID to get on. Since Carl was on foot I offered him a ride, straight to the base commissary. We had an interesting chat on the way.

"Carl, how much is a carton of cigarettes in England?"

"Prices keep going up, just over £70 ($100) now. Our neighbor Nigel quit smoking and saves enough money to pay his monthly car note and insurance. I'm spending over £300 ($450) a month on these bloody things. I really need to quit once and for all."

I was tempted to offer my hypnosis services but Carl was well aware of my practice. I had several conversations about volunteering my hypnosis services for law enforcement for free. He always repeated the same old line.

"I'll get back to you."

After unloading the 11th case of Mountain Dew from my trunk, Carl surprised me.

"Clay, how much do you charge for a session? I really need to quit," Carl said, panting from multiple trips from the car to the kitchen.

Finally! We had been neighbors since Gabby was an infant and I was delighted he reached out.

"Well, normally I suggest half of whatever you spend on cigarettes in a month," I responded, while Carl made me a cup of tea.

Smokers who haggle over that fee send a strong message.

I'm not ready to quit.

Carl didn't blink. He made an appointment for the following Wednesday.

It was a week since I hypnotized Carl and I was confident he quit when he left his cigarettes on my coffee table. I saw him almost twice a day and I was looking for some confirmation that he quit. He never mentioned it. I got confirmation from his wife Louise.

Ring, ring, ring.

"Hiya, love. This is Louise. You hypnotized Carl to stop smoking, yeah?"

"Yes, is there something wrong?"

"No. He doesn't smoke anymore but..."

"But, what?" I asked.

"Well, it's personal. But I have to ask..."

"Fire away, Louise."

"Well, every time we make love now he gulps down loads of orange juice immediately afterward. Why is that? He never did that before."

I put Louise on hold and reviewed the notes from our session.

"Louise, I can explain. I asked Carl to choose an alternative for cigarettes while he was in trance. He chose orange juice."

Louise was satisfied and she kept the fridge stocked. At the end of the day, Carl quit and that's what mattered.

 Slang for British Pound

# TWELVE

* * *

# Three Sheets and a Pen

Clay, adjust your camera. All I can see is the top of your head. That's much better."

"Hey, babe," I replied, deflated.

"Why the long face? I've never seen you like this before."

"I miss my old neighbors Jim and Gloria. They were so nice to me. I wish they could've stayed. My new neighbor. arrgh. She gets on my damn nerves. I just got my new car insurance policy and I lost my no claims bonus. And, of course, my premiums went up. I always thought if you got hit from the rear, it was the other person's fault. I'm glad you called babe, I needed a pick-me-up."

"Well, I have some news that might make your day. Ms. Deveraux our CEO flew in to present our department an award. After the presentation she treated a few of us to lunch. When she mentioned she was trying to quit smoking I mentioned you. She wants to know how much you charge."

"That's great, but I live seven thousand miles away. I've flown to Germany for a session but that was only an hour flight."

"That's too bad. She was really excited when I told her about your success rate with smokers. She asked me a million questions about my session with you. She's minted in money. What if she flew you here? Then I could see you again."

"I'm in the hole as it is. I'd have to take leave without pay."

I was talking myself out of it and I realized I needed to stop making excuses. If I really wanted to do this how would I approach it?

"Mr. Thompson, I see those neurons firing. What are you thinking?" Monet asked.

"There is one way I could do this. I've never done it before but I feel confident I can pull it off," I replied, stroking my mustache.

"Fill me in."

"Skypenosis. Years ago I hypnotized someone over the phone but it took a while to induce trance. Email her my number and I will take it from there."

"Okay, hun. But she will ask you for a guarantee before she commits. That's just how she is."

While a student at the hypnosis academy we were taught never to offer a guarantee. However, this was an opportunity I couldn't pass.

### One Week Later

"Clay Thompson, this is Crystal Deveraux. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance, Monet Dawson."

"Ms. Deveraux, I'm very glad you called. How can I help?"

"I've heard good things about you and I am very interested. I'm a bit anxious and edgy. I haven't had a cigarette in four days and it's pure hell. You can name your price, but I want a money-back guarantee. Is that acceptable?"

Against my better judgment and training I accepted.

"You have your guarantee. My fee is $300. You can make the check out to Monet Dawson. Do you have any cigarettes lying around?"

"Of course I have cigarettes lying around. I can hear them calling my name. Crystal, smoke me, please."

"All right. If you are free we can do this today. Here is my Skype number xxx-xxxx. There is one thing I'd like you to do before we Skype."

"I'm listening."

"Smoke your cigarette before the session and enjoy."

My instruction confused Ms. Deveraux. I explained the amount of nicotine in her system had no bearing on the success. However, her ability to relax had everything to do with a successful trance session. She understood my unorthodox approach and lit up. We skyped.

Every time I came home and saw Joanne's car in her drive it put me in a foul mood. I needed a diversion, a way to vent my frustration. I decided to self-medicate, and I knew just what my vice would be, writing. Monet would not approve of me writing a novel about our relationship so I would write it just for my eyes only.

I mentally prepared myself to write by listening to YouTube videos of our favorite artists. It was the perfect escape because I could relive all of those beautiful memories in 3D and Technicolor in my mind's eye. I blasted the music in my study and found myself typing to the beat. My passion for writing trumped my angst for Joanne.

I was rocking to Bobby Brown's My Prerogative and my flow was interrupted by a knock at the door. I turned the music down and hustled downstairs to investigate. It was a community police officer.

"Mr. Thompson? There has been a complaint filed about the volume of your music. This citation is only a warning, please keep it down. Cheers."

I poked my head out and I saw Joanne duck into her house.

My mother always told me never to use the word hate. But I hated Joanne. My anger triggered a conversation I had many years ago about coping with people that get under your skin.

"Clay, every time my boss gets on my nerves I go in the bathroom and I write his name on a few sheets of toilet paper."

"Cynthia, how does that make you feel better?" I asked.

"Because, I drop the paper in the toilet and pee all over his name. When I flush the toilet I watch it swirl away with all my anger. It's therapeutic, you should try it."

"Cynthia, thanks for that visual but I think I'm good."

If only it were that easy.

It had been a week since I hypnotized Ms. Deveraux and once again I had had no confirmation. This time confirmation would come from Monet but in a roundabout way.

"Clay, I went to the bank this morning and my account was short $300. Ms. Deveraux put a stop payment on the check."

"Damn. I was so confident that she was done. We spent two hours in trance. I wonder what happened."

"I guess she relapsed. She should've called before she cancelled the check. Maybe you should speak to her."

"Just leave it baby. I gave it my best, that's all I can do."

"Clay, are you sitting down?" Monet said on Skype.

"Uh, oh."

"Ms. Devearux sent me a thank you letter for recommending you."

"Wow, I guess she quit after all. So why did she cancel the check?"

"Clay, she canceled the check because she sent a much bigger one. I have it in my hand!" Monet said excitedly.

"That's great. How much is it?"

"Clay, it's for five grand. She said the next time you're in town she wants to meet you."

"What? Did you say five thousand dollars?"

I was ecstatic. Monet and I decided to use the money for a trip to England, a very nice trip with no expenses spared.

# THIRTEEN

* * *

# Seat of Power

While watching the BBC News with Missy on the sofa, I heard a knock at the door. I turned the volume down on the TV and answered the door. It was Carl standing in the pouring rain. He was drenched so I asked him to come inside.

He looked concerned.

"Carl, take a seat I was just watching the News. Can I offer you a cup of tea, a cigarette?" I asked sarcastically.

"Tea sounds just lovely, but I don't smoke anymore. Cheers for that."

As soon as Carl sat on the sofa Missy hightailed it upstairs. I brought two cups of tea for us.

"Clay, I might need your help on a very sensitive case," Carl said as he sipped his tea.

"Does it have anything to do with Operation Searchlight?"

Carl sat up straight and looked surprised.

"Then I needn't tell you that this is strictly on a need-to-know basis. How many people at INTERPOL are read in on the case?"

"Not many, all the files are marked LIMDIS. So how's the case progressing?"

"There's been no movement on the case, but no recent activity either. Maybe he's gone underground. We have seven families to answer to. What kind of bloke does that to a woman?"

"Seven? Are the deaths still confined to Central London?" I asked.

"So far. I think this lull in activity is the calm before the storm. He'll strike again if we don't catch him soon."

"So how can I help?"

Carl put his cup down and paused.

"We might have a break in the case. We think he was interrupted by a jogger during the last attack. We found an eighteen-year-old girl unresponsive in her car near a vacant field. She nearly died. Toxicology results indicate she was drugged and raped like all the others."

"Well, is she talking?"

"That's just it. The drug is an amnesiac and she doesn't remember shit. She's a right mess emotionally. We need her to remember. Can you help?"

I salivated at the opportunity.

"I've been successful in retrieving events during an alcohol induced blackout. I'd love to give it a shot. I'll need to do some research on the effects of the drug."

"We have one hurdle to clear before I can go any further."

"What's that?"

"Her dad is dead set against it. He doesn't want anyone near her that could possibly upset her. Her name is Anna."

Carl and I talked for about thirty minutes more. I had to restrain myself because this was my dream case and I didn't want to appear too eager. The session had to be cleared at the highest levels as this was a break in protocol. I wasn't going to get paid and I would have to sign a letter of nondisclosure. I would have to agree to conduct the session with complete anonymity, but this wasn't about the money or recognition. If my session somehow resulted in an arrest it would be enough to know I had a small part in putting a killer away.

All week long Monet kept telling me she had a surprise. Today was the day and I wondered what she had up her sleeve. I couldn't wait to call her.

"Okay, what's this surprise you've been telling me about all week?"

"Clay, what are you doing next Thursday?"

"Uhmm, why does next Thursday ring a bell?"

"I'm coming to see you next Thursday. I just found out Michelle is staying with her dad next week during spring break. Isn't that great news?"

Before I got too excited I opened my monthly planner. I had to cancel.

"Monet, as much as I love you, I have to say no to that week."

There was a silence on the other end. I didn't mean to upset Monet but I know I did.

"Excuse me, I don't know who you are but can you please put Clay on the phone."

"Sweetheart, I'm just looking at my planner and I have a colonoscopy next Friday. I will be doing my prep the day before."

"So what? I'll be right by your side."

"Oh, hell no. Sorry, but this conversation has just exceeded its shelf life."

Monet lightened up when she realized it was over a medical issue.

"I will need some serious me time during the prep. In fact, I'm checking into a hotel Thursday night for my prep. My bowling partner Chris just had his colonoscopy two weeks ago. He said it was like someone put a supercharged engine in his ass and hit the nitrous switch."

"Honey, it can't be all that bad. People do it all the time."

I had more to add.

"Monet, Chris checked into the Premier Inn to do his prep and the bill came to over three hundred US dollars."

"For one night? Must have been a 5-Star hotel," Monet added.

"It was only a 3-Star," I replied.

"Why so expensive?"

"It wasn't the daily rate it was the extras that jacked up the bill."

"Extras, like what?" Monet asked.

"They charged him for a complete new set of bedding and carpet cleaning."

"Gross. Honey, how about in a couple of weeks then, would that be all right?"

# FOURTEEN

* * *

# Person of Interest

I was having so much fun watching my cat react to cat videos on YouTube I could hardly hear the knocking on my front door. I opened the door and observed two strange white men in their late forties whispering to each other. One was bald and the other was obese.

"Excuse me. Can I help you?" I asked.

"We are looking for Mr. Clay Thompson. It's urgent."

At first I thought they were salesmen but I quickly dismissed that notion because of their stern looks. I closed the door behind me and engaged them outside.

"I'm Clay Thompson. What's this about?"

Both men identified themselves. They were plain clothes detectives and wanted me to accompany them to the precinct. They declined to discuss any details and I soon found myself in the back of an unmarked black BMW with tinted windows.

I did a conscience check and I couldn't figure what I had done wrong to warrant a visit from VICE. It was a short ride and I followed the men to an interrogation room with a one-way mirror. I was instructed to sit at the table.

A light clicked on inside my head and gave me a sigh of relief. I relaxed back in my chair. This could only mean one thing.

I was left alone for one hour and I was losing patience by the time the two men returned. They sat across from me and placed a notepad on the table. The bald guy gave a signal to someone on the other side of the one-way mirror.

"Do you know why you are here Mr. Thompson?"

"Yes, it's because of the recent murders in Central London. I just want to say, you have the right guy. I've been doing this for about 20 years now."

Both men looked at the one-way mirror with puzzled looks on their faces.

"Twenty years?" the fat detective asked.

"It's all about gaining their trust. As soon as they close their eyes, that's confirmation they're gone. I've refined my technique over the years and now they go pretty quick without resisting."

The fat guy had to keep baldy from attacking me. I stood and backed up confused as hell.

"You sick son of a bitch!"

A big burly police officer immediately entered the room and placed himself between me and the two detectives. All three left after a brief scuffle.

I found myself pacing the interrogation room looking at my watch. It was ten o'clock and I had to work in the moring. I had no signal reception either. I felt imprisoned.

An hour later, a well-dressed, slender man in his thirites entered the room. He was smooth and it put me at ease. His name was Andy. Andy had a slimline laptop in a briefcase. He removed it and placed it on the table. He powered it up and turned it facing me.

"Mr. Thompson, do you recognize what's on the screen?"

"Yes, that's my desktop on my PC at home. Those are my files. Why are you showing me my desktop?"

He continued.

"And is this your browsing history?"

"Yes it is."

The next sequence of events disturbed me.

I was on camera browsing the internet being secretly recorded. Somehow they were able to activate my webcam and shadow my online activity. I felt violated and it made me angry.

"Mr. Thompson, now do you know why you are here?"

"Well, I thought I was here to hypnotize the latest victim to help her recall the incident. I guess not."

"I don't know what you're talking about. But when you use keywords in Google such as Ecstasy, date rape, drug effects, you can expect VICE to come knocking at your front door."

I calmed down. It was close to midnight and I was emotionally exhausted. My adrenaline was still high from being inches away from being punched in the nose.

From the very beginning we started on separate pages. I was a person of interest and they believed I was confessing to those horrible crimes.

After a number of calls were made I was cleared and Andy drove me home.

### Thursday Prep Day

"Nurse Matthews, I'm Clay Thompson and I'm here to pick up my prescription for my prep. I have a colonoscopy in the morning. Is it as bad as they say it is?" I asked.

I saw two male pharmacist technicians in the back bust out in laughter. I took that as a bad sign.

"Mr. Thompson, unfortunately we are out of sanitizer and we will have to reschedule your appointment."

I'd fasted for 24 hours in preparation for the procedure. I was delighted I could go across the street and OD on some Popeyes Chicken. But I was also puzzled.

"Sanitizer?"

Somehow sanitizer didn't seem strong enough to get the job done.

With one hand on the steering wheel and the other frantically searching for a chicken wing, I drove home feeding my face. By the time I reached my house I had biscuit crumbs and spilled coleslaw all over my shirt and trousers.

Upon entering my drive I saw an amubulance parked in front of Joanne's house. Paramedics were performing CPR on her at the foot of the stairwell. It was manic.

"We're losing her, stand back. Clear!"

I saw Joanne's lifeless body, her blouse was ripped open. The defibrillator didn't appear to have any effect. Her back arched violently every time they applied a shock.

I was standing just outside her door and I was watching her slip away. All the nasty feelings I had for Joanne were erased in a fleeting second. She was dying in front of me and it was so distressing to watch. It broke my heart, I wanted her to make it. They quickly loaded Joanne on to a gurney and guided her into the waiting ambulance. Her face was not covered up so I assumed she was still alive. Aside from combat it was the most stressful thing I had ever witnessed. I felt helpless and disturbed.

I got in my car and followed the ambulance to Hinchingbrooke Hospital about ten minutes away. I kept praying that Joanne would pull through.

"Please Lord, save my friend."

I accompanied the paramedics as they huriedly removed Joanne from the ambulance.

The lead paramedic took control.

"Clear the passageway, we're coming through!"

I saw Joanne's face,she was turning a greyish color.

"Is she gonna make it?" I asked nervously, keeping step with the paramedics.

"And who are you?" the lead paramedic asked.

"I'm Clay Thompson," I replied.

"Okay, Mr. Thompson please take a seat in the waiting area. We may need you to sign some paperwork."

I did as I was instructed but I didn't know why they would require a signature from me. I was a nobody.

While sitting in the waiting area I killed time by watching the News on the overhead monitor. I wondered what happened to Joanne. My first thought was that maybe she had a heart attack.

I waited, waited and waited.

"Mr. Thompson, wake up," a young nurse said as she placed her hand on my shoulder.

"Yes?" I responded, wiping the sleep from eye.

"Your wife has recovered. She collapsed. It's a good thing we got there in time. She's resting but you can see her now."

My first inclination was to advise the nurse she had made a mistake. Although we shared the same surname it was spelled differently. But I knew if I told her I was just a neighbor I would be asked to leave.

"Right this way, she's the first bed on the right in room 226."

I was nervous about being an imposter. I also thought about what if Joanne woke up and saw me there. She probably would have me thrown out. But I wanted to see that she was all right.

There she was lying under the blanket soundly asleep with a mask over her nose. They had dressed her in light blue pajamas. I was surprised to discover she was bald. The EKG blipped at a steady pace. I was ever so quiet. I sat in the chair next to her. I said another prayer for her.

My head bobbed and bobbed as I tried to fight sleep. Eventually, I succumed to emotional fatigue.

I opened my eyes just slightly and saw Joanne staring at me wide awake.

She spoke in a soft but weak voice.

"What are you doing here?"

"Stalking you," I responded.

She smiled.

"I must be the first chemo patient in the history of the world who has a stalker."

"I just wanted to check on you, maybe I should go," I said as I slowly stood.

"No, it's okay. Stay."

Joanne and I engaged in mostly small talk at first. You would have never known we were enemies just the day before. It turned out to be that we were both nice people who just met under negative circumstances. As she began to fade into slumber she promised to make me dinner when she was released. She also had one request.

"Clay, in my purse are my keys. Could you feed Nemo for me?"

"Sure," I replied with a smile.

"Groovy," she responded.

I waved goodbye. She waved back.

