I reached the far end of the attic, coughing and choking now as I clawed at the wall, pleading out loud for someone to help me. There was a roaring sound behind me as the fire feasted itself on the contents of my bedroom, and I inched along the wall, pounding on it and screaming for help. I couldn’t see; my eyes were forced closed by the biting sting of the smoke. I couldn’t breathe either, and I knew I was losing consciousness. I put every ounce of effort into inching across the floor, pounding on the wall, screaming at the top of my lungs, when my hand pushed through a flimsy piece of plastic and my arm dangled out into the cool, crisp night air.
For a split second I didn’t move, the sensation of my hand extending beyond the wall taking a moment to catch up with my panicked, oxygen-starved brain. Then I remembered.
Dave had told me about the small window he’d accidentally broken up here when he was trying to repair the rafters, and I remembered him telling me he’d replace it as soon as he was finished because he didn’t want to risk breaking it again. He must have covered the opening with plastic to try to keep out the cold.
I shoved my face out of the window and gulped great gobs of air. My respite was short-lived, as the smoke now had a way out as well, and quickly took over the small window. With wobbly knees I stood up and pushed my body out of the opening. Behind me I could feel the heat of the smoke intensifying, beginning to burn my skin. I had seconds to live if I didn’t get out now.
I pushed out of the window, still blind from the smoke, and something scratched at my arms and face. Synapses fired in my brain as I remembered that this window sat next to a huge evergreen that shaded my whole house on this side.
Coughing and choking, while trying to open my eyes a tiny fraction as they watered and stung, I felt around the prickly needles, and my hand connected with a thick branch. Without hesitation I grabbed the branch with one hand and swung out of the window, my grip barely holding me as I groped forward and got my legs around the trunk. I faced away from my house and clung to the tree, coughing and sputtering and trying not to pass out.
I had barely recovered myself when my back, which faced the house, started to feel hot, and I realized the room I’d just been in was completely ablaze by now, and flames were about to replace the smoke coming through the window. I had to get out of the tree before it too caught fire.
As quickly as I could I shimmied down the trunk, feeling my way because my eyes stung too much to open. My purse, still wrapped across my body, caught on a branch, and it took several panicky seconds to untangle myself before I finally got to the ground and crawled clear of the tree and the house.
Around the front I could hear sirens and shouting and someone screaming. Loudest of all, however, was the roar of the fire as it gorged on all of my treasures and memories. I sat there in the backyard for a long moment, staring through the small slits of my eyes as they watered out the toxins that still stung them, and a grief like I’d never known took hold deep in my heart.
It’s a terrible thing to watch your world burn away before your eyes, and as long as I live I will never forget the misery of that moment.
Several minutes passed as my breathing, although still painful, slowly returned to normal. I was coughing only every third or fourth breath now, and I felt just about strong enough to stand again. I had to get some help, but everyone seemed to be at the front of the house. Dully, I stood up and swayed my way across the backyard, no longer looking at the house because it was gone and I knew it. I got to the back gate and peered through the opening, and what I saw stopped my heart cold.
Gargoyle and Goblin stood in my driveway with twisted little smirks on their ugly, dark faces. Around them were my neighbors, slack-jawed and terrified, some pointing to my house, others crying as if it were their own.
If I pushed through the gates I’d be met first by Gargoyle and Goon, but my neighbors, the police and fire department were also there, so how much danger could I still be in?
Just then my intuition buzzed loudly in my ear, and I turned my head out of sheer habit. Don’t . . . circled around and around in my head. My hand rested on the gate as I debated what to do. Don’t! my intuition screamed. Just then I was overcome by a succession of coughs, and I saw Gargoyle’s head snap up in my direction. He couldn’t see me through the gate, but I watched, horrified, as he slapped Goblin on the shoulder and the two quietly edged their way through the crowd in my direction.
