In Your Dreams (20 page)

Too
intent on what the kid just revealed, he let the orb fly past him. “Why the
hell would you do that?”

Contel’s
expression remained impassive, inscrutable. “Because it’s like playing chicken
with God, I guess. You figure, if you die, it was meant to be. If you live,
you’ve got someone to blame. Only there is no god to blame, is there?”

“No.
No god. No heaven, no hell. Just the Afterlife and whatever waits for us when
our time is done here.”

“So
you actually have no one to blame but yourself,” he summed up. “Don’t that
suck?”

Fury
swirled inside Sean. The kid’s confession left his head spinning. Suicide by
cop. Was that what had happened in 1982? Had Noah been playing that damn game
even then?

No.
Impossible. If he had, he would’ve wound up here that much sooner. Right? Or
would the death be “blamed” on the cop who shot him? Sean raked a shaky hand
through his hair.

“You
ready?” Contel asked, forming a lime green orb with his hands.

Sean
shoved his suspicions aside to focus on the game and the kid. “Yeah, sure. Go
for it.”

He
served the next orb, then added, “Tell me about my ‘mom’ here. Who is she?”

“My
boss.”

“No
shit?”

“No
shit,” he repeated and slapped the incoming orb back to the wall.

“What’s
she like?”

Stubborn,
passionate, frustrating, in pain...

A
friend he’d betrayed.

None
of which he could say to this kid.

He
fumbled the orb on the return, watched Contel create a new one—this time in a
shiny gold. “She loved you. A lot. So much that when you died, she killed
herself because she couldn’t face life without you. That’s how she wound up
here.”

“Too
bad. She sounds like a much better mom than I had last time around.”

The
bitterness coloring every word roused Sean’s curiosity.

“Why?
What was Contel’s mother like?”

“Don’t
know.” He slammed the orb with undisguised fury. “She didn’t stick around long
enough after I was born for me to find out. Bitch farmed me out to foster care
when I was two days old.”

“I’m
sorry.”

“Fuck
her.”

Once
again, he took out his rage on the poor golden missile, sending it careening
into the overhead steel beams where it shattered into a rainbow of sparks.
Like
mother, like son
.

“How’d
I die when I was Noah?”

Careful.
He had to be very careful what he said here. “In a very similar way to how you
did as Contel. Shot by a cop.”

This
time, Contel missed, and the fiery ball hissed past to burn out on the floor
behind him. “No shit?” Not a hint of malice existed in the question, Sean
noted. Just...wonder.

“No
shit.”

“Were
you the cop?”

Halfway
into the creation of a new orb, Sean did a double-take and dropped the ball.
“How’d you know that?”

Contel
shrugged. “Makes sense. You seem to know me. You claim you know my mother from
when I was this Noah guy. And you’re all cop. You walk like a cop, talk like a
cop, look like a cop. Hell, you even smell like a cop. And you keep staring at
me like you shot my dog or something and don’t know how to tell me.” Shaking
his head, he exclaimed a breathy, “Shiiiit. I must have really screwed you up.”

Sensible
words refused to form inside Sean’s head. How the hell was he expected to reply
to that statement?

“You
can tell me what happened, you know,” Contel added. “It’s not like whatever you
say can hurt me. I don’t even remember myself as this Noah dude. So, for me,
it’s like a story some stranger’s telling. Means nothin’ to me.” He leaned
against the stack of wooden crates, his posture relaxed, competitive edge
erased. “Do you know my Elder Counselor showed me eleven of my past lives?
Eleven
.
He said most people only get to view three or four, but ‘cuz mine were all so
short, I got almost triple. That’s some fucked-up shit there. And you know what
I figured out in all those lives?”

“What?”
Despite his misgivings, Sean realized he was warming to this kid. He was
pleasant—in an urban sort of way—interesting, and engaging. Xavia would be
proud of him.

“Apparently,
I’ve been an asshole for at least two hundred years. And I’ve pissed off enough
people in all those lives that someone’s always killed me before I hit the age
of twenty. So I must’ve messed with a lotta heads. I’m bettin’ yours was one of
‘em.”