Nemo was her beloved goldfish.

# FIFTEEN

* * *

# I See Smart People

Joanne was hospitalized for a week. I visited her every day I and always brought her favorite snack, trail mix. We were complete opposites of each other but we connected on our own level.

She was a highly educated introvert who never escaped the 1960s. She was extremely uncomfortable and anxious when she had to engage hospital staff. Joanne was like a nervous Chihuahua around everyone except me. She was incredibly attached to her fish Nemo and addressed it as if it were a person. Somehow she allowed me into her private inner circle and slammed the door shut behind me. I embraced her friendship.

Joanne had an interesting past. She had a PhD in Philosophy and was fluent in Russian. Joanne was one of the most highly-functioning people I'd ever met. She was extremely logical and analytical in her thinking. The last day of her hospital stay I brought along some magic tricks to entertain her. She was able to use logic to explain how I performed every trick, even the most deceptive ones. Over the course of our friendship I'd spend many days and evenings trying to deceive her without success. I wasn't disappointed I was impressed.

The evening before Joanne was released we had an interesting conversation.

"So what's on the TV?" I asked as I pulled up a chair at her bedside.

"It's a very odd film. Bruce Willis looks so young. Must be a dated movie," Joanne replied.

"Hmm, is it Die Hard?"

"Don't think so, but there is a very precocious little boy who clearly is carrying the film."

"You mean The Sixth Sense. I love that movie it's a classic. It's a ghost story. This movie has a great twist at the end. The story comes full circle," I commented.

"At what point in the story does the audience find out Bruce Willis is actually dead?"

I rolled my eyes at Joanne.

"And what makes you think he's dead?" I replied.

"Well, it is pretty obvious. Don't you think?"

"Please explain, Ms. Einstein?" I demanded in jest.

"Well, the only dialogue he has is with the boy for starters. I don't really care for these types of movie. The idea of spirits returning from the dead is completely inconceivable. Don't you think so?"

I scratched my head.

"Yeah, you're right."

Jo and I chatted fifteen minutes past normal visiting hours. After seeing the nurse peek into the room for a third time I knew it was time to go. I gave Jo a hug (for the first time) and when I broke my embrace I saw a beautiful smile. On my way out she made another observation. She called me out.

"Clay?"

"Yes, Jo," I replied as I stood in the doorway.

"Can I have my watch back?"

"Watch, what watch?" I responded with a sheepish look.

"The watch you stole off my wrist when you hugged me."

I walked into my house and Missy was by the back door so I let her out. I saw Carl in the back yard. He was slurping on a small carton of OJ. He asked about Joanne and I told him she was recovering nicely and would be home the following day.

"Clay, I can't get my head around this case and I'm running out of time."

"What do you mean, Carl?"

"The Press wants to break this story wide open but so far they are keeping their powder dry. But we only have a small window before the shit hits the fan. And that window is closing fast, mate."

"I noticed the killings weren't covered in the Press. I thought they would be all over this one," I said.

"The Press knows this nut job wants his story plastered on all the headlines. But if I have it my way he will go down as one of the most dangerous serial killers you never heard of."

"So how did you convince the Press to hold tight?"

"I'm afraid I can't comment on that," Carl replied as he took another big swig.

"What about the girl, the victim? Is she close to consenting to hypnosis?"

"The family is divided. Her mum and older sister want her to go through with it. But her dad is a right pain in my arse. He's dead against it. Something has got to give before we have another dead lass on our hands."

"Hi, Clay. Come on in. Dinner is ready," Jo said as she shut the door behind me.

I gave Jo a small bouquet of flowers, welcoming her back home. Inside her house were large bookcases on both walls in her living room. Her house resembled a mini library, literally hundreds of books in different genres mostly nonfiction. I took my time browsing some of the titles and it was obvious Jo was fascinated with Russian espionage cases dating back to the turn of the century. She appreciated the spy-vs-spy rivalry between the CIA and the KGB. Jo was proud of her literary collection and it was clear she had an investigative mind. She loved solving mysteries.

I brought Jo a copy of my new novel The Mogadishu Diaries and a printed copy of the first few chapters of The Seduction of a Military Wife, the story of Monet and I.

"So you're a writer?" Jo commented.

"Well, let's just say I have a story to tell. I know that you're a published author with Oxford University Press. It must be nice to have a mainstream publishing company to back you. That's my dream."

"For years I wrote for academia but now I'm going in a totally different direction. I'm publishing a children's book. It's about a little girl and her special relationship with her fish. It should be published soon," Jo said.

"Can I have the honor of being the first to buy your book?"

Jo seemed surprised.

"Okay, I'll hold you to that. I'm with a large publishing company called New Paradigm; they publish all types of genre. I personally don't care for fiction, but I will take a look at your work. But I gotta warn you, I won't sugar-coat my critique."

"I'd expect nothing less," I replied with a grin.

I placed my book and manuscript on her coffee table and followed Jo into the dining room.

I seated myself at the dinner table in the dining room while Jo was in the kitchen preparing to bring the food out. My salivary glands worked overtime as I could smell the aroma of salmon in the air.

When Jo set the dishes on the table I was slightly surprised.

"Wow, two vegetable dishes," I commented.

Jo was big on healthy eating. She prepared steamy dishes of broccoli, Brussels sprouts, rice and lightly seasoned salmon. I was a bit under-whelmed. I'm not a big fan of dishes that are high in nutrition and low in taste, especially when I'm super hungry. But my gratitude overshadowed any disappointment.

"Okay, I guess I'll say grace," I said as we both were seated.

Jo was hesitant.

"Clay, I don't say grace, but you can."

It was just a little awkward knowing she was watching me. When I finished, I looked up and saw her staring at me.

"Sorry, Clay. I don't believe in God, heaven or hell," Jo said as she handed me a large plate of Brussels sprouts.

"So what do you think happens to us after we die?" I asked.

"When we die, we die and that's it. There is no afterlife."

"You seem pretty sure about that but I believe there is a life after death," I commented.

Jo sighed and looked to her right watching Nemo swimming in the large exotic aquarium. She had a sad commentary.

"If there is an afterlife, I will let you know in about six months. Or less, depending on what doctor you listen to."

I stopped chewing and put the fork down.

"Jo, what are you talking about, six months?"

"Clay, I came to England to die. I don't have any family or any friends to speak of. If my phone rings it's either my publisher or my attorney who's in charge of my affairs after I go. I've been diagnosed with stage-four lymphoma. I halted chemo treatment just before I left the States. I just couldn't handle the treatments. I've been wearing this wig for a while now. Clay, there is one detail I want you to take care of when I go. It's important to me."

"All right, Jo. What is it?" I asked solemnly.

Jo walked over the aquarium and sprinkled a few flakes of fish food into the illuminated tank.

"I want you to take care of Nemo for me. I know you'll take good care of him,"

"I'll do it."

It was so morbid talking about life after Jo. She was my friend and I didn't want to lose her.

"Thanks, Clay. Just one more thing. When Nemo swims his last swim, don't flush him down the toilet, okay?"

As Jo was speaking her cellphone rang. The ringtone was befitting of her love of the '60s.

It's not usual to be loved by anyone. It's not unusual to have fun with anyone...

"Jo, is that a Tom Jones ringtone?"

"Indeed," she responded with pride.

The previous conversation was pretty morbid and I had to force myself to disengage from the doom and gloom I was feeling inside.

Jo excused herself from the table; it was her publisher from New Paradigm. During her conversation I pondered what it would be like to have an agent and talk stuff like royalty compensation. It was exciting just to sit on the sidelines to hear Jo assert herself so professionally. I admired Jo. The Tom Jones ringtone was hilarious to me.

Jo returned to the table.

"My agent says he left messages on my answering machine. He knows if he really wants to contact me he needs to call my cell. I always check my cell."

Jo and I finished our main course and we chatted over dessert, a bowl of sliced fresh fruit.

"So, who is the lucky girl?" Jo asked.

"What makes you think there is a girl?"

"Clay, either you're in love or on drugs. No one walks around with a permanent smile on their face. What's her name?"

"Monet, her name is Monet. She coming soon and I really want you to meet her."

Jo's eyes got big.

"Jo, what's wrong?" I asked.

"Just the thought of that puts my stomach in knots."

"The thought of what?"

"Clay, meeting people. It's so awkward and uncomfortable, I can't think of anything worse. You are the only one that calls me by my first name."

"Really, what does everyone else call you?" I asked.

"They address me as Dr. Tompson, I insist on it."

"But why? I don't get it."

"It keeps it impersonal, the way I like. I don't want friends, I'm happy in my own little world with my little fishy friend. I generally do not trust people. I don't know why I'm like that but that's just the way I am."

"I'm your friend. So, explain that. How did I get in?"

Jo crossed her arms and leaned towards me.

"It's funny how you can check into a hospital a single woman only to find out that you have a husband. Hmm, it's amazing how that happens. Don't you think?"

"Wow, I heard that happens a lot in British hospitals," I laughed.

# SIXTEEN

* * *

# The Debt

My cat Missy always sits on the hamper cleaning her front paws as I shower. Something startled her and she bolted from the bathroom down the stairs. That could only mean one thing; someone was at the front door. I quickly donned my black terry cloth robe, slipping and sliding across the bathroom floor before I headed downstairs. There was a frantic woman in distress banging on my door. It was Jo.

"Jo?"

Jo walked right past me in a manic state and stood in the middle of my living room.

"Clay, I'm freakin' out dude."

I had completely forgotten I was still soaking wet and under-dressed.

Jo's cellphone rang and she booted the caller straight into voicemail.

"Jo, calm down. Breathe, breathe. Now tell me what's wrong?"

Jo sat on my couch and broke down in tears. I knew it must have been something pretty serious. I sat next to her and tried my best to get her to calm down.

"Clay, my publisher arranged a book signing for me."

"Congratulations, Jo. That's great."

Jo wiped her bloodshot eyes on her sleeve and looked at me.

"Clay, that's my worst nightmare. All those people in line. I hate crowds, I hate them. I can't believe they did this to me."

I was relieved to find out it wasn't something related to her medical condition, but I worried because I knew something was psychologically wrong with Jo. She was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.

I politely excused myself to dry off and got dressed. When I returned I saw little wads of Kleenex in Jo's lap. Jo opened up to me and told me she suffered from an-thropophobia, a pathological form of acute timidity and shyness. I had just one other client with the same diagnosis, his name was Steve and he really was a forty-year-old virgin.

"I think I can help," I said as I put my arm around her.

"What? How?"

"Follow me," I said as I stood and reached for her hand.

"Where are we going?" Jo asked nervously.

We walked upstairs and stopped.

"Just here. This is my study where I see my clients. More than three thousand clients have sat right there in the black leather recliner. Clients with hundreds of issues including phobias."

Jo noticed my credentials professionally mounted in mahogany frames on the wall. Jo let go of my hand and read the fine print on my certificates.

"The American Council of Hypnotist Examiners, I'm familiar with this organization. They are highly respected worldwide. So, you want to get inside my head?"

"Yes, but I have to be invited."

Jo felt the soft leather of my recliner and she sat.

"I love this chair; it's so comfy. How much do you charge for a session?"

"Don't be silly, this is on the house."

It was so nice to see Jo smile again. She wiped the very last tear away.

"Groovy. When do we start?"

Jo asked to begin the session immediately. I had just one request, she put Tom Jones on silent.

My voiced lulled her into a tranquil peaceful state of mind. She did not resist and within minutes her eyes were mere slits. When her head slumped to her left I knew she was on her way. It was one of the quickest inductions I had done in years.

The intensity of Jo's issue, coupled with my fondness of her, intensified my determination to help. Hypnosis is an intimate bond between two people at the subconscious level and this session would go beyond that.

I was aware of the synchronicity between my mind and body. I was more than ready to engage Jo, but there was a silent ritual I needed to perform. A ritual I'd always performed silently because I realize that not all people believe in the power of Christ. I always repeat the Lords' Prayer in my head immediately after the client enters trance. I ask for guidance and resolution. I've done this so many times, but this time would be truly an astonishing experience.

"Our father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name," I said silently.

"Thy Kingdom Come, Thy will be done in Earth as it is in Heaven," Jo said aloud.

Her ability to read my thoughts was nothing short of extraordinary. We established a rare subconscious link, something I only read about in class. I realized what was happening so I accepted it and continued.

"Jo, I want you to imagine yourself entering an elevator. See the doors closing behind you."

"Where am I going?" Jo slurred.

"There is a red button with three red letters, A M C. Press it."

"I'm descending, I'm scared. I want to get off."

"If I accompany you would that make it better?"

"Yes. The elevator is stopping what's going on?"

"Hi, Jo."

"Clay, I see you. Where did you come from?"

"Jo, when the doors open look to your right and you will see a safe and and secure abode. This is your sanctuary designed by you for you. You are drawn to it."

"Clay, the elevator stopped. I guess this is where I get off. I'll see you soon, right?"

"I'll wait here for you."

"Clay, it's a castle. It's beautiful. It has a gatehouse and there are four towers. I think I see sentries patrolling the perimeter. I feel like it's beckoning me. I must go."

Jo's face was so peaceful and serene. I was happy for her.

"The ceilings are so high. My books are here! I have my own library. There are so many rooms. Nemo!"

Suddenly, Jo's expression went blank. She tightened her fist and her feet were moving briskly. I sensed something was wrong.

"Jo, what's wrong?"

"They're here. They want to take me. They are slaughtering the sentries and shooting my archers out of their towers. They want to get inside."

I surmised the opposing force represented the cancer in her body. I was mentally on autopilot and words just came to me.

"Jo, does your affliction serve a purpose? Is it here for a reason?"

Jo's lips started to quiver. She was reluctant to speak. She nodded her head.

"What purpose is that?" I asked intently.

"Punishment," she uttered.

"Whose punishment?"

"My punishment. I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Jo sobbed.

"Why are you being punished?" I asked.

Her voice became faint and I had to scoot closer to her to hear her clearly.

"Abortion," she whispered.

"Can you forgive yourself?"

"No. Clay, they're gonna break into the gatehouse. My sentries are dying, for me."

"Jo, find a chamber and lock yourself in."

"Okay. I'm in. I locked the door," she panted.

I stood and knocked on the wall behind her.

"Clay, there's someone knocking on my door. I'm scared."

"Don't be scared, Jo. I've summoned an angel. It's the angel of forgiveness. If you want to live, you must open the door."

"I can't, Clay. It's my time."

I banged louder on the wall this time.

"Jo, it's me. Let me in. If you don't I will be killed with the rest. Is it my time to die too?"

"No. Why are you here?" she sobbed.

"Because I care. Please let me in."

Jo slowly raised her hand and she unlocked the door.

"Clay, there's an angel behind you. She's holding a baby, my baby. I want to hold her, please."

In my mind's eye I could see everything crystal clear, like I was there with her.

Jo's maternal instinct kicked in. She began to cradle and rock gently left to right. It was extraordinary to observe.

"Clay, look. She's so beautiful. I will call her Lily. I can feel her love."

"Jo, I think you want to live."

"Yes, I wanna live."

"Hold on to your baby tightly, very tightly."

"All right, what's happening?"

I grabbed the sides of the recliner with both hands. I shook it left to right as hard as I could.

"Clay, the earth is shaking. What's happening?"

"The earth is swallowing up the enemy, hold on!"

I rocked it vigorously until I was out of breath.

"It stopped," Jo commented.

"Jo, I think it's safe. Let's go to the gatehouse."

With her free hand Jo waved.

"Who are you waving to, Jo?"

"The angel. I've been forgiven."

I was emotionally exhausted and spent. I felt what Jo felt and I saw the things Jo had seen. I saw the angel too, it was Winnie.

# SEVENTEEN

* * *

# Makeover

### Heathrow Airport

### London, England

Good morning Ms. Dawson, my name is John. Master Thompson sent me to collect you. He was called away for an urgent matter. May I help you with your luggage?"

"How did you know I was Monet?"

"His description of you left nothing to the imagination. He described you perfectly."

"I can't believe Clay couldn't make it. It must be something really important. Okay, John, lead the way."

"Right this way, Ms. Dawson. There's a strike outside but not to worry."

"Strike? Who's striking?"

"The black cabbies. The car is not far away, just there."

"Very nice. Is that a Bentley?" Monet commented.

"Yes, it is. The rear windows are tinted for your privacy."

"Privacy? Why would I need privacy?"

John opened the rear passenger door.

"Hey, beautiful," I said to her surprise.

Monet was tongue-tied but was quick to slide next to me and give me one of her patented kisses.

John started the engine and drove off.

By the time we broke our embrace we were cruising on the M25 headed northbound.

I was so glad to see Monet. I had started counting down the days and it seemed it took forever for this day to come. I hired a chauffeur because I knew I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off her for the 90-minute stretch.

John complimented Monet on her accent and it took a second for her to realize she was a foreigner in England.

For about twenty minutes Monet admired England's beautiful countryside. She commented on one of her initial observations.

"Honey, I heard the black cabbies were striking outside the airport."

"Yes, it's been two weeks now. It's all over the News," I replied.

Monet shook her head in disappointment. She responded, "Baby, as a people we need to get with the program. I was hoping that Blacks in England would have a better disposition."

John quietly laughed at Monet's commentary. I offered some clarification.

"Sweetheart, that's the name of the company, Black Cabs. Their drivers are called black cabbies."

I knew her experience in England would be enlightening and I looked forward to introducing her to English culture. After living in England for over a decade, I was familiar with English customs and beliefs. However, there was one exception. There is one belief held by many English people that most Americans find disturbing. This trip would be our indoctrination.

I was proud to have the Bentley pull into my drive. I was in a three-hundred thousand dollar car with a million-dollar girl at my side. A few of my neighbors gave me a friendly nod.

"Clay, who is that woman?" Monet asked, peering out the passenger window.

"Oh, that's Jo. I wonder how she's doing?"

Monet was checking Jo out head to toe.

"Jo should be getting a call real soon," Monet whispered.

"From who?" I asked.

"From 1966, they want their clothes back."

"Jo is kinda quirky, but once you get to know her she has a heart of gold. But don't hold your breath; I don't think she will come around."

"Why not?" Monet asked on our way in.

