by Sheila Lowe
The camera cut past a gaggle of reporters to a grim-visaged group stepping up to a portable podium fronted by a bank of microphones. Flanked by Jessica’s brother-in-law, Special Agent in Charge Roland Sparks, and Special Agent Zach Smith, was Ethan’s mother.
Dwarfed by the two tall men, Abby Starkey was average height, trim in a grey jacket and pencil skirt, light brown hair combed back and held in a clip. Zach had said she was an attorney. She looked ready for court, except for her trembling lip and tight grip on the edges of the podium.
Standing behind Abby was a heavyset older woman in a sweatshirt and jeans. The way she was hovering, Jessica guessed the woman might be Abby’s mother.
Large, square sunglasses hid Abby’s eyes, but Jessica had gazed in the mirror at her own swollen, red-rimmed eyes enough times to picture what they looked like.
Abby leaned toward the microphones, speaking in a shaky voice. “Trey, I know the kind of father you are. You’ve always taken care of our—our son.” She halted, her face twisting in anguish, and stood there, breathing heavily.
The older woman pushed a tissue into her hand and Abby dabbed at the tears rolling down her face. “Please bring him home, Trey. Don’t hurt him. I’ll do anything you want. Bring Ethan home safe.” Every word seemed to be an effort. She turned away from the podium, swaying like a palm tree in the breeze.
Jessica knew from painful experience what came next.
Zach, looking uncharacteristically neat in his FBI regulation dark suit and tie, caught hold of Abby just as her knees gave out. Roland leapt in and helped him grab her as she crumpled. Half-carrying her between them, they hustled her along the walkway and inside the seventeen-story structure that housed the FBI offices.
Jessica well acquainted with the sensation of having her heart ripped open, of being left defenseless and exposed. She figured she knew much of what Abby Starkey was going through. The toll of endless days of worrying and sleepless nights she must have endured, praying in vain for her son to come home safe. The stress of facing the cameras to beg for his life, had caught up with her.
The reporter, Keith Lewis, had his hand up to his earpiece, listening for input from his producer. “As you just saw, Mrs. Starkey was understandably overcome. 911 has been called for medical assistance. The FBI asks that anyone with information or tips of any kind regarding the location of Trey and/or Ethan Starkey contact their local field office. The information will be held confidential and forwarded to the proper resources. Meanwhile, an Amber Alert continues in force. We will continue to provide updates as they become available. Now, Jeanine, back to you in the studio.”
“Thank you, Keith,” said Jeanine Riley. “Do we know whether there’s any history of violence? Is the father considered dangerous?”
Jessica shut off the television. Zach had already given her the answer to the reporter’s question. A sick sense of helplessness spread over her. Any mother in these circumstances deserved empathy, but this case was personal. Ethan Starkey was the child Zach had asked her to help locate.
According to Bella Bingham, it might be possible to reach the little boy if he was still alive.
She started with the books Sage had bought for her, skimming the tables of contents, flipping to pages that seemed most relevant. She read as fast as she could, sponging up knowledge.
“Sit in the power,” Bella had said, “and ask for help.”
YouTube offered a staggering array of choices in meditation music. Jessica had never heard of an Archangel named Uriel, but she settled on a site that claimed to channel Uriel’s music. The name attracted her, and the ethereal sound.
With the cushioned speakers of her headphones shutting out ambient sounds, she threw a cushion on the floor, sat cross-legged on it and closed her eyes, beginning the practice of breathing exercises Dr. Gold had taught her so long ago. He called it ‘quieting the monkey mind’.
Five minutes in, the monkey was having more fun turning somersaults and jumping all over the place than being quieted. First, she saw Sage’s blue, blue eyes gazing into hers the way they had at Osteria Monte Grappa. That did quite the opposite of relaxing her and made her feel all quivery. Next, she tried to focus on designing the fairy garden that she intended to create for Bella. No help there. Maybe she was being too logical and needed to let go of her left brain.
