The Crossover

by E. Clay

  “Clay?”

  “Yes, Jo,” I replied as I stood in the doorway.

  “Can I have my watch back?”

  “Watch, what watch?” I responded with a sheepish look.

  “The watch you stole off my wrist when you hugged me.”

  I walked into my house and Missy was by the back door so I let her out. I saw Carl in the back yard. He was slurping on a small carton of OJ. He asked about Joanne and I told him she was recovering nicely and would be home the following day.

  “Clay, I can’t get my head around this case and I’m running out of time.”

  “What do you mean, Carl?”

  “The Press wants to break this story wide open but so far they are keeping their powder dry. But we only have a small window before the shit hits the fan. And that window is closing fast, mate.”

  “I noticed the killings weren’t covered in the Press. I thought they would be all over this one,” I said.

  “The Press knows this nut job wants his story plastered on all the headlines. But if I have it my way he will go down as one of the most dangerous serial killers you never heard of.”

  “So how did you convince the Press to hold tight?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t comment on that,” Carl replied as he took another big swig.

  “What about the girl, the victim? Is she close to consenting to hypnosis?”

  “The family is divided. Her mum and older sister want her to go through with it. But her dad is a right pain in my arse. He’s dead against it. Something has got to give before we have another dead lass on our hands.”

  “Hi, Clay. Come on in. Dinner is ready,” Jo said as she shut the door behind me.

  I gave Jo a small bouquet of flowers, welcoming her back home. Inside her house were large bookcases on both walls in her living room. Her house resembled a mini library, literally hundreds of books in different genres mostly nonfiction. I took my time browsing some of the titles and it was obvious Jo was fascinated with Russian espionage cases dating back to the turn of the century. She appreciated the spy-vs-spy rivalry between the CIA and the KGB. Jo was proud of her literary collection and it was clear she had an investigative mind. She loved solving mysteries.

  I brought Jo a copy of my new novel The Mogadishu Diaries and a printed copy of the first few chapters of The Seduction of a Military Wife, the story of Monet and I.

  “So you’re a writer?” Jo commented.

  “Well, let’s just say I have a story to tell. I know that you’re a published author with Oxford University Press. It must be nice to have a mainstream publishing company to back you. That’s my dream.”

  “For years I wrote for academia but now I’m going in a totally different direction. I’m publishing a children’s book. It’s about a little girl and her special relationship with her fish. It should be published soon,” Jo said.

  “Can I have the honor of being the first to buy your book?”

  Jo seemed surprised.

  “Okay, I’ll hold you to that. I’m with a large publishing company called New Paradigm; they publish all types of genre. I personally don’t care for fiction, but I will take a look at your work. But I gotta warn you, I won’t sugar-coat my critique.”

  “I’d expect nothing less,” I replied with a grin.

  I placed my book and manuscript on her coffee table and followed Jo into the dining room.

  I seated myself at the dinner table in the dining room while Jo was in the kitchen preparing to bring the food out. My salivary glands worked overtime as I could smell the aroma of salmon in the air.

  When Jo set the dishes on the table I was slightly surprised.

  “Wow, two vegetable dishes,” I commented.

  Jo was big on healthy eating. She prepared steamy dishes of broccoli, Brussels sprouts, rice and lightly seasoned salmon. I was a bit under-whelmed. I’m not a big fan of dishes that are high in nutrition and low in taste, especially when I’m super hungry. But my gratitude overshadowed any disappointment.

  “Okay, I guess I’ll say grace,” I said as we both were seated.

  Jo was hesitant.

  “Clay, I don’t say grace, but you can.”

  It was just a little awkward knowing she was watching me. When I finished, I looked up and saw her staring at me.

  “Sorry, Clay. I don’t believe in God, heaven or hell,” Jo said as she handed me a large plate of Brussels sprouts.

  “So what do you think happens to us after we die?” I asked.

  “When we die, we die and that’s it. There is no afterlife.”

  “You seem pretty sure about that but I believe there is a life after death,” I commented.

  Jo sighed and looked to her right watching Nemo swimming in the large exotic aquarium. She had a sad commentary.

  “If there is an afterlife, I will let you know in about six months. Or less, depending on what doctor you listen to.”

  I stopped chewing and put the fork down.

  “Jo, what are you talking about, six months?”

  “Clay, I came to England to die. I don’t have any family or any friends to speak of. If my phone rings it’s either my publisher or my attorney who’s in charge of my affairs after I go. I’ve been diagnosed with stage-four lymphoma. I halted chemo treatment just before I left the States. I just couldn’t handle the treatments. I’ve been wearing this wig for a while now. Clay, there is one detail I want you to take care of when I go. It’s important to me.”

  “All right, Jo. What is it?” I asked solemnly.

  Jo walked over the aquarium and sprinkled a few flakes of fish food into the illuminated tank.

  “I want you to take care of Nemo for me. I know you’ll take good care of him,”

  “I’ll do it.”

  It was so morbid talking about life after Jo. She was my friend and I didn’t want to lose her.

  “Thanks, Clay. Just one more thing. When Nemo swims his last swim, don’t flush him down the toilet, okay?”