"Jo is a little socially challenged. She's shy. Very shy."

As soon as Monet dropped her bags in my hallway she gave me another one of those world famous kisses, the kind you never want to end. In just a few moments I would have her pinned against the wall in a frenzy. Monet unzipped my trousers and I hoisted her skirt above her waist as fast as I could.

"Clay, I think there is someone at your door."

"Damn! I'll get rid of them. Hold that thought."

I zipped up my trousers and Monet adjusted her blouse and skirt.

"Jo?"

"Clay, hope I'm not disturbing anything. Am I?"

Monet approached the door and introduced herself.

"Hi, Jo. You didn't interrupt anything. Come on in. My name is Monet."

This is not happening, I thought to myself.

I had one thing on my mind and it would have to wait.

Monet went to the bathroom to freshen up and I took the opportunity to tell Jo not to mention the book because Monet didn't approve.

"Clay, I think the session worked. I struggled at first about coming over but I just took control. I did it. This is huge!"

My insatiable passion for Monet completely overshadowed an obvious milestone for Jo.

I gave Jo a hug and told her I was really happy it worked out.

"Clay, just one question about the session that's been bugging me. I remember being on an elevator and I pressed a button with red letters. The letters were A M C. What does that mean?"

I led Jo into my living room and we sat on the sofa. I explained.

"Jo, A M C stands for Absolute Mental Clarity."

"Hmm, now I know why I was so afraid to meet people and make friends."

"Was it something that happened in your childhood?" I asked.

"No. When I was diagnosed with cancer years ago I think I made a subconscious decision to cut the world off. New friendships would make it harder to leave. I think I deliberately made introductions uncomfortable and awkward. When I passed away, I didn't want anyone to mourn for me or miss me."

"That makes perfect sense. So, your shyness was merely a symptom of a more complex issue. I had no idea it would be linked to your medical condition."

"The strangest part is I don't feel sick anymore. I haven't felt this normal in a long time. My appetite for life is coming back with a vengeance. I have another scan coming up. I wonder what it will read."

There was one part of the session that puzzled me and I had to inquire.

"Jo, I have a question for you. I've been thinking about it ever since our session. It's about The Lord's Prayer. You recited it in trance with me aloud."

"What's so strange about that?" Jo asked.

"I said it in my head."

Monet came downstairs. I think she overheard part of the conversation.

"Clay, I think I just heard Tom Jones singing," Monet commented.

"Oh, that's my phone," Jo replied before booting the call into voicemail.

Monet put her hands on her hips and then pointed towards Jo.

"Please tell me that's not your real phone, Jo."

"Yes, it's my real phone. Why?"

Monet sat between Jo and me on the sofa.

"It's a flip phone. My grandfather ditched his flip phone in the nineties. Jo, don't take this the wrong way but you need a makeover, okay. You're a pretty girl and you need to flaunt it."

"That sound nice but I am who I am. I don't know how to be anything else. But sometimes I wonder how it would be to have someone to want me like Clay wants you."

Monet and Jo were bonding. It was like I was invisible.

Monet stood and told Jo to follow her upstairs. I was told to stay downstairs. I felt like a puppy that was told to sit and stay. I stayed, for a little while.

Monet and Jo went into my study and shut the door.

All kinds of strange ideas floated through my mind. It was a little too quiet up there so I tiptoed upstairs trying to avoid the stairs that creaked. I listened in.

"Monet, this is all new to me. I don't know if I can do this."

"Jo, a lot of women are into this now. Just open your mind."

"But what if Clay finds out?" Jo asked.

"He's not gonna find out. This will be our little secret, okay?"

What the f...? I thought.

"Okay, what do we have here? I'll keep going down till you tell me to stop, all right?," Monet said.

"Keep going, keep going. Stop right there. Ahh, that's the one," Jo replied excitedly.

I couldn't bear it anymore, I stormed in.

Monet was angry, Jo was embarrassed.

"Clay, really!" Monet complained.

What I imagined and what I stumbled upon were millions of miles apart.

Monet was introducing Jo to internet dating. Monet was scrolling down to view profiles of eligible men.

"Clay, what did you think we were doing?" Monet asked, standing inches away from my face.

I couldn't apologize enough to the both of them. I felt pathetic.

Monet and Jo continued scrolling through profiles. Monet had a few words of advice.

"Jo, never choose someone local, and one more thing... we gotta find you a new phone."

### Phones 4u Store

### Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire

"Welcome to Phones 4u, how can I help?" asked the assistant.

Monet whispered to the assistant just loud enough for Jo and I to hear.

"My friend here has a flip phone. We need to bring here into the new millennium. Can you hook us up?"

"Sure, not a problem. We have a wide range of phones from mild to wild. We have a slimline Nokia on offer at the moment. It's our top of the line. Here, take a look."

The phone was sleek and ultra-thin. I was impressed, until I saw the sticker.

"Wow, that's almost five hundred dollars in US money," I said.

The assistant wasn't finished with her spiel.

"Well, the phone has some amazing features. You can take pictures underwater, you can record conversations, and calls to the US and Canada are free for one year if you buy today."

While the three of us were checking out this high tech phone the assistant pressed a couple of buttons and played back the last few minutes of the sales pitch. The clarity was amazing.

"Wow, that's cool," I said.

Jo had wandered off and found a cheaper pay-as-you-go phone.

"This is more my style. It's a Samsung."

Monet took charge.

"In that case, we will have both," Monet said as she presented her VISA.

"Babe, what are you doing?" I asked.

"Honey, we have five grand to spend remember? Compliments of Ms. Deveraux. I am getting you the Nokia because it has unlimited calls to the States for a year. I'm getting the Samsung for Jo."

Jo was very appreciative of Monet's generosity. After we left the phone store the girls went shopping for Jo's makeover. I wandered into the Thomas Cook travel store for some advice on sightseeing.

I browsed most of the brochures but the packages were mostly cruises and holiday packages. I wanted something a little more local.

The sale rep gave me an excellent suggestion.

"If you're looking for something close by then you might consider Stonehenge in Wiltshire."

Stonehenge is a mysterious boulder formation that predates Christ by over 3,000 years. I had seen it on the Discovery Channel years back but had forgotten the backstory.

"Stonehenge is one of the great wonders of the world. Some researchers say that it is a burial ground for the elite. Others say aliens put the boulders there. Some swear it's haunted by a young boy."

I was fascinated by the folklore behind Stonehenge and I calculated I could get there inside three hours. Monet explicitly told me she wanted to see more than the four walls of my bedroom. Stonehenge was my answer.

I met Monet and Jo at Pizza Express for lunch and we headed home from there. On the way home I kept thinking about making love to Monet. I couldn't wait to see Jo off and disappear for a few days with Monet. Unfortunately, there were more pressing issues at hand. When we arrived home Monet and Jo bolted to Jo's house to begin the makeover.

To say I was disappointed was an understatement. I went upstairs to write a few more chapters in my latest book featuring Monet. Before long, I realized that two hours had passed. I called Jo's landline. There was no answer so I walked over to her house to see what was taking so long. I knocked on the front door.

"Hi, I'm the next door neighbor. I'm looking for Jo."

"Clay, it's me, Jo."

"Wow!"

# EIGHTEEN

* * *

# The Serenade

### Al Motorway to Stonehenge

### Later That Day

I hope you aren't mad because I wanted to see some sights before we made love. You do know why, right?" Monet said.

"I know. The Johnny Gill concert right?"

In 1991, Monet surprised me with tickets to see Johnny Gill in concert. Ten minutes before departure time we decided to squeeze a quickie in. That quickie lasted two whole days and we missed seeing our favorite R&B artist. The venue was on base less than fifteen minutes away.

"So where are you taking me, Clay?"

"To see one of the world's wonders. I haven't been myself so it will be a treat for me as well."

"Clay, you haven't said a word about the new Jo. She looks stunning doesn't she?"

I turned the radio down and gave Monet a suspicious look.

"My dad never commented on another woman's looks in front of my mom. Is this a trick question?"

"Clay, I spent a lot of time and effort with Jo's makeover. You are complimenting my work, not her personally. She's beautiful isn't she?"

"Okay. Yes, you did a great job with Jo. I didn't recognize her when she answered the door. The transformation was extraordinary. I'm sure she won't have a problem finding dates online."

That was an understatement; Jo was now in a league of her own. But more important than her new look was the look on her face. She was happy. My sister was happy.

Monet brought the Huntingdon local paper to read on the way. She read the headlines aloud.

"Parking Fines Soar. Wow, it really must be a slow day at the office when your headlines talk about parking fines. It's nice to know that the crime rate is low, especially if I get a job here."

I opened up to Monet about the recent killing spree in London. I also told her I might get my shot at hypnotizing a survivor. Although she was happy for me she was unnerved about some lunatic targeting women and taking their lives.

It was getting dark and my Sat Nav was on crack giving me bogus directions. I decided to find a nice B&B, have a meal and head out to Stonehenge in the morning.

"Welcome to the George Hotel. Do you have a reservation?"

"No, ma'am, we are just passing through. Do you have any vacancies?"

Monet was still excited about the cobblestone pathway that led to this cozy manor house. Monet wandered off and stared at the dated, framed pictures on the wall.

"How old is this place?" Monet asked.

The young receptionist was eager to comment on the history of the manor house. Her name was Jenny.

"This was once owned by the Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell in the mid-1600s. He bought this place for his daughter Mary but she never resided here. The home was placed in the care of Lady Margaret and she looked after it until she died in the late 1600s. That's her picture on the end."

Lady Margaret looked beautiful in her day and her eyes followed you from all angles, kinda like the Mona Lisa. She had long, flowing, jet black hair and wore a gold locket around her neck.

"We have loads of available rooms."

"We'll take the most expensive room," Monet said as she approached the counter.

The receptionist did a stutter step.

"Are you reporters?" asked the receptionist?

Monet and I were confused by her remark.

When Monet signed the credit card receipt she noticed the room we selected was twice as expensive as the rest. There were no extra amenities and I couldn't see the extra value for money. I didn't want to sound too money conscious in front of Monet so I remained silent.

The room looked like it belonged in the 1600s. Candle holders were mounted on either side of the large canopy bed. It had period furniture which looked very authentic. I looked out the window and there was a small cemetery out back which gave me the creeps. The wind blew leaves across the headstones. I quickly drew the curtains. The room had an eerie feel to it. It almost felt like we were trespassing.

"I wonder why she asked if we were reporters?" I asked Monet as we unzipped our suitcases on the bed.

"I don't know, honey, but I think I know where we're going in the morning," Monet said.

"So you're psychic now? Tell me."

"Stonehenge. I saw the sign 40 miles to Stonehenge just before the last exit. Clay, speaking of psychics. Did you ever figure out the message Winnie relayed from your dad?"

"No, I'm still scratching my head on that one. What could Hold up the light possibly mean?"

Monet felt an instant chill and I could see her breath. I searched high and low for a thermostat but I couldn't find one. Monet began to shiver so I decided to go downstairs to ask about the heat.

Jenny assured me there was central heating. She accompanied me upstairs to our suite at the end of the long corridor.

As we approached the suite we could see our breath. I walked in first and the smell of pungent perfume was prevalent.

"Baby, easy on the perfume. I can smell it from outside."

Monet was sitting on the bed with her back toward me. She was hunched over sobbing.

I told Jenny to wait at the door while I checked on Monet. I sat next to Monet and put my arm around her. She seemed distressed.

"Baby, tell me what's wrong. What happened, sweetheart?"

It took a while for Monet to gain her composure. Jenny entered the room and offered Monet Kleenex. She sat on the other side of Monet.

"Clay, she was here. I saw her," Monet revealed.

Jenny stood and asked Monet one question.

"Did she sing to you?"

Monet nodded in between sniffles.

"Yes, it was beautiful," Monet replied.

Somewhere logic got lost in the conversation and it was frustrating as hell.

"Timeout, timeout. Who was here?"

In a very caring tone, Jenny explained.

"Mr. Thompson, Lady Margaret was here. This was her room. We routinely rent this room out to reporters who are doing a paranormal documentary. Last year she appeared during a ghost walk outside near the cemetery. She sang a few high pitched notes before vanishing into the fog. Lady Margaret is great for business."

Monet calmed down. Her tears were not from fear they were tears of joy.

"Clay, I wasn't scared. She sat next to me on the bed. She was white all over but her eyes were hollow. I couldn't see them. She smiled at me. Then she sang the most beautiful song I'd ever heard. Her voice was angelic. Then she vanished moments before you walked in."

If Monet wasn't so serious I would've thought the whole thing was a joke.

"Maybe jetlag is kicking in and you were hallucinating?"

"Mr. Thompson, I know Americans struggle with the concept of spirits but here in England it's nothing new to us. Most English folk believe," Jenny commented with authority.

Monet interjected.

"Where I come from we have a haunted library. We call her the Grey Lady."

I was at the end of my tether.

"Just in case nobody noticed, we are having a real conversation about ghosts and spirits. Monet, how about we find a ghost-free B&B, somewhere else?"

"No, we are staying right here. I'm not going."

Jenny sensed an imminent conflict so she excused herself and returned to the front desk.

"Honey, you said you saw a ghost. I think that's a sign and not a good one."

"Clay, I have just one regret. I regret not hearing her song all the way to the end."

I walked to the window and poked my head behind the curtains, the wind was howling. I saw the headstones below and quickly looked away. I didn't want to see Lady Margaret. I know I would have handled it differently if it were me. I would've run like hell. This was no longer about ghosts and spirits it was about maintaining my sanity at all costs. If ghosts were real then they knew better than to visit me. Maybe that's why my dad never came to visit because he knew I couldn't handle it.

The room warmed up and the smell of perfume dissipated. That night Monet slept like a baby while I slept with one eye open praying not see Lady Margaret.

# NINETEEN

* * *

# Virtual Crime Scene

My eyes finally closed about 5am. I was awakened by a hand laid across my chest. It was Monet, she was half-asleep. I looked under the duvet and her mocha-colored thighs caught my attention. I wanted her. I rolled the duvet back and positioned myself between her legs. Monet opened her eyes and raised her sheer nightgown above her waist. Finally! I was just hoping that Lady Margaret wouldn't haunt us during sex. I really wasn't in the mood for one of her recitals.

Monet and I made passionate love off and on until checkout. I was glad Lady Margaret behaved.

Stonehenge was a little disappointing. The large boulder formation was roped off and in the middle of nowhere. We took a few pictures and headed back after about fifteen minutes of viewing. On the way back we passed the George Hotel, I was so glad to see it in my rear view mirror. I'd heard ghost stories before but never from anyone so close to me, until now. I would never mention it again. It was too disturbing and it challenged my faith.

After little sleep the night before I found myself nodding off at the wheel. Monet slept the entire way home.

Gabby, the little girl next door, waited for us near the driveway. I opened the front door for Monet and addressed my little friend.

"I bet I know what you want. Hmm, your bouncy ball is in my backyard and you want it back, right?" I said, on one knee.

Gabby grabbed me by the hand and took me to her front door.

"My daddy's looking for you. I think it's important."

Carl stuck his head outside his upstairs bedroom. He spotted me and he was at the front door in a flash.

"Clay, we've got a break. Anna agreed to let you see her. And not a moment too soon; the Press is breathing down our necks. We need this to work. Whatever resources you need, just say the word. We'll make it happen."

This was the opportunity I'd dreamed of for the last 20 years. I knew there would never be a more important session than this. Not only would I help someone but maybe I could save lives. I started to get nervous. It was all or nothing and nothing was unacceptable.

I managed to overcome my anxiety and committed to Carl.

"Carl, I can do it. When do you want me? I'm on your time."

"The mayor will be chuffed. I'll call him now and confirm. I can arrange for Anna to meet you at Scotland Yard in three hours."

I was expecting Carl to say later in the week, I guess he was desperate. Apparently, Anna moved in with her older sister and decided to go through with it against her father's wishes.

I found Monet on the computer in my study checking emails. She wanted to come along, but she wasn't supposed to know in the first place. She understood.

I quickly showered and met Carl outside.

"Clay, a patrol vehicle has been dispatched; it should be here in a few minutes."

"Cool, you're coming too, right?"

"I'll meet you down there. I've gotta stop by the Cambridge precinct first."

A black van with tinted windows pulled into my drive. Carl gave me a pep talk before I took off for a 90-minute drive to Central London.

"I think I can speak on behalf of the Metropolitan Police Force when I say this... thank you. Let's get this son-of-a-bitch."

For the first time in my practice, doubt reared its ugly head.

What if she resists?

What if she can't relax?

What if she can't overcome the effects of the drug that blocked her memory that night?

I always imagined Scotland Yard being tucked away in a secure location. Nope, it was in downtown London with a large revolving gray sign that read Scotland Yard.

I was escorted past three cipher-locked entrances, the last had biometrics security. I was issued a yellow visitor's badge that read Escort Required. I was greeted by a big burly police sergeant outside the debriefing room.

"So, you must be the psychic everyone's talking about?"

"No, I'm a hypnotist, not a psychic."

The cop shrugged his shoulders.

"Same difference."

At least three other police officers also thought I was a psychic. I'd heard rumors that some British police precincts employed psychics to assist in their investigations, but I didn't know for sure.

A young detective sat by me and spoke to me. He was super-friendly, not like some of the officers I'd already met.

"The guys have been talking about this all week. I think the mayor is coming down. This isn't normal protocol; the big guy had to brief the mayor on this one. Good luck, mate."

Just as I was starting to get settled, the idea of the 'Big Boss' overseeing my session with Anna really made me nervous. My hands wouldn't stay still. I was shaking like a leaf.

Anna was running late. I had almost hoped she wouldn't show, I was that nervous.

After a ninety-minute wait, I observed a tiny blonde woman being escorted by two uniformed officers. She barely looked twenty years old. She had a vacant stare with no expression. I could tell she was emotionally wounded. I knew it was Anna.

I had to get over my nervousness about meeting the big boss. We couldn't start without him. I said a silent prayer for confidence.

"ATTENTION ON DECK!" shouted a policeman posted at the entrance.

Everyone snapped to attention including me. I felt like I was back in the Marine Corps. My heart was pounding even harder by this time. I didn't know how I could pull this off, being as nervous as I was. I was so close to calling the whole thing off.

