Vanessa: Mended Harps

VANESSA - MENDED HARPS

David Lee Howells

Copyright 2013

Smashwords Edition

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

SYNOPSIS

CHAPTER 1 – THERAPIST

CHAPTER 2 – THE DREAMER

CHAPTER 3 – GATHERING

CHAPTER 4 – CONFERENCE

CHAPTER 5 – LADIES AND GENTLEMEN

CHAPTER 6 – SUNDAY

CHAPTER 7 – SUNDAY EVENING

CHAPTER 8 – ASSIGNMENTS

CHAPTER 9 – FLIGHTS OF FANCY

CHAPTER 10 – BANKERS HOURS

CHAPTER 11 – RED DEER

CHAPTER 12 – SOUTH OF THE BORDER

CHAPTER 13 – A ROYAL PAIN

CHAPTER 14 – THE VATICAN RAG

CHAPTER 15 – PRIVATE THOUGHTS

CHAPTER 16 – JAFFA

CHAPTER 17 – REGROUPING

CHAPTER 18 - THURSDAY

CHAPTER 19 – HELLFIRE

EPILOGUE

MEMBERS OF THE TALE

MEET THE AUTHOR

SYNOPSIS

The assault by the Christian Strategic Arm had taken two (human) Fitzgalen Family casualties. Major Kenneth McGuinness and FBI forensics expert Russ Anderson were dead. Bound by spiritual ties to the Family, they remained on earth like their brother entities: Gustav Mendelssohn and Reverend Daniel Pocolis. The massed funeral for them and the others who fell to homegrown holy war helped dampen world inter-religion tensions that had been building up for a thousand years.

The increased visibility of the Fitzgalen Family gradually abated but it never went away, for they remained determined in their public mission despite the mixed blessings of notoriety.

Marianne Cabrini and Ralph Kithcart proceeded with their marriage. A month later, Lou Brooks proposed to Quintavia Mendala. She accepted.

Rachel Gladstone had used the information being gathered by Melissa Bank’s team at RPI in Troy to put many entity rescue teams out in the field. Most were successful, some were not. All were instructive. She had already begun to organize the next target roster in preparation for the upcoming Family meeting.

On the down side, something was wrong with one of the Gladstone children. Jerry’s parents had pursued standard medical protocols, but all efforts failed to turn up anything definite. There seemed nothing to be truly alarmed about, yet. That would change.

All over the world, people who suspected the presence of a ghost considered either utilizing the information provided by the Hawthorn website, or submitting the details to that same website to see if that group would take the task on, personally.

Entities had wandered in confusion, anger, or sorrow, for millennia. But there was something new, never imagined possible. A portion of a human spirit had been admitted to the bosom of a magnificent and ancient oak tree. The Family knew this, but they barely saw the tip of the iceberg.

Lincoln Marfan’s psychic blasts during the battle at the Rhinebeck Cemetery had no sooner been absorbed than the huge plant was infused with the incredible energies due to Vanessa’s triple-diamond offense. Those powers enabled a symbiotic incorporating of human and plant elements into a whole new hybrid. Something so different could only be described as ‘alien’, and such beings always find the struggle to exist difficult. Very difficult, indeed.

Chapter 1 - THERAPIST

"Very good. Now, continue to lie back comfortably and watch the ceiling, taking in everything but looking at nothing. As your eyes gaze, you feel your lids getting heavier. Yes, Jerry, you feel that, don’t you? All your worries and concerns are falling far behind you, losing their voices in your mind and leaving you at peace. Your eyes are closing and you feel nothing but a peaceful, warm, floating, and thoughtful existence.

"You see yourself walking down your green forest pathway, the one that leads to your private space. Your shoes and socks were left behind and you feel the coolness of the grass on your feet, refreshing and gently tickling. Listen to the birds. It’s a restful sound, one that brings you back to more carefree days.

"Look down the path. You can see your cabin waiting for you. The front porch you built has a rocking chair facing the pond and there’s a table next to the chair. On the table is your favorite iced tea drink. Sit down in the chair and pour yourself a glass. Put your feet up on the porch railing and enjoy your first sip. It cools and satisfies, completing the last of your physical needs.

Gaze at the surface of the pond, Jerry, and tell me what you see.

