Devya's Children Books 1-4

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Devya’s Children Book 1:

Ashlynn’s Dreams

By Julie C. Gilbert

Ashlynn’s Dreams Dedication:

To God:

Who fashioned me

To my sister, Carrie:

For the description stuck on stupid

To my parents:

Who tolerate all my crazy ideas

To friends who encourage me to stick with it:

Cara Guglielmon, Chrissy Guglielmon, and J. LaRocco

To the talented cover artists:

Timothy Sparvero (cartoon covers)

J. Bralick (new covers)

To the talented actresses who gave the stories new life:

Kristin Condon – Ashlynn’s Dreams Shorts, Ashlynn’s Dreams, and Nadia’s Tears

Julie Hinton – Malia’s Miracles

To the few, the proud, the proofreaders:

Laura Ginn and K. Dalenberg

Timothy Christian School English Department

(Any remaining mistakes are my own, despite their efforts.)

Dramatis Personae:

(Warning: may contain spoilers)

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Dr. Carla M. Wittier – Jillian’s old shrink lady

Dr. Stephanie Sokolowski (a.k.a. Dr. S.) – Jillian’s new shrink lady

Jillian Blairington/Ashlynn – twelve-year-old Dream Shaper

Danielle Matheson – babysitter for Blairington family; companion for Jillian

Dr. Devya – researcher, creator of Devya’s Children

Dr. Evelyn Carnasis – researcher, associate of Dr. Devya, mother of Jillian, Benny Connelly, and Aiden

Cora – associate of Dr. Devya, mother of Dustin

Dr. Karita Robinson – former associate of Dr. Devya, mother of Malia and Michio

Dr. Jessica Paladon – former associate of Dr. Devya, mother of Varick and Nadia

Dr. Naresh Das – assistant to Dr. Devya

Maisha – cook for Dr. Devya

Devya’s Children:

Varick – Soldier

Nadia – Minder

Ashlynn – Dream Shaper, Jillian Blairington

Malia – Empath

Dustin – Devya’s Telepathist

Michio – First Nanomachine Controller

Aiden – Second Nanomachine Controller

Prologue:

I don’t want to control the world. I want to make it better. ~Dr. Devya

ITEM 1: Letter from Dr. Carla Wittier

Item Source: Dr. Carla M. Wittier

To Dr. Stephanie Sokolowski:

I apologize for the tardiness of this letter. Computer troubles have plagued me of late.

Enclosed please find the original accounts of adventures undertaken by Jillian Marie Antel Blairington. The flash drive contains electronic copies for your files. Jillian started keeping such records as a ten-year-old. I understand quite a bit has transpired since my sessions with the young lady. She has full knowledge of this disclosure, for it is made upon written request from her and her parents.

I can say very little you do not already know without breaking patient confidentiality, so I will reiterate that the young lady is unusually brilliant, highly opinionated, very compassionate, and brave to a fault.

Best wishes in your endeavors. I hope you can help her.

Regards,

Carla M. Wittier, Ph.D.

Chapter 1:

Helping Mr. Blairington

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ITEM 2: Jillian’s first pre-kidnapping journal entry

Item Source: Dr. Carla M. Wittier

I’m Jillian, and Momma says I’m smart as a whip. I saw a picture of a whip once; it didn’t look too smart. But I’ve learned to nod and smile, even if I don’t understand. Ain’t no better accomplisher than me in all of Atlanta or Georgia or these here sweet Southern states, as Nana likes to call ’em, and that’s a fact. Momma says it’s not nice to say such things, but I never get no good idears about what she means when she scolds like that.

Momma’s been lonesome ever since Daddy up and left us two years ago. Well, that ain’t all true, and Nana and Momma would get real loud if they heard me telling fibbers. Honest, I don’t know the whole story ’cause Momma won’t tell me, but Daddy musta done something real rotten to get run off like he did. I’ll tell all about that another time, but for now, I wanted to tell ya about Momma and Mr. Blairington.

As I was saying, Momma and Daddy had loud words, including some Momma said I ain’t never to repeat to nobody under no conditions, unless I want the whupping of a lifetime. A long, long time after this, uh, I think it was seven months ago, Momma met this real neat old man. His name’s Mr. Blairington. I don’t mind that he’s thirty-three, a whole three years older than Momma, ’cause he’s a good man. He brings gifts for me and Momma lots, and he speaks all soft and mushy to Momma when it’s late at night and they think I’m tucked up safe in bed. Only problem with Mr. Blairington is that he’s uncommon shy, almost to what Nana calls the shameful point, when it comes to big matters.

One day, about four months into their special kinda friendship, while Mr. Blairington and I was setting there waiting for Momma to fix her face, he told me he was waiting for a special moment to pop the question. I’d never heard a question could be popped and told him so. He laughed and said that it was a secret he wouldn’t tell me ’cause little girls can’t keep secrets. This made me mad. I cried and cried, partly ’cause I couldn’t help it and partly ’cause I knowd he’d tell me how a question could be popped, if I cried long and loud enough. Poor Mr. Blairington didn’t know what to do. It took him forever to give in. He’s a rather stubborn man, but I still like him. Finally, he said he wanted to marry Momma but that I couldn’t tell nobody.

I kept that huge secret for a whole week, but time was getting on and I was fit to burst with the news that Mr. Blairington wanted to marry Momma. He even took Momma to a fine dinner. That means you gotta dress up all uncomfortable before they let you in. Still, Momma didn’t tell me he’d popped the question, and she surely would’ve if he had.

One day, when Nana was watching me for Momma, we got to talking about Momma and Mr. Blairington. She said, Someone needs to give that boy a good kick. I musta looked at her funny ’cause she said, Not a real kick, Pudding Cake; it means help. Someone needs to help that boy find his courage.