The
monologue didn’t match the speaker, and Sean found himself asking in disbelief,
“How
old
are you?”
          “You mean, how old was I
when I died this time around? Nineteen.”

Jee-zus.
At nineteen, Sean Martino was still navigating disco and bell bottoms while
this kid spouted the wisdom of the ages. Times sure had changed.

“Don’t
look so shocked, man. The way I was on Earth ain’t nothing like who I am now. I
grew up a lot since I got here.”

“You
did? How? Why?” Even to his own ears, he sounded like a petulant child. He
hastened to clarify before the kid took offense. “What I mean is, what changed
you?”

“The
ghosts, of course. The bounties, I mean. If you’d have asked me when I was
alive what I thought would happen to me when I died, I’d never have come close
to dreaming up what I’ve gone through here. It’s a total bombshell, you know?
You get to this place, and you’re so pissed off and hurtin’ that all you want
to do is piss off and hurt everybody else. Then, all of a sudden, you’re
talking to these ghosts who can’t let go of their own hurts. And these dudes
have spent
centuries
, wallowing in their pain, pissing off the living,
looking for a peace they’ll probably never find.” He glanced at the floor,
shuffling one foot, then the other. “You wanna know why all my lives were so
short?”

“Because
you were an asshole?” Sean joked.

Contel’s
shorn head bobbed as he laughed with ebullience. “No offense, though, right?
Yeah, I was an asshole. But that’s only part of it. The reason my lives were so
short was because
I
kept fucking up. I blamed everybody else for what
went wrong in my lives, but the truth was always staring me right in the face.
I had to grow up, take responsibility, and quit thinking the world owed me
something because I had it rough. I ain’t the only guy who ever had it rough.
Shit, I coulda been born in some place like Somalia. Those poor bastards really
have it rough. Worst thing I had to deal with was absent parents. But that
didn’t stop me from thinking someone else always let me down.”

“Like
the
bitch
of a mother who turned you over to the system when you were
two days old?” he reminded the kid.

“I
never said I was perfect.” Contel’s cocky grin, filled with sparkling white
teeth, lit up the dim interior. “I still get angry about some things. But I’m
working on it. This might sound crazy, but, coming here—working here—was
probably the best thing that ever happened to me. It’s giving me a chance to
break those patterns. So, next time, when they find me a new life, I won’t make
the same mistakes.”

From
some long-forgotten memory, words rose up inside Sean and flowed from his lips.
“There’s hell on Earth, and then there’s hell in death. Given the choice, I’d
opt for the Earth one every time. At least, there’s hope for a better day
tomorrow. But in death, you’ve got nothing but your pain. If those souls can
survive their hardships in death and release their hold when called to do so, I
know I can stand tall against my own failures. Next time I’m challenged, I’ll
take a different path. And when the Board calls me to move on to my next life,
I’ll be ready. Smarter and braver than this last time around.”

“Yeah,”
Contel agreed with a solemn nod and eyes gone flat. “That’s right. Who told you
that?”

“I
told someone else that. A long time ago.” He’d said those words to Luc, when
the poor bastard was ranting about working with Jodie. “I just completely
forgot. Until now.”

What
had happened to that Sean? The Sean who thought he had this place all figured
out and assumed he’d made peace with his past? Had the loss of his dearest
friends blinded him to his own responsibilities, to his own failings? Here, he
kept blaming the Elders when, in fact, all the mistakes he’d ever made were
his. No one else’s.

So
what if the Elders wanted to test him? He should have been willing to rise to
the challenge, rather than fighting against them. How the hell else would he
ever prove he was ready to try again? To move forward—wherever forward took
him.

Yes,
Luc and Jodie had been tested. Obviously, they’d failed. And while he might not
have agreed with the way the Elders handled that failure, he had to focus on
his own existence. All the fist-shaking and sarcasm wouldn’t change their
fates. Only one fate should matter to him now: his own.

