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  “You were in the coma for several days. Tell me, Donna: on which day did you give the toddler the suspect’s name?”

  “I…I can’t remember,” I retort. “It wasn’t as if I was wearing a watch or anything. When you’re in a coma, time stands still, or races ahead like fast-motion photography.”

  “Perhaps you could have heard your team mention the suspect’s name on one day. Then, in your unconscious state dream, you might have thought you’d given it to the toddler the next day. Or, perhaps he just heard it while there in the hospital room, like you.”

  “In other words, you think I’m delusional.” Which means I won’t be getting anywhere near the mission.

  Bellows coughs apologetically. “You have to consider that the images that appeared to you—the Reaper, Satan—represent your deepest darkest fears: death and the Afterlife that we can only guess at. For some, the thought of dying is filled with sadness, anger, and loss of self.” He leans forward on his desk. “As for the fantasy of re-connecting with loved ones who’d died, I’d say it represents your hope that they’ll be there to greet you when it is your turn to, as they say, ‘cross over.’”

  “Interesting,” I mutter. Not. “Are you also doubting that I may have heard those around me while in the coma? Or that I might have connected with Nicky?”

  “Not at all. Such psychic phenomena occurring to coma patients has already been reported, so yes, it’s always possible.” He tents his fingers on his desk. “As for those ‘un-death matches,” perhaps they were the manifestation of guilt on your part for the lives you took—”

  “I have no regrets,” I interrupt. “Neither the first time I killed them, nor during the un-death matches.” I too tent my fingers at my waist. It’s the only way to keep from grabbing his pen and stabbing him in the neck with it, which wouldn’t get me what I want: back with my team.

  Bellows nods as his pen scratches his pad. “Even those who may have been collateral damage?”

  “What do you mean by that?” I ask warily.

  “Most people have some code of ethics or morals. Granted, some in your profession can fit theirs on the back of a business card, but there are some lines that are taboo to cross. And when exterminations go awry, there can be…regrets.” He pauses again. Then, he hesitantly adds, “No one is perfect. I’m sure you’ve had some too.”

  Instead, I murmur, “But of course, Doctor. Makes perfect sense.”

  A pleased smile accompanies his less-than-modest shrug. “One last question, Donna: are you still having these delusions?”

  Yes, Doc. I hear voices in my head. I see dead people. My ex visited just this morning…

  “Who…me?” I shake my head. “Nah. All gone now, thank goodness!”

  He sighs disappointedly. “Quite an interesting case. Do let me know if they come back…you know, as visions or nightmares. Anything.”

  Like Hell. “Will do! Good-bye Doctor.”

  I’m trying to keep my voice positive, but he’s an intuitive shrink. When I slam his door, a few Rorschachs fall to the floor. Gee, I hope he doesn’t pick up on my disappointment.

  I have no need to go directly home, so I won’t. There’s no one and nothing waiting there for me.

  At first, I meander aimlessly, driving north on State Route 1 until it turns into the Pacific Coast Highway.

  Finally, I pull off the road far north of Malibu.

  I get out in order to walk on the beach.

  The coarse brown sand fills my shoes, so I kick them off and just keep walking until I reach the surf. In no time, I’ve strolled out far enough that the tepid waves are lapping at my thighs.

  I leap in.

  My breaststrokes take me far out into the dark turquoise ocean. I barely feel the frigid water. I’m already numb from despair.

  My dead man’s float allows me to me look up at gauzy clouds, pulled into thin wisps by ocean gusts. Is it a scrim hiding the Heaven of our dreams?

  In any event, I am not worthy of it.

  So then, why am I here?

  I don’t mean out here in the Pacific, or even Malibu. I mean here—as in alive.

  We tell ourselves that life is precious. What we don’t want to accept is that it goes on without us; that after loss, grief may follow, but acceptance is inevitable.

  Memories fade. People forget. What’s left to be said about you can easily be carved onto a headstone: your name, a couple of dates, and some innocuous homily.

  What is it all for?

  And in my case, was coming back worth it?