I didn’t say nothing to Nana, but I decided to help Mr. Blairington. That night, when Mr. Blairington came to take Momma out to dinner, he kept patting his right coat pocket. So I gave him a huge hug, just like my Daddy taught me, and slipped my hand into that pocket. My fingers found a hard, little box which I opened right quick. There was something small in the box so I borrowed the small thing and went to my room to have a look at it. It was a shiny gold ring that had what Daddy woulda called a real deal diamond appeal. I figured the ring had something to do with popping the question, so all I had to do was get the ring to Momma.

It took me some time to figure out the perfect way, but my brains musta been in working order ’cause I finally cracked that tough nut, as Nana would say. Next morning, I put the ring in Momma’s bowl of Crispy O’s. They’re just like Cheerios, only faker. I tried to act casual.

Momma musta sensed something though ’cause she used her serious voice, and said, "Jillian Marie Antel, what are you up to?"

Up to, Momma? I asked back. She hates it when I do that.

Yes, up to! Momma snapped, very sharp-like. You look like a cat that ate a whole nest of birds! Her right hand jerked a little, and I saw the sparkly ring on her spoon.

My eyes got so big I thought they might fall out. The spoon moved toward her mouth. No! I leapt forward to grab her hand, but she jerked her hand out of my reach. You’ll eat the question popper!

Momma looked at me strange, but then, she too saw the ring. Her mouth dropped like a bird shot from the bonny blue sky, and for a second, I thought Momma would eat it anyway. Then, she did something strange. She laughed and cried and laughed some more. Mr. Blairington arrived just then, and I answered the door ’cause Momma was all out of sorts.

What’s wrong, Allison? asked Mr. Blairington, rushing past me.

"Is this your doing?" Momma demanded, holding out the spoon with the ring still half-buried by milk and crowned with a Crispy O.

Mr. Blairington nearly choked, then laughed so hard he almost cried. Momma was still laughing and crying. Grownups are strange.

It isn’t the presentation I was going for, but it will do, said Mr. Blairington. Will you marry me?

Of course, I will, Momma said, leaning forward to kiss him.

I turned away like I always do when they get mushy.

A thousand times, yes! was the last thing I heard Momma say before I made it to my room.

They did get married, but they waited a whole three months for the wedding. I had to wear an uncomfortable white dress for that, but it was worth it. Now, whenever Momma’s mad at me she can call me Jillian Marie Antel Blairington. And the best part is that by the time she’s done hollering for me, she forgets whatever it was she was yelling for.

***

ITEM 3-10: Jillian’s remaining pre-kidnapping journal entries

Item Source: Dr. Carla M. Wittier

ERROR—FILE CORRUPTED

Chapter 2:

It’s Good for Me

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ITEM 11: Jillian’s first post-kidnapping journal entry

Item Source: Jillian Blairington

I got two mommas and four daddies. I reckon I’m just gonna have to tell y’all the whole thing if it’s to make any sense at all. Nana says I should plan my words with great care so as not to cause trouble springing from trouble. I’ll try. Reckon I can’t go and make a promise on something I ain’t aiming to keep, but I guess trying will have to do.

Not sure what to write next. Nana says it ain’t nice to boast, but Momma, my real momma that is, says telling the story ought to do me good. I think she just wants to know the whole story herself. I haven’t told her everything yet ’cause she’d worry. Dr. S. said it would be cathartic, which basically means good for my soul. Dr. S. is always using big words, but I don’t mind, I’m special in more ways than one, thanks to Daddy Three. Individual words don’t give me problems, but Nana rarely says anything in a word. Usually, it’s a whole string of words with several meanings. It’s downright vexing if you ask me. That word I got from my sister, Nadia. I’ll get to her later.

I’ve got a whole lot more to say about Daddy Three, too, and not all of it nice, but right now, I wanna focus on the good doctor. Her full name is Dr. Stephanie Kamilia Soko-something-or-other, but Dr. S. is about all I can say properly. She meets with me every week just to talk for an hour. It’s real nice of her ’cause I’m pretty sure no one’s paying her, and she’s certainly the type of doctor people pay a whole heap to see all regular-like. Dr. S. says if I talk about what happened enough it’ll all make sense. She’s real patient, which is good ’cause sometimes I’m kinda thick for a real smart kid.

Great ghastly goobers, I done lost my manners. Right now, this here journal thing is just for me, but eventually, somebody else might read it. Y’all are probably thinking I’m either crazy or special. I’m neither; I’m just Jillian Marie Antel Blairington. I’m twelve years old, and I’m gonna be a big sister soon. Fudge, I’m getting ahead of myself. I really did say fudge, not that word.

My Old Daddy, Daddy One, said I should only use the Big Bad Word if I want to really rile Momma. Easy for him to say, he ain’t living with Momma. Allison Michelle Blairington—that’s Momma—would whup my backside good if she ever heard bad words, especially that one, slip out. I keep that one bottled in tight.

Kinda wish I didn’t even know it as that’d be the best way to avoid using it. Never call Momma Allie neither, unless you do want to rile her. If that’s the case, you’re just crazy, and I probably ought not talk to you.

It all started with the move to the money sign state. Nope, before that, probably about the time the Old Daddy got hisself run clear off our property. Or maybe it started before that when he plowed too many fields for his own good. I don’t know the whole story, of course, ’cause it ain’t mine to tell, but the blond and busty bimbo, as Momma put it, might have something to do with that particular story. Momma didn’t tell me that, of course. She can’t picture me as anything but her sweet, innocent little baby, but I heard her crying on Nana’s shoulder one day.

I guess that’s about as good a starting place as any. Momma wouldn’t have none of my Old Daddy’s guff and games. She served him some papers and told him not to come back. He didn’t listen too good ’cause he wanted to see me. Momma didn’t like it, but she had to allow it ’cause the serious-faced judge said so. Come to think of it, the story probably truly begins before I was born, but Nana says to only speak about what I got good, solid ground to talk on.

