Race Against the Darkness

Race Against the Darkness

By Laura Lane

Copyright 2012 Laura Lane

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Dedicated to:

Bertrand, Andre, Ghyslin, and Gaetan

For their years of patience and encouragement

And to Larry Wood my Long Ridge Writers Group Instructor

Who gave me the courage to continue Writing

And Most of all to Mary Rosenblum (LRWG)

Who I felt was my teacher and my mentor.

You encouraged me and made me believe in myself

I am forever in your debt.

And to you the Reader

It warms my heart that you have chosen to read this novel

There is nothing that wounds a writer more

Than a story languishing in a file cabinet unread.

Thank you!

Race Against the Darkness

Chapter 1

I have always been different. A seer. A freak of nature. Ever since I could talk, things came out of my mouth that silenced the room. I have very little recollection of things I said or did at a very young age. I know I caused many rifts in the family quite innocently. But the one time at the Thanksgiving dinner table, where I sat in my highchair, stands out in my mind. As my mother encouraged me to open my mouth for another spoon of pureed squash, I said:

Daddy and Aunty June were playing in the hay with no clothes on.

I remember the slap across my face very clearly. Was it my words that silenced the Thanksgiving meal or the crack of the slap? My mother yanked me out of the high chair and spanked me all the way to my crib. I don’t remember too much about that time, except crying for my mommy, and her finally coming in to comfort me in the night. She was crying too. Aunty June, who was really only a close friend, left and never came back. Then my parents moved into separate bedrooms. The thing is, I saw things in my mind, never with my eyes.

The gift. The curse. I knew when good things were going to happen as well as bad things. I had no control over my intuition. But I did learn to control my mouth, and to keep a lot of things to myself. After all, it didn’t seem like I could control events or the future to any extent.

I remember warning a door to door vacuum salesman that he had to drive very carefully or he would die in a car accident really soon. You can imagine how well that went over. The salesman lost his train of thought, my mother got angry, and I got to spend the rest of the day alone in my room to ponder my rudeness.

By the way, the salesman burned a stop after leaving our farm, and was creamed by a semi-trailer. I sometimes wonder if I had freaked him out so bad that he had rushed to get away from the little witch. Maybe I caused the accident to happen? Maybe I had manipulated him with one of my morbid fantasies…

People around the small town of Waylyn were well aware of my reputation of town psychic. On rare occasions when my parents brought me into town, I could clear a store or even a restaurant. One time, there was a man in line at the country store, and out of the blue, I spoke to him.

You’re going to have lots of money, with nowhere to go. But beautiful, kind ladies will take good care of you.

For a change, neither of my parents disciplined me that time for my overactive imagination. I made the man very happy and excited, and he bought a half a dozen more lottery tickets. He gave me a kiss on top of my head, and shook both my parents’ hands before leaving the store.

He was later hit by a carload of rowdy speeding teenagers. The insurance money provided for around the clock nursing care until he passed away from complications.

But I have never been able to predict any winning lottery numbers. And believe me, I have tried, and tried, and tried. I was once cornered in an alley on the way to school by a nasty man who threatened to beat the crap out of me, if I didn’t tell him the winning lottery numbers. I was so frightened that I winged it. Of the top of my head, I spewed out numbers alone and in pairs. I can still remember how his grimy lips moved as he repeated the numbers to memorize them before running off. He looked back with a derisive grin and yelled:

Thanks—Sucker!

He was later arrested for invading our home to beat the crap out of me. It seems I had not given him the winning lottery numbers after all. The numbers that I had given him turned out to be his future prisoner identification number. When he had repented and found God, he sent me a letter to ask my forgiveness. He also wanted to know any lottery numbers that might be lucky, and if I would buy the tickets, he would split the money fifty-fifty with me. I didn’t write him back and I burned the letter. He would not need the money. I had foreseen the date of his death in a prison riot. I didn’t think that he would really want the information. Would you?

Before I go any further with my story, my name is Kelly McCallister, and I am still alive after twenty-eight years of a strange and weird life. I don’t know what the future really holds for me. Somehow that knowledge is blocked from any of my flashes of intuition. I don’t know when I will die, or how I will die. I don’t know what I will be doing a year from now, or next week. I can easily predict that I will eat bacon and eggs tomorrow morning, and come tomorrow I will open up the fridge and find that I have no eggs.