Did
he intend to fail, as well, just because they did? Winding up as glitter in the
Chasm because he was too proud to realize he wasn’t perfect? That he still had
so much to learn?

He
looked at this kid—this
child
who’d just schooled him—with newfound
respect. “Would you like to meet your mother? I mean, Noah’s mother?”

“Depends.”
He pushed off the wall of crates and stood up straight. “Why you askin’?”

“Because
I think you can help her come to terms with her son’s loss in a way no one else
can.”

         
Xavia sat in her office, door locked against any possible intrusions.
Correction: against one possible intrusion. Sean Martino, the murderer cop. The
bastard.

         
Why didn’t she realize who he was the minute he walked through her door? When
he first told her he was a cop, why hadn’t she put the pieces together? How
could she have been so stupid? To not see what the Elders had planted in front
of her?

Simple.
She didn’t want to see.

Maybe
she’d chosen Uriah, the Egyptian, as her Elder Counselor because she was so
much like Cleopatra, Queen of Denial. But, shit, she’d totally screwed up and
had no one to blame but herself. She shook her head. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Bad
enough to find out the truth while the entire Council of Elders watched like
the rapt audience at a Broadway show. But then to have Uriah insist she and
Sean would continue to work together? No matter how plaintively she begged for
a transfer, he claimed it was imperative she learn to put the past aside and
cooperate with her greatest enemy. As if she could simply shelve his sin and go
on like he hadn’t ripped out her heart and stomped on it.

Too
ratcheted up to sit still, she pushed away from the desk and paced. Still, her
thoughts refused to be silent. Sean killed Noah. She killed herself. Sean
killed himself. Noah killed himself. A perfect circle of tragedy.
Round and
round we go, a continual cycle of suicide and death.

Work,
she told herself. If she buried her thoughts in someone else’s misery, she’d
have no time to indulge her own. Picking up her clipboard, she scanned her
current list of cases for any who needed immediate intercession. Or a good,
old-fashioned, talking-to. Anything to distract her.

One
name blared out at her from the list.

Isabelle
Fichetti.

Sean’s
Isabelle?

Impossible.
She was fine. Uriah had said she’d been removed from Sean’s care because she
was no longer a threat to herself. Xavia perched one butt cheek on the edge of her
desk. So why had Isabella shown up on
her
roster? If she really was in
trouble, why didn’t they allow Sean to handle it? Had someone made a mistake?

No
way. The Elders didn’t make mistakes. Every incident that played out here
occurred at their whim, with their knowledge, while they watched. They planned
and plotted and waited to see how their puppets would react.
As if we’re all
circus animals for their entertainment
.

A
fuzzy caterpillar of suspicion tickled across her, and she brushed a hand
across her nape to soothe the prickles. “Bring up Isabelle Fichetti,” she
ordered her board.

The
white screen lit up, transforming from blank to a close-up of Isabelle’s placid
expression, all fluttery lashes and ingénue wide eyes. From somewhere
off-screen, a voice admonished, “It’s not too late, Isabelle.”

“Zoom
out,” Xavia ordered. When the surrounding scene enhanced, she noted bland green
walls, a beige curtain hanging from a circular track, a blood pressure monitor
near a bed with upraised rails, a Formica counter complete with mini-sink, and
one of those plastic dispensaries for needles mounted nearby. “A hospital
room,” she concluded aloud. “Shit. She’s sick again.”

“It’s
not a question of ‘too late,’” Isabelle said to the faceless voice. “I’m not
going to change my mind, no matter what the consequences to me. I’m keeping
this baby.”

Baby
? Xavia nearly fell off the desk and had
to grab the edge with one hand to stay upright. Isabelle was
pregnant
?

Okay,
so who was the father? That Justin guy? Or her ex-husband?

Sean’s
voice thundered in her head.
Would you believe me if I said I think Isabelle
and I just made love?

Oh,
no frickin’ way. He couldn’t have...

Sean
was dead. Only energy. Oh, sure, he’d said he and Isabelle had made
love...but...he couldn’t have...

Could
he?

