by Lotta Smith
CHAPTER 1
“Brooooooooom! Brooooooooom! Wooooooowww!”
Arms stretched out on both sides, Adam Rodgers was running around the place, totally fast and furious. Like most six-year-olds, he was full of energy—except for the tiny inconvenience that he was dead.
It had been two weeks since the boy went missing. As soon as his parents received a letter demanding $300,000 as a ransom, the FBI’s Child Abduction Response Deployment—CARD—team was handed this case, but following the initial ransom demand, the kidnapper went silent. With no lead and no evidence, it was feared the case might turn cold. A week ago, Adam’s body was discovered by a dog and his owner at a state park, far from the sidewalk by his home where he was last seen, which led the CARD team nowhere. Finally, they decided to seek assistance from the Paranormal Cases Division, which happens to be my workplace.
After a wild goose chase of Adam’s ghost for the past two days at the state park, I finally caught up with him on the sidewalk of the super-posh condo that was his home. Interviewing Adam and obtaining useful information to catch the killer was my next mission.
“Hello, Adam.” With a reassuring smile pasted on my face, I tried to reach the unreachable little boy, who ignored me completely and kept on running.
I stood there totally clueless, thinking about my next move.
“Mandy, you’ve got to be supportive,” Jackie advised me. “The key to a successful interview is building a rapport, and hopefully, a friendship. I know Adam’s dying to speak with you in the deep bottom of his heart, but right now, he’s a little distracted.”
“Distracted? Hmm, maybe,” I said. The huge, gushing wound on Adam’s forehead was severe enough to distract anyone. Then again, most people would prefer bed rest to running like an over-caffeinated monkey.
“Is he talking?” Rowling’s voice echoed in my earpiece.
“No. Not yet.” I tried again. “Hi, Adam!”
“No. I’m Dusty,” for the first time, the boy responded to me. And for the very first time, he took a moment to stop in front of me.
“Oh, hi, Dusty. I’m Aman—”
Before I finished introducing myself, he said, “Hey, you can be Chug, and we can train together for the big race!”
I reached for him in a futile attempt to catch him, but he was already running away from me—not that I was capable of touching him, anyway. He was fast. I rolled my eyes.
“Mandy, do it,” Jackie said. “Play the part of Chug, train with Adam—I mean, Dusty—and then you can ask him how he ended up getting kidnapped and killed.”
“Well, I don’t know…,” I mumbled.
“You don’t know what?” Rowling asked.
“You know, Rick, Adam’s playing Dusty from Planes, and he wants me to practice flying with him as Chug,” I explained. “Still, considering the location, it’s not such a good idea to—”
“Do it, Mandy,” he demanded, cutting me off midsentence. It was easy for him to bark orders to me. While I was struggling, he was comfortably sitting in the black van parked across the street, observing me with a bunch of boys from the FBI.
“Come on, we’re on Madison Avenue in the Upper East Side, where Birkin bags, Aston Martin strollers, and diamond-encrusted pacifiers with price tags bigger than that of an average Prius are absolute must have items for every mommy!” I protested. I wasn’t carrying a Birkin because I didn’t own one, and I wasn’t wearing Louboutin or Manolos.
“Good thing you’re not a mommy. You don’t need any of them.”
“That’s not the point!” I shot back.
“Oh, yeah? Then what’s your point? Try pushing a stroller—be it an Aston Martin or otherwise—without a baby, everybody assumes you’re a head case.” Rowling snorted.
I sighed.
“You know, Mandy”—by my side, Jackie tapped on my shoulder, or rather, wiggled her fingers so it looked like tapping—“now seems like great timing for moi—your guardian angel—to assist you, doesn’t it?”
“What do you mean, Jackie?” I frowned, full of nerves. The situation was already tricky enough, and the last thing I needed was more complications. “Since when did you land the position as my guardian angel?”
“I became your guardian angel the moment you recognized me. Anyway, leave it all to me. I’m super-duper good with kids.” Jackie flashed me a thumbs up and approached Adam’s ghost by hopping like an Easter bunny. “Hey, Dusty, wanna fly with Auntie Jackie?” And the next thing, she was running around with the kid.
