Blood Passage (45 page)

“
He said he hoped I wasn’t too upset when he had to leave. He said Shawn and Gary were so mean they never let him go.” She looked at Hank. “You said he knows they’re both dead now, didn’t you?”

Hank nodded. He’d explained to Meredith the circumstances of Martin’s death, that ShonDale Gregg had shot her son accidentally while beating him as Gary Thatcher, Tommy Leung and Barry Melton stood by. He’d also explained that Peter had told the boy Gregg and Thatcher were both dead.

“
He seemed calm about it,” Meredith said. “When he said their names, it was like their memory didn’t really bother him any more.”

Hank said nothing.

“
He said he hoped I wasn’t too upset,” Meredith went on, “because he went to a really nice place to wait before he went down into his now mama’s tummy. He told me God was there and was really nice to him, and there were animals and other nice people, too. Then it was time to go to his new mama’s tummy to get ready to be born again.”

Hank smiled at her.

Meredith drew in a long breath and slowly released it. “I don’t believe in reincarnation. I’m not a practicing Christian. I’m an agnostic. I’m nothing. I don’t think about it, deliberately, because it upsets me. It took me four years to get over Martin’s murder, almost as long to get over Stephen’s death, and now….” She tapped her finger on the bar. “Oh, yeah. He also said when he was in the nice place they told him that his before daddy was sick and was going to go to a new body soon.” She looked at him. “Stephen wasn’t diagnosed with cancer until several months after Martin’s death.”

They both turned their attention to their coffee. Finally Hank reached out and patted her forearm. “Are you sorry you met with him?”

“
No,” Meredith said quickly. “Really, I’m not. Peter was right. Amazing to say, but Peter was right. And when that little boy said goodbye to me, when I was leaving, it was like it was Martin saying goodbye to me, and when I said goodbye back it was like I was saying goodbye to Martin.” She shrugged at him. “We had a chance to say goodbye. After four years.”

Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away.

“
Look who’s here,” a voice said behind them. Karen patted Hank on the back and slid onto the bar stool next to him. Sandy Alexander sat down next to her and waved. “How’s the food today?” she asked, leaning her elbows on the bar.

“
Very good,” Hank replied.

Karen looked at Meredith and raised her eyebrows at Hank. “How did it go?” she asked, voice lowered.

“
It went.”

“
He was remembering stuff?”

Hank nodded.

“
Nice to see you again,” Meredith said, moving on her stool to look past Hank at Karen.

“
Same here. Are you okay?”

“
I’m okay.” Meredith’s eyes moved to Sandy.

“
This is Sandy Alexander,” Karen said. “Sandy, this is Meredith Collier.”

“
Hello, Sandy. Nice to meet you.”

“
The pleasure’s all mine, Ms. Collier.”

“
Meredith, please.”

“
Actually,” Karen said, drawing out the word until Hank turned around to look at her, “Sandy and I have decided to get married.”

Hank stared at her, at a loss for words.

“
We’re gonna wait for a year,” she went on, amused by his reaction. “We found a real nice place down on the waterfront. In fact, it’s the building next to yours,” she said to Meredith, “and we’re gonna, you know, split the rent, mix our stuff together, see how it goes.”

“
We’ll get married in my hometown,” Sandy said. “Covington, Virginia. A little church wedding. My parents want to pay for everything, but they insist on having it there. Stains’ll be a huge hit back there. They won’t know what hit them.”

“
Say something, Lou,” Karen laughed.

“
Congratulations,” Hank managed. He leaned forward to shake Sandy’s hand. He looked at Karen. She threw her arms around him and squeezed.

“
Pray for me, Hank,” she whispered in his ear.

“
Yes, congratulations,” Meredith said. “I have a feeling it’ll work out just fine. You two seem very comfortable together.”

“
We do?” Sandy quipped. “Maybe it’s because I’m the only male within a hundred miles that isn’t scared to death of her. Other than Hank, of course.”

Karen turned around and punched him on the shoulder, hard.

“
Ouch, glad that wasn’t me,” Hank said. He reached for his glass and held it up. “Here’s to the happy couple. Long may they frolic.”

“
Here here,” Meredith said, tipping her glass.

“
Frolic,” Karen repeated. “Boy, you have no idea.”

Meredith’s eyes met Hank’s over the rim of her glass. They looked at each other for a long moment, and when Meredith looked away again to say something to Karen, Hank could see the same softening of her eyes, parting of her lips and the gradual disappearance of the little frown lines across her forehead that he’d noticed when they’d first met in the chiropractor’s office. Now, as then, it told him she’d resolved an internal question and felt comfortable with the answer.

He didn’t have to be a detective to know he’d reached the same conclusion.

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank Dr. Jim B. Tucker, child psychiatrist at the University of Virginia, whose book
Life Before Life: A Scientific Investigation of Children’s Memories of Previous Lives
(New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2005) inspired this story. I appreciate very much the time Dr. Tucker took to review material in this novel related to his work, and I thank him for his patience in correcting my errors. Any further mistakes or inaccuracies concerning the past-life memories of young children are solely my own.

Several sources of information were helpful in writing this book, including Martin Booth’s
The Triads: The Chinese Criminal Fraternity
(London: Grafton, 1991) and Gerald L. Posner’s
Warlords of Crime: Chinese Secret Societies: The New Mafia
(New York: Penguin, 1988).

I’d also like to thank Carol Ann Driscoll, Larry Sudds, Gwenda Lemoine, Anie Pulsifer and Margaret Leroux for reading the manuscript in its various iterations and providing invaluable feedback.

Finally I’d like to thank my wife Lynn Clark, to whom this book is dedicated, for having read the manuscript twice, for her feedback, her patience, good humor, tact and all the other characteristics that contribute to the makeup of a saint. No wonder I still worship the ground you walk on.

About the Author

Michael J. McCann
lives and writes in Oxford Station, Ontario on seven acres in the Limerick Forest south of Ottawa. A graduate of Trent University in Peterborough and Queen’s University in Kingston, he worked as an editor before spending fifteen years with Canada Customs. He is married and has one son.

He is also the author of
The Ghost Man
, is a supernatural thriller set in eastern Ontario.

Visit Mike’s website at
http://www.mjmccann.com
.