A police officer introduced me to the big boss.

"Mr. Thompson, this is the Chief Superintendent. He will observe the debriefing."

"Carl?" I said.

Carl stood there looking stellar in his dress uniform with stars on his collar. I would never have guessed after all these years that Carl was the head honcho of such an elite unit. All of my nervousness and anxiety went away. I was back in control.

"Clay, I told you I'd meet you here. Are you ready?" Carl asked as he removed his dress cover from his head.

The staff found it strange that I was on a first name basis with the big boss. Carl never let on that he was so high up the chain of command.

Carl escorted me into the debriefing room. The room was sterile white with the obligatory one-way mirror. A table was placed in the middle of the room and there were two seats lined against the wall.

Carl briefed me on the sequence of events and identified the two men who entered the room.

I wasn't expecting anyone to observe so closely inside the room. The professor-looking old man was a sketch artist and he sat next to the forensic profiler. A large black police officer stood at the door at attention.

There was a red light above the door. It started to flash.

Anna walked in hesitantly, wringing her hands in fear of the unknown. I wanted to help her but I knew it would be a challenge.

She stood behind the chair across the table from me.

"Anna, my name is Clay. Please, have a seat."

She sat. Anna was an emotional train wreck. I hoped she could hold it together.

"Anna, can I offer you something to drink?"

"Uh, can I have a shandy, please?"

I motioned to the one-way mirror.

"Can we get Anna a shandy, please?"

I needed to establish rapport and I was on my way. The black policeman standing post was given the order to fetch the shandy. He wasn't happy.

Anna seemed to relax just a tiny bit after she sipped her lemonade shandy.

"Anna, do you know why you are here?" I asked, with my hands clasped on the table.

"Yes. It's about that night. You want to ask me some questions."

After a few minutes I realized that Anna wasn't told she was going to be hypnotized. She expected to be interviewed. What I thought would be a curve ball was actually a blessing in disguise. If she had known I was going to hypnotize her she may have had her defenses up. This was perfect. You can't resist what you don't see coming. I would induce her with a rapid induction.

Anna had a Help for Heroes bracelet on her right wrist. It was in memory of her uncle who died in Afghanistan. That was my opening. She opened up and gave me a heroic account of how her beloved uncle died while trying to rescue a private from a burning, overturned truck. Being a retired Marine I was genuinely empathetic to her story. I could feel her defenses lowering and our trust building.

"Anna, may I see your bracelet, please?"

I gently examined her wrist. Then I gripped it tightly. Anna's eyes exploded with fear. With a quick jerky motion I gave the command.

"S L E E P N O W!"

She slumped over the desk.

The sketch artist looked over to the profiler who was taking notes. They didn't know what to make of it. The officer posted at the door blurted out.

"Crikey!"

"Anna, your body is asleep but your mind is active. I want you to focus on the sound of my voice and allow it to relax you even more than are now. You can sit up now."

Anna raised up. Her eyelids fluttered exposing only the whites of her eyes.

"Anna, you recently met a man, a very bad man. Do you know who he is?"

Anna nodded yes. She was too deep in trance to speak. I had to ease her trance state to allow her to verbalize her responses.

"I will count from five to one. When I reach one you will be slightly more alert and more responsive to my questions. Five, four, three, two and one!"

It worked. Her verbal responses were almost zombie-like, but I could understand her.

"Anna, can you go back to that night?"

"No."

Damn.

"Okay, no problem, I understand. We have the entire event on videotape. All I want you to do is answer a few questions while you watch the tape. You will not relive it, I only need you to observe it from a safe distance, okay?"

Anna's rapid eye movement increased. I could tell she hit the play button in her mind. Within minutes tears started streaming onto her blouse.

"Anna, where are you?"

"I'm in my car with Matthew. I'm nervous."

"Who's Matthew?"

"He's the new guy in the dorms. He asked me out."

Anna gave us a treasure trove of information. She didn't know his last name but she was able to provide a detailed description. The sketch artist was frantically trying to keep up with the pace. Matthew was average height, 20ish, ginger hair and had freckles. By the time Anna was finished with her description I could picture him in my mind.

The session was going great. I was ready to terminate but the sketch artist had one request.

His request would open the gates of hell.

The sketch artist rose from his chair and stood next to Anna. He placed his sketch directly in front of her face. I never saw it coming.

"Is this the man?" he asked.

Anna's pupils dilated in horror. She went berserk. She flipped the table with Hulk-like strength. I fell out of my chair and papers went flying. Anna dug her nails into the face of the sketch artist and took his pen and stabbed him in the face over and over in a frenzy. Blood spattered all over me and her. I thought he was going to lose an eye. Anna's rage was accentuated by exorcist-like screams. The red light flashed over the door and the black policeman and another burly officer rushed in and tackled Anna to the ground. They couldn't keep her pinned down. She hurled both men against the wall like rag dolls. My first impression was that she had become possessed or something, but it was probably adrenaline kicking in. I was still dazed from when the table slammed into my face. I thought my nose was broken. Anna locked her eyes on the forensic profiler who was in shock. He couldn't move. Anna's hands were covered in blood and she approach the defenseless man. The siren sounded and a lone police officer walked in with his stun gun drawn. He pointed it towards Anna's back.

I panicked.

"Wait! Please wait!" I shouted to the policeman.

By this time Anna had raised her bloody pen ready to strike her victim.

"Anna! S L E E P N O W!" I commanded from the floor.

Anna collapsed.

The police officer fired his taser anyway. Anna's sudden fall caused the officer to miss. He tased the profiler instead, causing him to dance around in his own urine.

I felt sorry for the staff but my heart was focused on Anna. This was an absolute cluster fuck. I rose to my feet and walked over to Anna lying on the floor. She was blood-soaked. Paramedics rushed in and treated the sketch artist and profiler. The police officers were groaning on the floor in agony. One had been bitten.

I had one last suggestion for Anna. A suggestion that went against my training and my better judgment. But these were desperate times.

I kneeled over Anna and put my hand on her head.

"Anna, you will never remember the events of this night or the night that brought you here. When you wake up you will think you are here for something else. Your state of mind is restored to its natural state. One, two, three, four and five! Awaken now!"

Anna's eyes slowly opened. She was groggy but coherent. She looked around and observed her surroundings.

"What happened?" she asked.

"There was a prisoner who nearly escaped. He attacked a few officers and blood splattered everywhere. It's okay now, he's back in custody. Do you know why you are here?"

"Of course. It's about the hit-and-run I witnessed a while back."

"Yes, but we have the driver in custody now."

"Oh, great. I guess you don't really need me then."

Anna was a completely different person. She was in control and seemingly unaffected by her past.

Carl stood near the front door, he wanted to speak with me in private. I knew this wouldn't be pleasant. By wiping Anna's memory I tampered with a virtual crime scene.

I followed Carl in to a private office. He slammed the door shut behind me. He was furious.

"Clay, what the fuck was that? I've got one officer en route to hospital and Charlie bloody pissed himself."

"Carl, what you saw was a success. Our mission was to identify the perpetrator and we did that. His name is Matthew and he's a student at Anna's university."

Carl calmed down a lot and even thanked me at the end.

I was driven home in a police car after I signed a nondisclosure form. I was still edgy, but I was comforted in knowing Anna would get her life back.

I wouldn't rest until Matthew was in police custody.

 Beverage: beer mixed with a soft drink

 British expression of surprise

# TWENTY

* * *

# Phone Sex

### 2:00am

The drive home was somber. Before I knew it I was opening my front door and waving goodbye to the officer. The session with Anna wiped me out. I wanted to go upstairs get undressed and curl up to Monet and sleep. My furry feline friend was atop of the stairs wanting to be fed. I quietly tiptoed throughout the house to avoid awakening Monet. I opened the bedroom door and found Monet wide awake and somewhat flat. Something was bothering her. I sat on the bed next to her. She turned on the night light.

"Clay, you have dark circles under your eyes. What happened?"

"Honey, I really can't talk about it. But she went into trance and we got a description. Hopefully it's him."

Monet massaged my shoulders and helped me undress. "Jo stopped by. She wanted you to see her before she left," Monet commented.

"Where did she go?"

"Jo had another date and she wanted you to see the new Jo."

"Another date?"

"I think she's making up for lost time, babe. She had a brunch date this morning and now she's off to see the show Wicked with some guy she met online."

I was a little concerned for my friend whom I considered a sister.

"She's gotta be careful. There are some nutters out there," I replied.

Monet followed me into the bathroom and sat on the hamper while I showered. I could barely hear her over the running water. I stood in the shower and decompressed.

"Clay, we don't have any secrets do we?"

I turned the shower off. I knew something was percolating.

"No, I tell you everything. I have nothing to hide. Why?"

My mind was searching for answers. I couldn't think of anything. What did she find while I was out?

I stepped out the shower and Monet helped dry me off.

"I wasn't snooping, but while I was on your computer I found something."

I was sure anything she found had to pre-date our reunion, but I was wrong.

We laid across the bed naked and she put her head on my chest.

"I read your manuscript, The Seduction of a Military Wife."

Oh, shit.

I worried. I didn't want to lose her trust and she was clear about how she felt about the idea of a book.

"Honey, I'm sorry. I never intended on publishing it, I promise. It was more of a therapeutic exercise."

Monet sat up in bed.

"Therapeutic exercise?"

"You remember what I went through with Jo in the beginning. Writing was my escape. It also allowed me to relive old memories of you and me."

"Clay, there are very intimate details of our sex life in the book. What were you thinking?"

I got out of bed and went into the study.

"Clay, what are you doing?" Monet asked.

"I'm deleting the manuscript. I shouldn't have written it. I'm sorry."

I opened up the file and placed my finger on the delete button. Monet stood behind me and moved my hand away.

"Clay, it's beautiful. It's the most amazing love story I've ever read."

I was very surprised by her response. I swiveled around in my chair.

"Are you serious?"

"Clay, most men write letters about their feelings, you wrote a love story. And not just any love story, a killer love story. I had tears as I reminisced along with you. I liked your last book The Mogadishu Diaries, but I love Seduction of a Military Wife. Reading the book was like reading a love letter. I like the name you chose for me in the book, Monique. I want you to publish it."

"Okay, but what do think your friends will say?"

"It doesn't matter what they say; they don't fall into the 3-F group."

"What's the 3-F group?" I asked naively.

Monet blushed before she responded.

"It's an elite group. You're in it."

I was curious so I asked her to explain.

"If you aren't responsible for putting food on my table, putting money in my pocket or my sexual pleasure... your opinion is just that. An opinion."

I surmised what the three F's stood for. I was a proud member of that club.

Monet hit the print button and picked up the stack of papers off the printer.

It was such an amazing experience to watch Monet read my love letter to her. Seeing her smile, laugh and reminiscence was validation for me. I played with her long wavy hair while she read. I'll never forget that night.

The next morning I saw Carl unloading groceries from his car. It was a chance to clear the air. More than anything I wanted to know if he was still speaking to me after what transpired the night before.

"Hey, Carl, can I give you a hand?"

"Aye, mate. I've got to get a shifty on, Gabby is waiting to be picked up from gymnastics practice."

"Carl, I really need to apologize for last night."

"No need to apologize. I spoke with the mayor this morning. I left out a few details, but he was chuffed we made such headway. Mr. Matthew is under round-the-clock surveillance until we can link him to the other victims."

I was relieved that Carl was in good spirits and seemingly unaffected by the trauma the night before. After we unloaded the last bag of groceries he stated that he was slightly worried about the perpetrator's profile.

"Clay, I have Matthew's complete history since he was in primary school. He's not a clever lad, he's actually quite thick. No priors either. I've been in the game a long time and his face doesn't fit."

### Three Days Later...

Ring, ring, ring.

"Hey, Jo. I thought you were meeting Mr. Right tonight."

Jo was upset.

"Clay, I think I've been stood up. I can't believe I took a train to London for a no-show. I'm standing here in the rain and he's an hour late already. It's 8pm now. Maybe he's seen me and didn't like how I looked."

"Jo, relax. You know how bad traffic is in London. Do you know what he looks like?"

"He's tall, wears a pony tail and drives a black A5. I don't even know what an A5 is," Jo said anxiously.

"Jo, an A5 is an Audi. You looked absolutely stunning when we dropped you off at the train station. I'd be proud to be seen with you."

"Clay, you're good for my confidence. Wait, I think that's him, he's waving. He's a handsome devil. Don't wait up for me, Ciao."

"Bye, Jo."

### 11:50pm

Monet and I were emotionally invested in the book. She was my beta reader and editor-in-chief. We spent hours going over the manuscript looking for typos, omitted words and run-on sentences. Just before midnight, I got a Facebook notification while making my last correction. It was from my mom.

Call me. Love Mom

I always worry when my mom wants me to call.

"Monet, can you pass me my cell. I think it's on the night stand in the bedroom."

Monet returned with the cell, disturbed.

"What's wrong, babe? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Monet handed me the phone.

I knew why she was so disturbed. The call with Jo was still engaged. She never disconnected the call. I put the phone up to my ear and listened in. I wasn't being nosey, just concerned. I heard a door slam and a lot of movement of furniture. I was hoping to hear Jo's voice. She never said a word and that disturbed me. Monet also listened in. After a few minutes I could hear a zipper being undone and a belt buckle hit the floor. The next sound was the noise of bed springs colliding in rapid succession. In the span of a minute we could hear someone grunting loudly. Monet was getting angry and concerned, especially following a series of grunts and groans and one final sigh.

"Did he just cum?" Monet whispered angrily, her fists balled up.

I knew how things appeared. It didn't look good. I was hanging on to the hope of hearing Jo's voice. It didn't happen. I felt like I witnessed something terrible and my mind tried to reach a logical explanation, unsuccessfully.

The commotion didn't stop, there was more.

We heard rustling of clothes and I think the phone dropped.

Someone spoke.

"Hello? Hello! Who's there?"

I looked at Monet. His voice was unnerving for me and frightening to Monet. We didn't respond.

"I know someone's there. Fuck me."

Click.

I hung up the phone after he disconnected the call.

He called back. The phone rang displaying Jo's picture. Monet placed her hands over her mouth and shook her head telling me not to answer it. Monet was shaken; her eyes were overcome with emotion. I felt helpless. I worried for Jo's safety.

I called 999 to report what I had overheard.

It was dismissed as an emergency. There was no proof a crime had been committed.

It was horrible not knowing what happened to Jo. I was scared for my sister.

# TWENTY-ONE

* * *

# Legacy Part I

### The Next Afternoon

Neither of us slept that night worrying ourselves over Jo. I called her home ten thousand times and there was no answer. I dare not call her cell. I knew the killer's method of operation. It was killing me to know Jo may have met her death stuffed in a duffle bag and locked in a car trunk. While Monet napped I walked outside and saw Jo's car in her drive. I looked left and looked right. No one was looking so I approached Jo's trunk. Maybe she was inside. I knocked on the trunk several times before I yelled her name aloud.

"Jo, can you hear me?!"

Jo screamed back.

"Yes, I can hear you," she yelled from her front door. "Clay, you're not gonna find me in there, silly."

I was so happy to find Jo alive and well. I thought I'd never see her again. I thought she was dead and I mourned for her.

"Jo, I've called your landline all day but you didn't answer. You scared me," I said as I walked towards her.

I gave her an unexpected brotherly hug. I didn't want to let her go. She could tell I really was worried.

"Clay, come inside you goof ball. I keep telling you, if you want to reach me, call me on my cell. I unplugged my landline a while ago. I got tired of solicitors calling all the time."

Jo closed the door behind me and offered me a cup of tea.

While I was sipping tea Jo made a move that confused me.

Jo stood and removed her turtleneck sweater and tossed it on the sofa. She had a black sports bra underneath.

"Clay, come here. I want you to feel something."

I stood directly in front of her wondering what was to follow. Jo wouldn't proposition me, or would she?

"Feel what?" I asked.

Jo grabbed my hand and raised it past her breast up to her neck.

"Feel right here," she said.

"Jo, I don't feel anything," I responded.

"That's what I wanted you to say," Jo said with a big smile.

"Jo, I haven't played doctor since the third grade. What's goin' on?"

"Clay, my lymph nodes are returning to their normal size. That's why I always wore turtlenecks to hide them, they jutted out. I felt like Frankenstein. I have my scan next week and I feel really optimistic."

I was relieved and somewhat ashamed of my initial thoughts.

After we finished our tea I had to inquire about her date.

"So, how did your date go?"

Jo slumped back on the sofa.

"Clay, I wish I knew. The last thing I remember was we were eating at a steakhouse and we had a few drinks. I must have gotten really drunk because I don't remember much after that. I don't even know how I got home. He probably thinks I'm easy. I'm not going to call him; I'll let him call me if he wants to get in touch."

"Jo, just be careful. If you meet someone and you want me to check 'em out, just let me know. I'll get Carl to..."

"I'm a big girl, I think I can handle myself," Jo replied as she walked me to the door.

I couldn't wait to tell Monet that Jo was safe and sound.

"Hey, Mom. I got your Facebook message. Is everything all right?"

"Are you sitting down, Clay?"

I couldn't take much more drama; I braced myself for the worst.

"Mom, are you okay?" I asked worriedly.

"Yes, honey. I'm fine. It's the house. It's too much for me to look after. I decided to sell it and move into a smaller place without stairs. It's getting tough climbing up and down the stairs every day."

"Whew, I thought it was something serious."

"You're not upset? This is your childhood home. Your dad always wanted to leave it to you."

"Mom, don't worry about me. Home is where you are, wherever you are."

"Bless your heart. There are some things your dad wanted you to have. I have everything in a box. I'll mail it to you when I get a chance, all right?"

"No, Mom. I'm coming to see you. I'll bring it home."

"Hey, Jo. I'm taking Monet to the airport in a few minutes."

"Jo, it was so nice meeting you. Here's my email address. I want us to keep in contact. If I get this job, you might see more of me," Monet said.

Monet and Jo hugged each other, Monet choked up a little. I knew why.

We drove off with Jo waving from her front door.

I hated having to take Monet to the airport. Whenever I was with her it didn't feel like a holiday or vacation, it just felt natural. We both were solemn the entire way not knowing when we would see each other again.