The young man lay on the leather reclining chair. Most psychologists had long since gotten away from the Freudian bench, preferring more of a living room atmosphere. The ‘detached voice guide’, where the doctor was removed from the vision of the patient, had been replaced by the more interactive ‘face to face’ approach, encouraging a personal relationship between professional and patient. Dr. Mary Detrulis preferred the old-fashioned way.

Dr. Detrulis, I can see the pond, but the surface isn’t smooth. I can get it to calm down, but something always stirs it up again. There are always waves, ripples, and the tree branches keep moving like there’s a lot of wind. The sun is shining and I can see all the other stuff like birds and grass.

It was the third session this week of the ‘fifty minute hour’. The boy appeared normal, but something was disturbing him. His sleep patterns were off kilter, affecting his ability to function in school. His parents had tried talking with him to see if there was something socially amiss. They went the medical route to rule out a physical problem. Now, it was the psychologist’s turn to practice a far less ‘cookbook’ art of discovery and healing.

The youth had come from a broken family situation. So what? Most marriages ended up in divorce; sixty-two percent at last tally. So it wasn’t the shame/self-blame stigma most likely that was the culprit. Besides, she had met the melded-parent family and found it both healthy and supportive. She had also met the biological mother, who continued to play an active and supportive role in the boy’s life. There was no overt antagonism between the divorced parents that she could sense. There was some tension under the surface to the trained eye/ear, but a complete lack of baggage would have been out of the ordinary.

That the parents were involved in some ‘pretty weird shit’, as Jerry Gladstone put it, was about the only extraordinariness she had come up with. Even that was a pig in a poke. Mary Detrulis had read of the Hawthorn Enterprises people and their preoccupation with the spirit world. The children were raised in a normal lifestyle, despite the odd nature of his parents’ employment. But it was the only donkey she had to pin the tail on. Still, therapy took time and always had surprises in store for both patient and doctor. She was right. She had no idea of how right.

Jerry, do you feel anything threatening you from the forest or the pond?

No, Dr. Detrulis. I feel safe here on the porch.

Jerry, would you walk down to the pond for me?

Jerry set his drink down and got up from the chair. He visualized the pond as being about an acre of water, with in-feed and outflow streams at opposite ends. The wide path from the cabin to the pond was at right angles to the narrow one leading to the cabin from the forest, and looked to be about a hundred feet long. Down at the pond’s edge there was a stump. That made him stop and think. Did he put that stump there? Of course, who else?

It was his fantasy, sort of, directed by Dr. Detrulis. But why a stump? It wasn’t there the first two times, or was it? Maybe he just missed noticing it.

Dr. Detrulis saw the brow furrow on her patient. It was too early for her to interrupt. What had caused that look?

Jerry looked around. All he could see was the pond, the trees and the cabin. Brush and trees bordered the pond, except where his path led to a grassy beachhead. The stump must have once been a mighty tree, judging from the size of the remaining bole. Lightning, or something like it, must have struck the tree; the top of the stump showed a lot of blackening. But where was the tree itself? He walked closer. The stump was about three feet high and about four feet in diameter. Jerry reached out and touched the bark and the blackened splintered fingers of wood that still reached to the sky. Something was inside that stump, but what? Who?

Jerry, tell me what you are seeing.

I see a stump, a couple of feet high, about six feet from the waters edge. It’s charred on top and I can’t see the rest of the tree anywhere. There’s something alive in it, I think.

Are you afraid of it?

No, I don’t think so, Doctor. There’s something sad about it. That’s all I can sense.

You’re doing fine, Jerry. Now, let’s look at the pond for a bit. Can you get closer to it, or are you afraid to?

She kept looking for the hidden fear, but hadn’t scored a hit. What was it about this boy? Where did that stump come from? It wasn’t mentioned in either of the first two visits.

I’m not afraid; it’s just kind of a dream. Jerry looked at the pond with the restless waters. He took a few steps and looked more closely. There was grass that ran up to the edge of the water. The pond was clear, showing the muddy bottom of the pond. Here and there were minnows and the occasional frog. Down on the left, thirty feet away, was a half-submerged log where a turtle was sunning itself. There was another turtle, half in the water, wondering whether there was room further up for two. Could the log be the missing part of the stump? No, that log’s diameter was too small. Jerry looked more closely at the water, or rather at the mud beneath the water’s surface. It seemed to move with the waves and ripples. That was probably just refraction and reflection, but it didn’t seem like the whole story. The mud wasn’t so much moving due to the currents in the pond, but rather something below the surface was active. It was curious, but didn’t seem threatening. Jerry told the psychologist what he had seen.

