Visions of Hope

by Candace Murrow

  "You'd like to move this relationship to the bedroom, and she won't cooperate." Charlie laughed again.

  "Screw you, Charlie." Kipp made a move to get up.

  "Wait. Sit down, sit down." Charlie motioned with his hand. "I was just having fun with you. You've sure lost your sense of humor these last few years, but I can see you're serious about this one."

  "I like being around her, Charlie. I don't know why, but she has this calming effect on me. I haven't had that in a long time. After tonight, I don't know whether to back off or move ahead. I feel like a teenager again."

  "Why don't you call her and ask her about Kelly?"

  "Absolutely not. I can't go through another gut-wrenching session with her. I know where that leads."

  "Quit thinking about yourself and start thinking about your kid."

  "Again, screw you." Kipp made another attempt to get up.

  "Dammit, Kipp, sit."

  Stunned at the acid tone in Charlie's voice, Kipp settled back down.

  "I'm sorry, buddy, but you're so pigheaded sometimes. Let's get back on neutral ground. Okay?" He lowered the footrest and braced himself on his thighs, his expression serious. "So, when are you going to give her the big guy?"

  Charlie's question caught Kipp off center, and he broke out laughing. "You sonovabitch."

  "In all seriousness," Charlie said, "call her in a couple of days."

  * * *

  CHAPTER 8

  On the drive home Kipp considered Charlie's advice about Libby. He liked her looks, her business sense. Even her so-called gift was becoming less threatening. She was definitely a woman he could sink his teeth into--figuratively and literally. But why should he care about a woman who had shown little interest in him?

  Also, there was the article to consider. Thinking about her in a romantic sense was not getting the article written. Time marched on, and Jerry would soon be demanding results.

  He decided to quit acting like a teenager in heat and put his feelings for Libby aside. Charlie was right: Kipp had never begged a woman to go out with him. He was in no mood to start now. Where the hell was his dignity, for chrissakes?

  He shed his clothes on the way to the bedroom and laid his head on the pillow at two in the morning. He drifted into sleep as soon as he closed his eyes, but his sleep was fitful. He tossed and turned, finally waking in a cold sweat. Every bit of warmth in the room had been sucked out.

  He felt unsettled, agitated. An inner urge prompted him to sit up. Across the room a swirling image floated in the doorway. He blinked his eyes, squeezed them shut, opened them again. He could have sworn he caught a glimpse of his little girl, heard her wee voice calling out to him.

  He threw off the covers and stumbled to the spot where he thought he saw her, his arms outstretched, feeling the space in front of him, trying to connect with whatever had been there. Nothing but the shadows, cast by the fire alarm's tiny red light, hovered in the hallway.

  A chill swept up his spine. His body began to tremble uncontrollably.

  He staggered to the bathroom and leaned into the counter. It took several deep breaths to calm his throbbing heart. The moisture that had formed across his forehead trickled downward into his eyes. He wiped his face with a towel.

  Never before had anything like this happened, not even in the days following her disappearance. He could have sworn he saw her shaggy blond hair and pudgy cheeks. He could have sworn. Then his logical mind took over. It was a dream. It had to be a dream.

  He changed into a dry tee shirt, put on his glasses. Too shook up to go back to bed, he brewed a pot of coffee and wandered into his study to his computer. Work could always settle him.

  He stared at the monitor, hoping to dispel the memory of the last ten minutes. After a few attempts at formulating a sentence, he gave up, parted the curtains, and waited for the morning light. He tried to blank his mind, but he couldn't shake the image of his daughter. His face was wet with tears, and the old questions came rushing back to haunt him. Who had kidnapped her, and why?

  He had work to do, and thinking about Kelly wasn't going to bring her back or help him finish his assignment, so he went back to the computer and begged for inspiration to come.

  On the edge of his desk was his recorder. He drew it closer, gave it a long look, and finally punched the on button.