I thought of an idea. I told Monet that I would see her after I visited my mom. She smiled and kissed the side of my face. We had something to look forward to. It wouldn't be long before I'd see her again. Not long at all.

### Detroit, Michigan

### Two Weeks Later

I was so glad to see my mom. It had been over a year since I'd seen her last. She was a bit more frail and a little slower, but she was just as lovely as ever in her golden years. The grass had overgrown and some of the taps had constant drips. I organized a plumber and a cleaning service, The Pink Ladies, to come by and tidy things up. Mom was so thankful for that.

Mom had a box of my dad's things sitting in the center of my old bedroom. As I opened the door to my old room, hundreds of memories from high school flooded my mind. It still had the same feel to it. The last time I slept in that bed was 6 August 1979. Whenever I visited I always slept on the couch in the living room.

The box in the center of the room was marked Dad's Stuff in a black marker. I sat Indian-style in front of the box wondering what was inside. I opened it carefully and saw everything was neatly packed.

I was surprised that dad kept all my letters dating back from boot camp. Even more surprising was a letter that he never mailed to me. It was like he was speaking from the grave. It was a letter that included a business plan for the two of us to pursue. Dad wanted us to go into men's clothing for pastors and clergy. While I was in Japan I sent dad a tailor-made suit which impressed many other pastors in the community.

My second surprise was finding out my dad was a Lamplighter in his early ministry days. A Lamplighter was someone who taught a spiritual program designed to educate not indoctrinate new converts into the word of Christ. To feel the pages across my fingertips, the same pages he wrote on more than 40 years ago was almost spiritual. I felt a powerful connection with my dad. I kept flashing back to Winnie's message, Hold up the Light. It was crystal clear to me at that moment; those were indeed my dad's words. It was overwhelming, feeling so close to my dad in death. The message was clear, but the answer was lost on me. How would I honor my dad's wishes? I knew the light meant the word, the gospel. There was just one problem, I wasn't called to preach.

After scouring through letters, scrapbooks, written sermons and old pictures, I found my final revelation. His diary from 1959, two years before I was born. The cover was tattered and the pages were faded yellow. My dad was a passionate man and it was slightly uncomfortable to read how he fancied my mom while they dated. I skipped right over that as fast as I could. There was no doubt my dad loved my mother with all his heart.

Apparently, after my mom and dad married in 1959, they moved into a house that had been in the family for over fifty years. There were two problems that were clear in his writings, Gerald and Delcine. I think they lived upstairs in the two-family home. My dad's writings about Gerald and Delcine were disturbing. The couple destroyed some of my parents' possessions and stole from them. The diary never explained why Gerald and Delcine were allowed to stay, given their bizarre behavior. The last page that mentioned them was on 24 December 1959. There was a secret family meeting, a meeting that would decide Gerald and Delcine's fate. That's where the journal ended. I was curious what happened during the meeting. It was a well-guarded secret, a secret that lasted 50 years until now. I needed to find out what the family did with Gerald and Delcine.

Getting dressed for church without dad was hard. No longer would I see him preach from the pulpit where he ministered for over 33 years. I longed to reminisce and walk the halls of the church he claimed to be his second home. The church where I matured into a young man. The church where I attended so many weddings and funerals, including his.

My mom insisted on driving and I waved to friends on the street, friends I hadn't seen in over twenty years.

I could see Alpha Baptist Church just up the road and I mentally prepared myself. The last time I was there was dad's funeral on 9 February 2007. I got choked up.

"Mom, you just passed the church. It's back there," I commented.

She continued driving: things got strange.

"Honey, I don't go to Alpha anymore. After your dad passed the vultures came out. There was a fight to see who would succeed him and I was caught in the middle. The church secretary seized your dad's accounts and almost made me homeless. I had to go to court just to get our own money back. I was told I was no longer welcome. They were glad to see me go. I go to Broadview Baptist Church now."

I was angry and sad.

"But what about dad's portrait in the corridor?"

"It's in the spare bedroom covered up?" mom replied.

"But what about his CD library in the conference room? Members always borrowed the CDs to listen to his renowned sermons dating back to the early days. That was his legacy."

Mom was getting misty-eyed.

"Baby, those CDs are in my bedroom closet."

I felt a part of my soul ripped out. My dad did so much for that church. He bled for the church. When the church hit hard times my dad remortgaged his house to keep it going. It wasn't fair and it hurt me deeply. As far as I was concerned this was an assault on my father's legacy. I had to make this right somehow. I wouldn't let this go, not in this lifetime.

# TWENTY-TWO

* * *

# Legacy Part II

### The Next Evening

Mom, that was the best home-cooked meal I've had since the last time I was here," I said, scooting back from the table.

"I miss cooking for two. Your father loved my cooking," mom reflected.

"Hey, Mom, remember dad ran a herbal tea business out of the house? He had a growing clientele when I joined the Marines, why did he stop?"

"We had a few good years selling Golden Seal products but his main supplier opened a store down the street. Speaking of herbal tea, whatever happened to Prince, your high school buddy? You know, the fella who always wore that black fedora. He was one of your dad's biggest customers before you joined the Marines."

"Prince? We kinda lost contact after I enlisted."

Mom momentarily stopped washing the dishes and turned around.

"Prince said the tea really helped the rash (psoriasis) on his scalp," mom said.

Prince was a short and stocky Puerto Rican. He always wore a black fedora to conceal the scabs that covered his scalp. If he wasn't wearing that black fedora it was a black doo-rag. In the entire time I'd known Prince, I saw his scalp just once and that was by accident; it was hideous. Prince never used the herbal tea and cotton balls to bathe his scalp as my father suggested. He had other aspirations.

"Mom, Prince bought the tea from dad and sold it as marijuana. When Prince brought the first bag home, his brother David thought it was weed and smoked it. David said it was the best weed he ever smoked. The rest is history; Prince developed an extensive network of clients in the suburbs. Prince made enough money to pay his mom's house off after eight months in the business," I said.

Prince was two years younger than me but he was mature beyond his years. I got Prince his first job working with me at a large printing company doing janitorial work at night. Within two months of his employment, daytime employees made numerous complaints of theft. The company director insisted that Prince and I be polygraphed or the cleaning contract would be terminated. Some thought we were singled out because were young black kids. But it wasn't about race at all; we had unrestricted access to the entire building at night. We both passed the polygraph with flying colors and the contract continued. The theft ceased shortly afterwards.

After I joined the Marines, Prince confessed it was him. How a fifteen-year-old kid beat a skilled and veteran polygrapher was beyond me. But that was Prince.

"Clay, I also remember your dad got a call from the police station to collect you and Prince after Vanessa's party."

"Oh yeah, he got into a fight over a girl," I said.

Some thug pulled a gun on Prince at a house party. While everybody stampeded for the door, Prince remained cool and defiant. While Vanessa was on the phone with 911, Prince removed his black fedora and handed it to me. When Prince exposed his scalp in public, I knew danger was imminent. Somebody was going to get hurt. Prince approached the guy and put his head to the barrel. It was psychotic and scary. People were climbing out of the windows to get away. Prince looked up and with one punch dropped the guy. Prince picked the gun off the floor and pistol-whipped him to unconsciousness. When the police showed up they took Prince and me to the station. They thought it was Prince's .45 as it was in his possession. The other guy went to the emergency room. We were later released and my dad picked us up.

I heard police raided his house in 1982 and seized his supply. It never made it to court; apparently it's not against the law to sell tea leaves. A hit was put on Prince after he was exposed in the papers. Prince was killed in a drive-by shooting in front of his mother's house one year after he graduated from high school. Prince was definitely wired different than most but he was the brother I never had.

Mom continued to wash dishes and I zoned out thinking about Prince. My reminiscing was cut short by a pressing question I wanted answered. I wanted to know who Gerald and Delcine were.

"Mom?"

"Yes, dear," mom replied, with her back to me washing dishes.

"Who were Gerald and Delcine?"

Crash!

Mom dropped a plate on the floor. It shattered into hundreds of little pieces. She turned around slowly. Her face had pain written all over it. She stumbled before bracing herself against the sink. Mom reached for her cigarettes but there was one problem. She quit when I was in the third grade. I knew something was terribly wrong.

"Mom, are you okay?" I asked as I flew out of my chair out of concern. "Mom, what's wrong?"

My mother grabbed the golden cross around her neck and kissed it.

"We don't talk about that anymore. I don't feel well. I think I'm going to lie down, dear," mom said as she removed her apron and walked to her room. She closed the door.

I upset my mom. I felt terrible and sick to my stomach. I knocked on her bedroom door and apologized. I could hear her praying. I would never mention those names to mom again. But I knew someone I could ask, my paternal grandmother. We called her Big Ma.

Big Ma was the matriarch of the Thompson family. Big Ma's parents were born into slavery. She had seen it all. She witnessed her own brother lynched for challenging a zoning law that prohibited blacks from buying property on the other side of Woodward Avenue. Big Ma married Poppa; he died before I was born. She was feisty and had an answer for everything. She resided at Swan's Nursing Home on the east side of Detroit.

"Come on in, sugar. Let Big Ma give you a hug. How have you been?"

"I'm living in England now, Big Ma. I retired from the Marines and the Lord's been good to me," I said as I kissed her on the cheek.

Big Ma was in and out of coherency most of the conversation until I mentioned Gerald and Delcine. She sat straight up in her bed and her eyes came to life. She was back to the old Big Ma, sharp as ever.

"Who you been talking to, boy?" Big Ma demanded.

I felt like I was six all over again. I was anxious.

"No one, Big Ma," I replied.

"So how comes you know about dem two?"

"I read it in dad's diary."

"Lawd, forgive me," Big Ma shouted, waving her hands in prayer.

This had to be something extraordinary. Big Ma's response only deepened my curiosity.

"Come here, boy. We promised not to speak bout this ever again. I'm about to break my promise. Lord, help me."

I gave Big Ma a drink of water and I waited for her to enlighten me.

"Gerald and Delcine were my first tenants in that old house on Barr Street. Dem folks was sho nuff evil. They rented the downstairs and the basement and turned our house into a den of sin. Prostitution, gambling, drugs, they was into everything. They never paid no rent. Gerald had one leg shorter than the other and walked with a limp. He had a special shoe with a big heel to walk proper. Delcine was on the friendly side and kept a lot of men company. Me and Poppa couldn't live there anymore so we moved away to Grand River Boulevard. Gawd put an end to all that filth, he sho did."

"Wow. What happened to them?"

"Some fool shot and killed them in the basement over a gambling debt."

"Was that arranged at the family meeting on Christmas eve?" I asked.

"Family meeting? Boy, that meeting was ten years later."

"You lost me Big Ma. How could the meeting take place ten years later. They were already dead?"

"When yo momma and daddy moved there in 1959, Gerald and Delcine were lying in their graves, but their spirits never left that house. Gerald had a distinct walk and Delcine always wore those stilettos. We heard them all the time. They were thieves even in death. I thought yo momma was going to have a nervous breakdown. Only prayer kept her together."

Again I found myself trying to get on the logic train. It left the station before I got there.

"Ghosts? You mean Barr Street was haunted?"

"Look at me, boy. This is Big Ma talkin'. We had a gathering that night, the whole family. We all decided there was only one way to deal with the devil. You gotta fight fire with fire. We burnt that building down to the groun'. Poppa lit the match. The family vowed never to discuss what happened that night. We didn't want the grandkids to know about ghosts and spirits; we thought they would be better off."

Big Ma took a couple of breaths and held my hand. The story took a lot out of her. I think she relived it. Soon she was snoring soundly. I kissed her on the forehead before I left.

I inherited my faith and my beliefs from my parents. I respected their rationale for withholding this troubling and unexplained phenomenon. I had no choice but to embrace a stern fact. Maybe ghosts really do exist.

My mom fixed another world class meal and I eagerly awaited the surprise she promised me after dinner.

I followed mom into dad's den and she had an old reel-to-reel projector set up.

"Clay, I found this super 8 movie when I was looking through your dad's things. Take a seat," mom said as she turned off the light.

It was my dad and mom's wedding in July 1959, in color.

"Mom, is that you?" I asked.

"Yes, dear. That was one of the happiest days of my life."

I was glued to the footage on the wall. My mom was an absolutely stunning bride at the tender age of 18. I saw my dad; it was like I was looking in the mirror. I was his double. It was a captivating experience. I saw Poppa for the first time walking the earth. He was a big man and the leader of the Thompson clan back then. I saw other relatives that died before I was born. It was strange to see them speak to the camera; voices heard fifty years after their deaths.

I patted my mom on the back during the exchanging of vows. She wept.

"Clay, sometimes I wished I had left first."

"Mom, don't say that. Don't ever say that," I complained.

That was the first and only time I chastised my mom, but it hurt me.

We lightened up the mood afterwards over coffee. She had some exciting news. Her new church had recently bestowed her with the title of 'Mother' for her Sunday school contributions and mentoring of wayward kids. I was proud of my mom.

I was all packed up and I had a couple of hours before I headed to the airport. I spent half of that time capturing my last moments in that house on video. I filmed every room and my mom preparing for her Sunday lesson. She smiled at the camera.

I couldn't leave without taking a picture of the church. I needed to have a photo of the church my father dedicated his life to.

"Clay, where are you going?"

"I'll be right back, Mom."

I drove the same route my dad drove for over thirty years and reminisced. I parked across the street from the church. It was just before noon and the sun was shining bright. I stood in front of the church and snapped shots from different angles. After I took my last picture, I noticed a light was on in the pastor's study. The main entrance was unlocked. I opened the door.

"Anyone home?"

I could hear a slight echo as my voice reverberated throughout the sanctuary. A distinguished young black man, about 30ish, stood atop of the stairs.

"You are in the house of the Lord. May I help you?"

"I'm sorry. I used to worship here about 30 years ago and I noticed someone was in. I was hoping to run into an old church member. I'll be leaving, sorry to bother you."

"I'm the new pastor, Kenneth Smith. What is your name?" he said as he descended from the top step with a bible in hand.

"Sir, my name is Clay Thompson," I replied, as I noticed the absence of my father's portrait in the corridor.

I wanted to run out of there, but I was compelled to stay.

"Are you Rev. T's son?"

"Yes, sir. Did you know my dad?"

"Did I know your dad? That's funny. Your dad mentored me. About twenty years ago your dad and mom allowed me to stay with them under one condition. That I attend bible study and stay off drugs. He introduced me to a new way of studying the bible in a way that changed my life."

I knew what program he referred to but I didn't comment.

I was confused because my mom told me about the power struggle that forced her out of the church and the man before me was clearly a man of God. We continued the conversation in his study. I asked him direct questions.

"Your mother is absolutely correct. I was still in seminary during that time. The church didn't understand that you don't vote a pastor in. It's not a popularity contest."

"So, who decides who runs the church?"

"The District Superintendent of Churches or Church Bishop usually determines the pastoral leadership of a congregation."

Pastor Smith continued.

"There was a power vacuum within the church after your father passed. After the church lost the battle for their candidate, many members left. The ones who remained loyal to your mom left when she did. After I completed seminary, I came back to my roots, right here. I was appointed just a few months ago. Your mother and I still keep in touch."

"Pastor Smith, my dad's sermons dating back to the 1970s are on CDs boxed up in my mom's closet. It would mean a lot if we could restore his library in the conference room."

"It would be an honor."

"What about his portrait? Could we put it back up?"

I interpreted his smile and wink as consent.

Pastor Smith freely conveyed some of the challenges he had with being such a young pastor with a new family.

"Clay, I have an hour radio ministry on WVPN on Sunday nights. At least once a month I am unable to meet that commitment due to other obligations. It's hard to find supply ministers on short notice."

I could hear the concern in his voice.

"Pastor Smith, what if you used my dad's sermons to fill in when you can't make it? His messages are timeless."

Pastor Smith stood from behind his desk.

"That's an excellent idea! Thank you, Jesus. God is good all the time and all the time God is good. I can't wait to tell my family. Sometimes it's nice to go home after service and have family time without having to run back out. I'll talk to the program manager at the station. This is a blessing."

After our divine-inspired conversation Pastor Smith escorted me to the door and shook my hand. We were both elated and driven by this new direction. The station had a podcast on the internet so I would be able to listen to my dad's sermons back in England, and so would the rest of the world.

I knew my mother would be happy that dad's legacy would be restored. I had my own message to my father.

Dad, I got your message. I'm working on it. I miss you.

# TWENTY-THREE

* * *

# Remember My Name

### Evansville, Indiana

Welcome to Denny's, are you ready to order?"

Monet and I were still looking at the menu when the waitress asked for our order.

"Wow, I guess Grand Slams aren't $1.99 anymore," I asked.

"Babe, that was back in the early nineties. Prices have gone up since then," Monet replied.

I quickly realized how much things had changed since I last lived in the US. When I left in 1996 we still had albums and cassette videos and we had to wait a week to get film developed at the local store.

"I'll have a French Slam with a side order of grits. Can I also have a coffee with a side of whip cream, please?" I asked the waitress.

"I'll have the same but hold the whip cream," Monet requested.

Monet had some breaking news she wanted to share. She was excited.

"Clay, I got a provisional offer this week?"

"Offer?"

"I got the job in Birmingham. The company needs to iron out a few details regarding my relocation, but it's a done deal, I'm headed to England!"

"Wow, that's great, honey. This is what we've been praying for. When do you think you'll be coming over permanently?"

"I will be back and forth for a little while until my work visa is approved, but it will be soon."

I should have been more excited but there was something underlying that took the shine off, just a bit. Monet noticed.

"Clay, what's wrong, honey? We never wanted a longdistance relationship, this is the answer."

"I know, babe. There's something bugging me and I need to talk about it but I don't want to spoil our first night together."

Monet reached across the table with both hands and held mine.

"No secrets, remember? Talk to me."

I sat up in the booth and looked Monet in the eye.

"Don't you think it's strange that we have a son together and we never, ever talk about him? I want to but I don't feel like I have the right. But I should have the right, I'm his father," I said with concern.

Monet withdrew her hands from mine and crossed her arms; she was on the defense.