Get away! my intuition screamed, and instinctively I backed away from the gate. As quickly as I could I darted into the shadows of the yard and around to the back shed. There was a bin where I stowed my compost back there, and without waiting I pulled myself up onto it and managed to swing my way over the back fence. I was rewarded with a couple of splinters, but with everything I’d been through in the last several minutes that was the least of my worries.
As quietly as I could I made my way across the yard of my neighbor, desperately trying not to make too much noise as dried leaves crunched softly under my shoes. I reached the driveway, eyeing the house nervously. Why, I didn’t know, but I couldn’t risk being seen right now. I knew that it was imperative that people presume I had died in that blaze, at least for the time being.
For the next hour I kept to the shadows, slowly making my way toward my office building, which was ten minutes by car or a half an hour on foot. Of course, if you’re trying to be stealthy about it, you can add an extra twenty minutes.
Finally, nearly frozen by the cold of the November evening, I rounded the block my office was on, and walked quickly to the back of the building. It was now around eight thirty, and I figured just about everyone I had to worry about would be out of the building. Punching in my security code to the back door, I made my way quietly up the back stairs and cautiously down the hallway to my office. I let myself inside and avoided turning on the lights.
Instead I lit a candle from my reading room and walked around to my desk. Pulling out a key from my purse, I opened the bottom drawer and extracted a metal box with a lock. I inserted another key from my key chain and lifted the lid.
As I looked at the contents, a mixture of melancholy and relief flooded my numbed emotions. There was three thousand dollars in that box, and it was now that I remembered the last time I’d seen that money.
Three years earlier I’d had a vivid and powerful vision. I’d been meditating, and one of my guides had stepped forward with a very strong message. He had instructed me to gather three thousand dollars as quickly as I could and put it into a lockbox to be kept in the bottom drawer of my desk at the office. He told me point-blank that I was not to touch this money under any circumstances until such time as an absolute emergency required me to use it. I remember thinking that perhaps my imagination was playing tricks on me, but even as I had the thought something compelled me to comply.
It had taken me several months to gather the money, mostly because at the time I was also saving to buy a house—the very one that had now been reduced to ashes—but I’d managed it somehow. Over the years I’d forgotten about the box, but in my neighbor’s backyard I’d suddenly remembered it, and I had a feeling that now was the time when it was safe to dip into the well.
I gathered up the money, tucking it into my purse, and then blew out the candle. I went back out into the hallway and made my way down the hall to the ladies’ room, where I locked the door from the inside. I turned then and looked in the mirror and froze as I saw my reflection. I looked wretched.
Dark ash coated my skin, clothes and hair. My sweater was torn, snagged and dirty; my face and arms were scratched and swollen. My eyes were puffy—slits, really—and a painful mask of remorse colored my expression. I quickly lowered my eyes, not wanting to look at the reflection any longer, and moved to the sink. I pulled off my sweater and turned on the faucet, letting the water warm my cold hands before I attempted to make myself presentable.
It took about twenty minutes, but eventually I was as clean as I could be. I’d wound my hair up into a tight bun, scr
ubbed the soot off the rest of me, and used just about every paper towel in the dispenser, but at least I looked somewhat passable. I eyed the sweater woefully—I hated to put that thing back on—when I remembered something that would be much better.
Quickly I gathered up the sweater and headed back down the hallway to my office, once again letting myself inside. I went to the spare office Theresa had once used and checked behind the door. There, to my great relief, was the bulging shopping bag from my sister, stuffed to the gills with clothes she’d purchased for me, and which I’d had every intention of returning. I lifted the bag, which was much heavier than I remembered, and smiled ruefully.
For once I was going to accept my sister’s generosity without a fight. I fished around in the bag and retrieved a pair of black cotton pants and a beautiful cream-colored cashmere sweater. I decided not to look at the price tags as I got dressed; better to just assume they were expensive than to look at the price and remove all doubt. When I was dressed I went back to the shopping bag and fished around in it some more, smiling as my hand connected with a beautiful, thick, long black sweater coat that belted in the front. Thank God for Cat.