  In the eyes of my husband, I’m an invalid whose sanity—a frail skein of tangled thoughts, emotions, and deductions—is now hanging by a thread. I overreact to threats against the safety of my precious children while ignoring my own brush with death.

  No doubt, he’d second every conclusion reached by Bellows: that I’m delusional. That my lack of concern for my safety is rooted in guilt for those lives taken—both directly and indirectly.

  Perhaps he’s right. I count on my fingers those affected by my words and deeds if not my assassin skills: the witnesses who were at the wrong place at the wrong time, or the women who I vetted as my replacement when I considered retirement.

  Even Mara Portnoy was such a casualty.

  And now that my obsession with my job has moved beyond its original motivation—avenging a loved one’s death—is the good doctor right in assuming that it’s fueled by a different obsession: the thrill of the kill?

  If so, then I am a monster.

  The sea is filled with them.

  It took Carl. It could easily take me too.

  Because my ears are underwater, I didn’t hear the arrival of the surfer who now stares down at me. Despite his smile, I hear the concern in his voice when he asks, “Hey, doll, need a lift?”

  I know better than to take too long to answer. I nod. “Sure, why not?”

  I hop in front of him on his surfboard and we paddle back to shore.

  He doesn’t ask how or why I’m out here. Something tells me I’m not the first person he’s found out swimming in a tidal pool of despair.

  They say salt water heals wounds. I hope it can heal hearts too.

  16

  Live Like You Were Dying

  Performed by country singer Tim McGraw. Written by the songwriting team of Tim Nichols and Craig Wiseman. It was the lead single from his eighth album of the same name released in 2004. The writers’ lyrics were inspired by those they knew who suffered serious illnesses and changed in order to live life to its fullest.

  The lead single from the album, the song became an enormous success in the U.S. It spent seven weeks atop the Billboard country music charts, and was touted as the biggest country song of the year. It won “Single of the Year” and “Song of the Year” at both the 2004 Country Music Association Awards and at the 2004 Academy of Country Music Awards. It was also awarded the 2004 Grammy Award for Best Country Song.

  In the immortal words of George Burns: “You can’t help getting older, but you don’t have to get old.”

  In other words, live like you’re dying. As if every day may be your last.

  To make that ideal a reality, make this a part of your daily routine:

  Change #1: Don’t be afraid of what others say or think about you. If you’re true to yourself, the only opinion that matters is your own.

  Change #2: If something in your life doesn’t work, change it. If you aren’t happy, no one else will be either.

  Change #3: Not every day will be a great one. When a great one occurs, celebrate it in the moment.

  Change #4: If something doesn’t work in your life, quit doing it. If someone doesn’t work in your life, walk away from him or her. If someone is threatening your life, stand tall—and make sure they fall hard.

  “You’re still in bed on such a beautiful day like today?” Aunt Phyllis pulls my comforter away, exposing my Smurfs granny gown for the world to see.

  I guess I’m exaggerating since we’re the only o
nes in my bedroom—quite evident to my aunt, who winces as she mutters, “It’s already ten o’clock! And you wonder why Jack jogs every morning at the crack of dawn when he should be under the covers with you, doing the dirty—”

  “Jogging is a new obsession,” I retort.

  Aunt Phyllis’s admonishment comes with a frown. “You’ve slept for two days straight,” she counters. “It’s time you quit hiding out!”

  “Me—hiding? That’s rich!” I retort. “From whom? From what?”

  “From your family. From your husband.” She moves in to make her point: “From your life.”

  I frown. “That’s not fair! I’ve gone through a traumatic experience—”

  Aunt Phyllis shakes her head. “So, you’ve decided to give up?"

  "You don't know the half of it,” I mutter.

  "My dear niece, I may be blind, partially deaf, and yes, a bit brain-addled—but I'm not stupid." Aunt Phyllis's right brow arches. “You’re scared. We all get it. But we can’t change that in you. We can’t be you for you. In other words, only you can fix this.” She takes my hand. “Start by staring it in the face. Whatever haunts you—it will blink first. And when it does, you’ll finally recover that unique courage that sets you apart from everyone I know.”

