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Authors: Heather Graham

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BOOK: Dust to Dust
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Rome.

Sister Maria Elizabeta.

His dreams, with skeletons stacked up underground. Catacombs?

Scott hit the link. Words written in Italian popped
onto the screen, along with whimsical, medieval drawings. He stared at the words blankly, then spoke aloud impatiently.

“What kind of idiot are you? You need an Internet translator.”

But when he went to hit another key, the battery gave out.

He continued to stare at the dead screen, three words at the forefront of his mind.

Sister Maria Elizabeta.

He told himself that he was crazy, but he knew he wasn't. He had been searching desperately for understanding, and at last he might have found someone who could provide him with answers.

The woman was a nun, he told himself. Of course she wanted the world to come together in peace.

But she had spoken of earth, wind, fire and water.

A nun. In Rome. Where there were dozens of catacombs.

And if he didn't do something, he was going to lose his mind for sure.

Why not?

He pulled out his phone, flipped it open and whispered a prayer of gratitude that he'd kept it charged.

3

M
elanie dreamed of being in a strange grotto. Stone, covered with lichen, cool, with a sense of being deep in the earth. There were shadows, dark and looming, and there was a sound like something dripping. And in the distance, a glow, beckoning her.

There were paintings on the walls, frenzied drawings of the cruelties of war and the excesses of victory, the revenge those who had won took on those who had lost. There seemed to be lines carved in the stone, but when she looked, they weren't lines at all, but something dripping down the face of the stone. She blinked, and saw that it was crimson. It was as if the ancient walls were crying tears of blood.

There were holy drawings between those images of war and brutality, oddly peaceful despite the chaos around them. Halos of light above kneeling saints, angels singing cherubically. A lion slept at David's feet, and a cross glowed, the ray of illumination that spared the catacomb from the darkness. Knowledge streaked through her like lightning. She was in a catacomb. A place where the dead lay rotting beneath their shrouds.

Was she, too, clad in a shroud, lying in a niche in the wall, one with the rows of the dead who had been buried in corridors beneath the earth for centuries?

Of course not, because none of this was real. She was dreaming.

She couldn't remember the last time she had dreamed so vividly. Perhaps once, in a different time…

She realized she was afraid, and she was
never
afraid.

Suddenly a silhouette appeared in the glow ahead. It loomed large, a shadow snaking along the glistening walls with their tears of blood. She wanted to shrink away from that shadow, to pretend that she was only the detritus of time, dust to dust, ashes to ashes.

But at the heart of that dark figure, there seemed to be a light. Something that was warm and strong. She dared to open her eyes, dared to look. She felt a sense of flesh and blood, bone and breath, a living being, one who had come to offer comfort, perhaps, and hope.

“I am here, waiting,” it said.

Which was ridiculous, Melanie told herself. Shadows didn't talk. But this was a dream; the shadow could do whatever it chose, and apparently it had chosen to be there in that place of death and decay, the light in the darkness. But the shadow had form, human form. The whisper was melodic, a soft, feminine voice. The shadow was cloaked, wearing some voluminous garment that swallowed it whole.

The shadow looked like a nun.

“I am the Oracle,” the shadow said. “I am waiting. I know you will come, and that we can make it to the light.”

The figure faded away, then, leaving Melanie in the darkness, aware of the pungent smell of everything that came from the earth and then returned to it. The scent of mold teased her nostrils, that deep earthy scent that smelled like death. And she felt a growing heat, like the slowly simmering threat of brimstone from the bowels of hell.

Melanie jackknifed into a sitting position, shaking. She panicked at first, looking around, then realized she was in her own room, in her own home, with Maggie sleeping in the guest room down the hall.

She reached over and turned on her bedside light. Her hands were trembling. The scent of the dream seemed to hover for a moment, but she hugged her arms around herself, and then it was gone.

She was tempted to cry…. All she wanted was to live as normal a life as she could, but this…bizarre drawings, dreams of hell and nuns promising salvation.

“I'm turning on the television and watching a totally ridiculous sitcom rerun,” she announced, as if someone could hear.

