The Last Story (19 page)

Roger took a step toward him. "I mean you won't

shoot me. You're too fat, too slow, too stupid to destroy me. Isn't that so?"

Bob smiled quickly. "Yeah, that's it. I'm nothing next to you. Are you going in the raft or not?"

"No. You're going in the water."

"What?"

Roger lashed out with his right foot. He could have had a black belt in karate, his blow was that swift, that accurate. Suddenly the gun was not in Bob's hand. Bob was in Roger's hands.

Wearing an expression of absolute terror, Bob was dangling over the edge of the sailboat, held only by Roger's vicelike grip.

"Time to meet the Grim Reaper," Roger said coldly.

"Wait!" Bob cried. "Don't! The sharks! They Eeehh!"

Roger threw him overboard, over me. Bob's left foot caught my right cheek before he bellyflopped into the dark pond. Before he could resurface, the fins converged. Four silver arrows aimed at one thrashing late supper. Just prior to closing my eyes and ears to the screams, Bob managed to get his head above the water. His expression was as much bewildered as terror stricken. He started to say something to me, but water rolled into his mouth and he choked.

Before he could recover, he jerked down slightly, a couple of times in a row. The jerks were not because of his own wild flailing, but were being applied externally. His face was as white as the pale moonlight that shone on him from high

above. Yet, from far below, a dark liquid began to spread out from his struggling form. A warm, sticky fluid that would have been bright red had it been midday, but which, this many hours after midnight, was as black as an oil gusher.

The sharks had begun to feed.

I screamed as Bob screamed.

It seemed as if they fed a long time.

CHAPTER

XVII

JL HE NEXT TWELVE HOURS were a blur for me.

Roger ran for the guard, who called for the police.

Twenty minutes later, five black and white units and two ambulances braved the bumps and drove up to the set. Their flashing lights spread hideous color over Bob's remains; the pieces of flesh bobbed like torn apples at a disastrous Halloween party.

On a boulder fifty feet from the pond, I sat with my eyes closed and tried to block out the universe.

A death, especially one as bizarre as Bob's, was not something the LAPD brushed over without exhaustive hours of questioning and requestioning.

Roger and I were separated and taken down to the station. Obviously the authorities wanted to see if our stories matched. It was only after five hours of questioning that I wondered if I should have freely waived my right to remain silent. What I was telling them sounded like a Shari Cooper novel! Trying to explain that what Bob had done was based on a novel of mine didn't help. The odd thing was, in the

midst of it all, I never knew if I was under arrest.

And here I was a mystery writer. Research had not prepared me for reality. Aliens were predictable next to people; they just wanted to conquer the Earth.

What had Bob wanted? I wondered that as the sun came up outside and my head throbbed with pain and fatigue. My questioning cops would not allow me a Tylenol-3, even though it was prescription medicine and I begged them for just one. They wanted me sharp. No drugged excuses for a defense attorney to drag up later in court. To put it simply, the men didn't believe me.

Poor Roger, I thought. He was the one who had thrown Bob in the water. I wondered how he was doing. Foolishly, I asked if I could see him. They shook their heads. Right then I would have stood a better chance of obtaining an audience with the Pope. I needed to have my confession heard. Even though, technically, I had done nothing wrong, I was plagued with guilt.

The detectives must have sensed that and because of it didn't let me go or even rest. They hoped I would crack, spill my guts, sort of like the way Bob's had been spilled.

Finally I lost it. Pacing, I demanded that they at least give me a chance to place one call. I ranted about lawsuits and how they had no right to hold me and how I was a famous writer. A New York Times best-selling author, I yelled! That did it; that best-seller list always pushed the right buttons.

They exchanged worried glances and shoved a phone in my direction. But who do you call at a

time of crisis? Your family? Your lover? I felt as if I had already lost both. My producer was supposed to manage everything that happened on the set. I called Henry.