Onscreen,
a doctor popped into view, sighing as he checked the fluid levels in Isabelle’s
I.V. bag. “You’re running a tremendous risk. We can’t even begin to address the
tumor with any additional treatments for fear of affecting the fetus.”

“I’m
well aware of that.” Her Madonna-like expression remained in place.

“And
you’re also aware that if you terminate the pregnancy, we can more aggressively
go after the tumor—”

“To
what end?” Her expression turned fierce. “I am not terminating this pregnancy.”
She shifted in the bed, folding her arms over the folded sheet draping her
chest. “Look, Doctor. We both know I’m a lost cause. The gamma knife thingy was
my best option, and it didn’t work. You’d advised me before I went through with
it that the odds were against me. No big surprise it didn’t stop the tumor. So
no matter what voodoo you come up with now, I’m dying.” Her hand cradled her
swelling abdomen. “But this baby is fine and has a chance. The chance I don’t
have. So stop mentioning terminating the pregnancy. It ain’t gonna happen.”

The
doctor sighed again. “Have you discussed this with the baby’s father?”

“The
baby’s father is dead.”

Oh,
hell, no
.

A
sharp rap on Xavia’s office door jolted her out of the scene. She looked up to
see the alleged father pointing at her lock.

His
muffled voice permeated the wall and window. “I need to talk to you. Open up.
It’s important.”

You’re
damn right it’s important, she muttered. Stalking to the door, she flipped the
lock and yanked it open. “Get in here. We have to talk.”

He
slipped inside with another figure behind him. “Xavia, I want you to meet—”

“Noah.”
The name erupted from her in a hushed whisper. Tears sprang to her eyes, and
she opened her arms as she hurried to embrace the young man whose face had haunted
her for eons. “Oh, God, Noah!”

Her
son stood stiff as a two-by-four, hands at his sides, clearly uncomfortable
with her unabashed affection. “Umm...hi.”

“Xavia,”
Sean said from behind her. “He’s not Noah. Not anymore. His name is Contel.
Contel Morgan.”

The
strange name pierced her joy bubble. She stepped back, shaky and despondent.
“Sorry. I...forgot.”

“It’s
okay,” the young man said with a smile so like Noah’s her knees weakened. “I
guess I’m a little out of practice at this. I never had a mom who hugged me.”

That
simple confession nearly broke her. “You did,” she insisted, “when you were my
son.”

“Tell
me about when I was your son.”

“I...er...”
Sean shuffled his feet, hands in his pockets. “I...think I should get to work
on my new cases. I’ll be at my desk if anyone needs me.”

She
barely heard him, barely registered the click of the door as he left. All her
focus remained on Noah—
Contel
. “I loved you so much.”

“That’s
what the cop said.”

The
cop. Sean. The cop who killed her son. Who ruined her life and drove her to the
despair that brought her here. “What else did he tell you?” Her words shuddered
with her undisguised rage.

“He
told me what happened. About the armed robbery of the liquor store. How he
thought Noah had a real gun in the darkness of the alley, and how he
accidentally shot him. How he couldn’t live with the guilt. I forgave him.”

“You
did what?”

“I
forgave him. And asked him to forgive me.”

Umbrage
simmered inside her. “For what?
He
killed
you
.”

“It
wasn’t his fault.”

“The
hell it wasn’t.”

Contel
pulled the chair from the other side of her desk and sat, posture fluid and
relaxed. “Well, now, maybe you know something I don’t about what happened to
Noah. I can’t say for sure, since my EC didn’t show me that particular life,
but judging by my other lives, I’d say I was screwing with him that night. I
did a lot of that.”

“You
were a kid. An innocent kid. You didn’t deserve to die.”

“I
was a troublemaker. And a hellraiser. I was definitely high on angel dust; the
cop said the autopsy report confirmed that. So chances are good, if I resembled
the victim’s description of the armed robber, it’s because I
was
the
armed robber.”

“No,
that’s not possible.”

“Yeah,
it is.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry if that upsets you to hear. But I’ve seen
firsthand that I’ve never been a saint.”