Quickly I wrapped myself in the sweater coat, then folded the other ruined sweater and my smelly jeans and looked around for something to put them in. I walked over to my garbage can and extracted the liner bag the cleaning crew supplied. I chucked the smelly clothes into the plastic bag, tucked them under my arm, grabbed the shopping bag and bolted out the door. Quickly I trotted down the hallway, taking the back stairwell, and exited the building.
I paused in the alley behind the building, looking around until I spied a large Dumpster, and without a thought I tossed in the ruined sweater and jeans and shut the lid. Then I headed across the street to the Grey-hound bus station, where I intended to purchase a ticket for anything that would get me the hell out of Dodge. Pronto.
My options were reduced to Lansing, Milwaukee, or Toledo. I chose Toledo mostly for the fact that that bus was leaving in ten minutes. I took my ticket outside, got on the bus, found a seat all to myself in the back and bit my lip until we pulled out of the station.
Two hours later we arrived in Toledo, and I stepped off the bus and eyed the neighborhood. I saw a Motel 6 just down the block, and with a small sigh of relief I noticed a Wal-Mart about two blocks farther. I walked first to the motel and purchased a room for cash. Normally the nightly rate was forty bucks, but if you didn’t want to present the clerk with ID it was an extra twenty. I wanted to remain incognito, so I gladly peeled off the extra bill.
I took the room key down to my room and unlocked the door, setting the shopping bag just inside without turning on the lights, then closed the door again and quickly headed back out into the crisp night air. It was chilly, about thirty-five degrees, and I wasn’t dressed properly, but at least I had layers.
I hurried to Wal-Mart and walked into the brightly lit megastore, looking around for the section I wanted.
“Can I help you?” an elderly gentleman wearing a blue smock and a pin with a giant happy face asked me.
“Can you point me in the direction of women’s underwear and the luggage department?”
“Women’s lingerie is in aisle five, down this walkway to the left. Luggage is in aisle twenty-six, all the way to the back of the store, just past electronics.”
“Thanks,” I said, trying to smile but failing.
I grabbed a cart and hurried through the store, snatching a six-pack of undies, two sports bras, socks, and, one aisle over, I grabbed a three-pack of men’s white cotton T-shirts. Then I headed to the back of the building for a large duffel bag, and paused before checking out to soap, shampoo, conditioner, toothbrush, toothpaste, lotion and my usual mascara and blush. I also found a contact lens case and enough saline to wash out the soot still making my eyes sting.
Half an hour later I was back in my room, and I peeled off my clothes, carefully folding the new ones from Cat, and throwing my underwear and bra into the trash.
The shower felt wonderful and, exhausted as I was, I still stood there for nearly twenty minutes, shampooing and rinsing over and over until the smell of soot had been washed down the drain.
Pink from the hot shower I finally got out and wrapped myself in a towel. I walked back out to the room and snatched up two of the Wal-Mart bags. Bringing them into the bathroom I pulled out the pack of T-shirts, undies and cotton socks and put on a fresh pair of each. I then brushed my hair and paused for a moment to consider my image in the shadowy reflection of the still-steamed morror. It was my eyes that bugged me. They were flat and angry. I didn’t like the thoughts that were swimming in them, so after a moment I looked away.
I dried my hair with the hotel’s built-in dryer, but because I was so tired I left it slightly damp and headed back out into the room. The bed beckoned, but I had to come up with a game plan before I could even think about sleep. I sighed and rounded the bed, sitting down cross-legged on top of the covers. I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes. What should I do now? I asked in my mind.
Visit J.R., came the thought in answer.
I lifted my chin and cocked my head. What? I asked.
Visit J.R. . . . came again.
My eye drifted to my purse just then, and I noticed the small notebook that I’d used when I’d written down the details of my dream tucked into the side pocket. I must have snatched it up when I’d been trying to hide from Goblin and Gargoyle. I got up from the bed and retrieved my purse. Pulling out the pad of paper, I went over the details of the dream again.
The message in my head was to visit J.R—so maybe I was supposed to go to Dallas?