Then she turned on the television, and let canned laughter filled the room.

 

A mile away, Scott was immersed in a dream, as well.

He was standing on a hill, and he could feel the wind ripping around him. There was dirt beneath his feet; he felt the grime between his toes. He was wearing sandals, and some kind of a…skirt? And
when he moved his head, he realized that he was wearing a helmet. Not only that, he was holding a massive spear.

He heard moans, and above the moans, screams of agony. When he looked around, he saw them.

Human beings, being herded along in single file between the rows of crosses that bordered the road. The crosses rose to the sky all along the path, and each one held a burden of dying flesh. Men and women dying in agony, and nearby, his fellow soldiers sweated in the sun as they nailed another man to a cross.

“Stop!” he roared. But no one heard him, or maybe they just ignored him. He saw the face of the man being nailed to the cross, and it was the face of the old man who had died in the alley.

“Be strong, Capricorn, be strong,” he said, his voice hoarse with agony.

“Stop!” Scott raged again, grabbing one of the soldiers, tearing him away. The others, stunned, looked around, seeking to fight an enemy they couldn't see.

“I am gone now. It is up to you to find the Oracle,” the old man said. “Tread the ancient road, and go to where the battle must be won.”

The face changed and became a woman's. She was old, older than time itself, it seemed. But she had brilliant blue eyes, and she smiled toward heaven even as a nail was being driven into her wrist by one of the soldiers as the others stabbed at the wind.

“You can see me now, and you can see the way. Come to me,” she said.

Her face shifted, and then the old man was there
again. But he was dead now; he'd been too old, too weak to endure the torture of the nails, the loss of blood.

Scott howled in rage and frustration, then threw out his arms, and the soldiers fell away.

The back of his hand began to throb and he woke in an instant. He was sitting up in bed, and he had just slammed his arms against the wall.

He looked around in the shadows and the darkness. A groan escaped him. “I guess I
am
Capricorn. I
will
find the Oracle. I
will
find the way,” he said, then realized he was speaking aloud. What the hell. It was bad enough that his whole life had changed and his days were a torment of hoping that he would discover a reason why, but his nights were worse.

He was beginning to hate going to sleep.

He sat awake, wondering what the dream had meant, or if it had meant anything at all, other than that he was still spooked by that night in the alley. Maybe he was just going mad. Getting really philosophical, was there a point to life at all? Or was he, along with everyone else, just organic matter that had developed until it had to believe in more for the sake of sanity?

He smashed his pillow—better than the wall, at least—and lay down again.

It was hours before he slept.

 

“I know I need to start all over again. Calming my darling down and letting her know how much I love her. She's just a pile of quivering, quaking nerves,” Judy Bobalink declared, cradling Miss Tiffany to her chest.

Miss Tiffany was a “designer dog,” a peek-a-poo,
bred from a Pekingese and a miniature poodle. Mel knew that Judy had spent a great deal of money on the dog, which was, in Melanie's mind, a cute little mutt. Judy Bobalink reminded Melanie of a designer creation herself. Once upon a time she had been a beautiful young starlet. Fortune had not fallen her way, though, and now she was a character actress—actually, a very good one. But she was sixty, with bleached-blond hair that fell to her waist, pretty blue eyes and massive fake lashes. On the screen, it worked. In person, she was a bit like a photo out of focus. She had given up on the possibility of family for her career, and Miss Tiffany was everything to her.

Miss Tiffany
was
quivering in her owner's arms—but Melanie had seldom seen the dog do anything but.

“So, can you work with her this afternoon?”

“I'm sorry, Judy, but I really can't. I have friends coming in to help me fix some damage, but I can…talk to Miss Tiffany. Honestly, it isn't me she needs now. She doesn't have any behaviors that need to be modified, she's just nervous after the earthquake. She needs
you.

Judy looked crushed and unconvinced. “Oh. It's just that I was so excited to see that you were open. So many places are closed because of the quake. And honestly, we get those little quakes all the time, and this wasn't really
that
much bigger. It was more like a warning of something more, don't you think?”

A warning? Melanie wasn't sure that the earth knew anything about warning people or that the plates beneath the earth's crust did anything more than react to natural stressors.