  Hearing Libby's voice irritated him. He wasn't sure why. He switched off the machine and shoved away from the desk. If he did nothing, he would think about Kelly, but his article had everything to do with Libby. He felt trapped and cranky.

  He powered down the computer, pulled on his jeans, and grabbed a long-sleeved shirt from the closet. He discovered his shoes in the kitchen where he had abandoned them yesterday. He poured a mug of coffee and stepped outside.

  He rounded the corner of the house and aimed toward the woods. As he crossed the back lawn, the morning dew splattered his shoes. Early morning held a chill.

  He stepped over the low wooden fence and entered the forested path that led to the hill overlooking the harbor. High up on the branch of a fir tree a robin chirped a morning song. A gray squirrel darted in front of him, then dove into the salal bushes. Taking this route early in the day provided him with a clear path and no distractions, a perfect setup to work out his personal problems. It had worked well in the past.

  When he broke out of the trees into the clearing, the boats in the marina were already bathed in light. The bay, like a mirror reflecting back to him, rippled lightly near the shoreline. Kipp sat on a boulder at the edge of the hill and took in the view. The sun warmed his upper back. If this couldn't clear his mind, nothing could.

  Not a day went by that he didn't think about Kelly, but in order to function, he'd compartmentalized the trauma. He'd constructed stone walls. But since he'd met Libby, those walls were crumbling, and he was starting to feel out of control.

  What the hell was the dream about? It was so vivid. It seemed so real. Nothing like this had ever happened before, not until Libby. It was Libby's fault. She must have put some sort of spell on him.

  He marched back to the house with renewed determination to put new mortar between the stones and triple them if he had to. He needed to regain control of his mind. He wouldn't let her win.

  He spent the rest of the day mowing and raking the lawn and pulling weeds between the rhododendron bushes. The feel of the soft warm earth between his fingers soothed him. By evening he was aching for sleep, too exhausted to think.

  He ate half a pizza and took a hot shower, then retreated to the bedroom. The room was stuffy. He opened the window to catch a draft, collapsed into bed, and immediately fell asleep.

  It was still dark outside when he woke in another sweat. His first thought was the temperature of the room had increased, but his body was cold and shivery. The sheets were clammy.

  He threw off the covers just as the moon peeked around a cloud, throwing light on the windowsill. The curtains fluttered wildly in the breeze. He rose to shut the window, but the branches on the fir tree next to the house were stone-still.

  The hairs on the back of his neck quivered, sending a chill down his spine. The electricity in the room was palpable, as was the metallic taste in his mouth. He swore he could smell the scent of baby powder.

  A whispery voice called out to him. His back muscles tensed. Again, the voice whispered. He spun around only to see the filmy outline of a blond little girl very much like Kelly. The moment he gasped, the girl vanished.

  He squinted, trying to reconstruct her form, wishing desperately to see her again. The reality of the situation hit him square on: it was a ghost.

  He switched on the bedroom light, followed by every other light in the house. He reheated the pot of coffee and drank every last drop.

  What was happening to him? He analyzed every detail of the last forty-eight hours and concluded whatever it was had to do with Libby. The only person who could help him was Libby. He had no choice. He had to call her.

  * * *
/>   CHAPTER 9

  Libby ran her palms through the air over her client's body, as if smoothing a sheet but never making contact. With eyes closed, Bert lay on his back, outstretched on the flat surface of a massage table. Libby made several passes before finishing the session.

  When she placed her hand on his shoulder and whispered she was finished, he opened his eyes and sighed. "That was wonderful, Libby."

  She slipped into the bathroom and rinsed her hands in the cool, purifying water. When she returned, Bert had turned onto his side.

  "You're a jewel," he said.

  At her desk she made a few notes while he attempted to sit up. "Don't get up too fast." She handed him a glass of water. "How's the knee?"

  He edged off the table and distributed his weight on one foot, then the other. "Gone. I think it's gone. How do you do that?"