Left side, heavy feeling . . . No.
Then where?
Krispy Kreme . . . drifted into my thoughts, and the image of the sheriff’s star that J.R. had been wearing also appeared in my mind’s eye.
My brow furrowed. The sheriff’s star was easy enough—I was supposed to go to Texas. J.R. from my dream also confirmed that. What I couldn’t figure out was where in Texas. I wasn’t supposed to go to Dallas, but somewhere else, and if I took my guides literally, I was supposed to go to a doughnut shop.
I sighed heavily and looked back at my notes. I focused on the Krispy Kreme shop, and read the detail about all those Krispy Kremes laid out in the coffin, and that struck me as curious. Why would my guides want me to focus on the inside of a coffin? I worked through the metaphor out loud, “Doughnuts . . . coffin . . . Krispy Kremes . . . dead . . . corpse . . . Krispy Kreme . . . Oh, my God!” I gasped—I had it! “Corpus Christi, Texas!” I shouted out loud.
Right side, light, airy feeling . . . My sign for jackpot.
Quickly I grabbed the phone and dialed information. I got the number for Northwest Airlines reservations and dialed the number. An agent came on the line and I inquired about available flights out of Toledo to Corpus Christi, Texas. I’d have to switch planes in Houston, but if I made it onto the six thirty a.m. flight the next morning, I could be there by one thirty p.m. I eyed the bedside clock and moaned.
“Would you like for me to reserve your flight, ma’am?” the agent said.
I hesitated for a moment, about to say yes, then thought better of it and said, “No, thank you,” and hung up. I’d have to show my ID tomorrow at the airport, which was bad enough. What I didn’t want was for someone to run my credit report and find me too quickly. Yes, there would be a record of my taking a flight, but hopefully it would be at least a few days before someone thought to check with the airlines outside of Detroit. It was just safer right now to pay in cash.
I set the alarm for five, which was a mere four hours away, and turned out the light. In the dark I wept about the loss of my house and all my worldly possessions until exhaustion put me out of my misery.
Chapter Fifteen
When they talk about Texas being “big sky” country, they aren’t kidding. I’d never been to Texas, so the wide-openness of the place took me by surprise. I’d watched from the plane
as the topography changed beneath me, and long stretches of time passed where, below, there was only dry, baked earth.
After boarding a puddle jumper in Houston, I finally stepped off the plane onto terra firma in Corpus Christi without a clue as to what the hell to do next. I carried my duffel bag across the tarmac and into the airport, looking around with uncertainty. I noticed a group of people gathered by a sign that read, SHUTTLE, so I joined them, allowing fate to bring me to the next step.
My intuition had been unusually quiet since I’d purchased the ticket, which was either a sign of sleep deprivation, or my crew had no comment. At this point I was too tired to care.
The shuttle arrived and we all boarded. The driver asked each of us where we were headed, and I chose the same location as a young businesswoman with a pronounced Southern drawl who asked to be taken to the La Quinta inn.
She and I were the third stop, and I trailed behind her as we stepped off the shuttle and walked into the Spanish-style hotel with a gorgeous brick driveway, white stucco and a clay roof. The inn was large and homey, with a tasteful Southwestern feel and a welcoming attitude.
I waited behind the businesswoman while she checked in at the front desk; then, when she was safely out of earshot, I stepped up to the clerk and told him I didn’t have a reservation but was in need of a room. He nodded and turned to his computer terminal, where, after clicking the keys in a brisk fashion, he located a room on the third floor.
“How long will you be staying, Ms. Masters?” I was using Cat’s last name just in case.
“Two nights . . .” came out of my mouth before I even had a chance to consider it. I was a little surprised by my answer, but figured this was my guides’ way of telling me I wasn’t supposed to dawdle here.
I was also relieved when the clerk told me that it was sixty-five a night—the place looked a lot more expensive—and after forking over a thousand dollars for my plane ticket, I was trying to watch my p’s and q’s.