“Well, we're always open on Saturday, so I figured I'd give it a few hours. But you know how it goes. I'm sure many places are closed because their employees live in areas that were harder hit. Anyway, I can't keep Miss Tiffany for you, Judy, but let's talk to her for a minute. Hand her over, and listen to the way I reassure her,” Melanie suggested.

Judy complied, and Melanie held the little dog and talked to her gently, telling her that the quake was over, that everything was okay. The dog had no idea of what she was saying; it was the soothing cadence of her words that made the animal pay attention and finally wag her tail tentatively. Melanie gave her a few treats, and the little tail began to wag so hard it created a breeze. Judy gushed over the results, but Melanie waved a hand dismissively. “You just need to use positive reinforcement, and it doesn't have to be food. Dogs are affectionate creatures. Miss Tiffany loves you, and she takes all her cues from you. Make sure
you're
calm and she'll be calm, too.”

Just as she handed back the dog, Judy gushing at how marvelous she was, Blake Reynaldo, LAPD, walked in with Bruno.

Blake was a big cop. Bruno was a big dog. He wasn't a shepherd or a rottweiler, though. He was a basset. Low to the ground, but massive, Bruno could pull with such strength that Blake had once fallen flat while walking him. After that, Bruno had come in for training. When he looked at Melanie with his soulful eyes, his intelligence shone through. Bruno was the kind of dog who just needed to learn that his master was the boss,
and Blake needed to learn to be that boss, establishing his credentials not with swearing or anger, but with a steady stubbornness to match Bruno's own.

“Hey, Blake,” Melanie said. “How's it going out there?”

“This morning, not so bad. Last night, a zoo. We got through with no fatalities. Damage is in the millions, but manageable. But the looting last night was savage. A lot of cops are still out there, but it's been quiet enough that those of us who were out there tackling the looters last night were actually allowed to go home when the new shift came on.” Blake Reynaldo was a seasoned cop. Nearing sixty, he had put in all the years he needed to retire, but he said he wasn't ready yet. He wouldn't retire until they kicked him out, he had once assured Melanie. Stocky, strong—almost like Bruno—he was armed with over thirty years of street savvy. He wasn't married, and he spent his free time creating programs for local toughs, putting his time and money into coaching neighborhood baseball teams and sponsoring “art days” when his players spent an afternoon at a dance recital, classical concert or art show, with the intention of showing them how different approaches to movement, rhythm and perception helped with sports. Sometimes a bad baseball player even became an artist or guitarist. There was a method to Blake's madness, and Melanie loved him; she was sure that he had kept a lot of kids from going down the wrong path.

“So what you brings you and Bruno in?” Melanie asked.

“Dog food. I would've had to knock on your apart
ment door if you hadn't opened today. I had some breakage. Don't want to take any chance of Bruno getting glass slivers in his dinner. I threw away his old dishes, and the coffeepot fell on the bag of food with enough force to split it open, then broke. Bruno is my friend—hell, Bruno is my best friend. Can't go taking any chances.”

“Oh, no! You'd never want to take a chance,” Judy said. She smiled at Blake. He smiled back. “Well, I'll be on my way. Thanks so much, Melanie.” She headed for the door, then turned back to Blake. “You're a very good master,” she said.

“Thanks,” Blake called, watching her leave.

Melanie wondered if she might be able to build a romance between the two of them. She needed to throw a few more bowwow parties, when her clients brought their dogs in for treats and playtime, then socialized over wine, soda and snacks.

Blake turned his attention back to Melanie. “So where were you when the lights went out?” he asked.

Melanie dragged a fifty pound bag of dog food over to Blake, then set two big new bowls on top of it. “Those are on me—I'll put the food on your account,” she told him, then said, “I was out with my friend Maggie. She's in from New Orleans. I think you met her last year. We do a weekend now and then. She leaves the kids at home with her husband and comes out here to do grown-up things.”

Blake nodded, then pointed a finger at her. “I heard about you, young lady. What am I going to do with you?”

BOOK: Dust to Dust
6.69Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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