Maybe it is a self preservation device to keep me from going insane. But I thank whatever Gods there may be for this psychic block. I say that truthfully, because even if I can predict what words will come out of your mouth next, I don’t understand the powers-that-be anymore than you do. But this has become my search and my mission in this life. I want to understand this ability and be able to direct it to help people. Not just be a helpless witness to life’s events. This is why I went into law enforcement. I try to hide it, but I rely greatly on my intuition. Over the years, more than one of my partners has exclaimed: What, are you psychic?

I usually give them a wry smile and say nothing, yet all the while, I am cringing inside. If one of them ever suspected it, I would have a hard time keeping a partner. Except for James. That is because he loves me. And I love him. But I’ve broken up with him, and it rips me apart every time I look in his eyes and see the hurt and wondering. But in my mind, I’ve seen him take a bullet to the chest, and I just know his time is limited because I don’t see anything else.

This happened to me before with a man that I loved. I saw his death. I prayed about it and warned him about it. I tried to manipulate things and events, but it happened anyway. Call me a coward, but I can’t go through that again. Richard died once, but I died twice.

So Reggie’s my partner now, but it is not the same. He’s my partner and he’s my friend. But he’s not my soul mate. I am not bitter. This is the path that I have chosen for now.

Reg is going to die shoveling snow when he is eighty-three. I keep telling him to buy a damn snow blower, but he has another forty-one years to go yet. His wife is pregnant with their third child now. Neither of them knows it yet, and I’ve learned not to spoil surprises. I have matured with my abilities, and have put a muzzle on.

All that I can say for now is thank heavens that all this time I have never seen a ghost, or an angel for that matter. I can predict anyone’s death, but once they pass over, they don’t seem to bother me anymore. It had me believing that there is no such thing as life after death. That is until the other night.

* * *

Chapter 2

Our unmarked patrol car was just far enough back from the intersection to radar the oncoming speeders before they noticed us. Sometimes we flipped coins as to which car over the limit we would pull over, after all, they were all over the limit. When all the traffic starts driving the limit and below, we know that we’ve been spotted and need a new hide-out. We needed to give out a ticket or two more to justify the slow day that we were having. There is a quota to be filled, after all.

I was already feeling edgy today, and wondering if my menstrual cycle was around the corner, when the call about a missing child came over the radio. Reggie had just flipped the coin and dropped it on the floor. He swore under his breath and shook his dark head, when the coin rolled under his seat. We were close to calling it a day and answering this call would probably put us into overtime and a lot of paperwork. As if we had a choice in this matter. All probably for nothing, but somehow I felt a sense of urgency, almost panic in the pit of my stomach.

I shifted restlessly in my seat, trying to control the urge to jump up and run. Reg answered the dispatcher.

Car 836 here, any other patrols in the area? We’re pretty busy nailing those speeders. Why they must be doing at least 55 in a 60 zone. Out.

Real funny, Reg, the dispatchers voice crackled over the air, and Reg reached over and turned down the volume. You know, child find is what you and your sidekick do best. Besides everyone else is too busy getting ready for the policemen’s ball.

What makes you think I’m not coming? Reg shifted the Impala into drive.

You’re not invited because you have two left feet and can’t dance.

Now I’m hurt, Reggie grinned at me. He and the dispatcher had been friends since elementary school. Just remember, Clarence, in the game of life, two left feet beats ugly any day. Ten four.

Any other time I probably would have enjoyed their bantering, but today that urgency made me itch and I wished that Reggie would step on it. I noticed my right foot involuntarily digging into the floor carpet. I guess it must have shown on my face.

What’s up? He glanced at me as he drove through the traffic.\

I don’t know, I forced a weak smile. I don’t feel good about this one.

Hmmm, hope you’re just PMSing. Otherwise this might be a long night.

We drove the rest of the way in silence. It is a sign of the times that all missing children calls are taken very seriously, and are treated as possible abductions. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the kid is just dawdling home from school, or briefly lost, or hiding in a closet to punish his parents. Those were the only cases that I had dealt with so far in my career. Usually I could feel it in my bones that the missing kid was all right. I would follow my intuition and make suggestions to my partner about where we or the parents could look. Usually the kid would be home safe, and in his own bed by night-time.

