by Dinah McCall
Inside the last room on the left, seven little girls sat quietly watching…for the teacher to begin.
They didn’t hear the rain peppering against the windows or see the lightning as it began to flash. Their eyes were on the teacher, their minds focused on the sound of his voice.
That night, long after the children had gone home, the storm still raged. Just before midnight, a great shaft of lightning came down from the sky, shattering wood and shingles alike as it pierced the roof of the school. Before anyone noticed, the school was completely engulfed in flames. By morning there was nothing left….
The seven who’d been chosen for the gifted class were mainstreamed into first-grade classes in three different districts, and life went on. They learned. They grew. And every night their parents put them to bed, unaware of the time bomb that ticked in their heads.
Also available from MIRA Books and DINAH MCCALL
THE RETURN
MIRA Books is also proud to publish Dinah McCall under her real name SHARON SALA
SNOWFALL
DINAH MCCALL
STORM WARNING
As we are born, we learn to listen for the sound of our mother’s voice because we know it to be the source of our pleasure and comfort—that she will satisfy our hunger and take away our pain.
It is our first lesson in learning to love.
For some babies the sounds are not loving and kind. The stroke of the mother’s hand becomes that which we associate with hunger and pain. The depths of her despair are echoed in the shrill, unanswered cries of her child.
It is the first lesson in learning to fear.
Then there are the babies whose mother’s voice is forever missing. They have no one to bond to, no nourishment is shared. There is no soft voice in the dark to take away their fears.
It is their first and last lesson that nobody cares.
I dedicate this book to the people who spend their lives in the service of caring for children. Whether you are a mother, another family member or a social worker, or simply the good neighbor on the block, you are forever blessed in the eyes of God for caring for those who cannot care for themselves.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
First, before I mention anything else, I want my readers to know that this is a work of fiction, and while there are many strides being made in the name of healing through hypnosis, the situation I have created in my story is purely fictional. I live with the hope that one day such a thing will be true, but for now the ability to heal completely through hypnosis is only a dream.
And now I must thank John Lehman, Quaker minister, licensed hypnotherapist and family counselor, for his generosity in helping me with certain aspects of this book. Any mistakes that are made in this book are mine, and the places where I chose to stretch the truth of the hypnotist’s power were purely for the entertainment of the readers.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Prologue
Upstate New York, 1979
Edward Fontaine stood at the doorway, watching the children on the playground while keeping an eye on the weather. As headmaster of Montgomery Academy, a small private school, it was his duty to oversee every aspect of the daily routine, including the welfare of the children.
Granted, his teachers were doing their part as they stood duty out on the playground, but Edward had a bird’s eye view from the top of the steps. As he watched, he felt a shift in the wind and glanced up at the sky. The light, fluffy clumps of clouds that had been there earlier were now massing into something large and dark. Although the play period was not over, he didn’t want to take a chance on one of the children being struck by lightning, so he hurried into his office and rang the bell. It echoed throughout the building and out on the grounds, and even though he was still inside, he could hear the collective shouts of the children’s dismay.
As he reached the top steps, the first rumble of thunder shook the windows. The children’s reluctance to end their play was replaced with frantic haste as the teachers began herding them inside.
“Hurry! Hurry!” Edward shouted, calling to the youngest children at the very farthest end of the grounds. “It’s going to storm. You must come inside!”
Virginia Shapiro and her best friend, Georgia, had been at the top of the slide when the first bell rang. At six years old, their dilemma now became one of climbing back down the steps or sliding down and risking the wrath of having “played” when they were supposed to be going inside. When the second ripple of thunder shattered the sky above them, Virginia began to cry. Georgia took her by the hand, uncertain what to do.
Edward could tell the children were in trouble and bolted down the steps. As he ran, it occurred to him that he should be in better shape, but the thought disappeared with the first drops of rain upon his face.
“Come, children, come,” he urged, standing at the foot of the slide. “It’s all right. Just slide to me. We’ll go inside together.”
Georgia tugged at Virginia’s hand, giving her a brave little smile.
“Come on, Ginny…we’ll go together, like always.”
Ginny sniffled and nodded, and moments later they went flying down the slick, metal surface and right into Mr. Fontaine’s arms.
“That’s my good girls,” he said, quickly taking each one by the hand. “Now let’s run. I’ll bet I can beat you.”
The girls squealed and pulled loose from his grasp as they tore off across the yard. He sighed with relief and then started after them at a jog, knowing full well he was going to be wet before he got back.
They were nowhere in sight as he entered the building. But as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, he saw them at the far end of the hall, scurrying toward the last room on the left.
