Gaia Dreams (Gaiaverse Book 1) (45 page)

"There, finally, she's off the phone," Rachel
said. "Jessica didn't sound too happy. I think she and John had a fight. Just what
we need. But we are under orders,
orders
mind you, to buy even more than
we have so far. I guess Branson isn't going to do so well in the next week or
so. I think we can get men's work shirts in Sears, too, and--"

"Rachel," Janine blurted out, "I've gotta talk
to you."

Rachel stopped and turned to look at her. What a
face, she thought. This kid could have made it in New York. Rachel had worked
with models quite a bit in her job, and she knew classic bone structure when
she saw it. But now that face was all scrunched up and looked ready to cry.

"What's wrong, honey? Do we need to sit down for
this?" Staring at Janine for another moment, Rachel nodded her head and said
decisively, "Yes, I can see that we do. Okay, we're getting ice cream and
taking a break," and she marched Janine over to the ice cream stand.

Seated at the small round table a few minutes
later and spooning pistachio ice cream into her mouth, Rachel said, "Okay,
spill it. What's wrong?"

Janine took a deep breath and said in a
quavering voice, "I don't want to wear the high heels, Rachel."

Rachel cocked an eyebrow at her, and said
slowly, "Well, okay, kid, you don't have to wear them if you don't want to."

"But you bought them for me! And they cost so
much and I--"

"Hey, hey, what's all this about?" Rachel asked,
alarmed as a big fat tear rolled down Janine's perfect face.

"I was a hooker. For a year. After I ran away
from home. From my mom's boyfriend. The one who raped me. My pimp--he made me
wear high heels every day on the street. If you didn't, you'd get hit. And
Sherry said I never had to wear them again. But then she died. I loved her and
then she died." And then Janine pushed her ice cream out of the way, put her
head down on folded arms and sobbed.

"Oh! Oh, my word. Oh, you poor kid!" Rachel said
softly, horrified at the thought of what this sweet, young girl had gone
through by the age of sixteen. At sixteen, Rachel had only been allowed to stay
out until eleven on weekends, and Gracie's firm discipline and steely glare at
the boys pretty much insured that she didn't have sex until she was in college.

Fumbling with the napkin dispenser on the table,
she finally ripped out a stack and shoved them at Janine. "Here you go, kiddo.
It's going to be okay, I promise. And you never have to wear high heels again,
ever." She sat there watching Janine cry, and then moved her chair around the
table to be next to her and put an arm across Janine's shoulders. Fighting back
her own tears, Rachel said grimly, "In fact, I will kill anyone who ever says
you have to wear high heels. I swear I will."

Janine laughed weakly, her tears subsiding. "Oh,
I hate crying!" Janine said, snuffling into the paper napkins and then wiping
her face. "Now I'm going to look all ugly from crying so hard."

Rachel shook her head. "Kid, you could never
look ugly. Trust me on that. Now, do you want to talk about it? Do you, I don't
know, do you need to see a doctor or anything?" She floundered helplessly in
the conversation as Janine started slowly to smile. "Well, I don't know! I just
want you to be okay. I can already tell, even though we only just met, that you
are a great person. And it sounds like you had some pretty awful breaks in your
life. Awful things were done to you. Oh, Janine, I'm just so sorry that this
happened to you!"

"Besides Sherry, you're the only other white
lady I ever told this to," Janine said shyly.

"White lady. Hmm. Sounds like in a storybook, 'Here
she comes, the White Lady, Queen of the Land'!"

"You know what I mean," Janine said, giggling.

"I know, but me being white or you being
African-American, does that really matter?" Rachel asked.

"It does to some people, believe me!" Janine
said strongly.

"Okay, I know you're right. But I don't think it
matters in our group here, do you?"

Janine thought about it. "No-o-o," she said
finally, "I don't get any of those vibes from anyone in the group. And Sam says
her parents even invited Max to live with them."

Rachel noted the slight tone of awe that
accompanied that announcement. "Well then, there you go," she told her.

"And I don't need to see a doctor--" Janine
began.

"Oh, god, I'm sorry I said that! That was
stupid. Just ignore the stupid things I say, okay?" Rachel pleaded.