Momma was a wreck on two skinny legs until she met Mr. Jeffrey Michael Blairington. That I know for a fact. Momma must have a thing for J names. My name is Jillian, my Old Daddy’s name is Jason, and my New Daddy’s name is Jeffrey. I just call him New Daddy or Daddy Two so I don’t confuse him with the Old Daddy or Daddy Three or Daddy Four. Well, maybe not so much Daddy Four. He don’t count much except for which of his genes ended up in me. He’s kinda grumpy, too, Daddy Four that is. I’m letting my lips run before my good sense again though, so I’ll slow down.

I sure hope Momma stays hitched to this one. He’s definitely a keeper. He used to sell special chocolates and candies to stores and restaurants throughout the Southern states. That’s how he met Momma. After he married Momma though, he didn’t fancy traipsing all over God’s creation no more. Mr. Charlie Davis, that’s my New Daddy’s boss, said we should all come on up north and settle down, so that’s just what we did. Now my New Daddy manages the first of what Mr. Davis hopes will be a chain of stores called Charlie’s Chocolates.

That’s how we made it to the money sign state. They call it the Garden State sometimes, too, but that name just don’t fit right. For such a tiny state, this place sure does pack in the people. They can’t drive well neither. Everybody’s going too darn slow or trying to take the back bumper off.

On our very first day here, we got lost trying to find the house. I thought my New Daddy would break his teeth, grinding ’em so hard. I’m still not sure how I feel about the move. It’s exciting and scary all at once.

At first, I missed Nana and Jimmy, but since all the excitement, I did get to see ’em again. Still, there are days I could just cry for wanting to have Nana wrap her arms around me. Nana’s Nana, you know? I can’t remember a day of my life until the move that I didn’t see her. She raised me about as much as Momma did, maybe more so even ’cause Momma had to work an awful lot.

My Old Daddy had more odd jobs than a baboon has hair but none of ’em paid a halfway decent wage. He sure does love his secrets, my Old Daddy. All the time he spent in between jobs, he tried to drink rivers of sweet spirits, which just left the bills to Momma.

It’s kinda funny in a mighty sad, awful sort of way. If Momma had known what we know today and not cared one whit about me, she coulda sold me for a lot of money. Maybe not enough to set her up for life, but she coulda at least collected a couple of million dollars. I feel funny saying that ’cause I don’t want y’all to get the impression I view myself higher than I ought to. Caden Phillips probably came closest to summing things up, and he just said I was a freak. He was trying to be mean, but he was right. It’s gonna take many more chats with Dr. S. to come to grips with that without wanting to cry, but I’m getting there.

Chapter 3:

Jillian

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ITEM 12: Danielle’s first letter

Item Source: Danielle Matheson

Dear Dr. Sokolowski,

Thank you for your inquiry into my health. Physically, I’m fine. It’s the mental side of me that’s got my mom wearing her worrywart hat these days. In that regard, I’m doing as well as can be expected. I’m still dealing with everything, including the loss of coming off the speed so suddenly, but I just keep silently telling myself: It’s only psychological dependence. If I repeat that mantra enough, it tends to take away a bit of the edge, though I still have a long way to go. This would be an example of a bad day. On a good day, I hardly remember I ever had a minor drug problem.

Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about all that. Your letter inquired about my impressions of Jillian. She’s a good kid. I don’t know if I would have made it through that whole ordeal without her. She’s got a quick smile and a solid sense of herself. I feel bad for her though. No offense, but if anyone needs your services, she does.

I’ve been reading the paper a bit. There’s not much else to do around here anyway, except maybe study. I may yet be ready to take the SAT II’s on schedule next year, though every time I mention that to my mother she tears up.

Can’t say that I like the story being floated about Jillian, but I can appreciate the need to keep things spun a certain way for the public. Poor kid, she’d never know another day’s peace if the rest of

this nosy world knew. I can hardly believe it myself and I was there when that jerk explained it to her. Well, sort of there anyway. In the same facility has to count for something. Why do evil people get a kick out of hearing their own voices?

I’m torn on your proposal to share my version of the events. I’d say give me time to think, but I’ve got nothing but time now and you’ve been patient enough with me for these past three weeks. I’ll make you a deal, you share Jillian’s version of the events, and I’ll give you mine.

Ah, who am I kidding? Yes, I realize you’ll never take such a deal, so yes again. I’ll give you what I remember, but any and all profits should go into a fund for Jillian’s college.

Before you get all misty-eyed at that sentiment, I’ll tell you straight-out that kid deserves every good thing this life can offer. I’ve been a teacher’s assistant long enough in fifth grade classes to know that some of those little imps deserve a good smack upside the bumside, as my grandmother used to say. Not Jillian though. She’s from that other side; the side where right and wrong are very clearly defined. She owes that to her Nana I suppose. That’s not a knock against her mother; it’s just that the woman spent most of Jillian’s formative years working like crazy to feed the kid.

Ha, I guess she kind of wears off on you. I almost wrote kinda. You spend enough time in conversation with Jillian and she’ll have you talking with a Southern accent, drinking some berry flavored tea, and fighting the urge to dig up worms to go fishing.

Though you obviously don’t need a physical description, I think it’s worth mentioning her blue eyes. There’s something about the intelligence that lies behind those eyes that ought to have tipped off everyone that she’s more than she seems. Other than the eyes, she’s quite ordinary. A bit on the thin side perhaps, the type my grandmother used to say needs more meat on the bones.

I met the family about two months before all the craziness, through my job at the General Pharmacy; original name, huh? But like my dad once said, they didn’t hire me to critique their name. Jillian’s stepfather, Jeffrey Blairington, is the manager of the chocolate store right next to the pharmacy. He comes in from time to time for a cold drink or prenatal vitamins for his wife. We chatted a little on and off, and one day, he mentioned he needed a babysitter. The rest is history, as they say. The Blairingtons even attend our church now.