  "I don't do anything," she said. "I'm just a channel for the healing energy that comes through."

  "I don't know about any channel, but I'd say you're an angel."

  Libby shook her head. "Oh, Bert."

  "How much do I owe you?"

  "You know the routine."

  "Donations don't keep you in food and wine, dear. Why don't you let me take you out to dinner? Since my knees are better, we could go dancing and have a gay old time."

  "Now, Bert, you know I don't date clients." She laced an arm around his and escorted him from the room.

  "Oh, hell, Libby, for once in your life break a rule."

  "You sound like my girlfriend."

  "Well?"

  "You're old enough to be my grandfather."

  "I can still make a woman smile." He winked.

  When they reached the door, Libby gave him a peck on the cheek. "Stay well, Bert."

  "I'll be back."

  "Drive carefully. And thanks for the fresh eggs."

  Though the energy work relieved Bert's chronic pain for several weeks, it hadn't healed it completely, and she could count on his return. He liked being around her, and she often wondered if the pain was less severe than he professed it to be.

  As a rule, she charged for her services, but Bert was a family friend and had recently turned eighty. She wanted to help him however she could. The healing sessions fit the bill.

  She wiped the sweat from her brow. The work always heated her, plus the weather had shifted, and today promised to be a scorcher, with no cool breeze for relief. She changed into shorts and a summer top and welcomed the rest of the day to herself.

  On Monday she'd had several readings, and she'd blocked out the time after Bert's appointment. She would have plodded ahead, but an inner prompting had directed her to take the afternoon off. Ellen was in town running errands, leaving Libby alone.

  She lay on her bed and propped a pillow behind her head. The moment she opened the novel she had been longing to read, the doorbell rang and rang again. She wondered if Ellen had locked herself out, but the time indicated it was too soon for Ellen's return.

  Annoyed by the interruption, she marched into the living room, prepared to fend off a solicitor. She swung the door open, and Kipp greeted her with a scowl that could have knocked her flat. His energy was that intense.

  "We need to talk," he said.

  He'd surprised her, and the only thought that came to mind was the last thing he'd mentioned when he dropped her off from the airport. "About dinner?"

  "This is not about dinner. Can I come in?"

  He grabbed hold of the screen handle, but Libby stood her ground. "Normally, people are considerate enough to make an appointment."

  "I was going to call, but I didn't." He rubbed the stubble on his chin. "This is important. We have to talk."

  Libby read the confusion behind the anger and stepped away from the door. He declined any refreshment, and they went straight to her office. She wished she'd had time to change into something less revealing because he seemed preoccupied with her appearance, eyeballing her without saying a word.

  "Well, did you have something to say to me?"

  "Right." His eyes pierced hers with a showdown stare. "I don't know what kind of witchcraft you subscribe to, but whatever it is, I wish you'd back off."

  Libby's head lurched backward. "What are you talking about?"

  "You're making things happen. Strange things. Things are appearing in my bedroom, and I want it stopped."

  "What things?"

  "Things," he said. "Ghosts."

  "Why don't you sit down and explain to me what's been going on, so I can help you."

  "You don't know?"

  "I have an idea. I suspect you're opening up."

  "Opening up? What the hell does that mean?"

  "Please sit down and give me the details."

  "I'd rather stand."

  "Suit yourself."

  Kipp described the experience of the last two nights, including waking up in cold sweats and seeing what he thought were ghosts, glimpses of a little girl. When he finished talking, Libby reached out to touch his arm, but he withdrew.

  "Kipp, this is happening to you because you are opening to it. It's the right time. Messages need to come through. I have a feeling about this, but I need your permission to tune in to your energy field."

  "Like you did last time I was here? I don't think so."

  "Please, I just need to get a picture of what's going on. I won't scare you. I'll only relay what your guides want you to know. I think it will help."

  "What guides? What kind of garbage are you feeding me now?"

