The Emissary (11 page)

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Little ol’ you, up against the police power of four different states?”

“Well … I was not ‘up against’ them. We worked together; LAPD headed up the investigation, since most of the murders happened in their jurisdiction.”

“And you worked for LAPD?”

“That’s right,” she replied, getting back to her story. “The only evidence they had on him was what we call ‘the signature.’ Serials always leave one for the police—it’s part of the power trip behind the killing. That’s all the police had. Sixteen dead girls, their bodies thrown into the woods or on a beach, and each time they would find a little white plastic chess piece next to the body.” Jamie continued, enthralled in her own story. “After the last murder, the sixteenth, Martin Kaszlow—he’s the chief of LAPD—received a one-word letter from the killer. It simply said, ‘checkmate.’ The
killer knew the police had nothing. They believed that he felt he had won the game and … this ‘checkmate’… they hoped it meant he was done—that the game was over. In fact, six months passed with no further incidents—at least none that fit Hynes’s pattern. Then, out of the blue, another young girl—she had been missing for forty-eight hours—was found with her throat cut, in the Hollywood Hills. This time,” Jamie said, “they found a black chess piece—the king—jammed into the gash across her throat. He was back. And now he wanted more attention, so he upped the stakes—more gore, more violence.”

Mat belted back his drink. “Ugly business,” he said, grimacing.

“As you know, gentlemen, there are sixteen white pieces and another sixteen black pieces in the game. He was letting the police know that he was going to murder another fifteen girls: daring them to stop him … playing this game serials love to play with their minds.”

The waiter interrupted with a tray of hors d’oeuvres and started to hand out menus, but Mat stopped him, and told him to bring another round of drinks.

“Go on,” he said.

“Well, that’s when I first got called in for consultation. Marty heard about some of my work at the Stanford Psychic Institute and he asked me to come down and give them a hand—sort of like Mat has done.”

“Bingo,”
thought Mat.
“One major PR point scored for Jamie.”

“That was sort of it, really. Once I held that black king in my hand, I saw the tattoo—The Black King, written across the killer’s chest—just as clear as day. That’s how we identified him. I saw the house, too, and … well … I just managed to lead the police right to him.” She took a drink, looking as if she wanted to forget the pictures that had surfaced in her mind, looking back at her from the bottom of her glass. “There, they found all the grisly evidence they needed to convict him and put him away for life.”

“Give us a break,” Jeb said, openly defying her. “You can’t seriously be telling us that, after years of these unsolved murders, all you had to do was hold this piece of plastic in your hand and the murders were solved!”

“I am
dead
serious,” she replied, dramatically.

With all her other talents, Mat was discovering, Jamie was a master storyteller. She had the track record and the proof to back up everything she was saying, and she clearly did not feel she had to impress anyone. She spoke her truth, from the gut, and that truth was compelling and real. He didn’t speak or try to intervene. He knew that no matter how impossible it was to understand how or why, Jamie had these extraordinary abilities and such an incredible truth about her that even the most determined skeptics amongst them could not help but consider the possibility that she was for real.

They had at least fifty-three reasons to believe her.

The more his colleagues became absorbed in her story, the more belligerent Jeb became. He was in complete denial. Despite the facts, which, knowing Mat, had obviously been verified, Jeb refused to believe a word of anything she had to say. He did everything he could to deflect attention away from her and to disrupt her stories of specters and psychic visions.

For some reason, he saw Jamie as his adversary. “So, the next thing we know, y’all are gonna start reading everybody’s palm or something, is that right?” He was smug and condescending, doing his best to discredit her.

“I’m not a fortune teller,” she said.

“Ah, you mean you’re not going to read my horoscope?”

“No, but what I can do is to give you a chance to speak to Billy. He’s here.” Suddenly, she jolted. Jamie’s body became quite rigid. She sat bolt upright in her chair. Looking straight into his eyes, she reiterated, “Billy is here.”

Jeb looked like he had been hit by lightning. He turned ghostly
white, almost as if he were in shock. His only son, Billy, the only thing that had ever made sense in his life, had died in a car crash when he was only twelve years old. Jeb was behind the wheel, two sheets to the wind after too many Jack Daniels he’d downed at the bar before picking the boy up from basketball practice.

Not a day went by that he didn’t think of that moment of impact, and when he watched, helplessly, as his son died in his arms. For all intents and purposes, he died too. Jeb Richardson sealed his heart that day; he closed his mind. He cursed god, gave up on his dreams, and turned away from love altogether.

Enraged, he leaped out of his chair, staring at Mat. “What the hell kind of game is this?” he screamed. “My boy is dead and buried.”

Mat just said, “You know me better than that, Jeb.” He, too, was having a hard time getting his head around what had just happened.

“How the hell do you know about my Billy?” he yelled accusingly at Jamie.

The men sat there, in disbelief, trying to understand what was happening, and waiting for what Jamie would say next. They could feel the cold of the paranormal encounter—they were in it, all of them, along with her.

“Please, sit down. I need everyone to just stay calm. He’s here. Billy is here for you. Help me bring him through.”

Visibly shaken, angry, and confused, Jeb sat down.

Jamie was gentle: her voice was so soft, it was just more than a whisper. “He is begging you to please stop beating yourself up over the accident. He’s alive, he’s happy where he is … except for your suffering—he can’t bear to see you in the dark.” Suddenly, her voice changed into the voice of a child.
“Please forgive yourself, Daddy-o. I’m here, I’m always close to you … you just can’t see me. I love you, Champ.”