My hand hurts, so I’ll close this letter. I know I could type it, but if I do that, it’ll all come out too fast. I will tell you what I

remember in subsequent letters. I just can’t deal with too much of it at once.

Sincerely,

Danielle Matheson.

P.S. Sorry for missing our first two meetings. If all goes well here, they might let me out for good behavior in another week or so. If you have any further questions regarding Jillian, please don’t hesitate to ask.

Chapter 4:

The Day It All Blew Up

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ITEM 13: Jillian’s second post-kidnapping journal entry

Item Source: Jillian Blairington

Kids don’t get to control much, and in that way, I ain’t much different than any kid. On the other side of the toast, not many kids get to say they was kidnapped by a couple of complete strangers and lived to scream another day. I wasn’t alone that day, nor on the long twenty-one days afterward. Danielle Matheson, my babysitter, was there the whole time. I think it was probably scarier for her than me though ’cause people kept threatening to hurt her.

If someone ever prints this for the public, Dr. S. says we gotta change all the names ’cause we don’t wanna go messing up other people’s lives none, even if they more than deserve it like Daddy Three. I don’t gotta worry about that now though ’cause this is just for me. I kinda wish this dumb typing program would quit trying to correct the way I spell things. It’s my story; I’ll tell it how I wanna. In any case, I can’t remember what all Dr. S. said about writing this, but she was real eloquent—that means her words were real pretty. I almost cried. I do that a lot around her.

Danielle is the type Nana would call a real sweet, straight-laced lass. It goes without saying that she’s older than me. She’s real smart in a lot of ways and real dumb in others. I ain’t saying that to be mean or nothing, just stating facts. She works hard, too, both at school and at the pharmacy next to my New Daddy’s candy shop. That’s how my New Daddy met her.

When we was living in Georgia, I didn’t need a babysitter ’cause Nana was always there if Momma needed to have a night out. But now that we’ve moved and Momma’s in the family way, she and my New Daddy have been going out real regular-like so as to pack in the fun while they’re still somewhat free. Babies mean work even before they get here.

Danielle had been my babysitter for at least a month or two before the horrible day. I remember it was a Saturday in May ’cause Momma and my New Daddy had gone to walk the boardwalk by the beach at Point Pleasant. What a weird name. Doubt Momma and my New Daddy will go there again for a while ’cause they got some not-so-pleasant memories of the day.

The sun was showing his cheerful face most of the time that morning, so I got banned from using the computer until night. I couldn’t show Danielle the new game I’d gotten for my birthday, but I was fine with that. I like being outside. There’s a small creek in back of our new house. It ain’t got nothing on the stream in back of our old place, but it’s still pretty to watch and interesting to dig in. All streams have lots of critters in ’em. Danielle don’t care all that much for critters, but she did identify a few for me. We found several types of earthworms. Some were too skinny for fishing lures and even the decent ones were a bit thin. It’s just as well. Danielle don’t cotton much to fishing, and there ain’t nothing to catch in that tiny little creek anyway.

Let’s go in and eat something, Danielle said, eyeing some dark clouds in the distance.

I didn’t really wanna go in, but I could see she’d had enough of fresh air. She was shivering ’cause the wind was picking up and she only wore a light, long-sleeved T-shirt. Although the day was pretty warm to my tastes, like it was supposed to be that early in May, we’d recently had a cold spell, and the weather people had been predicting a storm or two. Just about then big, fat clouds covered the sun, which made the temperature drop right quick. Guess I took pity on Danielle ’cause I didn’t pitch a fuss like I wanted to. We’d only been out there an hour, and I like being caught in the rain.

I’ll race you, Danielle offered, trying to cheer me.

I don’t race if I can’t win, I replied.

She made a little face like what a strange thing to say.

We began to walk back up to the house.

Why don’t you think you could win? she asked a few moments later.

I would win, I corrected, but only ’cause you’d let me and that ain’t fair to neither of us.

Danielle looked a bit surprised and guilty.

You’re on the track team, ain’t ya? And anyways, your legs are a whole heap longer than mine, I explained, though I knew she could work all that out for herself. I waved a hand at her long-sleeved T-shirt which had Go Tigers written on it.

You’re very observant, Danielle noted in a very neutral tone that said she was a little annoyed that I didn’t think like a normal twelve-year-old.

Nana says it’s a blessed curse, I said as we climbed the back steps to the deck that would lead back into the kitchen.

Danielle smiled and opened the back door for me.

I was just gonna dive into the pantry to see what I wanted for lunch when Danielle’s firm hands on my shoulders steered the way to the sink. I sighed. Grownups, even almost grownups, are all the same; always making a body wash. It ain’t no use arguing with people bent on making ya wash up, so I didn’t bother. I learned that lesson well enough with Nana. Nana didn’t mind if I made mud pies or worked on my Worm Paradise, but she wouldn’t let me anywhere near the kitchen until I done washed my hands twice through Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. I hummed the song as I washed even though I don’t have to no more since Nana ain’t here to give the Evil Eye if I cheat.

By the time I’d finished washing up, Danielle was making toasted cheese. I smiled ’cause that’s probably what I woulda asked for anyway. I’m a bit of a critter of habit that way.

Why don’t you go change while I finish making this? Then we can eat and continue our game of Monopoly.

We’d been playing on and off for almost a week, since Danielle comes every day after school while Momma makes dinner and does house stuff like painting the baby’s room. I can’t say I was all that eager to jump back into the game though. Danielle kinda controlled a huge chunk of the board, hotels and all. Nearly every roll woulda had me leaking money like a holey bucket leaks water. Anyways, they ain’t gonna find out if it’s a boy or a girl, so they’re painting the room a light green that neither type could make a fuss at. Momma and my Old Daddy thought they was gonna find out what I was, but the doctor said I’d be a boy, so my old room was blue. I didn’t mind, but I can see why Momma and my New Daddy are just gonna take what the Good Lord gives.