Dr. Gold used to suggest visualizing ocean waves. “Don’t fight the thoughts that want to intrude,” he had instructed. “Let them wash over you, then let them go.”
Five minutes in, Jessica had the monkey wrestled into submission. Focusing in on her breathing, she felt it become deeper. Beginning the process of letting conscious thoughts go, the irony of the empty space in her head was irresistible. The murmuring voices that so often filled it had gone silent.
Behind her closed eyelids, the sense of floating in a vast and peaceful ocean.
Is there a guide for me? Is someone here with me?
She waited for an answer, continuing to focus on her breaths. In, out. In, out. Then, like a mild electric charge, a prickly sensation moved across her scalp, along her arms, and on the flesh below her right thumb and index finger.
If you are my guide, please step into my energy and merge with me.
She felt at once engulfed by a strong sense of transcendent love, like being wrapped in a wonderful cocoon. The closest she had come to such a feeling was when the angel spoke to her after she died in the car accident.
“We are always with you.” The words telepathically impressed themselves on her mind.
Is there more than one of you?
“We are many. But we are one.”
Are you the angel I saw when I had the accident?
“Yes, but there is not just a ‘me’. I am part of the All, as are you.”
Is that why I feel like I know you?
“We have known each other for as long as you have existed. For eternity.”
Why can I talk to you now, when I couldn’t before?
“You could have talked to us at any time. It is easier for you now because a part of your human brain became easier to access. You are more open to communication.”
Was it because of my head injury?
“Yes. And other events in your life that have allowed you to let go of ego and listen.”
Is that why I’ve been hearing all the voices?
“Yes. And no. Some in spirit who have chosen to remain in the earth sphere, who recognize that you can see and hear them, are impatient to get a message to their earth families.”
Aren’t they happy in heaven, or whatever you call it? Why are they so desperate to get through?
“Most people, after they shed the physical body, are content to move into the light. Some have unfinished business that they wish to address before they go on. Think of it this way. On the earth there are earthquakes. Sometimes many people die. If there was a quake and you could not connect with your sister by normal means, would you not do anything in your power to let her know that you had survived?”
Of course I would.
“As your friend Bella explained, you have to set the ground rules. Just because they are in spirit does not mean you have to allow them all to intrude upon your life.”
You saw me talking with Bella?
“Of course.” The angel’s laughter vibrated through her. “Don’t worry, we are not like those earthbound spirits, intruding all the time. We are with you as you need us to be.”
He had answered her question even before it had fully formed.
Is this my imagination, or are you real?
The angel laughed again. “You must use your imagination to allow us to communicate with you. The power is in your own hands.”
Can you help me find Ethan Starkey?
“Each one walks his own path. We cannot interfere in the outcome.”
What good is it for me to give people messages, if you won’t help me when I need it?
“Help always comes when you need it. However, it is not always what
you think it should be.”
I need help now. Why won’t you help me?
“You can talk to anyone. Their spirit can hear you when they sleep.”
Can I reach Ethan?
“You can talk to anyone,” the angel repeated. “We are here for your strength and support. We will never leave you.”
That boy needs to be home with his mother.
“Do not confuse this boy with your own.”
This is so frustrating. I thought you would help me.
A picture of a tranquil pond and a stand of trees came into her mind.
Oh, great. This is you helping me? Psychics always say ‘I see the person near water.’
This is such b.s.
As the thought formed, the cocoon evaporated. Jessica ripped off the headphones and threw them down. She got up and went to the kitchen, snatched a bottle of Longboard from the fridge and chugged it.
What a load of crap. What’s the point of being able to connect with the spirit world if they talk in riddles and don’t answer your questions? Maybe I’m making up all this spirit stuff.
Shame and remorse jumped in to crowd the sulky defiance. The feeling of love that had suffused her was as real as anything she had ever seen or touched. She ought to be grateful. If she would get over herself, she might learn how to communicate with spirit better, as well as how to control her ‘gift,’ if that’s what it was. She tossed the empty bottle into the recycle bin and located her phone.