  I nod because I know she’s right. Before I can do so myself, Aunt Phyllis wipes away the tear rolling down my cheek. “I know you’re going to tell me that I’m sticking my nose where it shouldn’t be, but you’d be wrong. The happiness of this family is just as important to me as it is to you—all the more reason you should kiss and make up with Jack. He never left your side, missy! Not for a moment. Not even when the doctor told us you were a goner. Now, why are you doing everything you can to push him away?”

  “That’s between Jack and me,” I declare. “Please respect my wishes to handle my husband as I see fit.”

  “The way you’re ‘handling’ him, he may not have that distinction for much longer.” She stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  And not a moment too soon. My cell phone rings. Caller ID says it’s Ryan.

  YES! YES! He really, really loves me!

  I answer immediately. “Yes, my king, my liege?”

  “You flatter me,” Ryan’s response is not only uncertain, it’s cold. “Despite that, we need to talk.”

  “Sure.” I mean, it’s that or watching my toenails grow. “Should I wait and come in with Jack?”

  Ryan coughs. “Not necessary. I’ll just expect you sometime today.”

  “Duly noted. I’ll be there at one-thirty,” I reply nonchalantly. It’s better to know Ryan’s opinion on my status as soon as possible.

  “That will work perfectly. I’ve got an out-of-office meeting scheduled for three. I’ll need time in between to prep for it. Come in through the back entrance.”

  Ryan has a secret door into his office. It’s his way of saying he’d like to keep our conversation on the down-low. I’ll be in and out before anyone at Acme realizes I’m there—including Jack.

  I’ve got no problem with that. No matter how Jack feels about my quote-unquote delicate situation, Ryan’s take on my experiences may be different. And if he feels I’m good to go, then Jack’s opinion won’t matter.

  But if Ryan feels I’m no longer a viable Acme asset, there will be other days spent in bed.

  Perhaps months.

  As I expected, by the time I enter Ryan’s office, he’s lowered the scrim that shields his office, making us invisible from the rest of Acme.

  Ryan uses the file in his hand to point to the chair in front of his desk. “Sit down.”

  I ease myself into it, but keep my mouth shut until he’s ready to talk.

  “We have a lead on your attempted assassin,” he says.

  Ah, this should be interesting. “He was a former Russian operative. He’s been rogue for a few years, so we’re going on the assumption that it was a hit for hire.”

  “Which doesn’t bring us any closer to who hired him,” I mutter.

  “Neither did our interrogation of Nancy Carr. While at Club Dread, she admitted that if you weren’t close enough to expiration on your own, she’d been paid to help you ‘cross over.’ Unfortunately for us, she managed to take a poison pill before she’d divulged her client’s name.”

  “I guess she wasn’t just playing Angel of Death.” I flinch. Considering my encounter with the real deal, you’d think I’d know better than to use that term of endearment. “Do we know her real name?”

  “MI6 pulled up a partial match on her little pinky: an IRA operative who disappeared a couple of decades ago. They started them so young back then.” Ryan shakes his head. “Our guess is that she immigrated to the States to get a fresh start, got her nurse’s degree, and lived a clean life—until your enemy either blackmailed her, or tempted her with enough cash to make assuring your imminent demise worth her while.”

  “A Russian assassin and a former Irish terrorist?” I shake my head. “I guess I’m hated all over the world.”

  His way of changing the subject starts with a gentle smile. “How’s the physical therapy going?”

  I flex a muscle. “Jonah says I’m almost back to optimum strength.” Whatever else he’s saying has got to be in that file, so I guess I better not exaggerate too much.

  He walks over to my side of the desk. Leaning against it, he asks, “And your wound? Still tender?”

  No. It hurts like hell. Not that I’ll admit it.

  Instead, I lift up my shirt to show him. I wrapped it nice and tight so that the bruise is fully covered. With the fingers on one hand I pretend to press down on it. “Nah, not that much. See?”