He was beautiful. He was down at the station within an hour with a high-priced lawyer who made the detectives scowl and go for doughnuts. Within the hour, I walked out of the station a free woman.

The press was waiting for me, not at the back door—but at the front. Henry said the story had already hit the airways. The media even had a slogan ready. "Bob was first to die. Who will be next?" Henry promised he would get Roger out next. He drove me back to my hotel and there, after swallowing three of my pain pills, I collapsed on my bed and tried not to think, to even exist.

Yet, this time, I did dream.

If it was that, and not a vision.

I floated through outer space, the leader of a group of golden entities that needed no vessel to traverse vast distances. Up ahead, a blue-white globe shimmered in the endless river of stars, a living planet of inexpressible potential. This world was my destination. And although I was a creature of spirit and not of flesh and blood, I felt as if I might weep when I saw it again.

Too long, I thought, to be isolated from Mother Earth. It didn't look so different from the last time I had seen it. Yet I knew much had changed since then. Much had died. The quarantine was to blame.

But that was why my partners and I had returned.

To break it.

To plug the two strands of humanity's DNA back into the natural twelve.

To reconnect humanity to eternity.

Yet it took almost an eternity of time to accomplish the simplest task. I entered one body, lived a productive life. Tried to help where I could, to speak truth where superstition prevailed.

To offer love where hate dominated. Then I died and had to start all over. Another body, another set of parents, of genes, of characteristics that make up a human personality. Around and around I traveled the wheel of reincarnation. Yet each time, between each birth and death, I was allowed a chance to pause, to rest and gather my strength, to see that not all our efforts were in vain.

Despite the continuing dominance of the enemy, humanity slowly evolved over the centuries.

Discarding the illusions of fear, of separateness, of not trusting in the divine plan. Of having no faith in their own immortality.

It was to increase this faith that I fought the hardest. For it constituted the enemy's greatest hold on humanity. Without the fear of death and the dogma of judgmental religions and brain-washing cults that grew up around them, the quarantine would have crumbled in the twinkling of a distant star. So again I returned to life to shout out that there was only life and no end to our being. No devil could claim our souls for all eternity unless we created the devil ourselves. Some heard me; most

did not. It didn't matter. In my soul I knew that in the end, we would be triumphant.

Yet, occasionally, even I stumbled. The enemy fooled me. And those were not lives I remembered with joy. Indeed, sometimes, in my desire to make my mark on the world, I made the mistake of doing the enemy's work.

When I opened my eyes it was almost dark.

Immediately I sat up and turned on the light. I had slept away the entire day. If my dream were true and I could only recall fragments of it—then I had also slept away the last few years.

Had the Rishi ever told me that I was special? I assumed he had.

Since my rebirth, I had taken pride in the fact that I was a Wanderer. A best-selling writer who could save humanity with my amazing stories. Right—I couldn't even save myself. Yet the Rishi had said many things that emphasized the specialness of each of us.

"Those of negative vibration crave power and dominance. That is their trademark. You can spot them that way. They try to place themselves above others. They feel they are especially chosen by God for a great purpose. But God chooses everyone and all his purposes are great. "

The yogi had said similar words.

"That is a form of enlightenment. To feel like everyone belongs to you, and you belong to them.

That is something a Master will always teach. There is no hierarchy in the family of man.

We are all equal, all children of the divine. The Master is the same as the student, the disciple, the devotee. The Master never places himself above them because if he did then he wouldn 't be able to help them. That's why we don't seek power.

Those things separate us from each other. They lead to ignorance, to darkness.

"

Why hadn't I been able to see that it was the Rishi who spoke to me through the body of the yogi? That their truth was one? I had wanted proof, a miracle. Even after the yogi had given me the miracle of my own inner peace, I left him. And for what? To make out with Roger? What had my choice brought me but misery?

Reaching over, I picked up the phone and called Peter.

Jacob answered.

"Hello?"

"Jacob, this is Shari. How are you?"

He hesitated. "I'm OK, but we want you to come home. Peter misses you. I miss you."