He’d almost forgotten. Today was Thursday. The Gifted and Talented Class met on Thursdays. The niggle of doubt that crossed his mind was not the first he’d had as he watched the door close behind them. It wasn’t as if he was allowing anyone to harm them. Quite the opposite. Those particular seven little girls had one thing in common that had garnered them access to the class. And the money he’d received as a “special endowment” for allowing the class to proceed was not something he could overlook. The fact that the parents didn’t realize the true nature of the class often disturbed him, but he knew the children were not being harmed. Besides, it was already done, and that was that.
A strong gust of wind blew a curtain of rain against the backs of his legs. Turning his mind to more pertinent affairs, he quickly shut the doors of the main entrance and went to his office. There was always paperwork to be done.
Inside the last room on the left, seven little girls sat quietly in their respective chairs, watching for the teacher to begin. The glass in the windows rattled as thunder continued to rumble. They didn’t hear the rain peppering against the windows or see the lightning as it began to flash. Their eyes were on the teacher, their minds focused on the sound of his voice.
That night, long after the children had gone home, the storm still raged. Wind-whipped trees bent low to the ground, their branches bowing in supplication to the greater strength of the storm.
Just before midnight, a great shaft of lightning came down from the sky, shattering wood and shingles alike as it pierced the roof of the school. B
efore anyone noticed, the school was completely engulfed in flames. By morning, there was nothing left but an exterior wall and a huge pile of smoldering timbers.
Edward Fontaine stood on the outskirts of the playground, looking at what was left of his school in disbelief. He didn’t have the resources to start all over again, and going back into the classroom as a teacher didn’t seem possible, either. His dream was finished. His heart had been broken.
Within the week, all the students had transferred, some to private schools, others moved into the public school system. The seven who’d been chosen for the gifted class were mainstreamed into first-grade classes in three different districts, and life went on. They learned. They grew. And every night their parents put them to bed, unaware of the time bomb that ticked in their heads.
1
Present Day, Seattle, Washington
“Mommy, Mommy. I hungry. Pwease a cracker.”
Twenty-seven-year-old Emily Jackson looked up from her computer and then glanced at the clock. She rolled her eyes in dismay as she bolted up from her chair to attend to her two-year-old son. Of course he was hungry. It was thirty minutes after twelve. Being a stay-at-home mommy and still keeping her job as an accountant hadn’t been as easy as she’d first imagined, although using a computer to interface with her clients had been a godsend.
“Just a minute, sweetie,” she called, handing him an animal cracker and giving him a kiss as she hurried to the fridge. There were plenty of leftovers, and he was eating just about everything now. It wouldn’t take but a minute to heat something up in the microwave.
She had three covered bowls and his bottle sitting on the cabinet and was reaching inside the fridge for the fourth bowl when the phone began to ring.
“It never fails,” she muttered, as she reached for the phone instead.
“Jackson residence. Yes…this is Emily. Who’s calling please?”
There was a brief moment of silence on the other end of the line, and then she heard the distant sound of thunder and a series of bells—like the chimes of an elaborate doorbell. At the sound, her mind went blank. She turned her face to the wall with the receiver still held to her ear. Cold air from the open refrigerator door wafted against the backs of her legs, but she didn’t feel it. In her mind, she was already gone.
Moments later, she laid the phone down on the counter, picked up the box of animal crackers and a bottle of milk for the baby, and then lifted him in her arms. Silently, she carried him to his bed, handed him the box of crackers and his bottle, and walked away without looking back.
The unusual treat was enough to satisfy the hungry child’s cries. As he was eating his cookies, Emily was getting into her car and then backing out of the drive. A neighbor across the street waved, but Emily didn’t seem to see her. The neighbor thought nothing of it and had started to go about her business when she noticed the front door to Emily’s house was ajar.
“Oh my,” she said, and then hastened across the street to do her neighborly duty.
When she reached the porch, a spurt of nosiness reared its ugly head. Instead of just closing the door, she thought of looking inside. What would it hurt? Just a little peek.
With one guilty glance over her shoulder, she stepped inside and then closed the door behind her. She stood for a moment, admiring the color scheme and the plump, overstuffed furniture in the living room to her right. Taking a couple more steps toward the center of the house, she stopped to admire the view through the patio doors beyond. As she did, she heard a noise coming from the bedrooms. How stupid of her. Just because Emily left, that didn’t mean the house was empty. Her husband, Joe, who was an air traffic controller, must have the day off.
“Joe! Joe! It’s me, Helen. Emily accidentally left the front door open and I came over to shut it.”
No one answered, yet she could still hear the underlying sound of chatter.
“Joe? It’s me. Helen. Are you decent?”
A shrill squeal startled her. It was then she thought of the baby. She’d just assumed that he’d been in the car with Emily, because she rarely went anywhere without him. She started toward the hallway, fearful that at any moment her neighbor would come flying out of some room and wanting to know what the hell she was about. But the farther she walked, the more certain she became that Joe was not there.
When she stepped into the baby’s room, she gasped in shock. He was sitting in the middle of his bed with a box of animal crackers in one hand and his bottle in the other.