I nodded, just as a rumble of thunder made the sound of mighty hungry heavens. I looked longingly outside.

Go on, Danielle said. We can watch the storm while we eat. There’s a better view from the playroom.

I told ya Danielle’s real smart in some ways. She outright tricked me into a good mood. She knew Momma wouldn’t have liked me to go running through the storm, dodging lightning and such, but she also knew that eating in the playroom is highly frowned upon. She was willing to encourage that lesser form of rebellion to prevent me from having my way with the storm. Besides, it’d probably be easier to clean up the playroom than hide soaking wet clothes.

We didn’t get to do either of those things. By the time I’d finished changing, the storm was full into its fit, throwing down rain like it was mad at the trees. Lightning sizzled through the sky and thunder went from rumbles to harsh-sounding cracks that made the whole house shake.

The front door banged open, just as we sat down to enjoy the toasted cheese. I could tell the two sandwiches apart ’cause Danielle made hers with tomato in it. I like tomatoes well enough but not on toasted cheese. Tomatoes get too hot and end up burning my lips ’cause they’re hard to cut with teeth. Anyways, at first I thought the wind had opened the door. I forgot we was in a new house and the doors just don’t willy-nilly open like they do on older houses like the one in Georgia.

Danielle had picked up her sandwich but not gotten to take a bite yet. Her head whipped toward the door, nearly crashing with mine ’cause it was doing the same thing. Two soaking wet men squished their way into the front hall.

A lot of things happened at once. Danielle let out a surprised sort of yelp, dropped her sandwich, and stood up so fast her stool fell over. I took a long, one-second look at the two men and thought they was trouble. Danielle seized my arm and yanked me behind her. It must be some motherly instinct like Momma’s air seatbelt whenever she’s gotta stop somewhat swiftly.

A half-groan, half-whine slipped out of Danielle as she muttered questions like What do you want? and Who are you?

My brain was firing those questions as well, but I couldn’t get ’em out ’cause Danielle had backed us into the corner by the stove. I kinda had to concentrate on breathing. Danielle grabbed the hot frying pan by the handle. She yelped again, and this time it had a note of pain in it, so I guess the pan was still hot. It said something of her sheer stubbornness that she didn’t drop the thing outright.

The second man laughed at that, but he didn’t get to laugh for long ’cause he slipped on water from the first man’s sneakers. He said one of the bad words.

About this time, Danielle and I kinda came to the same conclusion. She abandoned the frying pan, giving it a small toss toward the first man, and lunged for the screen door leading from the kitchen to the back deck that leads down to the yard.

Run! Danielle ordered, fumbling with the lock and shoving the door open.

She didn’t have to tell me twice. I slipped past her and bolted down the stairs. Rain soaked me instantly. I was amazed at how dark it had gotten, though it couldn’t have been past two o’clock. A scream stopped me. A huge crack of thunder shook the ground beneath me, but my feet seemed frozen in place. Dread and cold made me shiver. I stood with my feet planted firmly at the bottom of the steps, unwilling to turn and unable to continue.

Get back up here! the first man roared. His voice, for all its bluster, sounded distant to me. He didn’t exactly sound like the friendly sort you’d want to rush to for a hug.

Ow! Run!

This time Danielle’s voice failed to unstick my feet. Then, I couldn’t hear anything, but I knew a struggle was going on above me. I turned and placed one foot on the stairs to climb to the deck again. Looking up, I saw two figures emerge from my house onto the deck, one clearly in control over the other. I think if I’d had a full bladder, I woulda peed my pants right then and there. Not that it woulda made much of a difference given the rain trying to make the whole world a swimming pool around me.

The first man had forced Danielle to her knees. He was speaking, but I couldn’t hear anything he said. I don’t think he was even talking to me.

My hearing returned and the sound of rain filled my senses. Everything smelled earthy and fresh. A flash of lightning emphasized a picture I’ll probably always carry in my brain. Danielle gazed up toward the heavens, eyes shut as if praying, with tears streaming down her face. Through all the rain, it’s a wonder I recognized the tears, but I could tell they were there.

The second man joined the two figures on the deck. He had his arm extended toward me. I couldn’t see the gun he held until a flash of lightning made everything bright for one horrid second. My only chance to run disappeared. My stomach hurt, twisting itself about inside me. No one could miss at that range, and he didn’t.

***

ITEM 14: Danielle’s first journal entry

Item Source: Danielle Matheson

I screamed as I watched Jillian fall. If I hadn’t been on my knees already, I’m pretty sure I would have fallen over. The ache in my arms and the sting from holding the hot frying pan in my hands hardly mattered now. I looked hard at her, waiting for a spread of blood to indicate that her life was flowing out of her. All I saw was a slow motion pitching of her body sideways. It was like something had sucked all the bones from her body. One second she stood poised to climb back up and the next instant she just collapsed.

Not sure what I expected, but that certainly wasn’t it. A dozen scenarios darted through my mind, and not one of them made much sense. The Blairingtons had a decent house, but they were nowhere near rich enough to warrant a ransom kidnapping. The attack was too brazen to be a robbery attempt. The attackers themselves were too old to be thrill-seeking kids or gang members doing initiation deeds.

What do you want?

I wanted to scream the question at the men invading the Blairington home. A sob caught in my throat, burning like I’d swallowed a hot coal. Tears got lost in the rainwater streaming down my face. I was soaking wet and scared stiff. Guilt brought a flash of heat to my cold cheeks. Jillian had come back because of me. Here I was supposed to be the babysitter, the responsible one, and my charge had come back to protect me.

I thought things might slow down then, but they sped up instead. The man holding on to me bound my arms behind me and pulled me back into the kitchen. His partner came in a moment later cradling Jillian in his arms. The picture of the man gently holding Jillian’s small form looked oddly incongruous.