Dr. Mary Detrulis was struck by the clarity of the scenes, the consistent detail, and the ordinariness that stood side by side with the very odd. It was as if the young man was actually there; the imagery was that vivid. She could almost picture it. Cell memory from a past life?

Jerry, you have done very well. We’re going to bring this to a close, so I’d like you to start back down the path. Take your time. I’ll be here when you return.

Jerry had taken this avenue twice before. It was actually very pleasant. Taking one more look around, he cast a last glance at the stump. He had never come this close to the pond before and something about the stump caught his eye. The bole’s top and upper sides were seared. Yet, there was something else. Well, time to get going, the doctor said. He’d think about it and maybe come back later to check it out.

The patient had left with his father and stepmother. Dr. Detrulis had relayed the images to the parents in private to see if there was something they might add. Neither parent seemed to make much out of the pond-image in light of their recent or past experiences. The tree theme struck a familiar note, but neither could provide insight into a specific tree that had been destroyed by natural or purposeful fire. Churning mud also drew a blank. The symbolism of dreams and daydreams was often obscure, at best.

She up-screened her notes and reviewed the history of the patient. Besides the odd nature of his parents’ vocation, the most glaring item was a brutal attack by a paramilitary group called the Christian Strategic Arm on a gathering that included members of the Hawthorn Enterprises Corporation, several visiting ranking religious people in a large Christian organization, and a senator from one of the New England states. Several people were killed in that attack, along with a dog Jerry was fond of: a Chihuahua. What kind of monsters would shoot a pet? Same ones that would attack a defenseless family, she supposed. Yet this family was not defenseless. From what she had read and from her initial interview with the parents, the CSA members that evaded the police forces were almost all killed by the people they were gunning for. This Hawthorn group, whatever else it might profess or be involved with, had teeth.

Could this imagery from Jerry Gladstone be connected to the sleep disturbances and/or to post-traumatic syndrome flashbacks? Yet, it just didn’t fit. There was nothing the boy felt to be threatening in his self-conjured images, only curiosity responses. Could it be fear repression that is submerging what Jerry is truly feeling? And what about his sister, Janet? Both children had gone through post-trauma counseling to beat the band after the CSA attack. Both had issues to be met and dealt with from a close-encounter life-threatening event, not to mention the violent demise of people the children knew. That had already been done. She had read the reports on both children from very respectable examiners. Their positive responses to therapy were almost too good. Only the boy was affected by this sleep disorder, though. Why?

It was too early for more confident speculation. Today was Friday. She’d see Jerry again on Monday.

Chapter 2 - THE DREAMER

Rachel said her goodnights to the kids and came back to talk with her husband. Frank, this is getting us nowhere. I say it’s time for one of the ghosts to do some mind walking and find out what monkey is on Jerry’s back. That gave Rachel a moment of pause, recalling that ‘Monkey’ was the term the Family had given to the vengeful shard of Annie Edwards’ personality. Surely that didn’t apply here. Her stepson was sane, wasn’t he?

Maybe, Rachel, but something holds me back from that. He’s sleeping fitfully and waking tired...that might be normal for post-trauma syndrome. It’s been half a year since the CSA struck. Anniversaries bring up after-the-fact mental reactions. Maybe this is a harmonic of something he’ll see more clearly six months from now. Maybe it’s hormone changes. Maybe he’s in love. Look, it’s too early to take a risky approach. Vanessa and Gustav both said that there was a risk involved and I’m not eager to run it.

The word ‘risk’ cooled Rachel’s drive for action. All right, Captain Conservative, you’re probably right. Dr. Detrulis seems capable and you can’t beat her credentials. Look, we need to be at the newlyweds’ bar-b-que at noon, tomorrow. I want to work on my report a little more, then what say we hit the hay?

Fine. That sounds...fine.

Rachel could tell that Frank’s mind was elsewhere. The report could wait. She could present it in its current form if she had to and no one would fault it. What? Out with it, sexy. You’ve been chewing on something since we left the psychologist.

It’s Jerry’s images. There’s something here that’s significant. Especially that tree trunk. I can’t help but think of Marfan’s oak. It was scored by Lincoln’s lightning, but not destroyed. Jerry’s dream trunk was also blackened, as if by lightning. Janet came damned close to dream-predicting Rev’s death. You’ve had a long history of dreams with portent in them. Might there be something of a forecast in Jerry’s dream?