I forced a laugh. "I'll come home, tonight I promise. Is Peter there?"

"No. He's with the yogi."

"The yogi is still in town? I thought he was leaving."

"He is tonight. He's giving a talk at a house in Orange County now."

"Do you know where the house is? The address?"

"No."

"Did Peter happen to write down the address on a scrap of paper? Is there one lying around?"

"I can't see one."

"Oh God, I'm sorry, Jacob. That was stupid of me to say."

"There probably is a scrap of paper here that has directions on it. I know Peter was> talking to the people at the house just before he left."

I paused. "Did Peter call these people for directions?"

"Yes."

"Have you made any calls since then?"

"No. I wouldn't use your phone without permission.

I couldn't use this one if I wanted to. The buttons are different than the ones on other phones.

I don't know what to push."

"Jacob, listen very carefully. The button on the lower right-hand side is the Redial button.

Don't push it now, but when I hang up I want you to push it. It will almost certainly dial the number of the house where Peter and the yogi are. Whoever answers, tell that person it is crucial for Peter Jacobs to call me immediately at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Can you remember that?"

"Yes. I have a good memory. I will get him for you and have him call you. I know he wants to talk to you a whole bunch."

"I want to talk to him a whole bunch. Hey, when's your next game?"

"Tomorrow. Can you come?"

"You bet. I'll be there."

"Can we go to Disneyland again?"

"Yes. Tomorrow." I don't know why there were

tears in my eyes. "We can do everything tomorrow, Jacob."

We exchanged goodbyes. A few minutes later the phone rang. It wasn't Peter but a woman at the house where the yogi was staying. Peter, she said, was in a private meeting with the yogi. But she would be happy to give me her address, which was what I wanted most. She told me to be sure to hurry, the yogi's plane was to leave in two hours.

"Tell him I'm coming," I cried.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"He knows my name."

CHAPTER

XVIII

UT I HAD PUT OFF seeing the yogi one time too many. When I reached the house, he had gone.

Peter waited outside in front for me, in his wheelchair, a red rose resting in his lap. When he told me the news, I was devastated.

"But I need to talk to him," I cried. "Can we go to the airport?"

Peter shook his head. "He leaves from LAX, on the other side of town. He left here a while ago. By the time we got there he would probably be boarding."

He handed me the rose. "He told me to give you this."

I smelled it—such a lovely fragrance. "Did he say anything else about me?"

"Yes. He said to tell you, 'The writer has many stories in her. Whenever one comes to an end, another begins.'" Peter paused, then added, "He also told me to say that you have nothing to fear, that all has been taken care of."

"What did he mean?"

B

"I don't know. He acted like you'd know what he meant."

I was puzzled. Every word of his meant so much.

It was difficult to know where to apply his advice to my life. But perhaps it had yet to be applied.

Leaning over, I gave Peter a big hug.

"I missed you, my love," I whispered in his ear.

"Do you still want me back?"

He had tears in his eyes. "Yes. Will you come back?"

"Yes." I kissed him. "And I will never leave you.

Never ever."

"What made up your mind?"

I straightened up, glancing up and down the street. The strangest sensation flowed through me.

It was as if I were being filmed, studied, dissected.

Yet no one was there. A shiver made its way through my body as I thought of Bob, what was left of him.

"Something happened last night," I said. "It was terrible. Then something beautiful happened this afternoon while I slept."

"While you were asleep?"

"Yes. I had a dream. It explained so much to me.

It put me in my place, so to speak, and also reminded me of several important things the Rishi and the yogi both said. Plus it helped me remember other dreams I've been having lately, and what they mean." I shrugged. "I know I'm speaking like a crazy woman again. But what's important is that I feel clearer now. I won't be seeing Roger anymore."

Peter was grateful. "Good." He paused. "What are you looking for?"

I shrugged, although I continued to feel watched.

"Nothing."

"What happened last night?"

"It's a long story. Can I tell you later? At home?"