Pitching my body back and forth only got me thrown into a counter. My head struck the granite, giving me an instant headache. Stunned, I had no energy to offer further resistance, though everything in me wished I did. Part of me shouted coward, and all other parts of me were completely numb.

Just let me shoot her, said the guy carrying Jillian.

Drop the kid and go get the van, replied the man holding me. His tone added idiot.

His disgust triggered the recent memory of the threat he’d uttered mere moments before.

There are only two ways for this to end; we take you or we leave your body.

What seemed like hours later, though it was probably only a minute or so, I heard the garage door open then close. Not knowing what else to do, I let myself be dragged to the two-car garage where I was forced into a dark blue minivan with a bumper sticker that declared soccer mom on the back. The absurdity of that struck me funny, but I couldn’t conjure even a small smile.

The guy who had retrieved the van hopped out of the driver’s seat and ran into the house. I assume he’d gone to get Jillian. I never found out, not then anyway, because the unsavory type holding me shoved me onto the van’s floor. Then, kneeling on my legs, he jammed a needle into my upper left arm, and I passed out.

Chapter 5:

Dark Place

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ITEM 15: Jillian’s third post-kidnapping journal entry

Item Source: Jillian Blairington

I awoke in a dark place. My head felt fuzzy like it was buzzing. Rolling over hurt ’cause my hands were tied behind me pretty tightly. My arms had a tingly numbness that said the cords were biting into ’em even through my shirt. My feet were bound, too, but that was less annoying. I grunted but that only aggravated my head, so I quit that. My stiff clothes clung to me like a glove, a cold, uncomfortable glove at that.

Danielle.

The thought brought me wide awake, just like a nice bucket of ice water. I sat up too fast and fell over the other way into a cold wall. I shook my head to clear it, only gaining more pain. On the nice side, whoever the meanie-heads were who kidnapped me, they didn’t bother stuffing nothing in my mouth. Leaning my head against the coolness coming from the wall felt good, so I let myself rest there while I thought.

I had another one of those weird dreams where I can hear a conversation I know I shouldn’t be able to. Sometimes I fight these dreams by pushing ’em back and pretending I never heard ’em. It ain’t normal to hear things while you’re sleeping. Only Nana and Dr. S. know it ever happens, but I trust ’em both not to blab it across the world. If we told most doctors, they’d probably wanna study me or something. It’s our secret. I had to tell someone, so this ought to do the trick.

Oh, I suppose Danielle knows, too, but she wouldn’t say nothing to the wrong people. Daddy Three knows, too. Well, I’ll be a monkey’s kid cousin; a lot of people know my secret.

Don’t fret. Don’t fret. No threat means don’t worry yet. Nana said that so it must be true.

Darren—

Shut up; no names! snapped another man, obviously Darren.

I recognized his voice as that of the first man who kidnapped me.

You want the little freak to wake up and come hunting you down someday? demanded Darren.

You’ve been watching way too many movies, man. That stuff I gave her would take down an angry pit bull.

You don’t know these kids like I do, Darren muttered. Freaks, all of them.

I thought you said we only wanted the little kid. I don’t like this complication. The—

You saw how the kid reacted, Darren replied. His voice sounded quiet but mean, like a coiled spring fixing to take someone’s eye out. Besides, kidnapping and murder will draw just as much attention as a double kidnapping. This way, at least the boss can put his own spin on it. He can kill the other girl later if he wants, but it’s a lot harder to undo a murder.

The two men fell quiet.

Aw, stop it. You’re like an old, worrying woman, Darren said, breaking the brief silence. We’re getting paid well enough, aren’t we?

Money’s one thing, but I didn’t sign on to snatch kids.

Think of her as an overgrown lab rat, Darren said soothingly. The experiment failed, and we’re here to clean up the mess.

Clean up? As in kill?

That’s all of the conversation I remember. Only hearing part of the conversation is probably the most frustrating part of the dreams. Overall, it’s a pretty useless skill to have, though I must say I’ve probably overhead more Christmas and birthday gifts than anyone else in the world. The downside is that anytime I say something I’m not supposed to know Momma just thinks I’ve been eavesdropping on her. I guess she’s right, but subconscious eavesdropping don’t count. Dr. S. says I ought to tell Momma about the dreams, but she don’t know Momma like I do. Momma would probably bust a button if she knew.

I replayed the dream a few times, kinda hoping to remember the rest. I had that eerie feeling they was talking about me and not in a good way.

Got to find Danielle.

I moaned, wanting to ignore the thought, but an answering moan made me whip my head around. The sudden movement brought sharp pain to the back of my head, and it really was a rather stupid thing to do since the whole place was dark anyway.

Danielle? I called. My voice barely came out as a whisper. I swallowed and tried to work up enough spit to move my tongue about.

Some rustling sounds said she was moving about a little. The moans and groans coming from her said she’d probably gotten the same thing I had gotten. Whatever the drug was, it wasn’t very nice to one’s head.

Jillian? Danielle called. She sounded unsure, like she wanted to not hear me reply.

I’m ...

Something shifted in my head, and I passed out again. I think I fell over. I dreamed again, too. This time, I saw a man in a dark blue suit with a bright red tie talking on a phone. His words didn’t mean much to me at the time, but I listened anyway, as I hadn’t yet figured out a way to break out of one of those dreams.

Tell the governor I’m working on it. He can pay the ransom if he wants to, but it’s not going to help. If he wants Benjamin back, he’s going to have to trust me.

The dream ended with the sound of a door opening. Really bright white light streamed in. I whipped my head away but not before getting a painful eyeful of light. Tears sprang to my eyes even though I had ’em clenched shut. The door swung shut again, pitching the room back into deep darkness. A short while later, a candle was lit somewhere above my head. Now that I think on it, I guess everything was above my head ’cause I was lying down.

A warm, comforting hand landed gently on my forehead. Shhh, it’s all right now, whispered a woman with a funny accent. Her voice reached out and begged to be trusted. It felt kinda comforting, like the softness of the candlelight.