“That
doesn’t mean you robbed that store. You were a good, church-going boy.
I
raised you that way.”

“I
was also a teenager, living in a rough neighborhood, surrounded by poverty and
violence, and fucked up on drugs. Sometimes, a kid’s peers have more influence
than his mom or the church.” He looked up at her, his eyes eagle-sharp. “You
haven’t forgiven him, have you?”

Shame
washed over her. Some church-goer she turned out to be. Her son had to remind
her of the grace of forgiveness. “I only found out recently he was the one...”
The words rose up in her throat, stayed there.

“The
one who killed your son?”

She
nodded.

“I
guess it came as a shock to you.”

“You
don’t know the half of it.”

He
propped the chair on two legs against the wall, arms folded behind his head.
“Tell me about Noah.”

Limbs
shaking, she sank into her office chair. “What do you wanna know?”

“Everything
you wanna tell me.”

The
words poured from her in a flood. Noah as a baby, as a toddler, a child, and a
teen. Through the tales, she relived birthdays, holidays, illnesses, injuries,
milestones, teachers’ remarks, and achievements: all the precious memories of
his lifetime. Noah—
Contel
—listened intently, laughing with her at some
of the more humorous escapades. And as they shared the gamut of emotions the
tales evoked, bitterness and anger ebbed away, leaving Xavia cleansed in mind
and soul.

Spent
at last, she shuddered and looked this stranger who used to be her son in his
solemn eyes. “Thank you.”

“Don’t
thank
me
,” he replied and jerked his head out the window. “Thank
him
.
I wouldn’t have come here if he hadn’t insisted.”

~~~~

Sean
kept one eye on his board, the other on Xavia’s office window. Curiosity might
prod him to check out what was happening in there, but self-preservation
advised he was safer to back off and stay out of it. He should probably bury
his interest in his new workload. Redoubling his focus, he scrolled through his
list of offenders to familiarize himself with each case.

Ted
Cavanaugh, age fifty, had lost his job and his family, thanks to his fondness
for online poker. He’d already attempted to hang himself when the bank
foreclosed on the family home, but his neighbor had walked in and managed to
cut him down before it was too late. Now, Ted huddled in a homeless shelter,
contemplating how to try again and whether or not to leave a note this time
around. To whom? Should he address it to his ex-wife? Start by saying he didn’t
blame her for leaving him? Or maybe he should write directly to his son and
daughter. Tell them how sorry he was for losing control, for gambling away
their savings, their tuition, their
future
.

After
spending some time inside the miserable man’s head, Sean waited until Ted fell
asleep, then filled his dreams with images of what could be: reuniting with his
family, dancing with his daughter on her wedding day, holding his first
grandchild.

“How
do I do this?” his subconscious asked.

“Take
responsibility,” Sean told him. “Seek help. Forgive yourself. Be strong. Make
amends.”

Too
soon to tell, but the advice seemed to fall on fertile ground. With luck, the
ideas would take root, and Ted would follow through. For now, Sean had done
what he could and would simply keep an eye on him night after night until he
was in a recovery program and safely back with his family.

Next.
Julia Reed, twenty-three, suffered from depression, migraines, and anger
issues. The more the people around her advised her to “snap out of it,” or that
“lots of people have it much worse,” the more isolated and despondent she
became until she attempted suicide—four times already. Sean opted for
subliminal messages in her dreams, showing her calling a suicide prevention
hotline, receiving help from a competent professional, getting better day by
day. He offered her hope, and he watched her grab for it by picking up her cell
phone and dialing directory assistance for the number of the suicide prevention
hotline.

And
we’re two for two
.
Maybe. He kept his fingers crossed. He, of all people, knew how easily one
could slide from thinking about suicide to committing suicide. Only constant
monitoring, lots of reassurance, and the right support could make the
difference. And often, no amount of monitoring, reassurance, and support
affected the outcome. A person in pain always sought escape. Those who were
determined to end it all couldn’t be steered from their course, regardless of
promises of a happy future. Sometimes, the pain won.