Upon hearing those words, his son’s voice coming from Jamie’s own mouth, Jeb lost it completely: all his walls came crashing down
and, with them, the prison doors of his shame and guilt swung open. In front of all his peers, his boss … in front of the woman he was afraid could indeed reach him, he put his head into his hands and sobbed like a baby. It was a scene no one could have remotely imagined—never in a thousand Texan years.

If ever there had been a doubt for any of them that the soul survives death, or that some people can reach through the veil and connect the living with those who have passed over, then surely Jamie had dispelled it all. All their resistance was out the window.

Jamie Hastings was “in.”

She got up from her chair and went to Jeb to comfort him. Like a loving mother, she put her arms around his shoulders, holding him, silent, allowing all those years of pain to finally flow freely—allowing Billy to put his arms around his dad, one last time. In that intimate moment, it was as if nothing else mattered and no one else was in the room.

Overwrought with so much emotion—the guilt and his unbearable sorrow—Jeb scrambled clumsily to extract his wallet from his jacket pocket. From it, he pulled out a photo of the beautiful little boy Jamie had just seen sitting next to him, his hand shaking almost out of control. He held it up to her.

It was signed:
I love you, Champ
.

Jamie would have very little time in San Francisco before she would have to leave again, embarking on her big adventure out at sea. She had only just returned from New Zealand, after so long away, and already she was being pulled from home again. How she had missed hanging out with her mother, going to shows together … socializing with friends. She wanted to fit back in, as much as she ever had or could, and have a personal life. Yet, as much as she longed to set down those roots, with time to dedicate to a number of important projects, including the whale foundation, she seemed to be in some way destined to a life of endless travel. She was forever being called to duty on levels she herself did not fully understand, living out of mismatched suitcases she had never learned to pack efficiently. She sighed at the thought of another flight, another journey, and more time away from the home she so loved, but never managed to enjoy—at least not for any significant stretch of time. And yet, deep down inside, she was thrilled at the prospect of being on a ship out in the Pacific, knowing something important was going to happen out there.

Something was already stirring beneath the waves.

Her mother used to say Jamie had “wanderlust” and that she would never settle down and, indeed, she never really had. The very idea of “settling” in any way, shape, or form held no appeal
whatsoever. Some great relationships had come and gone, winding and bending like the path she walked, until they could no longer bend far enough to flow in the direction of her life—and then they would snap. Inevitably, the men she met and fell in love with were never able to handle the intensity of the life she needed to live, and so she walked away—time and time again—until finally she realized that her mother was right. There could be no “settling.”

All she knew was that she had to follow her heart, trust her gut, and reach for the stars, and that is how Jamie Hastings lived her life, from as far back as she could remember.

Children never came—not that she didn’t try. Like unfinished tattoos, three tragic miscarriages were etched in black on her heart, and complications with the last one had closed the doors to the possibility of motherhood and family. It took time, but she eventually resigned herself to it, knowing that she was destined for other things, and yielding to the wisdom of forces beyond her control. Oh, but how she would have loved to share her life with a child … a daughter she could have showered with love, as she had always known from her own mother.

It just wasn’t meant to be. Those were long ago sand castles that had been snatched by the waves and tossed back into the sea.

Jamie forced her mind to shift from the weightiness of thoughts of the past to the excitement of what lay ahead. To be out on the ocean for any reason always thrilled her, but now—working to protect the whales from the oilers? This was one of the greatest challenges she had ever faced and yet, it held within its potential one of the greatest opportunities. Her true motivation for taking this on was what it could mean for the whales, the dolphins, and all the ocean beings. She promised herself that she would give Mat Anderson and his oil-hungry conglomerate enough to work with, so that, hopefully, they could take what they wanted from the ocean floor without destroying everything in their wake.

In exchange for that effort, what she would bring back with her, Mat’s promise, would be the strength of his political influence, which would enable her to speak with a far greater voice for the whales and all the rightful citizens of Planet Ocean. PICC would serve as the vessel for finding that voice, and making sure the message was heard.

Jamie promised herself that, after this trip, her travel years were coming to an end, so that she could dedicate more of herself to the foundation, and really make a difference. Even if it absolutely killed her, she would learn how to say “no,” and spend more time at home, maybe even sneaking in some fun between causes—maybe
even
falling in love again.

The call to duty came later than expected—precisely Tuesday, March 12—when finally the worst of winter had passed, and
The Deepwater
could sail. Mat called personally to ask that she be ready to depart that Thursday to sail the day after, as the ship was in port, being readied for their expedition.

“That’s the Ides of March,” she told Mat. “Interesting sail date.”

“The what?”

“
‘Beware the Ides of March’
—Shakespeare wrote it into the play
Julius Caesar
. He was referring to March 15th, when Caesar was betrayed and murdered in the Senate.”

“Sorry, Miss Jamie, but I am unfamiliar with that little piece of culture. Is it supposed to mean something to me?”

“Only if you’re superstitious,” she said, making light of it. She sensed Mat’s embarrassment over his inability to reference the greatest literary master in all of history.

Louise tapped on the door and walked into Mat’s office. “I have everything set up and ready to go,” she said, handing him Jamie’s itinerary. He winked. She really took care of business for him and he forgot, sometimes, to take care of her back. He placed his hand
over the mouthpiece on the phone. “Why don’t you free yourself up for lunch?” he said, lasciviously.

“Can do,” she replied, feeling Mat’s eyes caressing her backside when she exited.