“Hey, Zach,” she said to his voicemail. “I need you to take me to where Ethan lives.”
FOURTEEN
While she waited for Zach to return her call, Bella’s words continued to ring in her ears: “I was so relieved they dropped the charges.”
Googling ‘Sage Boles,’ Jessica accessed an Ojai Valley Tribune headline:
“Ojai Muralist Arrested in Death of Artist Mother.”
Her mouth went dry. Whatever she might have imagined, that was not it.
The article was dated eighteen months earlier.
“Ojai resident, muralist Sage Boles, was arrested after his mother, sixty-five year-old Regina Boles, a renowned local artist, was found dead in the gallery where mother and son were preparing an installation. Ms. Boles’ body was discovered by the gallery owner at the foot of a ladder, her neck broken. A neighbor told law enforcement that she had heard a loud argument just prior to Sage Boles, thirty-two, “storming from the gallery” and driving away at a high rate of speed. After being questioned by Ventura County Sheriff’s detectives later in the day, Boles was taken into custody and charged with homicide. A source who wishes to remain anonymous reported that the younger Boles has a juvenile record, which was sealed.”
And a follow-up article, a week later.
“Local muralist Sage Boles, who was arraigned and booked into Ventura County Jail last Thursday, was released today when Judge Daniel Miles ruled that there was insufficient evidence to charge him in the death of his mother, Regina. In a statement to the media, Boles’ attorney Ann Cunningham said, “My client’s conversation with his mother had absolutely nothing to do with her death. She was still alive on the ladder when he left the gallery. He is devastated by these tragic events.” To date, no funeral services have been planned for the artist.”
Staring at the words, Jessica wished she had not read them; that Bella had never aroused her curiosity. She felt as though she had sneaked a peek into Sage’s computer and found it stuffed with violent porn. Guilt ripped through her and tainted the hope that had just begun to flower—that real happiness was possible. Was this why he had told her not to be so quick to trust her instinct that he was a good person?
She had married Greg, she reminded herself. Her instincts sucked.
The phone rang and jangled her nerves afresh. Expecting to see Zach’s number, she saw Sage’s instead. The intuitive link that she already felt between them was undeniable and strong—not unlike her bond with Jenna. Had he somehow picked up on the turmoil fermenting in her gut?
It was impossible for her to talk to him in her present state, she knew that much. He would intuit that something was amiss. She needed time to consider what she had learned about him and figure out whether it made any difference.
Sage left a voicemail. Just a few hours had passed since they had parted in Ojai and he was asking her to have dinner with him tonight. She played it back a half-dozen times, mesmerized by his voice. The sexiness was there in spades, like warm honey oozing over her, but it was more than that. She wanted more than anything to see him again, and as soon as possible.
What can I say to him? I can’t pretend not to know about his arrest.
What was the truth about his mother? The judge’s ruling said there was not enough evidence to take the case to trial, which was not the same as saying Sage was innocent.
She texted back “Can’t tonight.” As soon as she sent it, she wanted to call it back; to say something less terse. As her fingers hovered over the keyboard, the phone rang again.
Zach.
“Hey chickadee, what the hell? Now you want me to take you to the Starkey’s house?”
“Hey, Zach.”
“What’s wrong? You sound—”
Jessica pulled herself together and sent thoughts of Sage to the back burner. “How’s Ethan’s mom? I was watching it on TV. It looked like she passed out.”
“Yeah. She’s okay, just got caught up in all the emotion. Can’t blame her. It’s a tough situation.”
“Take me over there. When can you make it happen?”
The line went silent. Sensing his reluctance, Jessica pushed him. “I thought you wanted me to work with you to find this boy.”
“I do.”
“Well, if I’m going to try and connect with him—and there’s no guarantee that I can—I need to get in touch with who he was. Is. It might help to see his room, touch his things.”