"You're his biological father. There's a big difference, Clay. Robert has a dad. Marc was a lousy husband but he's a damn good father. I don't want any of that to change. If Marc knew we were having this conversation, he would go absolutely insane. Let it go, okay?"

Before I could reply I was interrupted by the waitress pouring our coffee. It was probably a good thing I was interrupted because I was ready to challenge Monet with resentment in my heart. The situation was diffused, for the time being.

After we had breakfast, Monet had more news to share.

"Clay, we have a busy schedule the next few days," Monet said enthusiastically.

"I was hoping to chill with you and maybe see a movie. What have you signed me up for, babe?"

"Clay, I know you. All you want to do is stay in bed and make love. We'll have time for that but this is important. Did you bring the new manuscript like I asked?"

"Of course. I had it bound at Kinkos. Here it is," I said as I slid across the table.

"Great, I called in a few favors and I got you a slot on the Steve Bracy's Amateur Hour Show. It's a local cable show. Last week he had a local chef who cooked in his underwear."

"Whoa, maybe that's the break I've been looking for," I said as I came out of my funk.

"I should be your PR rep, Clay. I also got you a book signing for The Mogadishu Diaries at the Barnes and Noble on Green River Road."

I was ecstatic and impressed how Monet was able to pull this off. I would have gladly spent thousands of dollars to get this type of exposure. But I didn't have to; I had a million-dollar girl who had my back. Monet wanted to celebrate that night but I wanted to wait until the last night.

We should have celebrated when we had the chance, I would regret we didn't.

### Steve Bracy Studios

I had to get up at the crack of dawn to be at the studio on time. I didn't know it was a morning show. At 4:30 in the morning the studio was hiving. Behind the scenes there were dozens of staff scurrying about and running into each other to support the show. I quickly learned there was a pecking order in television broadcasting.

  1. TV Producers
  2. TV Personalities and celebrity guests
  3. Everyone else

It seemed if you didn't belong in the first two groups you were a nobody. The caterers got the least respect and were almost invisible. Everyone on set had perfect hair, cosmetic surgery in one form or another and were dressed to the nines. They were treated like royalty.

I saw Steve Bracy walk in to the studio with his entourage. He was just over six feet tall, dark-colored, curly, gelled hair and a massive attitude. He didn't dignify his staff with verbal commands, he made a lot of hand gestures and snapping of the fingers. He had a large poster of himself on the rear wall in his wardrobe room. I later found out Steve Bracy also was a co-anchor on the Six o'clock News.

I sat outside the producer's office in the waiting area. It was chaos and I felt out of place, until an old Japanese woman dressed in a kimono sat next to me. I knew a little Japanese so I addressed her.

"Ohayo go zaimasu," I said the best I could.

"Good morning to you too. You speak good Japanese," the old woman replied with a slight bow.

After a brief conversation with the woman I realized the station double-booked us. Monet never told me who arranged my interview so I had no point of contact. Steve Bracy headed into the producer's office and backtracked.

"Houston, we have a problem!" Steve Bracy yelled to his producer.

Steve stood in front of the old woman and put his hands in his pockets.

"Whatcha got for me Lady Kung Fu?"

"My name is Ms. Wantanabe. Today I'm going to talk about Green Tea."

Steve Bracy stormed into the producer's office. I could hear him from outside.

"Bill, you're killing me. Green Tea? Really? It's green and it's fucking tea. The end. Let's go with Bo Jackson sitting next to her. What's his deal?"

Thirty minutes later Steve came out.

"Ms. Wannabe, there's been a mix-up. Sergio, please see the tea lady to her car. And get me a caramel macchiato on the way back."

I wasn't impressed nor intimidated by Steve. I thought he was rude and arrogant as hell.

Steve stood directly in front of me and we did the stare down contest for about a minute before he spoke.

"It really must be a slow day at the office when we have to interview a self-published author. Do you know what I think about self-published authors?"

I've been chewed out by four-star generals, shot at by Somali insurgents, there was no way I was going to let someone like him sweat me.

"I don't know what you think, but is that shaving cream in your right ear?"

He stuck his finger in his ear and out came a nice white lather. He took off in a huff and had a few words with his makeup staff. I was not bothered at all if I got dropped from the show because our chemistry was like oil and water. However, the show would go on and I would be on it.

"Ready on the set. Five, four, three, two and one!"

"Good morning Evansville. It's the top of the hour and today we have an interesting guest from London, England. Mr. Thompson, welcome to the Steven Bracy Amateur Hour. What brings you to the show?"

I wasn't nervous, I was excited. Steve was able to ditch his nasty personality for TV and I was ready to talk about my passion.

"Thanks Steve for having me. Today I'd like to talk about my novel The Mogadishu Diaries. It's a memoir that pre-dates Blackhawk Down and captures the early days of pursuing the beloved Somali warlord Mohammad Aidid. In fact, I have a book signing on Wednesday at the Barnes and Noble on Green River Road."

The back and forth between Steve and I was cordial and he was the consummate professional, until we addressed my next project.

"So, do you have any irons in the fire?" Steve asked.

I walked right into his trap completely unaware.

"Glad you asked, I'm just putting the finishing touches on my latest work titled The Seduction of a Military Wife. It's a story of love won, love lost and love reunited," I replied.

"Let me stop you right there. I read your manuscript. This isn't a story about love, that's a lie. This is a story about a cheating wife who uses hypnosis as an excuse to get her groove on. That's what this story is really about," Steve said as he held a copy of my manuscript in the air.

The studio fell silent, the cameras were still rolling and I was speechless. I didn't have a comeback. I was being humiliated in front of everyone on live TV. My first instinct was to walk away. My palms were sweaty and my embarrassment led to anger. I needed to salvage this moment.

"There are things in the book that I am not proud of but the story is genuine and I hope the readers will not judge the main characters too harshly," I replied.

Steve intensified his attack.

"Let's be clear, the main characters are you and this Monique chick. Is that her real name?"

"No. I wanted to respect her privacy so I changed her name."

Steve grabbed his earpiece; apparently he was in communication with his producers.

"Ladies and gentlemen, our producers have identified the real Monique Simpson in the book. Monique Simpson is actually Monet Dawson. There you have it, you heard it here first."

I wanted to do a Jerry Springer on him and kick his ass on live TV. Again, I had no comeback. My fists were tight and my heart was thumping fast and hard. I wanted to injure him in the worst way. I wanted revenge. I plotted.

"I can't believe you just said her real name on TV."

"Sue me, ha, ha, ha," he laughed.

We broke for a commercial.

"Clay, don't take it personal it's all about the ratings. Shake?"

Steve stood from his chair and extended his hand. I grabbed his hand then I tightened my grip. He tried to pull away but I wouldn't let him. He panicked.

"Security, security!" he screamed like a sissy.

With his hand in mine, I stared directly into his eyes intently. I suddenly jerked his hand and whispered a posthypnotic suggestion in his ear. The next thing I knew, I had two large security guards in black muscle T-shirts lift me off the ground and escort me out. The suggestion was planted. I just had to wait until the six o'clock News.

Monet was at work so she was unable to watch the show but she recorded it. That night she worked until 6:30 so I sat in front of her flat screen in the bedroom ready to watch the evening News.

### Breaking News Live at 6:00pm

"Good evening, I'm Barbara McKinney."

"And I am... shit, I forgot my name!" Steve said in desperation.

Barbara the anchorwoman looked over to Steve and whispered, "You just swore and we are live on the air."

Steve was flustered and confused. He whispered back to Barbara.

"Okay, what's my name?" Steve whispered.

"Don't do this. Pull yourself together, right now," Barbara whispered, still looking straight into the camera.

I tried to hold my laughter in but it was just too funny. His antics reminded me of Ron Burgundy from the movie Anchorman.

The camera shifted away from Steve onto Barbara. She was annoyed and did a pretty good job of concealing it. The cameramen cut Steve's microphone but in the background you could hear him screaming.

"For the love of god, will someone please tell me my name!"

After a few of Steve's off-camera rants Barbara got a bad case of the giggles before she busted out in laughter in the middle of her News story.

"Sorry, Bill. Can we break to commercial? This is out of control. What is wrong with Steve?" Barbara laughed, still on live TV.

The producer made a decision to maximize the entertainment value of Steve's meltdown and directed the cameramen to follow him around the studio. The entire News team was in stitches. Steve finally returned to his station desk somewhat composed. As long as he didn't have to say his name he was fine, until the end of the show.

"And from the Channel Seven News Team, goodnight. I'm Barbara McKinney."

"And I'm... shit, I forgot my name again," Steve repeated flustered.

Steve Bracy's What's My Name Meltdown went viral on the internet and became an instant YouTube mega-hit, until station producers deleted it. The hypnotic suggestion was self-canceling when he left the building.

# TWENTY-FOUR

* * *

# Book Signing at Barnes and Noble

### The Mogadishu Diaries

Welcome to Barnes and Noble Mr. and Ms. Thompson," the community relations rep said. Her name was Elisabeth.

It was nice to hear Monet and I addressed as a married couple. It made both of us smile.

The Barnes and Noble store was the largest in the city. It had two floors of books as far as the eye could see. I had no idea a book store could be so jam-packed on a Saturday morning. We followed Elisabeth to the center of the store where they had a nice wood grain table with stacks of my novel The Mogadishu Diaries on both sides. On a large easel was a sign that read, Meet Author Clay Thompson at 10am. I was honored by the red carpet treatment. None of this would have been possible without Monet. She was so good for me and to me.

I gave her an unexpected kiss while Elisabeth identified the bathrooms to the left and the Starbucks to the right.

"Mr. Thompson, we will make an in-store announcement every half hour to alert patrons about the book signing. We advertised this event for the last two weeks, we are expecting a decent turnout, Evansville loves its Veterans and its authors."

There were two chairs behind the desk for Monet and I. We felt like royalty swiveling in the executive chairs provided.

"Monet, I think I will buy a regular coffee for every customer that buys a book," I suggested.

"Honey, I think you might want to reconsider?" Monet said.

"Why?"

Headed directly for us was a mob of Veterans; some were dressed in partial uniforms. I was particularly impressed with the large turnout of former and retired Marines.

I sat straight up and Monet handed me an expensive tubular case.

"What's this, babe?" I asked.

Inside was an expensive pen set with my name engraved on the case.

Unfortunately, Monet was summoned back at the house. Her daughter Michelle needed to be picked up from her friend's house.

I was having so much fun at the book signing. Very little had to do with signing books; it was more about reminiscing with my fellow Marines who served. One conversation in particular was most memorable. We had so much in common it was unreal.

The gentleman was a large black guy who obviously pumped a lot of iron. He was massive. The only thing that put me off initially was he stank of alcohol.

"Mr. Thompson, I think I saw you on TV the other day. Was that you?"

"Yeah. If that was my fifteen minutes of fame, I think I got shortchanged," I replied.

Surprisingly we both were stationed at Camp Pendleton in 1991 and lived near each other. He was a chatterbox.

"Yeah my wife is a big fan of your work. I'd like to buy a book for her."

"Well, I'm glad she liked the book. How should I sign the dedication? What is your wife's name?" I asked.

"My wife? Her name is... Monet. I'm Marc, her husband," he replied enraged.

I reluctantly looked up...

"No, wait, don't!"

### Fade to black.

# TWENTY-FIVE

* * *

# Rude Awakening

### VA Hospital, Evansville, Indiana

Mr. Thompson's vital signs are improving, when do you think he'll wake up, Doctor Goldstein?" the nurse said to the doc.

"I'm surprised he hasn't come around. His face sustained brute force but there's no sign of cerebral trauma. My diagnosis is severe physiological shock. I'll be monitoring his behavior," the doc said.

"What kind of behavioral symptoms should we look for?"

"The three A's, anxiety, anger and avoidance."

I could hear everything around me but I couldn't communicate. I had no idea how I ended up in the hospital or what day it was. All I knew was my entire face felt like it had been hit by a wrecking ball. I knew my nose was broken and I could feel stitches between my eyes. I ran my tongue across my teeth and I noticed a tooth was missing in back. It was a struggle to raise my eyelids, they were just slits. The bandages that covered my entire face meant something happened to me, something terrible. My first thought was, what did I look like underneath the bandages and swelling?

"Good morning sunshine," the nurse said as she opened the blinds.

"Uggh. That must have been some accident. Where's Monet? Is she all right?" I asked the nurse.

The nurse walked over to me with a thermometer in her right hand. I recoiled.

"I don't have to roll over on my side, do I?" I asked.

The nurse smiled and shook her head no, before placing the thermometer in my mouth.

"I'm Nurse Young; I will be looking after you. If you like you can call me Kim."

She removed the thermometer and raised it to the light.

"Hmm, 98.6. Perfect."

Kim was a kind soul and I found her presence soothing and comforting. She had her brunette hair pinned in a bun and wore fashionable glasses. She was probably about midthirties and of average build.

"Mr. Thompson, what is the last thing you remember?"

"Monet and I were on the way to the book signing on Green River. I hope they don't think I no-showed. I need to call them to reschedule."

I saw genuine empathy in Kim and she struggled watching me flail in confusion. What was even more confusing were the dozens of cards around my bedside. I inquired.

"Who are these cards for?"

"Mr. Thompson, you're Evansville's latest celebrity. They are for you?"

Now I was really confused. Why would so many strangers be sending me cards? Among all the cards was a very large red one that towered over the others. I fixated on that one.

"Kim, my vision is a little blurry. Can you read the big red card on the night stand?"

Kim lifted the card and read it silently first.

"Ahh, Mr. Thompson, maybe you'd like me to read another card. How about this one?"

"The big red card please, first. It's the nicest of the bunch."

Kim was reluctant but I insisted.

"Okay, Mr. Thompson."

"Please call me Clay," I said.

"Okay, Clay. Here goes. But remember I warned you."

The card read: Karma is a bitch ain't it. Steve Bracy.

Kim paused immediately after reading the card.

"Clay, is this the same Steve Bracy that does the Ten O'clock News?"

I felt like I woke up in a Twilight Zone episode.

"Yes. But he does the Six O'clock News, right?"

Kim placed her hand over her mouth trying to keep from giggling.

"Steve Bracy hasn't done the Six O'clock News since he had that fit on television. Oh my god, that was so funny. How can you forget your own name?"

"So how did he and all these other well-wishers find out I was in the hospital?" I asked.

Before Kim could respond, a police officer knocked on the door. He wanted to speak with me.

"Mr. Thompson, I'm Sergeant Barnett. Do you mind if I talk to you about the incident two days ago?"

"Two days ago? What day is it?" I asked in bewilderment.

"Today is Tuesday and you were the victim of an assault."

My very first thought was that I missed my flight that morning. My second thought was... Where was Monet?

The officer continued.

"This should be an open and shut case. The entire incident was captured on the store's closed circuit TV. It was broadcast all over the local News on Sunday night."

"Someone did this to me? It must have been a mugging or something. I don't have any enemies. Who did it?"

Kim left the room and waved goodbye and let the officer tend to his business.

"Well, I can tell you or I can show you," the officer replied.

"Show me."

The officer opened a black briefcase and placed an iPad on his lap.

"Here, this is you sitting down. Do you recognize the man talking to you?"

"No, I've never seen him before, ever."

The officer fast-forwarded to the moment of impact.

"There, you can see the perpetrator leaping onto the table. This is where it gets ugly, brace yourself."

"For what?" I asked

"For that right there. He kicked you right between the eyes. You went flying into the bookcase behind you. You are somewhere underneath all those books. Three men tried to assist you but he manhandled them and put the fear of God in them. They may have saved your life. They distracted him enough to allow security to respond."

I immediately recalled the incident and I remembered it was Marc. My heart rate spiked through the roof and my EKG sounded an alarm. I was experiencing a shortness of breath and I thought I was having a heart attack. My world was turned upside down, I was fearful. I had never been afraid of anyone, but Marc terrified me. I believed if he had another chance he would finish the job.

Kim rushed back into the room and put an oxygen mask over my face. The policeman backed away and Kim helped stabilize my vital signs.

"Clay, I think you've had enough for one day. I'll tell the policeman to come back at some other time."

The officer placed his iPad into his briefcase and retrieved the Monday morning local paper. It covered my assault. He handed it to Kim. There was a pixelated picture of Marc standing over my unconscious body just as security arrived. Books were scattered everywhere. His eyes looked psychotic.

As the officer headed out the door he had one question for me.

"Mr. Thompson, what would make a guy want to cause you so much bodily harm?"

I didn't answer. It was payback for what he witnessed on the videotape Monet made over 20 years ago. But, was he done? Or would he come back?

My only consolation was that he was locked up. I knew he couldn't get to me while he was in jail. I couldn't wait to escape on a plane to the UK.

"Kim, could you read the paper for me, the part that says he was arrested. He was arrested, right?"

I was looking for a sense of security. I needed to hear that he was behind bars.

"Sure, I've got it right here."

An Evansville judge set bail for Marc Dawson at $9,000. He is charged with felony, aggravated assault and battery. His arraignment has been scheduled for July 8. Mr. Dawson's bail was posted by...

Kim had to flip the page to see who posted his bail. I was beginning to panic all over again. Paranoia, fear and anger consumed me. I wanted to know who posted bail for this maniacal predator.

"Kim, does it say who posted his bail?"

"Yes, his wife did. Monet Dawson."

# TWENTY-SIX

* * *

# The Unforgiven

### The Next Day

Last night I had nightmare after nightmare. Marc leaping atop of the table and kicking a field goal with my face. Guilt was beginning to consume me day and night. I was mind-jacked and desperate for some respite.

Most of the time I found myself drifting in and out of consciousness because of the morphine drip. Around 11am I woke up and found a card on my lap. It was from Monet. I placed it on the night stand. I didn't care what it said; there was no acceptable explanation for what she did. As much as I wanted to forgive her, I couldn't. She made her choice and I had to make mine. She fooled me into thinking she was single and gave me hope. The trust was gone.

"Clay, you have a visitor. Are you up for entertaining?" Kim asked.

"Who is it?"

"Ms. Monet Dawson. If you'd rather not I can tell her to come back another time."

"No. I mean... yeah. Send her in," I said as I sat up in my bed.