"No, actually, it wasn't a bad question, but I've
been out of that business for a while now. And I always got checked by doctors
at the clinic real regular. Tested for AIDS and all that stuff. I'm okay,
really I am."

"I believe you," Rachel said quickly. "And thank
goodness you were smart about that and were so careful. Because now you have
this really important job with the horses, and we'll all be depending on you."

"Really?" Janine said, surprised. "You really
think people will depend on me once more grown-ups get here?"

"Absolutely. I know my brother thinks so. You
have a connection with the horses, Janine. Not everyone will, according to that
Mrs. Philpott. In fact, it's possible that nobody else will have the horse
connection. So you are a very valuable person in our little group." Rachel
noticed the slight straightening of Janine's shoulders and how her head came up
a bit at hearing that. Yes, she thought, the kid needs some confidence badly,
but she'd get it. Positive reinforcement. She probably needs some psychotherapy
too. But who knew when or if that would be available? It would just be up to
her. If she could talk corporations into spending millions on stupid ad
campaigns, Rachel knew she could help one young girl believe in herself. Rachel
could talk anyone into anything. And this time it would be for a good cause.
There had to be some good come out of this end of the world business.

Washington D.C., Oval Office

Dr. Sheffield Hutton wondered how long it would
take the Secret Service guys to shoot him if he just reached across the coffee
table and throttled the President. Probably not long and being obsessed with
preserving his own well-being, he resisted the urge.

"Sir, I understand that your wife had the dream
again. I heard you the first time. And the second time. But we still don't
believe the Mississippi is going to flood."

"What about the rain?" the President asked in a
deceptively mild tone.

"Hurricanes do move inland, sir. This one does
appear to be following the laws of nature and doing just that. But as a
hurricane moves inland, it weakens. The rains will die down and we won't have
anything to worry about. You'll see."

"Hutton, can you tell me whether or not this
hurricane is weakening as it moves inland?" the President queried, his voice
going up a notch in volume.

Dr. Hutton realized he was tugging at his tie,
which felt too tight around his neck, and willed his hands to be still. "Sir,
we are getting conflicting reports. Some reports do say that the storm is not,
in fact, growing weaker. However, we don't believe those reports."

The President leaned forward from his seat on
the sofa. "And just why, Doctor, why don't you believe those reports?"

"Well, sir, they are anomalies. They don't fit
the normal pattern of behavior of any hurricane in history. Therefore, they are
incorrect. Aberrations, if you will, in equipment and possibly human error."

The President wondered whether or not the Secret
Service would shoot his science advisor if he asked them to do so. "Hutton, I
want you to listen to me and listen good. You are not, I repeat
not
, to
ignore reports that indicate the storm is still at full-strength inland. You
will
consider those reports in any recommendations you eggheads make to me. You
will
consider the impact of this hurricane moving inland without any signs of
weakening. You
will
theorize about the results of that scenario and the
impact on the Mississippi River. And you
will
, Dr. Sheffield Hutton the
Third, formulate a strategy for me in the next twelve hours to deal with the
potential flooding of the Mississippi River! Do I make myself clear?" the
President ordered, his voice rising to a bellowing roar.

"Yes, sir," Dr. Hutton agreed with resignation.

"You're dismissed," the President commanded.

The Secret Service agents watched Dr. Hutton
walk through the secretaries' office and on down the hall. They fantasized
about Hutton making a threatening move toward the President. Just one wrong
move.

San Juan Islands, aboard the Rhondavous yacht

Mayor Dusty Dubois settled herself squarely on
the couch in the salon on board the yacht. What she wanted was a shot of
whiskey. What she got was a cup of tea with lemon, a concession she was making only
because her stomach didn't like boats. Her seasickness usually subsided after a
few hours on the water, but she wasn't taking any chances. Not with this crowd.

She watched as Margaret stood talking with the
Captain. All that red hair was now pulled back into a ponytail, which made the
tall woman look younger. Margaret had been so tense on the plane and the car,
and then yet another plane, all the way to the yacht. Once she set foot on it,
the lines of stress eased from her face and she smiled for the first time in
hours. Of course, she could afford to smile, Dusty thought, aggravated.
Margaret wasn't the one paying over $3,000 for this little jaunt to see the
some whales. No, that cost was being borne by Dusty herself. After traveling
with them all the way from Houston to Arizona and then from Arizona to
Washington State, she had to admit to just a small sense of delight at the
consternation of Maria and Zack when they realized they didn't have the money
for the yacht. And, of course, it had to be this yacht. Margaret insisted.
Margaret, who evidently was out of money for this trip, after paying extra for
keeping the pilot flying and the plane in the air.