  "Listen to me," she said. "We all have guidance from the other side. Sometimes it's from people we know, perhaps a grandparent. And you're familiar with guardian angels, beings that watch over us?"

  "That's all hocus-pocus."

  "Angels are with us all the time. They protect us. They serve as messengers of Spirit. They're here to keep us safe on our path."

  "That's crap."

  "It's the truth," she said. "Haven't you ever had the experience of getting a strong feeling you should avoid something, like going down a certain road, but when you don't heed that feeling, you either get in an accident or there's a long delay? Or the opposite. You do avoid the road, and you hear later that something bad happened there."

  "Maybe."

  "We all get strong feelings, and we don't know where they come from. Coincidences happen that we can't explain. We have help, otherworldly help."

  Kipp dropped his gaze and picked at his nails.

  "I can't make you believe it. You'll have to trust me. I can help you."

  With everything that had transpired in the last few weeks--the visions, the strong feelings associated with Kipp, his appearances on her doorstep--the reason for all this was close at hand. Determined to keep him here until she found out the truth of the matter, she laid a hand on his arm, calming him.

  "What can you do?" His tone was softer, less hostile now.

  "I'll ask your guides why this is happening and what you need to know. Trust me."

  The silence between them could have been counted in hours, not minutes. Libby studied him. By the way his brows knitted together, his eyes searched the floor, and one hand was massaging the other, she could tell he was agonizing over letting her into his world again, a difficult decision for him.

  Finally, his willing eyes met hers, and he sat in the recliner. "But I'm not convinced this will help."

  Libby assured him it couldn't hurt and instructed him to lean back in the chair and take several deep breaths. She sat near her desk, synchronized her breathing with his, and prepared to enter a different reality. Her eyelids drifted shut.

  Silently, she prayed for the love and protection to increase around them and asked to receive information about Kipp's experience. She waited for the information to come into her field, and in a matter of minutes opened her eyes and said, "These occurrences definitely have to do with the loss of a child. Your guides are trying to get your attention."

  "But why?"

  Knowing Kipp's reluctance to
move ahead with this, she remained cautious. "Do I have your permission to delve deeper?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'd like to understand the circumstances surrounding the loss."

  "I can tell you that."

  "Would you?"

  "I would, but it's painful."

  "Can you tell me in general terms? The feeling I got last time you were here was that the child was taken away from you somehow and--"

  "She was kidnapped. Is that what you wanted to know? Now you know." He brought his fist to his mouth to hold his emotions in check.

  "I'm so sorry." For a moment she could feel his pain, as if it were her own, and her whole body ached with remorse. "Let me give you the information I feel needs to come through concerning this."

  "You've already opened up the wound. Do you want to rub salt in it?" Kipp stood. "I don't need to be reminded she's gone. I live it every day."

  "Kipp, listen to me. I want you to sit down and let me bring this information through. It needs to be said."

  She was so emphatic Kipp eased into the chair.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, listening for the words and symbols to come through. "I feel you have been looking for this child a long time, but I see many paths and many roadblocks. You haven't been able to find her, but a new path is opening up to you."

  Libby's eyelids fluttered open and she stared at Kipp. "These impressions are coming to you because your guides are trying to get your attention."

  "They're doing a good job of it."

  "They want you to try again. They want you to look for her again. What have you done so far?"

  "This is ridiculous. I've done everything I can. The FBI. The police. I even hired a private investigator. She's on the registry for missing kids. There are nothing but dead ends."

  "How long has she been gone?"

  "Two years."

  "Well, I'm sensing you need to start again. Not the authorities. You."

  "Me." He shook his head, looked down at his hands. "I can't do it." He paused, then met Libby's gaze. "I was finally coming to grips with the fact we'd never find her. I was beginning to accept it. I don't know if I can go through the pain of rehashing everything and not finding her." He raised a hand, shielding his eyes.