Monet walked in behind Kim and she looked like she had been through hell. She had bags under her eyes and looked slightly unkempt. She looked like a broken woman compared to the Monet I'd known. My initial reaction was to comfort her but the closer she came the more I resented her. She kissed the unbandaged side of my face. I pulled away.

"Clay, it's me Monet, baby. I am so sorry."

I couldn't look at her.

"Why did you lie to me?" I asked looking out towards the window.

"Lie? What lie?" Monet asked.

I faced her with contempt.

"I know you're married. You should have just told me from the beginning."

Monet closed the door and returned to my bedside. She was on defense.

"So who told you I was married?" she responded with a little too much attitude.

"It's right here, in the paper," I said as I handed her the paper-clipped article.

Monet immediately handed it back to me.

"So. I guess if it's in the paper or on the internet that makes it a fact. That's what Marc told police. I've been divorced two years now."

The fact that she didn't lie had little bearing on how I felt.

"Clay, I haven't slept since Sunday and my daughter Michelle is missing. I don't want to fight. I have none left."

"Can you answer one question for me?" I asked holding up my right forefinger.

I didn't wait for her response. I unloaded.

"Why did you post bail for Marc after what he did? I saw the tape, he tried to kill me," I said angrily.

Monet began to weep by my side. I was unmoved.

"Clay, I had no choice. I had to. I was put in a tough spot."

"Tough spot? I know about tough spots, look at me?" I said.

I opened my mouth to show her my missing tooth.

"Clay, I know this is bad, real bad but we can get past this if we want. Just tell me what you want from me, baby?"

I looked out the window and sighed. I knew exactly what I wanted.

"My things. Just get me my things, please. This shouldn't have happened."

"I know. Marc just went crazy. He lost his mind," Monet replied.

"Monet, that's not what I was talking about. We shouldn't have happened. This is a nightmare and it's time I woke up."

"Huh?" Monet responded in confusion.

"We have to end this. This is too much to bear. If I stay with you, I'll be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life in fear."

Monet responded in desperation.

"Clay, but it's not like that. We can fix this."

I wasn't done. I needed to put the last nail in the coffin.

"Monet, how could I ever trust you? If you cheated to be with me, how do I know you won't cheat on me?"

There was a solemn silence that fell upon us. I was hurtful and mean-spirited. It affected Monet, her actions said it all. She stared at me intently. I could feel the love she had for me slip away. She was divorcing me in her heart and in her soul. I watched our love die.

She left.

"Clay, you have another visitor, it's Sergeant Barnett. Should I send him in?" Kim asked.

"Of course," I replied.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Thompson. I have a few papers I would like you to sign before they release you."

The thought of being discharged made me extremely anxious. I knew Marc was out on bail and I was worried he would hunt me down and finish what he started. As long as I was in the hospital I felt safe.

"Sarge, what if Marc is waiting for me to be released? He must know where I am. Everyone else does," I said as I pointed to the get well cards.

Sergeant Barnett reminded me of Kojak with his bald head and his east coast accent. I saw him as a buffer between Marc and me. I told him the whole story.

"Clay, there are few cuts as deep as infidelity. I've seen several double murder cases over this kinda thing. But you can't undo what is already done. You need to forgive yourself and move on, pal."

"I can't forgive myself. I screwed up big time and even though I lie here in my hospital bed, I don't feel my debt is paid."

Barnett shifted responsibility to Marc.

"Well, Mr. Dawson broke the law. You can't take the law into your own hands. There are consequences and a judge will decide his fate."

Sergeant Barnett handed me documents to press charges. I handed them back.

"The thought of seeing Marc again is too much. I'm not pressing charges. I started this mess and I am sorry for it. But the sooner I get back to England the better. Have you ever had someone try to kill you?"

Barnett paused and reflected.

"I've been on the force over twenty years and I know what you are going through."

Barnett pulled on his shirt collar and showed me where he had been shot in the neck.

"Clay, I've seen the shrink more times than I care to mention. But there are coping mechanisms that have helped me get through some terrible decisions. Decisions I've made with the best intentions."

Barnett was empathetic and compassionate.

"Coping mechanisms? Like what?"

"Write it down, exactly what you've told me. Even if you don't mail it, just say it on paper. Trust me, it will help alleviate some of the pent up guilt and consternation."

Barnett placed his hand on my shoulder and gave me a pen.

We talked for a few more minutes but before he left I had one last request.

"Sergeant Barnett, can you drive me to the airport?"

He stopped in his tracks just outside the doorway.

"Just kidding."

I wasn't kidding. I was serious as hell. Every worry I'd ever had was insignificant compared to my extreme paranoia about losing my life.

Two days later I was signing my discharge papers at the front desk. I was nervous. My face looked like I did ten rounds with Mike Tyson. Every black guy over six feet scared the shit out of me. I subconsciously superimposed Marc's face over theirs.

Kim greeted me at the desk as I was checking out.

"Kim, if you ever come to England, look me up. It would be nice to see a friendly face. Thanks for all you've done."

"Clay, I just might take you up on that. Could I bring my boyfriend along?"

"Absolutely."

"What about all those cards? You didn't forget them did you?"

"No, I have them all, except one. The big red one," I replied.

Kim gave me a sincere hug and I was kind of sad to say goodbye. I considered Kim a person I could be good friends with.

As I proceeded toward the elevator my paranoia was momentarily interrupted. I passed a cancer ward and I stopped for a second when I saw a woman that reminded me of Jo. She was bald and looked emaciated. My heart went out to her and I felt pity.

While standing outside her room an old cleaning lady with drab clothing walked by me and spoke in a foreign language. I thought it was Spanish.

"Deus succurro nos totus," the old lady whispered.

"Sorry, no hablo español," I replied.

As she walked by I felt a chill that was most noticeable on the back of my neck. I dismissed it.

My paranoia returned as soon as the elevator doors opened on the ground floor. I was operating on survival instinct. I quickly scanned the faces in my immediate area. I frantically made my way outside looking for a cab to the airport. My heartbeat was thumping in my chest. I felt impending doom. I knew someone was watching me. I was right. Someone tapped me on my shoulder from behind. I gasped. I didn't turn around.

"I've been waiting for you."

"Officer Barnett?" I responded, relieved.

"I'm officially off the clock; call me Jeremey. Need a lift?"

I started to settle down. I got into his Ford Mustang and we merged into traffic. I was so thankful for his kindness and concern. We didn't talk much on the way to the airport, but he did have a question for me as he dropped me off at the departures terminal.

"Clay, you got that letter?"

Not only was Jeremey a compassionate person, he was astute and perceptive.

"Yeah, I got it. Can you mail it for me?"

"I've got an even better idea. How about I deliver it to him in person. I think he will be happy to know that you've decided not to press charges. Have a safe flight, Clay."

I took a mental snapshot of Jeremey getting back in his car and driving off. I would remember him for his kindness.

When I saw the large monitors for departures I quickly spotted my flight to Heathrow. I needed to get my garment bags checked and through security as soon as possible. I was almost home. My nerves were fried.

"What are you carrying, Mr. Thompson? Do you have any excess baggage?"

Excess baggage. I had a lot of excess baggage; guilt and paranoia and the price for that baggage was extortionate.

I got into the security line. I couldn't wait to pass through x-ray, that was my safe zone. I knew Marc couldn't get to me there. It seemed like an eternity.

"Step right on through," said the TSA representative standing on the other side of the x-ray booth.

I was home free.

I looked behind me and saw my soul mate on the other side. My heart broke and I stood still in despair.

It was Monet. She was standing in front of the Starbucks on the opposite side of security. She was in a black tracksuit and her hair was covered in a yellow scarf. She looked sad.

I was so confused and distraught. I was walking away from the love of my life. A million emotions raced through my mind but one particular thought reigned over all. I told Marc I would leave Monet alone. I turned my back on her and proceeded to my gate. It was one of the hardest things I had to do. I left a piece of me on the other side of security. I turned around with the intention of seeing her face one last time.

She was gone, again.

# TWENTY-SEVEN

* * *

# The Departed

### Heathrow Airport. London, England

Good morning passengers, the time in England is 10:15 in the morning. We will be landing very shortly, thank you for flying British Airways."

Yawn.

I looked out the window as we descended. Dark gloomy clouds obstructed my vision of London's beautiful landmarks and historic architecture.

I left England feeling invincible and so focused. I had everything. I returned with a gap in my teeth and a hole in my soul. I had many thoughts during my nine-hour flight. I saw repeat flashbacks of leaving Monet standing in front of the Starbucks. My nerves were beginning to settle and I questioned my judgment while in the hospital. I couldn't get over her posting Marc's bail. I felt betrayed as I saw no acceptable explanation. I was so confused emotionally and I knew why. I was missing Monet and everything reminded me of her, particularly the phone in my shirt pocket that she bought for me. As we taxied in I took a deep sigh and switched my phone on. I glanced at my screensaver. It was picture of Monet and I during happier times.

My phone blew up with messages alerting me that I was back in the UK and at least 13 missed calls. They were all from Jo, but strangely it was her home phone and not her cell. I was almost sure that she told me she had it disconnected.

It had to be news of her scan results. Jo and I had a bond that transcended normal human interaction. Our session bonded us in a profound way. The session transformed her life but more importantly I wanted it to save her life. I will never forget the time when she heard me cite the Lord's Prayer as if I said it aloud. How did she do that?

For years I entertained hundreds with my psychic routine of channeling my thoughts, and on the smallest stage with no witnesses it really happened. Jo and I had a bond that opened my mind as well as my heart. I really missed her company.

While waiting in the baggage claim area I flashed back to my stay at the hospital. I remembered passing the cancer ward and that old lady whispering to me.

Deus succurro nos totus.

It was the way she said and how it made me feel. Like she was trying to tell me something. I wished I knew Spanish so I could've interpreted what she said.

Home at last. I love it how cats are so emotive and expressive when you've been gone awhile.

"Missy, I'm home," I said as I dropped my bags in the doorway.

She walked right past me and sat in front of her food tray in the kitchen. No eye contact at all. There is an old saying that summed up the difference between cats and dogs.

Dogs have masters, cats have staff. I was Missy's personal servant.

The trip was exhausting and I was super-tired. I checked my Hotmail to see if I had any new emails. I had two.

  1. We've adjusted your timecard. Get well soon. Ann.
  2. Clay, my book signing is 7 August at the Milton Keynes shopping mall. Jo.

Hmm, no mention of her scan. Maybe she hadn't received the results yet.

As I was about to log off I decided to use a Spanish online dictionary to translate that enigmatic message from the mystery woman in the hospital. Here we go.

Sorry, we did not find any matching results for Deus succurro nos totus. Please try our other translators.

After trying French, Italian, German and Portuguese I started to doubt if I'd spelled it correctly. I googled it. My spelling was in fact correct. The result troubled me. It was a prayer.

### God help us all.

The message was just as disturbing as the tongue in which it was spoken. It was Latin. In all of my fifty years of living I never knew anyone who spoke Latin in conversation. I tried to rationalize the encounter in my head, but it didn't fit. It really bothered me. It may have been a message, but from whom and for what?

My head started to hurt. I took a nap with Missy at the foot of my bed cleaning herself.

### The Next Morning

I was awakened by the beeping of a removal van reversing into the drive. I snatched my robe off the bedpost and investigated from my window. The van was reversing into Jo's drive. Two movers jumped out and opened Jo's door with a key. I put on my slippers and made my way to the drive as fast as I could. I followed one of the movers into Jo's house.

"What's goin' on?" I asked tightening the robe around my waist.

One mover was Polish and the other English. The English guy responded.

"Just following orders, mate. We're packing everything and putting it into storage for now."

"Where's Jo?" I asked.

"Dunno, mate."

The Polish guy picked up the aquarium and started to empty it in the toilet. I almost lost my mind.

"Hey, wait! Whatcha doin'?"

"Relax, it's dead. It's just a fish."

I couldn't call Jo fast enough on her cell. I wanted to know why she was moving and why she never told me. My call was booted straight into voicemail. I found a Ziploc baggie and put Nemo inside. I knew Jo would be distraught but she would be more upset if she found out Nemo was flushed down the drain.

On my way out the door, the mailman placed Jo's mail through the letter box. I picked it up. There was a letter from Hinchingbrooke Hospital. My hands trembled knowing I had Jo's fate in my hand. I knew how important the letter was so I placed it in my robe pocket. As curious as I was I dare not open the letter. I needed to respect Jo's right to be the first to know.

I went from one crisis to another and it was taking its toll. I didn't sleep much, maybe an hour here and there. Too much mental chatter inside my head.

Around midnight Jo returned my call. I was half asleep but I quickly became alert. I ran into the study and picked up the call. It was a terrible connection. All I could hear in the background was her favorite Tom Jones number.

It's not usual to be loved by anyone. It's not unusual to have fun with anyone...

"Jo, if you can hear me call back. You must have a weak signal. Call me back."

I was relieved that she called. I still had questions but at least I knew she was okay. She didn't call me back. I went back to sleep.

On the way to work the next day I ran into Carl and his daughter Gabby. He was taking her to school. He buckled Gabby in the rear seat and met me at my car. He appeared concerned.

"Carl, long time no see. Hey, did you finally pick up that guy?"

Carl loosened his collar then responded.

"Aye, but he's not the one."

Carl put his arm around me and led me out of earshot of Gabby.

"Clay, I don't really know how to say this any other way but..."

"But what?"

"Jo is gone."

"I know. I'm upset with her. She never told me she was leaving. The removal van cleared her place out yesterday."

Carl elaborated.

"Clay, I mean she's our number 8. He got her. Jo's dead."

My legs buckled at first but logic kicked in.

"Carl, that can't be. I had several missed calls on my cell from her when I landed. And she called me last night on my cell."

"Clay, we found Jo's body last Saturday. She couldn't have called."

I reached for my cellphone and I found no record of her midnight call. Maybe I dreamt it. However, the calls that flooded my cell upon my arrival in England were still there.

Carl suggested the calls were late coming through. I quickly checked my email notifications. Jo's invitation to her book signing was still there and it was date-stamped the day of my arrival. Carl's explanation was plausible but not convincing. Logic eventually prevailed. Jo was dead and there had to be some rational explanation.

The reality of Jo's death started to sink in. I was completely numb. I couldn't feel anything. I wanted to respond but I couldn't.

"Clay, I've gotta run now. Stop by later."

Carl drove off. I remained in that same spot for a few moments, completely motionless.

I went upstairs and laid across my bed staring at the ceiling. It was getting more difficult to suspend reality. I sat up. The letter from Hinchingbrooke was on top of my alarm clock. I delicately opened it with the sharp edge of my house key and read it.

Ms. Tompson,

It is my great pleasure to inform you that your test results are close to normal limits and there is a significant decrease in the size of the cancerous mass we detected during your initial visit. In my thirty years of practice I have never seen such progress. I am reluctant to use the word remission, but this is truly remarkable.

Dr. M.K Ahmed

The anger that seeped into my veins was only trumped by overwhelming grief. I lost my friend and she wasn't coming back. My bottom lip started to quiver uncontrollably and my grip on the corners of the letter tightened until the letter ripped in half. I sobbed and the more I thought about it the harder I wept. The floodgates holding my tears at bay gave way. Jo beat cancer only to lose her life for what? I could see her smile in my mind's eye and I could hear her voice in my head. I reflected on the highs and lows of our friendship. I remembered when she chastised me about calling her home number and not her cell.

"Clay, if you want to reach me, call me on my cell."

I also recalled her '70s talk.

"Groovy. "

I had lost her and there was nothing I could do about it.

### Later That Afternoon

I should have taken the day off. I was useless the entire day and accomplished little to nothing. On the way home, just before my exit, I realized I still had Nemo in a Ziploc baggie in my utility sink. I made a promise to Jo that if something happened to Nemo I would do the right thing.

I struggled to find a suitable send off for a fish and I found myself sitting in my driveway racking my brain over what I should do. I reversed out my drive and headed to Homebase just down the street.

As I walked through the aisles I was discouraged about finding a solution, until I passed checkout. There was a sale on garden solar lights. The lights had a dull black finish with brass trim and came in a set of four.

I could place one in each corner of my garden and avoid having a morbid constant reminder. I bought the lights.

In the far right corner of my garden I dug a hole deep enough for the Ziploc baggie containing Nemo. It affected me a lot more than I thought it would. I wept as I placed Nemo into the ground. I think subconsciously I equated burying Nemo to burying my friend Jo.

I filled the hole with dirt and patted the surface down with a gardening tool. I removed the four solar lights and placed them in the four corners of my garden. The far right corner was where Nemo was buried. I stood in front of my garden and was happy with my choice of remembrance.

"I miss you Jo, may your soul rest in peace."

I went inside and closed the door.

# TWENTY-EIGHT

* * *

# Screen Play

It had been almost two weeks since I had last seen Monet. It wasn't getting easier, in fact it was harder. Jo's death coupled with my breakup with Monet was a miserable life that sometimes didn't feel worth living. While laid-up in the hospital my only desire was to get back home. I realized just how much I took for granted. Life was great. I just didn't know how great it really was. I soon would find a little clarity, by way of the Royal Mail service. It was an unexpected letter from Marc. The first thing I checked was the return address to make sure it wasn't mailed locally. It wasn't. I read the letter.

I found your address on your author website. I didn't want to write this letter but after last night I know this is the right thing to do. I still love Monet and I never thought I would ever comfort her over the loss of another man, but that's what's happening. It's only because I love her I am writing you. She never told you why she bailed me out of jail, so I will. After our daughter Michelle found out why I was in jail (the whole story) she ran away and cut off contact with her mother. Monet found Michelle hiding out in my house that Tuesday. They had a big fight. Michelle threatened never to speak with her mother unless she posted my bail. Michelle has decided to live with me and will not accompany her mom to England. Michelle will eventually come around, but in her own time.

Monet deserves happiness and I can't give that to her. Spending a couple of nights in jail helped me realize that.

Marc

P.S. It seems we both were in Mogadishu at the same time, it's probably a good thing we didn't meet then. I will never be your friend but I won't be your enemy either.

Give Monet a call.

Marc's letter proved he was a bigger man than me. I wanted to thank him but I knew that would be out of order. My only regret was that Monet didn't tell me why she posted Marc's bail in the first place. She didn't choose Marc over me, she chose her daughter over me. I would have done the same thing as a parent. Unfortunately, my hopes of reconnecting with Monet were dashed by the recording saying her phone was disconnected. If things were meant to be we would find a way back together.