I thought the voice might have sounded familiar, but then again, I was a bit out of sorts at the time.

All will be right again soon, said the lady. You’ll be back with your mum before you know it.

The attempt at friendliness tore something inside me. It made

me so mad I cried, sending salty tears and snot all down my face. A lot of things frustrated me. I felt real lonesome; though that was stupid ’cause Danielle was not farther than strong spitting distance. I missed Momma and Nana and Jimmy and my New Daddy all at once.

Without another word, the woman brushed at my face with a tissue.

It bothered me that I couldn’t see her. The candlelight made me blink, and I was blubbering too much to take notice of her looks.

I want to go home!

I held in the whine ’cause it wouldn’t have done any good to say it.

There now, no more crying. All will be explained in time. The more you cooperate, the less we’ll have to hurt your friend. The lady spoke the threat in such a pleasant voice that it took a full three seconds for her meaning to kick me in the teeth.

I sniffled, trying to stop crying and failing at it pretty handily. I breathed so hard I gave me the hiccups. That just made matters worse, but at least the woman laughed a little and didn’t talk no more about hurting Danielle.

My tummy grumbled something fierce. Nana woulda been horrified.

The woman stopped brushing at my face with her tissue and leaned back. Her ankles cracked with the movement. After a short pause, she stood up. Her voice floated down at me from the darkness above as she said, I’ll send Dustin in with some food momentarily. You mind what I said about cooperating and this will be over and done with.

***

ITEM 16: Danielle’s second journal entry

Item Source: Danielle Matheson, via 54 Post-it notes

I woke up with the headache of all headaches. Whatever that big jerk had shoved into my arm was like drinking hard and taking meth at the same time. (Not that I obtained that bit of knowledge via personal experience.) A very nasty kick in the head would have been kinder. In addition, my arm ached like I’d had a dozen shots and then pitched thirty innings of softball. My hands still stung too, but everything else hurt so much that that particular pain seemed negligible. I tried shaking my head, hoping that would clear away the pain. Big mistake. The pain morphed from not-so-good to very painful to excruciating. It felt like my brains wanted to leak out my ears. If that would have stopped the pain, I’d have been tempted to take the trade.

My first thought was, Owwwww. And my second thought was Jillian!

I think I said her name out loud, but I can’t be sure because I’m pretty sure I passed out again. I seemed to be doing a lot of that. I might have opened my eyes or just thought I did. It didn’t really matter because, like I said, I didn’t stay with it very long. I sensed another person in the room and had the sensation like I wanted to vomit before blissful nothingness slipped me past the headache.

The second time I woke up, I forced myself to lie still and finish the waking process with the least pain possible. Not that I could have moved anyway, since these people obviously had trust issues and had tied me up as well as giving me that wonderful naptime cocktail. My headache came back down to tolerable levels, though every heartbeat was like a dull hammer being slammed to the floor millimeters from my skull. My eyes felt all gummy like I’d slept for a month; my eyeliner must have melted or something.

I must look a scary sight.

I winced, partly at the head pain but mostly at the stupidity of worrying about my eyeliner at a time like this.

Someone had left a candle burning a few feet from my head.

Well, that’s dangerous.

Nevertheless, I let myself enjoy the candle’s comforting glow.

What do I do?

Thinking was hard, thanks to my drug-muddled brain. I spent a full minute concentrating on breathing deeply and letting my mind wander back through the last few hours, trying to ignore the clammy touch of my clothes against my skin. Futile as it was, I desperately wanted to find something I could have done differently to make things turn out better.

The tingly sensation in my arms reminded me that my first priority ought to be to get loose.

How in the world did Nancy Drew do this a dozen times?

If Nancy were a real person, she’d probably have brain damage from the number of times she’s been knocked out via good old-fashioned brute force. If this was the price one paid to be a detective, I’d have quit the first time a threatening note floated my way. But I hadn’t been threatened, neither had Jillian, or her family, to my knowledge.

What gives? Why me? I practically whined the questions.

A rumble from deep within my stomach made me resent the kidnappers’ lousy sense of timing.

Ten minutes, just ten minutes, and we would have been happily fed.

Frustrated, I flexed my arms, trying to loosen the bonds. I succeeded only in hurting my arms.

Use your senses!

I closed my eyes and listened, only to hear my stomach announce its empty state again. I sniffed in deeply, which was dumb seeing as I was currently on the floor and probably besieged by a million dust mites. It made my nose itch, but I squelched the urge to sneeze.

The lady said she was gonna send Dustin in with some food, Jillian said. She sounded strange, older and calmer somehow. Her voice was not defeated per se, but it held a calculating quality I’d never heard before from anyone, let alone a child.

I craned my neck around to see her, but it was awkward because I’d landed on the floor near the center while she was somewhere near the back wall, effectively above my head. I could tell the room was tiny, even though the candlelight led to lousy depth perception. Sometimes you can just sense things like that. It’s like the walls were all crowding purposefully close, trying to make us sense their presence. Or maybe the drug was just playing with my head.

Are you okay? I asked, trying to hold my voice steady. Nearly gave myself a sore throat for my trouble.

Why doesn’t she sound scared?

Hungry, Jillian replied. Her Southern drawl sounded longer through the semi-darkness. This place is mighty creepy.

The whole situation’s creepy, I agreed.

The door swung open blinding us both. I groaned and blinked furiously, not that it did much good.

Are you here to be my friends? asked an absurdly young voice.

I’m in a bad dream. I’m in a bad dream.

I tried to pinch myself but the ropes holding my arms stymied me. Eyes streaming tears, I squinted hard. The figure silhouetted in the doorway appeared tall, but I assumed that was due to my poor vantage point.

Mum says you should eat now, said the boy. Here, roll over, I need to cut the ropes. She told the chaps not to tie you up, but they only listen to her sometimes.