Rachel remembered that night Reverend Daniel Pocolis had his fatal stroke. Janet had spoken that night of having had a nightmare where she was in an empty church, except for her and Rev, who couldn’t communicate with her. That was just before he died. Clairvoyance had become a Fitzgalen Family commodity. Might they now be dabbling in psychic forecasting? Rachel said a silent prayer that Marfan’s oak be spared any fiery death, lest another prophecy-come-true result in her own sleep disturbance syndrome.

Jerry slept. People sleep deeply and dreamlessly for most of the night, with mere moments of increased mind activity called REM (rapid eye motion) sleep. There are four levels of conscious activity during the sleep cycles, but Jerry stayed in REM from the moment he drifted off. An electroencephalogram was taken during his waking hours last week and so did not bring out this anomaly. The neurologist was pursuing an overnight EEG, but that hadn’t happened yet. The Insurance Oversight Committee was dragging its feet.

Jerry found himself again walking through a forest. That thought had even occurred to him as he walked. Here, the woods were populated with sentient trees that spoke in whispery voices when the breeze moved their branches...or did their speaking move the branches and cause the breeze? He wasn’t sure. It didn’t seem to matter. The forest was as it should be. The sounds of the tree voices were pleasant, though not human. There were feelings sensed that had little reference to anything his mind could understand as verbal symbolic communication. However, he became more adept at understanding a little tree-talk as time passed.

There were impressions he could almost put words to about wanting it to rain more often, about the ache to blossom in spring, about the sleepiness when most trees shared slumber (except for those year-round party-hearties, the firs, with their prickly leaves, ostentatious pine cones and sappy bark). This was the language that had been spoken since time and trees began, but there was a new subject that had the deciduous denizens abuzz.

There is a collective consciousness among trees, almost like they are all member cells of the same brain, yet independent in their feelings. When one tree dies, others feel the loss and will wait to collect their lost brother with their roots, taking the fallen comrade unto themselves in botanical communion, once the elements were pre-digested a bit from their fungal friends. Yet, that wasn’t it. Jerry stood there in the forest, trying to make out what it was that the trees were saying for it was important; he was sure of it. But what could something that was important to trees possibly mean to him...other than a forest fire? That was when something odd happened.

The breeze stopped. All was still. He could feel the attention of the forest being focused upon him. It wasn’t malice, but rather scrutiny, of wonder, of hope. There was another sense he received from the trees. It was ‘worry’.

These feelings had come to him before. Yet, with each dream, the impressions became clearer, more intelligible. Especially, it was the ‘worry’ that struck him. When the dreams first started, the forest floor was bare. Over the past month, the floor was becoming more littered with leaves, almost like the trees were losing them like a person might lose their hair. Could trees worry themselves bare?

Jerry continued his walk. They were all watching him. Every knothole was a hollow eye. The leaves were satellite dishes tuned into his frequency. Even the ground tried to find out more about him. He stopped. A new thought occurred to him. It was about that pond he had gazed into. The mud was slowly churned with underground activity. Roots? The only tree near where he looked into the water was that stump. There was life in that stump, despite the charring and splintering. What did it all mean, and why would trees worry about it?

His stepmother’s debate club influence that influenced his stepbrother, Allen, wasn’t completely lost on him, either. These images were being presented for a reason, but he couldn’t see the reason. All he could do was take one insight at a time, like walking in a dark room with a tight-beamed flashlight that only pointed straight down. He felt sure that the answers would show up as they were meant to.

He knew that for certain. Sometimes in his dreams he would be spoken to by a voice, the same one that he had heard in that hotel room six months ago: Vanessa’s friend, Annie. He had been afraid of the dreams before that. Now, it was still difficult, but not frightening. She had said to him that that might change, but that he would never be alone. Jerry had not shared this with anyone besides his sister. She was having dream issues of her own, though hers didn’t seem nearly as intense and prolonged as his were.

In the morning, Janet knocked on Jerry’s door. Come in.

Jeeze, Jerry. Same thing, I take it, from the way your face looks.

Sis, I’ve been in the woods longer than an eagle boy scout. You still poking around graveyards?

Yeah, but I can’t make any sense out of it. When I wake up, I can’t remember much. I’m still reading headstones, trying to find someone. Any suggestions, Bro?