  He nods appreciatively.

  “Want to feel it? Go ahead, don’t be shy.” I’m teasing, but I pray he doesn’t take me up on it.

  His eyes scan my face as if he’ll find some deep truth there. Finally, he replies, “Thanks, but no. I don’t want it getting back to Jack that I manhandled his wife in my office.”

  Noting my shrug, he asks, “How are things between the two of you?”

  “He’s been…very protective.”

  Ryan nods. “That’s to be expected. He thought he lost you once. Should it ever happen, he’d be…inconsolable, to put it mildly.”

  I nod.

  “The emotional wellbeing of my operatives is always my top priority—not just because it could jeopardize their missions, but because they are my family.” Ryan’s eyes never waver from mine. “You told Bellows something about visions you had, starring the Grim Reaper?”

  “Yes.” Oh, darn! Here it comes—

  He frowns. “And with Satan.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mind telling me about them too?” Ryan’s eyes search mine as he waits silently for my answer.

  Should I parse my words to fit what I think he wants to hear in order to ensure that I sound sane enough to stay on the team?

  No. If that is indeed Bellows’ report in his hand, he already knows.

  Besides, Jack might have already expressed his concerns about what he calls dreams despite telling me that he wouldn’t.

  If so, I’ll certainly be upset about it.

  I trust my gut that Ryan wants to know the truth. And yes, he’ll make the decision that is right for the team.

  But I also feel he’ll know what is best for me too.

  So I tell him:

  About my pact with the Reaper: seven hellish rematches with those I’d previously assassinated;

  About the six trials that went right, and the last one that was stolen from me;

  About the clues I was given, and how I was able to pass Eric’s name to them by way of Nicky while they discussed the mission in my hospital room. His face, devoid of emotion throughout the baring of my soul, now opens up with a wide grin.

  “You think I imagined the whole incident, don’t you?” I mutter crossly.

  “The tyke was adamant,” he admits. His smile fades. “And I saw the blocks he’d laid o
ut on the chair—not to mention the tear on your cheek.”

  Hearing this fills me with relief. “So…you do believe me!”

  "I believe you, Donna. I also believe there’s an Afterlife and that sometimes those that went before us reach out to protect us." He pauses. When he speaks again, it's a soft whisper: "Natalie—my wife—comes to me in my dreams."

  So, yes, he truly understands. I am validated.

  “These other clues you received—can you remember them?”

  I look down at my hands. “Sort of, but not really—just bits and pieces that don’t make sense. Not that they did when they were given to me, either! None were straight answers. More like riddles that I’d have to solve…”

  Ryan looks so sad. Maybe it’s because I sound so pathetic.

  He sighs. "Believe it or not, your coma was a gift. But do us both a favor: For now, keep your experiences to yourself. And Donna, if anything—no matter how incoherent—comes to you, please write it down and pass it to me. I’ll have Emma’s team run them through computer analysis and follow up on them—”

  “I’ll coordinate with Emma myself,” I retort hotly. “Unless what you’re telling me is that I’m off the team.”

  “Not at all. Just not out in the field—yet, anyway. However, you’ll be an excellent asset here in the office.”

  I shake my head. “I’d be wasted in the office! We both know that.”

  Before I know what he’s doing, he lightly slaps my gut.

  I flinch, but at least I don’t cry out.

  “You’re not ready for the field, Donna.”

  Angrily, I slap his hand away. “Dirty pool, Ryan! You just caught me off-guard.”

  “When you left Bellows’ office on Wednesday, you drove up the PCH, beyond Malibu. You swam out into the ocean—in your clothes. You floated long enough that the tide pulled you out into deep water—”

  “You had me tailed?” I’m just as confused as I am angry. “But…why?”

  “Standard procedure. Whenever an operative goes through a traumatic incident, especially one with physical repercussions, we recognize the toll it takes on one’s sense of self. For that reason, we’ll shadow for however long we feel it is needed.” He shrugs. “Better to watch from a distance than to lose a great asset to…depression.”