My brain rapidly tried to take it all in and respond, but I couldn’t get past the general impression that this kid could have been a male clone of Jillian. I didn’t have to see his face to hear the bouncy energy that zipped through the air around him. The British version of mom threw me as well, but my weird factor was pretty much maxed out for the month.

I did as the boy instructed, figuring if he was going to stab me to death it could hardly make my situation much worse. I’m usually not that fatalistic, but like all people, I have my weak points and my breaking points. I was hurtling toward a breaking point.

It took the boy about a minute to cut through the ropes around my ankles. As soon as he finished, I shook my legs, grateful to be able to move again.

Dustin, are you done yet? inquired a woman’s voice.

Not yet, mum, Dustin answered.

The woman came into view a few seconds later. By this time, my eyes had adjusted enough to the hallway light so that I could look at her without tearing up.

Well, if you turned on the lights, it might go a good bit faster, the woman commented. She waved her hand at a sensor on the wall and the room lit cheerfully, making me blink. Here now, why don’t I finish up with this one while you catch your sister up?

I can recall her words clearly enough now, but at the time, the whole sister comment went right over my head.

Chapter 6:

Every Mother’s Worst Nightmare

––––––––

ITEM 17: Letter from Jillian’s mother

Item Source: Allison Blairington

Dear Dr. S.,

Sorry for the wrinkles on the page. I was gonna print ya a new one, but Jeffrey said I’d probably just cry all over that one, too. He’s right. I’ve been leaking tears for days and ain’t likely to stop all of a sudden, so I just carry lots of tissues wherever I go.

I ain’t much for these computer things, but if it’ll help my Jillian, I’ll answer whatever questions ya can muster.

Thank you ever so much for agreeing to meet regular with my Jillian. She looks forward to every meeting, even the ones she gripes about. I can tell. She used to be that way when I first took her over to Momma’s house to stay for a while when she was just a tiny babe. Pretty soon it got so she fussed about having to come home with me. That’s my Jillian for ya though. She’s quick to trust and quicker to love and love fierce at that.

I’m not exactly sure what more I could tell ya that she can’t. My heartbeat is starting to come back to normal, though I think if something like this ever happens again I might up and have a busted heart. Never cried so much in my life and that’s the truth. Jeffrey had to be the strong one for both of us, but he spent his share of tears, too. He called Momma and his parents, and they all dropped their lives to come be with us.

Talking two seconds with Jillian, ya probably know Momma’s something sure-fired special. I had Jillian so young that Momma practically had to raise us both at once. Jason wasn’t much help, but he was handsome. I was young and in love, a recipe for trouble according to Momma. I up and married the first pretty man who paid me any mind. What did I know of marriage?

You asked about that day. It’s hard to describe the panic. It’s like an elephant setting itself down square on yer chest and deciding it likes it there. Every breath becomes a hard-fought battle. Everything around becomes more real and less real all at once. Ya become aware of every breath but hours could tick painfully by with only one endless record playing.

Oh God, where is she? I hope she’s okay. Why my baby? What’d we do? Why her?

The exact phrases might change around a bit, but the gist is always the same. Ya start making deals with God, whether ya believed in Him before that day or not. If ya wasn’t on speaking terms with Him, there probably ain’t nothing like having yer little girl kidnapped to make ya change yer mind.

She was gone for twenty-two days. Twenty-two of the longest days I ever walked this earth. Ya hear stories of little children being snatched and showing up again thirty years later, and I honestly don’t know how those people make it. Where do they get the strength to keep working, eating, breathing, hoping? If much more than those twenty-two days had passed, my little girl would have come home just in time for my funeral. I’m ashamed to say it. It shows how fragile my spirit is. I love that girl something awful. I’ve said that before, but I truly know what that means now.

Aside from doctor’s appointments, I rarely went out that whole time, though Jeffrey did force me to go to the grocery store with him one day. I don’t remember a thing about it, except that I cried some more, and everyone was looking at me strangely. Women clutched their little ’uns to their bosoms all tight-like, as if to ward off the curse that had befallen me.

Aside from the choking, heart-hurting fear, the only other emotion worth mentioning is the anger. It was sweeping in its hold on me. It mixed with the fear, switching back and forth like a wind-tossed flag. Hot, then cold, then hot again. I coulda punched straight through a glass pane and not felt a thing.

Will our lives ever be normal again?

I don’t know what they did to my little girl. The police assure me it was nothing unspeakable, just something better not spoken about until she’s good and ready to tell me herself. The FBI people briefed us, of course, but I didn’t hear a word of it. Now that things have settled a bit, part of me wants to know, and part just wishes it would all go away. I want my daughter to finish growing up in peace and safety. I want Jeffrey to hire an armed guard or the most expensive security system out there, but he says that’ll only scare Jillian.

Thank you for yer kind words. How did ya know I’d be scared to have this other baby? He (or she) is just starting to kick. We haven’t decided on a name yet, but we’re working on that. I’m a mite partial to names beginning with the letter J. If it’s a boy, we’ll probably go with Jeffrey David, for my Jeffrey and his daddy. If it’s a girl though, I certainly don’t want to name her after me. I’ve never cared too much for my name. Allison Michelle ... it just sounds faked or something.

One of the nice police fellows mentioned Ashlynn as something that crazy man called my Jillian. If the context didn’t completely give me the shivers, I’d consider it for a little girl. No idea what it means, but it’s got a real pretty ring to it.

Guess I ought to close this letter afore my hands tap themselves all to pieces here. Ya let me know if Jillian gives ya trouble or is evasive or something. Ain’t saying I can do much, but it might tell me when to have a long chat with the child.

In your debt,

Allison Blairington

Chapter 7:

Guest or Prisoner?

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ITEM 18: Danielle’s third journal entry

Item Source: Danielle Matheson

The woman cut through the last of the ropes holding me together like a bunch of