Again, the hesitation. “I know I asked you to help, but Abby’s mom is pretty religious. She might be a problem.”
“Does her mom have to know? Abby’s desperate to know where Ethan is. Of course she’ll go for it.”
“If we do this, we can’t tell Roland. Can you imagine the optics if the media got wind of what we’re doing? It has to be strictly off the book.”
“Yeah, I know that, Zach. We already had this conversation over Hailey Martin. Roland didn’t complain when you found her body. Either you want me to work with you on this or you don’t. The cost is the same either way. Zero.”
“Of course I want you to, babe. I’ll have to talk to Abby and pave the way. Let me call her and see what she says. I’ll get back to you.”
Jessica hated him calling her ‘babe’ and Zach knew it. She squelched the temptation to snap at him. If she reminded him that they were no longer a couple and he had no rights, he would know he had gotten a rise out of her. Instead, she asked how he planned to approach Abby Starkey.
“I’m sure not gonna tell her you’re talking with dead people. That would freak her out. It would freak most people out. Guess I’ll say you’re a psychic and you’ve helped us on another case. She doesn’t have to know the case was about Hailey Martin.”
“I don’t care, I want to help find Ethan. Let me know what she says. I’m gonna do some meditating, see if I can get a head start.”
“If she goes for it, I’ll set it up ASAP. Are you free anytime?”
“I’ll make sure I’m free.”
The Starkey home was located in Thousand Oaks, twenty-five miles northeast of where Jessica lived.
As she had predicted, Abby was unwilling to wait until the next day to meet.
“There won’t be so much media at night,” Zach said, as Jessica strapped herself into his Acura at eight o’clock that evening.
“And in the dark, anyone who is there won’t be able to see me and figure out who I am.”
“You got it.” He gave her his goofy young Keanu Reeves grin. “You look like a cat burglar.”
Jessica grinned b
ack. She had twisted her bushy blonde hair into a knot and shoved it under a black watch cap. A long black sweater over leggings with boots completed the picture.
“Won’t be the first time,” she reminded him.
In the midst of her memory loss there had been an occasion when she wore the same getup while attempting to recover an important flash drive. On that night, she’d gotten caught, with painful consequences. Tonight, all she had to do was avoid a handful of journalists, not a security guard with murder on his mind.
Zach switched on the windshield wipers. “Hopefully, the newsies will stay in their vehicles. That should make it easier.”
Once they hit the 101, due to the rain, traffic was lighter than usual for the time of night. With precipitation such a rare event in Southern California, when it came, it had a way of keeping the populace at home.
Forty minutes after leaving Jessica’s house, they exited at Wendy Drive. Zach handed her his phone. When they were five minutes out, she texted Abby their ETA.
“There’ll be a media van or two,” said Zach. “If they come running over, ignore them. Act like they aren’t there.”
They turned onto Old Conejo Road. The rain clouds were wrung out and mist sparkled on the windshield. Zach slowed to locate Abby Starkey’s street. A right turn, then a left. Their destination was easy to spot. Eyewitness News and KCAL 9 vans were parked along the street, concentrated around a two-story house.
The garage door rose as Zach turned into the empty driveway. Abby had been watching for them. Framed by the dim inside light, she stood in a doorway that led into the house.
“Go,” Zach told Jessica. “Quick. I’ll follow you.”
She was out of the car and in the garage in a flash, too quick for the reporters to catch on. Car doors slammed, then the reporters were in the street, shouting questions as Zach followed Jessica. Abby hit the switch and the door rolled down.
Tonight, Ethan Starkey’s mother was far from the well-put-together attorney of the press conference. Her shape was concealed under baggy clothing, her uncombed hair had lost its clip. Any makeup she wore for the cameras was long gone. Dark circles of sleeplessness outlined the pouches under her eyes. That, and the grayish cast of her face were the marks of stress.