Well, you’d think I was nuts.

Hey, you’re my brother. I’m supposed to think that. No, look, I’m desperate. I don’t want to tell Mom or Dad; they got enough on their minds with you and Family matters without adding me to the mix.

Jerry hesitated, then, Well, you’re searching in a dream graveyard, right? The Family does that sort of thing on a regular basis with real graveyards. If Mr. Mendelssohn, Rev. Pocolis, Major McGuinness or Mr. Anderson is with them, the spirits can help sniff out things. Maybe you need a ghost helper to go with you in your dreams.

Janet thought for a moment. You mean get one of our entities?

Maybe, or maybe we can summon up the spirit of Atlas. No, wait. I’m not kidding. Just because no one in our Family has ever come across an animal spirit, other than horses, doesn’t mean that they don’t exist. I’ve read about ghost stories of dogs; nothing about cats, though. Dad says that’s because cats don’t have unfinished business on earth since they never start any business worth finishing in the first place. Atlas was our best ghost sniffer for belowground stuff. How about you and I take a walk over to his grave and see what we can find?

Janet came in the rest of the way, shut the door, and sat down on the bed. Jerry, I think lack of sleep is clouding your thinking more than ever. We have that cookout at ‘Casa Kithcart’ after school, so everyone will be around, including Zachary. He’d see us standing around the grave, wouldn’t he? Maybe it would bother him if we start messing with Atlas’ spirit. I don’t know, maybe not. I think it’s time I talk to Mom and Dad about this, or that person you’re seeing. Is she doing you any good?

I don’t know. I’m seeing weird stuff, but I don’t know what it means, yet. She says to keep at it and have faith. I get the feeling that she doesn’t know what the fucking hell is going on, either.

Better not let Mom hear you talk like that, Jerry.

I heard her say worse once when she had a couple of drinks and Dad trumped her ace. Anyway, I’ve got a right to be crabby. Dr. Detrulis calls it sleep-deprivation syndrome, so I can cuss and get sympathy for it. Pretty smooth, huh?

Janet could tell, behind the bravado, that her brother was starting to show more of the strain. It scared her. She loved her brother; despite the way he sometimes teased her. She felt closer to him than ever before since the two of them met with the spirit of Annie. That was when they were gifted with the power to see and hear ghosts, but there was more to it. Jerry and Janet felt that the two of them got more connected to each other. Janet had heard about how identical twins could feel what the other was feeling despite great distance. Over the past half year, that sort of thing had been occurring more often. That was another thing they had considered bringing up to their parents. The Family meeting was today. The kids were full Family members. Was it time to exercise a Fitzgalen prerogative?

Chapter 3 - GATHERING

Ralph Kithcart opened his eyes to see wisps of dark hair over his field of vision. Snuggled next to him was his beloved wife, Marianne Kithcart. It was nice not to be calling the house the ‘Cabrini Home’ anymore. There was a so-named institution nearby where troubled children were removed from troubled family situations and put into a troubled dormitory environment. It was maybe a forty-five minute drive away (unless Marianne was at the helm; she had enough lead in her foot to shave ten minutes off the drive time).

Nestled between them was Ebony, purring when either he or Marianne budged. The little furball wasn’t so little, anymore. Week by week, the kitten was being replaced by the cat. Still, mischief was Ebony’s both last and middle names.

Ralph considered the priorities for the day. With the current warmer weather, an active fireplace was more a visual pleasantry than the essential bun warmer that Hudson Valley winters encouraged. He had set up the grill yesterday on the back porch and pulled out all the card tables and portable trays being stored in the basement and attic. The Gladstones would bring a few more, enough so that they didn’t have to have people from the rental company traipse in and about. Marianne had become a bit more domestic lately, allowing fewer strangers into the home. That had started soon after their marriage, but became more noticeable over the past month.

Women, he thought. They marry men and hope they’ll change their ways, and they never do. We marry women hoping they’ll never change, and they always do. God’s sense of humor strikes again.

Marianne opened her eyes, so Ralph figured that his time for quiet philosophical contemplation had just run out. Hey, beautiful. How are you feeling? She had been acting odd lately, even for Marianne.

Why do you ask? Uh-oh. When she answers a question with a question, it’s time to backpedal.

Nothing in particular. Just wanted to know if you slept OK. That was as ‘caring but safe’ a reply as he could manufacture. Would it work?