After dinner I finally decided to go outside and view the pretty solar lights in my backyard. I stood in the center of my yard and noticed one of my lights didn't illuminate. It was the one used to mark where Nemo was. The other three lights worked just fine. I took the defective light back to Homebase that night to complain.

"Sir, we just tested your light and it works fine."

I felt I was being made a fool of. I knew the light was damaged. I protested.

"Follow me, sir."

"Where are we going?" I asked.

He didn't respond. I followed him to the outdoor Garden Center.

"Sir, that's your light."

It was shining bright. Maybe they switched the light with a good one. I looked at the sales clerk suspiciously as I repackaged it and took it home.

The light malfunctioned again when I repositioned it. I switched it with the other lights that I knew were functioning. It wasn't the damn light. None of the lights worked in that spot in the far right corner. In the front yard they all worked beautifully. I put the lights back like they were before with the same result, three out of four illuminated. I even showed Carl and he couldn't figure it out either. It was strange but not worth worrying about. In that far right corner was darkness. I left it that way.

Almost three weeks passed before my cellphone rang. When I finally got a call I was excited. I was thrilled because it was a Skype call and only one person knew my Skype number and that was Monet. I anxiously took the call in my study: it wasn't Monet. It was a close friend from way back, Yolanda. I called her Yo Yo. She was like a sister to me over the years and she recently married another Marine named Richard. They called from Japan. I had never met Richard in person so Yolanda looked me up on Skype to virtually introduce us.

"Clay, you know I can't go too long without talking to my brotha. How you doin'?" Yolanda asked.

"Yo Yo, I wish you were here. I'll tell you 'bout it later. So where's your other half?"

"Richard's on his way, he's feeding the dogs."

"Brrr. I feel a cold draft, I must have left a window open. I'll be right back," I said.

I propped the cellphone up against my PC and went into my bedroom to shut the window. It was only slightly ajar.

I returned and Missy started to purr around my feet.

"Clay, this is Richard my new husband," Yolanda said excitedly.

Richard and Yolanda looked so happy together. As long as she was happy I was happy. Richard was easy to converse with and I was glad he accepted my fondness for Yolanda.

Yolanda continued.

"Clay, are you going to introduce us to your new lady friend?"

Yolanda didn't know about Monet. I was confused.

"Lady friend?"I asked.

"Yeah, the woman who followed you into your bedroom."

"Yo Yo, there's no one here but me and my cat," I said looking over my shoulder.

Yolanda looked at Richard and then they both gave me a funny look. Like I was hiding something.

The temperature in the study dropped fast. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Missy retreated behind the hard drive underneath the desk. Something spooked her. Her ears folded back and her tail got bushy. She was staring at something.

Yolanda knew something was wrong. Her next response evoked absolute fear within me.

"Clay, there she is. The woman in the doorway."

Richard pointed to my left.

I cleared my throat. My voice cracked.

"Uhm, what does she look like?" I asked worriedly.

"Ahh, she's bald and has a red turtleneck sweater."

In a matter of seconds Skype froze up. Missy hissed before she ran out of the room.

I knew something was behind me. I felt it staring at me. I started praying the Lord's Prayer. I stuttered through it. I was hoping it didn't touch me or speak to me. I could feel it come closer to me, directly behind me. I couldn't keep my hands still, they were shaking and then paralysis set in and I couldn't move.

Lord, please protect me. Don't let this happen.

The bald woman wearing the red turtleneck could only be one person and she was dead.

"Jo?"

I think I blacked out in place for about fifteen seconds. My body was no longer a safe haven so I checked out.

When I could no longer feel the presence behind me I grabbed my keys and slowly walked downstairs and opened the door. I got in my car and drove to a lodging on a US military base nearby. I didn't look in the rear view mirror. I probably would've crashed my car if I had seen her in the back seat that night.

"Mr. Thompson, the chaplain will see you now," the chapel secretary said.

I followed the secretary into the chaplain's office. The Base Chaplain was known as Padre. I never saw Padre dressed in anything but clergy attire even when he shopped on base. Padre was a man of God first and a Navy Commander second. His crew cut and wire-framed spectacles gave him that distinctive officer look.

"Have a sit down, Mr. Thompson. I was just looking at your referral sheet. I want you to know that everything we discuss here is confidential."

"Thanks, Padre. If my office finds out why I'm here, my suitability for holding a security clearance may be challenged."

Padre cleaned his glasses while he spoke.

"So, you think your house is haunted?"

"No, sir, it's not my house. It's me that's haunted. I know it sounds crazy but I know her, I mean the spirit. Her name is Jo."

Padre ceased cleaning his glasses and placed them on his desk.

I thought he would find my issue bizarre and unusual but he didn't. He responded without hesitation.

"The chaplain community is aware of the paranormal incidents in Europe and particularly here in England. Some chaplains choose to ignore such complaints. At least once a week I have an appointment that involves a spirit inhabiting a service member's dwelling. Believe it or not, some Americans request rental accommodations that are haunted. I call them my ghost hunters."

"That's insane. Why would anyone do that?" I replied.

"Mr. Thompson, it is not within my pastoral duties to convince you that ghosts exist. But what I can tell you is that God's love will protect you, always. If you want I can come to your home and bless it and rebuke any evil spirits in the name of the Father."

"But Jo is my friend, she's not evil. There must be a reason why she came to see me," I said in her defense.

Jo wasn't done with me and I knew it.

After my appointment with Padre, I checked out of my quarters and returned home.

# TWENTY-NINE

* * *

# Night Flight

The first three nights I slept with all the lights on and the flat screen in my bedroom was on constantly when I was home. I can't remember reading the bible so much, but it helped ease my fears. I often wore headphones and listened to iTunes to drown out unexplained noises. Listening to music helped distract me from ruminating on unpleasant thoughts. The headphones worked great for the first three days but on the fourth day there was an episode.

While listening to iTunes there was a delay between track one and track two. I manually advanced the track with my headphone settings. Track two didn't play, something else did. What I heard was confusing and extraordinary. I heard women's voices whispering in the background of white noise. I wasn't scared, I wanted to know what they were saying. I turned up the volume on my headset. The whispers were louder but they weren't any clearer. I turned up the volume as loud as I could. Whispers were panning in my ear from right to left and back again. With the volume on max, I realized they were not whispers but prayers for help. Again, I wasn't scared, I was too mentally occupied listening to what was being said. The women's prayers suddenly ceased at the same time. There was a brief silent pause before I heard a woman's voice.

"Please Lord, don't let us perish in vain."

End of transmission.

Her voice was crystal clear, it wasn't Jo's voice. I believed it was a message. I grabbed my headphones and hit the back button to replay the transmission. The women's voices were not there. Track two played without the extended delay. I was mentally frustrated. What was I supposed to do with that? Cryptic messages from... the dead? Were these voices from the killer's victims or was I going insane?

I looked outside my window. There was still some daylight left so I wasn't afraid. I felt compelled to speak to Jo's spirit. I removed my headphones and turned the TV off.

"Jo, I know it's you. Why are you doing this to me? I'm your friend. Tell me what you want me to do."

I thought about what I just said and rephrased it a little.

"I mean, show me, don't tell me."

My cellphone rang. I saw it light up on my bed. No way in hell was I going to answer it. It rang just three times. I eased over to the bed and hesitantly picked up my phone.

You have one missed call.

I checked the caller's ID.

Out of Area.

Jo wanted me to do something. Did I promise her something? I replayed many conversations with Jo in my head and I remembered only two promises I made to her.

  1. Take care of Nemo in the event of his demise.
  2. Be the first one to buy her book.

The first promise I had kept. The second was yet to be fulfilled. I checked on Amazon and Barnes and Noble and the book was not available. There was only one way to be sure I would be the first. Attend her book signing. Even though the book signing would be cancelled her pre-ordered books would be in stock. I had a date for 7 August, only a couple of weeks away.

August seventh came quickly and I had no strange activity in my house since the headphone incident. The Milton Keynes mall was about an hour away and it was heavy rain all the way. There was a road accident along the way and I almost got lost taking the diverted route. I was on a mission. I got there in just over two hours. I headed to the Water-stones book store just inside the mall.

"Yes, ma'am, I'm looking for a children's book. I don't know the title but the author is Joanne Tompson," I said, standing in a small puddle of rain water.

"Let me check our system. We ordered 30 copies for the book signing today but I think we voided the orders after we were notified about the cancellation. I don't see any in stock," the store clerk said.

I was getting really frustrated after driving two hours. I was soaked down to my underwear. I really didn't want to go home empty handed.

"Oh my, you are in luck. Three books came in this morning. They were probably dispatched before the cancellation. You must have a little one at home."

"No, the book is for me," I responded.

The lady gave me a funny look at first.

"The book is on offer for nine pounds. Cash or card?"

I felt a sense of accomplishment when I paid for the book, titled Nemo The Talking Fish.

On the way out I stopped by a Starbucks to pick up a large latte with chocolate sprinkles.

Ahhh. I love good coffee on wet days like this.

With the coffee in one hand and the book in the other I headed toward the parking lot. As I approached my car some guy bumped into me from behind and made me spill my coffee. He didn't say excuse me and kept going. He couldn't have been British. I wasn't feeling confrontational so I gave it a pass and just yelled at him.

"Hey, how about excuse me?"

Damn foreigners.

Halfway home I realized my wallet was missing. I pulled over and checked underneath the seats. My wallet was gone. I thought I may have left it at Starbucks. I would have called Starbucks to see if I left it on the counter but my cellphone was gone too. I couldn't wait to get home to make my calls.

As soon as I got home I ran out of my car and straight inside to make an urgent call. I found out my wallet and phone weren't at Starbucks. I called my mobile phone provider to report the incident.

"Excuse me, my name is Clay Thompson and I think I lost my cellphone. My number is xxxxxxxxxxx."

"Okay, Mr. Thompson, I have to ask you a few security questions, is that all right?"

I flunked security because I couldn't remember my password I set over ten years ago. The operator waived security because I knew my average monthly debit amount.

"Mr. Thompson your phone just terminated an active call a few minutes ago."

"A few minutes ago? To where?"

"The call duration was 156 minutes to Cape Town, South Africa."

I was pissed. I started to question why I felt so compelled to go to Milton Keynes in the first place. I told Carl about what happened. He offered to look into it. The man who bumped me from behind was probably a thief. I immediately canceled all my credit cards. Everything I lost could be replaced except my phone; it had all my pictures of Monet saved on the SD card. I didn't care about all the fancy applications and functionalities that I never used; it was a cherished gift complete with fond memories.

I placed Jo's book on my coffee table next my copy of The Mogadishu Diaries. After I fed Missy I looked out the window and noticed the unlit solar light in the far right corner. I did an experiment the night before. I moved the light about a foot in either direction and the damn light came on. It worked everywhere in the garden except where Nemo was.

I came inside the house and heard an email notification on my PC upstairs. It was from Monet.

Clay, I leave for the US at 4pm on Delta. I've been here for the last two weeks.

I was on an emotional rollercoaster the last two weeks and this was a big drop. I was glad to hear from Monet but it was tempered by the fact she had been in country for so long without calling. Either way, I was back in my car, destination Heathrow Airport.

I parked my car in the short stay and ran like hell to departures. I didn't see a flight to Dulles at 4pm on the large monitors overhead. I waited in line at the customer service desk. I was anxious at the thought of missing Monet.

"Ma'am are you sure there's not a Delta flight to Dulles at 4pm?"

I couldn't accept no for an answer. An on-duty manager confirmed I had the wrong information.

Damn. I was so disappointed. I really wanted to see Monet. I proceeded to the exits.

Just before I entered the large revolving doors someone bumped me from behind. This time rudeness would not get a pass. I was feeling confrontational. I stopped in my tracks and spun around in anger.

"Listen, why don't you... Monet?"

Monet was standing there in the flesh, in living color. She was fine as hell in her tight jeans and black silk top.

Monet responded.

"Why don't I what?" she sassed.

"Monet, I looked all over for you. There is no 4pm flight to Dulles. I checked."

"Yeah, I know. This was a test."

"Test?"

"Clay, I had to know if you still loved me."

I drew closer to her.

"Did I pass?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"The jury's still out. Still deliberating."

I placed my hand under her chin and poured my heart and soul into one of the world's most passionate kisses. I missed her soft lips. They missed mine too.

### Twenty Seconds Later...

"Okay, okay, Clay. I get it. Look, people are staring at us."

"Monet, can we get back together? I'm miserable without you," I pleaded.

"Clay, do I really need to answer that?" Monet responded as she grabbed hold of my hand staring at me with those light, beautiful, brown eyes.

We drew a small crowd in front of the revolving doors; it really was a magical moment. We got in my Range Rover and headed home.

Monet had been staying at the Hilton in Birmingham. She told me she got the job and would be relocating in September without Michelle. I mentioned that Jo had passed and Monet took it pretty hard. I didn't relay my recent paranormal experiences. Those experiences would go down in my journal.

Over the next few days Carl kept me apprised of the leads he had regarding my stolen wallet and phone based on CCTV footage in the Milton Keynes parking lot. But more importantly he got a break in the Central London case. Monet and I had just returned from a dinner meal in Cambridge, when Carl dropped in on us.

"Clay, the storm has passed," he said excitedly.

I never knew Carl to display emotion. I invited him to sit with Monet and I in the living room. I turned the TV down.

"What storm, Carl?"

"We got the bastard, finally. Special Branch picked him up early this morning."

The news was a major relief. I became more emotionally invested in the case after the death of Jo. Monet and I had a few questions.

"So how did you find him, Carl?" Monet asked.

Carl's response initially upset me.

"Jo led us to him," he responded, standing in the doorway.

I felt a little heartache.

"But Carl, Jo's dead," I said somberly.

Carl reached into his pocket and presented me with my wallet and my phone. I was confused.

"Clay, there is something I want you to hear."

Carl took my phone and pressed a few buttons. We listened.

"Jo, relax. You know how bad traffic is in London. Do you know what he looks like?"

"He's tall, wears a pony tail and drives a black A5. I don't even know what an A5 is."

Monet and I flashed back to Jo's date in London. We vividly remembered that call. Somehow, I inadvertently recorded the conversation.

Carl sat next to me on the sofa. He explained.

"Our forensic team reviewed the recording and there was evidence of a potential rape. The killer must have thought Jo was transmitting so he laid low. He couldn't carry out his plan that night because he thought someone was on the other end listening. Unfortunately, Jo was the only one who could ID him so he came back for her. The lowlife that stole your phone had no idea that crucial information was on the SD card. He was just a random thief. I don't know what business you had at Milton Keynes but you were in the right place at the right time. It's strange how things like that work out."

Monet and I were stunned and emotionally overwhelmed. Carl left us to stew on that. It would take the rest of the evening before we could resume normalcy, but we did. I was glad the story never made the News. Carl kept his promise that the killer would go down as one of the most dangerous murders you never heard of. He would die in prison without the notoriety he so desperately sought.

The night before Monet left we took an evening stroll around the estate. It was a beautiful night under the starry sky. We returned home to see Carl's daughter, Gabby, on our doorstep.

"Clay, I think your assistance is required. Go see what your little friend wants, babe," Monet said.

I approached Gabby and dropped to one knee.

"Hmm, I bet you lost your bouncy ball in my backyard. Am I right this time?"

Gabby nodded yes.

I let Monet inside and Gabby followed me around back. I took a stutter step as I entered the back yard. I was taken aback.

"Oh, my god," I gasped.

Gabby ran to collect her ball and she thanked me before going home.

The solar light in the far right corner started to flicker for the very first time. I walked towards it with a very heavy heart. The flickering flashed bright in the night. I started to think of Jo and got a little teary-eyed. The light came on. Emotion got the best of me. I was so happy. Jo had finally found peace.

I went inside and observed the beautiful lights from the kitchen window. The one in the far right corner was the brightest among the four. It was mesmerizing. This revelation I would keep to myself.

I went upstairs to join Monet in the bedroom. Monet had a few questions for me.

"Did she find what she was looking for?"

I looked out the bedroom window and observed the lights once more.

"Yeah, babe, she found it," I replied, staring out the bedroom window.

I sat on the bed and Monet placed her leg over mine.

"Is she home?"

"... Yeah, she's home."

Sometimes lost souls need a little help from the living... for the crossover.

# In Memory of Jo  
(not her real name)

Jo, in the short time you were here we got to be good friends. Never in a million years did I think I would be writing a book based on your character, at least not under these tragic circumstances. I hope you approve of the way I portrayed you in this book, and particularly our friendship. I have a daily reminder of you and I will never forget you. Gone too soon.

# From the Author

The Crossover is a recount of a personal paranormal experience, and those of my closest friends and family. I changed the names of the ghosts that haunted our family home in the 1950s to keep their names out of print. I am not one to glamorize the paranormal but there are a few events that I cannot explain. The story of the solar lights was witnessed by neighbors and still remains a mystery. And finally, the exact words I heard that day (headphones) were the following.

Dear Lord, don't let us perish.

In real life there was another woman's voice that accompanied those prayers. The words she spoke were sinister, vile and unrepeatable. I deemed her message unsuitable for this book.

Thanks to all my friends who shared their personal ghost stories with me over the years. John Manders, Alex and Cathy Drinkwater, Alison and Chris Port, Terry Hogan and Vickki Baker, Harvey Turnbull, Bev and John Bertram, Marianne Davis, John Armeau, The Willard Library in Evansville, Indiana. Special thanks to my family.

The book mentioned in the story The Seduction of a Military Wife was published as The Seduction of Monet Dawson on 4 September 2013. It is the prequel to The Crossover.

— E. Clay
My father, the late Rev. T

"God Plus One is a Majority"  
From a Sermon in 1988

My Mother Brenda and I

Book Signing at Barnes and Noble 2013
Other titles by the author: Flagrant Misconduct, My Name is Elijah, Insider Threat and The Mogadishu Diaries. Available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

This literary work depicts real life situations and is not intended to glamorize or promote infidelity.

www.new-paradigm-publishers.org