Mouth open, my jaw dropped.
“Hey, Mandy, you haven’t answered my question.” Rowling’s voice grabbed my attention.
“Well, I was just meaning to say that Adam is invisible for most people. If I play along with him and start imitating Chug the plane, those snobby, Birkin-carrying, Escalade-driving, ultra-posh mommies may call the cops on me.”
“That won’t be a problem. I’ve already clarified with the local police captain that you’re working on a case. Now he’s responding to complaints about a suspicious woman mumbling to herself and never leaving the place that she’s just doing her job and not a threat to the community.” Rowling winked.
Not that I actually saw him wink, but I could see my boss winking and grinning from ear to ear. Geez, I wanted to shake him until all his pearly whites fell out.
“All right.” I took a deep breath, lifted up my arms, and joined the two ghosts. “Hey, I’m Chug! Let me join you guys! Brooooooom…”
By the time Adam finally took a moment to tell me about the truck that hit him and the guy who took him to the big park far from his home to bury him into the ground, I was huffing and puffing and sweating like a pig, thanks to endless running and screaming. And when I say endless, it means endless—three hours, to be exact—and it was the most traumatic experience for me since people started dying after touching me. In general, little kids tend to repeat their favorite activity over and over until they get tired, hungry, or sleepy. The problem with Adam was that he didn’t get tired, hungry, or sleepy, presumably because he was dead.
“A… large… truck with… a white… tiger… carrying a… bunch of… cardboard… boxes,” panting, I told Rowling about Adam’s description of the truck. “The guy driving the truck hit him… and then took him away…”
“Got it. Good job.” Then he relayed my words to other agents.
“That should be White Tiger Deliveries!” I heard one of the agents in the van respond immediately. In the next couple of minutes, Rowling came out of the van, and the rest of the van packed with agents took off from the scene.
But Adam still remained.
“You know, Mandy,” he said, reaching for my hand. Unlike a living kid, his little fingers tried to grasp mine, but went through my hands without success. “Yesterday, Emily came here with her mom. I said hi, but they didn’t notice me. Me and my mom were going to go to Emily’s home, and Emily was crying. Do you think she’s upset because I can’t go to her home?” He looked genuinely sad.
“No, Emily’s not at all angry because of you,” I replied, moving my hand in circles so it looked like I was stroking his small back. Jackie was quietly sobbing by his side.
“You think so? Then, that’s okay.” He smiled. “I don’t know…”
“You don’t know what?” I asked.
“I’m trying to go to Emily’s home, but I can’t. I tried to go home, too, but I can’t move from here. I don’t know what’s happening.” Adam tilted his head to the side.
I took a deep breath. “You know, Adam. I hate to tell you this, but you died.”
“Died? What is died?” The little boy looked up at me with his big eyes twinkling, making the situation even more painful. Except for the gash on his forehead, Adam looked like a healthy child.
“Well, Adam, the definition of death differs from one culture to another,” I explained. “In modern medicine, we use two types of death: clinical death and brain death—”
“Mandy,” Rick Rowling, who was st
anding by my side before I noticed, interrupted me. “When you talk to a six-year-old, you’ve got to talk in the way little kids can understand.”
“I was trying. I’m talking to Adam so he can go to a better place.”
Ignoring me, Rowling spoke up. “Hey, Adam. Can you hear me?”
“Yay!” Adam jumped up and hopped toward Rowling, not knowing that he was invisible to him.
I was a little bit hurt that the boy preferred my boss to me. I didn’t want to be a narrow-minded bitch, so I whispered to Rowling, “Adam’s bouncing in front of you, and he looks happy.”
“Okay.” Rowling squatted so that the child’s ghost could meet his eyes. “You know what, Adam? You’re going to see a warm, bright light. When you see that, be sure to follow it to a better place. You got it?” He raised a hand, showing his palm.
“Got it.” Adam high-fived Rowling. Smiling, he turned to me. “Thank you, Mandy. Nice meeting you guys. Bye.” He waved his hand.