  As Jo was speaking her cellphone rang. The ringtone was befitting of her love of the ‘60s.

  It’s not usual to be loved by anyone. It’s not unusual to have fun with anyone...

  “Jo, is that a Tom Jones ringtone?”

  “Indeed,” she responded with pride.

  The previous conversation was pretty morbid and I had to force myself to disengage from the doom and gloom I was feeling inside.

  Jo excused herself from the table; it was her publisher from New Paradigm. During her conversation I pondered what it would be like to have an agent and talk stuff like royalty compensation. It was exciting just to sit on the sidelines to hear Jo assert herself so professionally. I admired Jo. The Tom Jones ringtone was hilarious to me.

  Jo returned to the table.

  “My agent says he left messages on my answering machine. He knows if he really wants to contact me he needs to call my cell. I always check my cell.”

  Jo and I finished our main course and we chatted over dessert, a bowl of sliced fresh fruit.

  “So, who is the lucky girl?” Jo asked.

  “What makes you think there is a girl?”

  “Clay, either you’re in love or on drugs. No one walks around with a permanent smile on their face. What’s her name?”

  “Monet, her name is Monet. She coming soon and I really want you to meet her.”

  Jo’s eyes got big.

  “Jo, what’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Just the thought of that puts my stomach in knots.”

  “The thought of what?”

  “Clay, meeting people. It’s so awkward and uncomfortable, I can’t think of anything worse. You are the only one that calls me by my first name.”

  “Really, what does everyone else call you?” I asked.

  “They address me as Dr. Tompson, I insist on it.”

  “But why? I don’t get it.”

  “It keeps it impersonal, the way I like. I don’t want friends, I’m happy in my own little world with my little fishy friend
. I generally do not trust people. I don’t know why I’m like that but that’s just the way I am.”

  “I’m your friend. So, explain that. How did I get in?”

  Jo crossed her arms and leaned towards me.

  “It’s funny how you can check into a hospital a single woman only to find out that you have a husband. Hmm, it’s amazing how that happens. Don’t you think?”

  “Wow, I heard that happens a lot in British hospitals,” I laughed.

  SIXTEEN

  * * *

  The Debt

  My cat Missy always sits on the hamper cleaning her front paws as I shower. Something startled her and she bolted from the bathroom down the stairs. That could only mean one thing; someone was at the front door. I quickly donned my black terry cloth robe, slipping and sliding across the bathroom floor before I headed downstairs. There was a frantic woman in distress banging on my door. It was Jo.

  “Jo?”

  Jo walked right past me in a manic state and stood in the middle of my living room.

  “Clay, I’m freakin’ out dude.”

  I had completely forgotten I was still soaking wet and under-dressed.

  Jo’s cellphone rang and she booted the caller straight into voicemail.

  “Jo, calm down. Breathe, breathe. Now tell me what’s wrong?”

  Jo sat on my couch and broke down in tears. I knew it must have been something pretty serious. I sat next to her and tried my best to get her to calm down.

  “Clay, my publisher arranged a book signing for me.”

  “Congratulations, Jo. That’s great.”

  Jo wiped her bloodshot eyes on her sleeve and looked at me.

  “Clay, that’s my worst nightmare. All those people in line. I hate crowds, I hate them. I can’t believe they did this to me.”

  I was relieved to find out it wasn’t something related to her medical condition, but I worried because I knew something was psychologically wrong with Jo. She was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.

  I politely excused myself to dry off and got dressed. When I returned I saw little wads of Kleenex in Jo’s lap. Jo opened up to me and told me she suffered from an-thropophobia, a pathological form of acute timidity and shyness. I had just one other client with the same diagnosis, his name was Steve and he really was a forty-year-old virgin.

  “I think I can help,” I said as I put my arm around her.

  “What? How?”

  “Follow me,” I said as I stood and reached for her hand.

  “Where are we going?” Jo asked nervously.

  We walked upstairs and stopped.

  “Just here. This is my study where I see my clients. More than three thousand clients have sat right there in the black leather recliner. Clients with hundreds of issues including phobias.”

  Jo noticed my credentials professionally mounted in mahogany frames on the wall. Jo let go of my hand and read the fine print on my certificates.

  “The American Council of Hypnotist Examiners, I’m familiar with this organization. They are highly respected worldwide. So, you want to get inside my head?”

  “Yes, but I have to be invited.”

  Jo felt the soft leather of my recliner and she sat.

  “I love this chair; it’s so comfy. How much do you charge for a session?”

  “Don’t be silly, this is on the house.”

  It was so nice to see Jo smile again. She wiped the very last tear away.

  “Groovy. When do we start?”

  Jo asked to begin the session immediately. I had just one request, she put Tom Jones on silent.

  My voiced lulled her into a tranquil peaceful state of mind. She did not resist and within minutes her eyes were mere slits. When her head slumped to her left I knew she was on her way. It was one of the quickest inductions I had done in years.

  The intensity of Jo’s issue, coupled with my fondness of her, intensified my determination to help. Hypnosis is an intimate bond between two people at the subconscious level and this session would go beyond that.