“Cookie?” he asked, and offered her the box.
“Oh my God,” she muttered, and picked him up from his crib. Surely this wasn’t what it seemed? She would have bet her life that Emily Jackson wasn’t the kind of mother who would go off and leave an unattended baby behind.
With the baby on her hip, she began hurrying through the rooms. By the time she got to the kitchen, she knew something was terribly wrong. Food was sitting out on the cabinet. The phone was off the hook, and the refrigerator door was standing open. She started to put the room to rights when something told her not to touch a thing. Instead, she grabbed a handful of the baby’s diapers and took him with her as she left.
By the time Helen reached her own home with the intention of calling Joe at work, Emily Jackson was on a collision course with destiny.
Emily drove through the Seattle traffic with no thought for care or safety, running red lights and taking corners on two wheels. By the time she reached the Narrows Bridge, the entourage of cop cars behind her equaled, if not surpassed, the attention the L.A. police had given to O.J.’s infamous run. The police didn’t know it yet, but she had reached her destination. A cordon of police cars was at the other end of the bridge, a roadblock firmly in place, with traffic behind them backed up for blocks.
But Emily didn’t make it to the other side of the bridge. About halfway across, she suddenly pulled to a stop and put the car in Park. She was out and walking to the side of the bridge before the first cop car behind her could pull to a standstill. And by the time that officer was running and shouting for her to halt, she had climbed over the edge. After that, everything started to happen in slow motion.
People were shouting at her not to jump, making promises they could never keep, but it was nothing but a roar in Emily’s ears. She lifted her arms to the side as if she were a bird about to take flight, turned her face up to heaven and then fell.
End over end, tumbling quietly, with nothing but the wind whistling around her ears—doing as she’d been told.
The shock of her death reverberated throughout Seattle for all of three days before it was replaced by another equally tragic story. She left behind a puzzled and grieving husband, and a little boy who cried for a mother who would never come home.
One week later, Amarillo, Texas
Josephine Henley, Jo-Jo to the customers of Haley’s Bar, was dodging hands and slinging drinks when Raleigh, the bartender, yelled at her across the room.
“Hey, Jo-Jo, you got a phone call.”
She waved to him, indicating that she’d heard, as she pocketed her tips from a couple of drunk truckers who kept begging for a kiss.
“Come on, Jo-Jo, just one for the road,” Henry said.
“Not only no, but hell no,” Jo-Jo said. “You’re married.”
“Yeah, but I’m also lonely.”
“You’re not lonely, you’re horny, and I’m not about to oblige.”
“Then give me back my five dollars,” he said teasingly.
“Oh no, I earned that. Besides, it would cost you a hell of a lot more than five bucks to get me on my back.”
“How much?” he asked, his interest suddenly reviving.
“You don’t have enough money to buy me, mister. Now back off. I’ve got a phone call.”
She evaded his grasp and made her way across the floor to the phone.
“A bourbon and water,” she said, turning in a new drink order, then turned to the phone on the wall, picked up the dangling receiver and put it
to her ear.
“Hello? Hello?”
She couldn’t hear a thing for all the noise and put her hand over the mouthpiece as she turned toward the room.
“Hold it down a little!” she yelled. “I can’t hear myself think.”
She tried again. “Hello. Yes, this is Josephine Henley.”
As she waited, she thought she heard thunder and turned abruptly, trying to remember if she’d rolled the windows up on her car. Then another sound followed, and as it did, the frown between her eyebrows faded and her chin dropped toward her chest, almost as if she’d gone to sleep. She stood without speaking, her eyes closed, her shoulders slumped. Raleigh noticed and frowned. It wasn’t like Jo-Jo to be this still. He touched her on the shoulder.
“Hey, kid, is anything wrong?”
She didn’t respond, other than to suddenly drop the phone and try to get past him.
“Here’s your bourbon and water,” he said, handing her the tray with her new order, but she pushed him aside, and as she did, the tray fell to the floor with a clatter.
“Hey, was that my drink?” someone yelled.
“Shut the hell up,” Raleigh countered, and grabbed Jo-Jo by the arm. “What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you hear what I said?”
Then he saw her face, and the look in her eyes stopped his heart. Later he would say it was like looking into a room, only no one was there.
Jo-Jo was moving toward the exit when Raleigh panicked and yelled at one of the men to stop her, but the order got lost in the noise and confusion.
“Hey, Jo-Jo! Is something wrong? Come back!” he yelled, and then came out from behind the bar and started after her before the men in the room realized anything was wrong.
By the time Raleigh got to the door, more than half of them were following.
He stopped outside the doorway, scanning the crowded lot for a sign of where she’d gone. Her car was still parked against the north side of the building, so wherever she was, she’d gone on foot. He started moving through the cars and trucks, shouting out her name.