“Bye…” I waved back and mumbled, “Take care.” Though, I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to say to him.
Two days later, a truck driver working for White Tiger Deliveries was arrested for the murder of Adam Rodgers. Following a thorough investigation of one hundred and sixty-eight vehicles, a truck with a dent in the front grill was spotted. When the investigators asked the driver for an explanation for the damage, which coincided with the height of the victim, the male driver in his forties made a tearful confession of accidentally hitting the boy.
It was unfortunate that Adam skipped his music lesson, sneaking out of the classroom without the teacher noticing. Little Adam was walking to the condo complex where he lived, and then his favorite Lego ninja slipped out of his pants pocket and rolled onto the road. He walked off the sidewalk into the car lane, where he got hit by the truck. The truck driver noticed that he hit the boy immediately, but at the time of the accident, no one was around—just him and the boy, who already looked dead. So, instead of taking responsible actions, such as calling the ambulance and reporting the accident to the police, he hurled Adam into his truck, buried the little child’s body at the state park, and then sent out a letter demanding ransom to cover up his crime. He had a son of his own, who happened to be the same age as Adam. As the son was living with his mother and her new husband, he was afraid that he might lose his right to spend time with his son if he got charged with manslaughter.
As I learned more about the case, I recalled butterfly effect, a concept in chaos theory in which small changes may lead to largely altered results.
Now that Adam had passed away, I couldn’t stop wondering if they have butterflies up in the better place.
CHAPTER 2
“That was impressive, Ms. Meyer,” Sheldon Hernandez, Assistant Director in Charge, said contently.
I was visiting his office occupying one corner of the 23rd floor of 26 Federal Plaza, New York, finishing up my periodic report to the head of the FBI’s New York field office. Considering that I’m just an assistant, this task should be a responsibility for someone in a management position—such as Rick Rowling, my direct supervisor—but Hernandez got jitters whenever he talked to my boss. Also, Rowling didn’t mind passing menial tasks over to me, so this arrangement somewhat worked in its twisted way.
“The part with you finding the breakthrough for Adam Rodgers case was especially genius. Good work. Keep on doing it.” Hernandez was beaming as he continued.
“Excuse me, sir, but I’m not suitable for this job.” I was going to make my point, but I added, “I’m afraid,” as he gave me his signature glare.
Hernandez groaned, his dark chocolate-colored eyes shooting me a menacing look. His bushy eyebrows moved as if they were trying to intimidate me on their own will. Finally, he said, “What do you mean, Ms. Meyer?”
“Well, the thing is, the Adam Rodgers case was psychologically consuming to me, bordering on traumatizing, and I don’t feel comfortable working cases involving young children who suffered tragic, premature deaths.” Frowning so that I’d look frail and weak, I went on. “Perhaps I’d fit better in other sections, such as the department of white-collar crime.”
After encountering Adam, I was feeling quite down—depressed, even. It had been a week since the truck driver who killed Adam was arrested, but still, the afterimage of the boy’s adorable smile and his small hand that tried to hang onto me were haunting. I couldn’t take it anymore. I was determined to transfer to any department that didn’t involve talking to murder victims. Considering my job title was special assistant, I should be focusing on administrative tasks such as photocopying, faxing, mailing, and maintaining a filing system, shouldn’t I?
“Speaking of tragic,” Hernandez cut in, “there were several agents working in white-collar crime who suffered premature deaths due to a bombing. It was so sad. They ended up dismembered—as in, literally—and even the most skilled mortician couldn’t fully recover their bodies. Of course, their funerals were closed casket. How tragic.”
I opened my mouth, but words didn’t come out. Suddenly, speaking to dead people seemed better than being targeted for bombing.
Hernandez suggested, “If you don’t like working for the bureau, you have every right to leave. But, if I were you, I wouldn’t rush making any decisions. Economic indicators say the economy’s improving, but that’s just in numbers.”
“No, sir! I have no intention of quitting,” I objected.
“That’s excellent.” He smiled like an alligator.