* * *

The Larkspur residential area was built in the fifties with the population boom. There were a lot of young families, but also many elderly grandparents. It was clean and safe looking.

Reg parked the car in front of a tall red brick house with a white porch. I stepped out of the car and looked around. The situation was ridiculous. The house was across the street from the elementary school. A child couldn’t disappear on a straight line, fifty yard walk from the school to the house. Still the crimp in my stomach persisted. I could tell by the way Reggie arched his eyebrow, that he thought this was another false call from a panic stricken over-protective mother. I prayed that it was.

The front door of the house burst open, and a slim, pale woman wearing a grey dress suit came running down the stairs to greet us on the sidewalk. She hadn’t taken any time to dress into anything more comfortable before making the 911 call.

We’re here about the missing child. I am Inspector McCallister and this is Inspector Taylor. We are with the Missing Children Division of the RCMP. I introduced us, and carefully omitted the word Homicide that comes with our title.

I am so glad you’re here, her voice had an edge to it, as if she was trying not to lose it. I could tell that you were police officers, even without any uniforms. She shoved a photo at me, forcing me to take it. This is the most recent picture of my baby. It was taken during the first week of September.

I noticed that her hand was trembling when she shoved the photo at me. Then she didn’t seem to know what to do with her arms, as she crossed them, rubbed them, and pushed her hair away from her face. It was obvious that she was on the verge of panic and couldn’t stay still. And she kept talking.

We just got these pictures from the school last week. I don’t know why it takes them so long to develop them, and they make us pay for them right off the bat. She was wringing her hands as she glanced anxiously at me then at Reggie, then came beside me to look at the picture of her daughter as well.

She was a beautiful, skinny, dark haired girl with an olive complexion. She didn’t look much like her mother, except for the startling blue eyes. The mother seemed to have read my thoughts, because she looked at Reg and said:

Her father was part African-American, too.

Reg had gotten his investigative notebook out of the car and had flipped it open, ignoring the comment. This is a very multicultural city, and obviously the woman hadn’t grown up here. He poised his pen on the pad and looked up expectantly.

Ma’am, what’s your name? I could tell by Reggie’s tone that he was annoyed, he was still sure that this was another waste of his precious time.

Karla, Karla Campington, she said, as she bounced to his side to watch him write. Karla is spelled with a K, and Campington is spelled with a C. Reggie hates being corrected, so I had no doubt that his annoyance meter just went up a notch. Tough shit, he should learn to spell.

Child’s name? he asked with an edge to his voice that I didn’t like. I tried to give him my stern look to say: ’Give her a break! Her child is missing.’ But he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

As I glanced up and down the street to get a feeling, I noticed that we had attracted the interest of the neighbors on either side of the Campington residence. One fellow blatantly stared at us from over his backyard fence, and I focused on him briefly. A few petty neighborhood crimes like pelting snow into his neighbor’s driveway, or letting his dog poop on the neighbor’s lawn. There was nothing weird. He won’t ever collect his pension. He smokes too much. On the other side of the Campington residence, was a smaller wood house painted brown with curtains drawn. I could feel that there was someone hiding behind the curtains and peeking on us. She was always nosey. Wants to know what is going on. Doesn’t know anything this time…I brought myself back to the company I was with.

Juanita Carmella de Grande Campington, there was a slight hesitation before the last name was pronounced, and then she said, She’s from my first marriage. My second husband adopted her, but we’re separated now.

This time the exasperation was clearly showing on Reggie’s face as he looked up at me. I could read his mind. It’s just another child custody battle. Karla didn’t seem to notice. She probably thought that Inspector Taylor’s face was always that stern.

Ma’am, we’re going to need names and numbers for both fathers, please, he said. Karla Campington nodded.

I have their telephone numbers and addresses inside. Juanita is spelled with a J, not a W. Then Karla proceeded to spell out the name completely for Reggie. Grade one all over again.

I stepped off the sidewalk and stood in the middle of the road. The quiet street was lined with ancient elm trees that formed an arch over the road from both sides. I concentrated on the picture I still held in my hand. Then I looked down the road one way, turned and looked down the other way. It was so quiet. It must be supper time, or even past it, I mused. I turned back and concentrated for a while on the school. I was