Oh. OK, I guess. I don’t feel so good. Make something bland for breakfast, will you?

Uh-oh, twice. Usually his bride dominated the kitchen three out of four times, so for him to make breakfast wasn’t unknown. However, ‘bland for breakfast’ wasn’t like her. A flu? Sure. Oatmeal all right, Baby?

Now, that was as nicely worded a question as you could want, but the look on her face surprised him. Moments later, the glare softened and she agreed to the menu. It was going to be one of those days, he thought. Was it something he had done, not done, said, or had forgotten? It couldn’t be an anniversary, because they hadn’t even known each other for a year, yet, much less been married that long. It wasn’t her birthday. He had looked up other holidays on the calendar and none of them held water. Even Secretaries’ Day didn’t cut the mustard. She never liked to consider herself as having that title, feeling that ‘office manager’ was more to her taste. Maybe he’d finally put his foot down and demand an explanation for her recent behavior.

Breakfast was a quiet affair. Marianne got up and dropped off her dishes into the sink, then headed for the bathroom. Ralph took the relative quiet at the breakfast table as a good sign. He’d go ahead and talk to her about her behavior of late...

You left the Goddamn top off the Goddamn toothpaste again last night! God Dammit!

....tomorrow. Yep, tomorrow would be a good time to talk to her about all this strangeness.

The loss of Russ Anderson had left Jim Kalp without his best friend...visually, anyway. The loss of Atlas had left Zachary Lorriman without his. Thus did the bachelor’s quarters’ roster change, especially since Ryan no longer fit the description of bachelor. Vanessa had seen to that. She had taken to her third mortal life with a vengeance in the home-making arena. Having crowds in her home was not in the equation and even solitary Family visitors had come to know that briefer visits were de rigueur for Madam Fitzgalen. Right after the wedding, which took place two months after the Kithcart fete (with influence and money, Vanessa now had an identity to go with her face, though a change in hair style and color had kept most people from commenting on how familiar she looked).

Father Chuck McKenzie officiated in that quietest but most memorable wedding ceremony he had ever performed. Towards the end, he stumbled with, ...till death do you...part? Ryan laughed out his ‘I do’. Vanessa did the same.

The new RBQ (Rooster Bachelors’ Quarters) for the Fitzgalen male singles was a five-bedroom condo/suite overlooking the Rondout (a feeder to the Hudson River). The third and fourth bedrooms were occupied by Lou Brooks and Allen Hawthorn, though many felt that Lou and Allen would be leaving the RBQ in the not too distant future. Still, they kept excellent company and were good friends. The fifth bedroom was for the occasional guest, for the Family had bachelors in distant places. ‘The Roosters’ were up and about getting breakfast ready, which meant getting showered, dressed, and ready to head out to a diner. Diners meant no dishes, no clean-up, and friendly female types serving you whatever you desired (food-wise). None of the men could see why making their own breakfast was in any way superior, save one. No one made coffee like Zachary Lorriman.

Today’s stop targeted the Artemus Diner, right off the ‘dysfunction junction’ traffic circle in Kingston. They’d blow an hour there, then head on over to the Kithcarts’ and see if they could help with cookout setting-up.

Quintavia Mendala awoke to a beautiful March morning. It was still too cold to have the windows open at night, for the overnight temperatures fell to the upper thirties/lower forties. Yet, the sun was rising to show an almost cloudless day that would warm up to light-sweater weather.

It was an awakening time for the world, when the sparrows and morning doves made their morning dash for the birdseed outside the LBQ (Lady Bachelors’ Quarters...they didn’t opt to be called ‘hens’) before the jays and squirrels arrived. She tolerated the jays, but loved to see the greedy-gray bushy-tailed chatterers find new and innovative ways around anti-squirrel technologies. It was like trying to childproof a room. The very term was an oxymoron. There was no childproof or squirrel-proof. You could only put up speed bumps delay to the inevitable. So, if you can’t change the course of nature, learn to enjoy it, she thought. The squirrels were cute and entertaining,and the jays had families of their own with mouths to feed.

Quintavia luxuriated in a long, delicious stretch that would have popped Lou’s eyes out of his head. The thought brought a smile to her face and led to the next musing that Lou’s bachelorhood days were finite. The Mother Hens had been enlisted to see to that. The dears. She would have been willing, probably, to be living with Lou already. But Family reputation was always under scrutiny, so they kept things conservative.