As much as I hated my job, the paychecks from the FBI were the only solution to keep myself up to date with the humongous student loan payments, so I smiled back. “All I meant to say is, as an assistant, it would be considered more appropriate if I devote myself exclusively to clerical tasks.”
“Clerical tasks? If clerical tasks were all I wanted to be done, I’d never have hired you. Besides, I’m positive that you’ll get used to the process of grief and tragedy. And if I understand it right, you received a full training on management of grief and loss.” He displayed a scary grin. “Oh, did I mention you’re about to go through the biannual review, following which your salary is subject to increase?”
“Sir, is that right?” Suddenly, my ears perked up.
“By the way, it’s about time for you to get back to Rowling. I suppose he’s awaiting you at his office.”
Before I had a chance to clarify about the possible raise, he dismissed me.
* * *
“Hey, Mandy, is that a current thing?” Rick Rowling asked me when I went back to the Paranormal Cases Division.
“What are you talking about?”
“Green eyeshadow under the eyes, looking like you have major eye bags.” On the other hand, he was looking sharp, relaxed, and radiant in a blue linen shirt, micro-check gilet, and slim-fitting trousers matching the gilet. Sitting at the mahogany desk with his suit jacket hanging from the coat hanger by my desk, he went on. “Also, you’re using blush three shades darker than it should be, so your cheeks look like they’re rotting off. Oh, don’t forget the dark, bluish lipstick. Are you auditioning for The Walking Dead cast or something?”
“Are they auditioning new cast members?” I asked, sounding a little bit keener than I intended.
“Not that I know of.”
“What a shame,” I muttered, and I meant it.
“Mandy, I didn’t know you’re interested in an acting career.”
“Neither did I.” I shrugged.
I wasn’t gung ho about a career in the entertainment industry, but if I got lucky and scored big, I might be able to pay off my student loan immediately. After getting kicked out of medical school with no degree and a ton of debt, I’d been trying my luck by regularly purchasing lotto tickets, but so far, no big break. I even tried writing erotica, though I had to quit immediately. I wasn’t familiar with the genre, but I knew it was the place with a big X-mark on a pirate’s treasure map. So, as a preparation to score big in this genre, I read Fifty Sha
des of Grey for research, and I almost vomited like Aung San Pukey during a speech at a Paris conference. In the past, I had read gruesome mysteries involving cannibal killers, and I used to believe that I was fine with graphic scenes, but the part with Ana drinking Christian’s bodily fluid wasn’t something I could breeze past. Somehow, the seemingly normal person licking her partner’s penis and anus seemed way grosser than a crazy person eating his victim’s spleen or brain. Besides, even after taking a long bath and thoroughly disinfecting, there should be body parts that cannot be licked, because we’re humans, not dogs or toilets. And the risk of bacterial/viral/parasitic infection cannot be ignored.
When I was regurgitating the horror, Rowling went on. “So, you’re not seriously considering a career in Hollywood. Well, that’s a relief. Considering your track record, that won’t last long, I’m afraid. It gets ugly when your costars drop dead one by one. Imagine the headline on gossip sites like TMZ and E! Online. ‘Meet Amanda Meyer—a med school dropout, a budding actress, and the Grim Reaper!’”
“That’s not funny, Rick.” I was compelled to bitch-slap him, but since he had the power to hire and fire me, I didn’t. Instead, I said, “Actually, I was trying to look weak and frail, demonstrating how exhausted I am, hoping Assistant Director in Charge might lessen my workload.”
“Nice try.” His angelic lips quirked into a smile, which was handsome, hot, and sexy.
In addition to the mesmerizing green eyes, perfectly sculpted nose, cheeks, and forehead, he had a killer bod with six-pack abs, broad shoulders, long legs and everything. He indeed had the looks perfect for the big screen. So I said, “Hey, Rick, you should seriously consider a career in Hollywood.”
Actually, it seemed like a good idea. I had a hunch he’d keep me as his assistant even if he switched his line of work, and there should be less dead people in the entertainment industry than the industry I was stuck with.
“Is that because it’s a sacrilege to have my good looks go to waste?” He cocked his head to the side.