  I was aware of the synchronicity between my mind and body. I was more than ready to engage Jo, but there was a silent ritual I needed to perform. A ritual I’d always performed silently because I realize that not all people believe in the power of Christ. I always repeat the Lords’ Prayer in my head immediately after the client enters trance. I ask for guidance and resolution. I’ve done this so many times, but this time would be truly an astonishing experience.

  “Our father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name,” I said silently.

  “Thy Kingdom Come, Thy will be done in Earth as it is in Heaven,” Jo said aloud.

  Her ability to read my thoughts was nothing short of extraordinary. We established a rare subconscious link, something I only read about in class. I realized what was happening so I accepted it and continued.

  “Jo, I want you to imagine yourself entering an elevator. See the doors closing behind you.”

  “Where am I going?” Jo slurred.

  “There is a red button with three red letters, A M C. Press it.”

  “I’m descending, I’m scared. I want to get off.”

  “If I accompany you would that make it better?”

  “Yes. The elevator is stopping what’s going on?”

  “Hi, Jo.”

  “Clay, I see you. Where did you come from?”

  “Jo, when the doors open look to your right and you will see a safe and and secure abode. This is your sanctuary designed by you for you. You are drawn to it.”

  “Clay, the elevator stopped. I guess this is where I get off. I’ll see you soon, right?”

  “I’ll wait here for you.”

  “Clay, it’s a castle. It’s beautiful. It has a gatehouse and there are four towers. I think I see sentries patrolling the perimeter. I feel like it’s beckoning me. I must go.”

  Jo’s face was so peaceful and serene. I was happy for her.

  “The ceilings are so high. My books are here! I have my own library. There are so many rooms. Nemo!”

  Suddenly, Jo’s expression went blank. She tightened her fist and her feet were moving briskly. I sensed something was wrong.

  “Jo, what’s wrong?”

  “They’re here. They want to take me. They are slaughtering the sentries and shooting my archers out of their towers. They want to get inside.”

  I surmised the opposing force represented the cancer in her body. I was mentally on autopilot and words just came to me.

  “Jo, does your affliction serve a purpose? Is it here for a reason?”

  Jo’s lips started to quiver. She was reluctant to speak. She nodded her head.

  “What purpose is that?” I asked intently.

  “Punishment,” she uttered.

  “Whose punishment?”

  “My punishment. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Jo sobbed.

  “Why are you being punished?” I asked.

  Her voice became faint and I had to scoot closer to her to hear her clearly.

  “Abortion,” she whispered.

  “Can you forgive yourself?”

  “No. Clay, they’re gonna break into the gatehouse. My sentries are dying, for me.”

  “Jo, find a chamber and lock yourself in.”

  “Okay. I’m in. I locked the door,” she panted.

  I stood and knocked on the wall behind her.

  “Clay, there’s someone knocking on my door. I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be scared, Jo. I’ve summoned an angel. It’s the angel of forgiveness. If you want to live, you must open the door.”

  “I can’t, Clay. It’s my time.”

  I banged louder on the wall this time.

  “Jo, it’s me. Let me in. If you don’t I will be killed with the rest. Is it my time to die too?”

  “No. Why are you here?” she sobbed.

  “Because I care. Please let me in.”

  Jo slowly raised her hand and she unlocked the door.

  “Clay, there’s an angel behind
you. She’s holding a baby, my baby. I want to hold her, please.”

  In my mind’s eye I could see everything crystal clear, like I was there with her.

  Jo’s maternal instinct kicked in. She began to cradle and rock gently left to right. It was extraordinary to observe.

  “Clay, look. She’s so beautiful. I will call her Lily. I can feel her love.”

  “Jo, I think you want to live.”

  “Yes, I wanna live.”

  “Hold on to your baby tightly, very tightly.”

  “All right, what’s happening?”

  I grabbed the sides of the recliner with both hands. I shook it left to right as hard as I could.

  “Clay, the earth is shaking. What’s happening?”

  “The earth is swallowing up the enemy, hold on!”

  I rocked it vigorously until I was out of breath.

  “It stopped,” Jo commented.

  “Jo, I think it’s safe. Let’s go to the gatehouse.”

  With her free hand Jo waved.

  “Who are you waving to, Jo?”

  “The angel. I’ve been forgiven.”

  I was emotionally exhausted and spent. I felt what Jo felt and I saw the things Jo had seen. I saw the angel too, it was Winnie.

  SEVENTEEN

  * * *

  Makeover

  Heathrow Airport

  London, England

  Good morning Ms. Dawson, my name is John. Master Thompson sent me to collect you. He was called away for an urgent matter. May I help you with your luggage?”

  “How did you know I was Monet?”

  “His description of you left nothing to the imagination. He described you perfectly.”

  “I can’t believe Clay couldn’t make it. It must be something really important. Okay, John, lead the way.”

  “Right this way, Ms. Dawson. There’s a strike outside but not to worry.”

  “Strike? Who’s striking?”

  “The black cabbies. The car is not far away, just there.”

  “Very nice. Is that a Bentley?” Monet commented.

  “Yes, it is. The rear windows are tinted for your privacy.”

  “Privacy? Why would I need privacy?”