Dusty smiled inwardly, thinking of Maria's
little temper tantrum on being informed by the credit card company that her
network was no longer allowing her to charge travel expenses on her company
card. Yes, that was one news reporter who wasn't going to see air time soon, if
ever. Dusty was not fond of reporters. She tolerated them, she manipulated
them, but she also loathed them. They made her life as mayor so much more
difficult than it had to be. And all those morons in Houston, so-called
journalists, tried to insinuate there was something 'odd' or 'sinister' or even,
god forbid, 'perverted' about her relationship with Alan. Her right hand, and
the best friend she ever had, almost smeared by the Houston papers. Well, she'd
put a stop to that--but it hadn't come cheap. Fortunately, she had 'more money
than God,' her favorite line from the movie
Steel Magnolias
, a title she
could claim for herself, and she certainly had more money than any newspaper or
reporter in Houston, Texas, so she wielded her power and her money until the
press backed off. But reporters--she never let it show, but she just couldn't
stand them.

And this Maria, she was as bad as any of them.
Oh, she'd watched her on the news before and even been interviewed by her and
she seemed okay then. But now, this descent into complete wackiness, following
a psychic around, using her network to put out a message about psychic dreams
and worse, to predict a massive flood, saying thousands would be killed. Did
the words 'you don't yell fire in a crowded building' mean nothing to the
woman? People around the country were frantic after the L.A. quake and now the
hurricane that just wouldn't quit. Maria had been grossly irresponsible in that
broadcast, and once this was all over, Dusty planned to file charges of some
kind against her.

The cameraman Zack seemed like a nice guy, and
Dusty always had an appreciation for that long-haired and handsome, big, brawny
look. But he was clearly as nuts as the rest of them because he'd told her
personally he was having these 'dreams' and earnestly asked her to believe him.
Without proof of any kind! A pretty face wasn't going to make her lose all
rational sense, not this politician.

Settling her silver-framed glasses more firmly
on her nose, she turned her gaze to the oddest one of the bunch. But not odd
due to being psychic or having dreams. No, Phoebe seemed genuinely disturbed,
as in mentally disturbed, slightly unhinged. That thought didn't frighten
Dusty, who'd had a crazy great-aunt who insisted on wearing elaborate hats she
made herself with little fake birds and plastic flowers all over them, hats she
called 'Easter Bonnets' and wore absolutely everywhere. The same aunt who once
mooned the Governor of Texas at a family barbecue and chased away two cooks
when she challenged them to duels with a distant relative's Civil War sword.
Phoebe didn't seem that crazy, but Dusty was almost positive the girl had an
obsessive-compulsive thing going on. She was currently alphabetizing the videos
under the television, and she couldn't seem to keep from doing something,
anything, every minute--except when she was holding that cat. Cleo, they called
the cat. And didn't there used to be some psychic on TV named Miss Cleo?

So why did she pay for this 'private
whale-watching tour' on a yacht among the San Juan Islands? Because Margaret
was in control of the pilot. Dusty didn't know how she'd done it, but the pilot
refused to go anywhere unless Margaret said it was the correct destination. And
frankly, after watching the news reports this morning, Dusty wasn't any too
sure just where she should go. Houston, for all intents and purposes, appeared
to have been obliterated. Her mayoral mansion was gone. Her ancestral home
outside Houston was gone. There was simply nothing left. She figured D.C. was
where she needed to get to eventually, but first she'd like to get somewhere,
anywhere, in Texas. But to fly away right now, she needed Margaret's pilot. And
Margaret wasn't letting him take Dusty off into the sunset until Margaret had
talked to the whales. Orca whales. Also known as killer whales. And once Dusty
heard that, she slapped down a credit card and paid for the whole shebang.
Because there was nothing she wanted more right now than to see Margaret in the
belly of a whale.