Mother Hen Vanessa. The Family was getting used to having a body transport that impish spirit around. For a while, it seemed to be the national pass time for the media to find out more about Ryan’s mystery lady. Other events in the world gradually lured the public’s limited attention span to other venues. Fortunately, though the Fitzgalen Family had continued to be active in their goals of ‘soul-searching’, they had kept a relatively low profile. For the Family, that is.

Quintavia arose and did her morning stretch routine. Ten minutes later, she had Muffy’d (she had named her slippers she had gotten for Christmas from Zachary) her way to the kitchen and tapped the coffee start pad, then made her way to the shower. Already there were sounds of activity from the other bachelorette bedroom. Every day, Nunzia put in an hour of painful therapy to scratch and claw her way to full rehabilitation. Medicine had made advances on avulsed-limb reattachment, but it still had a ways to go. Some things still required grit, determination and agony.

It must have been hard on Nunzia, judging from the muffled yips of pain heard from behind her closed door. Therapy included regular range of motion warm-ups, passive and active stretch routines, cross-friction massage, alternating heat and cold packs, deep tissue electrical stimulation to promote bone repair, and supplements to support soft tissue reformation. Surgeons and physical therapists had done all they could. Now it was up to her.

Some said that she had already accomplished all that could be expected and more from someone who had had her foot shot off, but Nunzia wasn’t the type to let it go at that.

Sgt. D’Palermo had made the painful decision not to return to the Georgia Guard. It had been her life, but that life had been torn apart both by her own injury and the loss of her Commanding Officer. That she had performed above and beyond the call of duty during that last battle was never a question. Despite her long life of dedication and high quality performance, it had taken that climactic and brief battle against the CSA to turn her, overnight, into the military’s poster child for women in uniform. There had been the Governor’s citation, the Guard medals, the call from the President and First Lady. There were websites, fan clubs, and her picture on the cover of Soldier of Fortune Magazine. Quintavia had taken to being her best friend through it all, but she hadn’t been above ribbing her.

When Nunzia had complained about the magazine cover, an artist’s rendition with her firing from a crouched position while tracers streaked by and a vague image of her Major falling behind her, her friend made a comment about how next month’s issue would sport a centerfold supplied from the archives owned by Sergeant Paul Wasserman. Being stuck on the couch and knowing she could never catch Quintavia while hopping on one foot, Nunzia responded with the only weapons she could muster. She still remembered Quintavia’s comment, So, that’s why they call them throw pillows. You missed with one of them.

Yeah, but I got you with the other three, and you damn well better be kidding about the photo-spread...I mean...picture...oh, hell! Despite the throbbing of her ankle, the two of them broke down into a laughing and crying therapy session. That was six weeks after the battle; she had just been released from the hospital and still going in daily for physical therapy. That was the first time Nunzia had allowed herself to fully unleash the grief over Major Kenneth McGuinness.

In the Fitzgalen ranks, grief was a peculiar thing. How do you grieve over someone who came by to visit you almost every day? It was more grief over the spirit’s grieving for those whom they still loved but could no longer be the living presence and influence they once were. Ken’s wife, daughters and grandchildren could only be visited from the perspective of an observer. Giving grandfatherly hugs was once Ken’s fondest hobby.

Nunzia did her best to be a best friend to Quintavia in turn. After one particularly difficult therapy session for her ankle, it chanced that Lou Brooks had stopped in to visit. Quintavia was out on a shopping trip. Nunzia invited Lou to stay and wait for her, then reached up from the couch and took Lou’s collar, pulling his surprised face right down to her own.

Listen to me, Citizen Brooks. That little lady you have the affections of is my best friend in the whole world. You treat her right, or so help me... She never finished the sentence for two reasons. Quintavia just coming back through the door was one. Leaving the rest of the thought up to the man’s imagination to come up with his own worst scenario was the other. Men were so visually graphic.

That was then, she thought, and Citizen Brooks had done pretty well in the respect and caring departments.

Nunzia finished up with her therapy, then went in for her shower as Quintavia started breakfast preparations. While one worked in the kitchen, musing about the time she would be doing this for another person, the other was rinsing off and wondering where her new life was going to take her, and whether or not a certain police officer really did keep certain pictures that should have been destroyed long ago. The thought made her smile. There were very few people who had gotten to know the real Paul Wasserman, who was not as straight-laced as he appeared.

Dagmar Yaddow had taken the red-eye into Albany International Airport, landing on the tarmac as Nunzia was toweling her hair. Newburgh would have been closer to the gathering, but this gave her some catch-up time with Melissa Banks. It was time to deplane...ah, the English language. You couldn’t de-car or de-boat, but you could deplane. You could pilot and board planes and boats, but not cars. Those you drove. Speaking of driving, there was the young lady now, waving just past the security counter.

The two women embraced and began the chat that would last until they got to the Kithcart home and beyond. It had been two months plus since they had last seen each other. During that time, Dagmar had been to CNN assignments in Syria, Lebanon, the Arctic, Peru, South Africa and China. Melissa had been on three ghost hunts with Allen, two of them successful. She had also done well on getting a student/faculty research team at RPI that was helping out the Fitzgalen Family on several fronts.

First, they had taken over the task of interviewing and evaluating the first cut-off on spirit-sensitive people applying for Fitzgalen/Hawthorn participation. There was a bigger department forming on paranormal event studies with ties into ESP, psychic forecasting, forensic sensitivity (police departments from all over were showing an interest in that one), psychic healing/diagnosis, and a half dozen other things that would have given the College Board members from twenty years ago royal fits. Perhaps they would have been more forgiving once they took a look at the enrollment numbers.

Melissa was playing a role in the student organization helping set up the curriculum. Even the president of ESPER, who had become acquainted with the Hawthorn Company the previous half-year, had made himself available for assistance, reference, and mentoring.

Once at the car, Melissa opened the trunk and Dagmar threw in her two suitcases. The two ladies then settled in for a pleasant ride south on I-87. The exit numbers dropped, one by one, as they approached number 19. Not that the two women paid any attention. There was just too much to catch up on.

Ralph Kithcart had taken off for Stewart Airport in Newburgh in the bus named Silverbird. There he would meet with two men of the cloth, a police sergeant and two men of Civil War naval research. The two ministers would be returning to their flocks that evening in time to prepare for Sunday services, but Paul Wasserman, Ernie Carlson and Dexter Binkney had all managed to score another day off to make it a weekend away from their duties. Paul would head over to the RBQ and borrow Allen’s room; Ernie and Dexter would sack out there on the foldout couch and the extra guestroom. Allen would be over at his parents’ house in his old room, with Melissa. Though the Family was trying to keep a ‘respectable front’, what went on in the Gladstone home was their private business.

Dagmar was staying over the weekend as well, but would rest her head in the LBQ with Nunzia and Quintavia. Odd, that Vanessa and Ryan hadn’t volunteered crash space to anyone.

Ralph got the feeling that something was off kilter over there, but it was none of his business, other than to be concerned that there weren’t any problems regarding Vanessa maintaining her lease of Sally Buley’s body. Vanessa’s changing her hair color and style to what she had in her first life helped on that issue. There had been some minor plastic surgery that altered her facial and bust features sufficiently to keep that pesky Mormon data bank from making a positive ID with the serial killer that the sad and broken Sally Buley woman had turned out to be.

Three lives, Ralph thought, when Joe and Jane Average were allotted only one go-round. Would any of the four entities think to opt for another try? It didn’t seem likely with Rev, Ken or Gustav. Russ was another matter.

Russ Anderson had left behind a wife and children. There had been a meeting arranged between Russ’s wife and the Fitzgalens, the Gladstones, Allen and Melissa. Gladys Anderson was told, carefully, about her husband’s spirit continuing to exist on the earthly plane. She and her children were offered, if she wished it, to become members of the movement that her husband still worked with. It was a good thing that Rev, Ken and Gustav were there to console Russ.

Gladys had put up for years with the FBI denying her a normal relationship with her husband, calling him away for days or weeks at a time. Having his attention now preoccupied with the Hawthorn Company business and not even having his physical presence as a consolation was just too much to ask. It was probably a mistake to have even offered the choice, for it might have done far more harm than good. How could she eventually seek another union without feeling unfaithful to her husband, dead though he may be? There was an age-old term in psychology called ‘closure’. Russ knew that Gladys needed it. Rachel handed Gladys a read card and tapped out Russ’s last conversation with his wife. Since Russ had joined the entity club Rev had opted for a ‘D’ on his designation.

"R: Babe, I’m so sorry. We both knew my work might lead some day to my being taken away. All those years were so rough on you and I’m so grateful you stuck it out for me. You