The Astral, or, Till the Day I Die. V. J. Banis
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2007, 2012 by V. J. Banis
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
PROLOGUE
It was everything just as she had always heard it described: the tunnel, the light, blinding white light, and there was everyone waiting to greet her. Gosh, that was her father, wasn’t it? And there was Aunt Fanny, and....
“Catherine.” She heard her name distinctly, from somewhere behind. She looked back, and saw Jack in the distance. Jack? That wasn’t possible, surely, not after all these years?
“Catherine,” he called again, “Come back. You can’t go yet.”
Ahead, her loved ones waited for her, willing her to come to them. When she tried to look at them, however, actually to see them, there were no images. It was more as if she felt them. She simply knew they were there, and she wanted to join them, truly she did. She couldn’t go back. She wouldn’t.
And yet...she glanced back once more at Jack and all the years fell away, and in an instant, she remembered the feel of his arms about her, his lean, hard body against hers. How could she remember anything so physical, here, now?
Someone—some thing—separated itself from the light, something of light itself, but so bright, so intense, that she could not bear to look directly at it, and shielded her eyes.
“You must go back.” It was like a voice inside her head; she could hear it and yet she knew that no sound had been made. “He is there. You must find him. There is something that you must do, that only you can do.”
“I can’t go back. Please, spare me. The pain—I know what happens. It’s more than I could bear.”
“He is there.”
“Who?”
But it was too late, already she could feel herself returning, the voices were fading, the light retreating, further and further until....
Until she was back, in a bed, and the pain was crashing through her, seeming to crush her in its horrible embrace, and somewhere a triumphant voice was saying, “We’ve got her. She’s alive.”
CHAPTER ONE
“Can you hear me?”
Catherine forced her eyes open. A white-jacketed man leaned over her. She was in bed. A hospital bed. She tried to move her hand, to wipe away the fog that misted her vision, but the hand wouldn’t move. Neither would her head. It felt as if it were in a vise. Her legs...it dawned on her that she was strapped to the bed like a victim in one of those corny horror movies, only this horror wasn’t make believe.
“What...?” Her voice was weak, rasping.
“Don’t try to talk, not yet,” the doctor said. “You’re going to be all right. You’ve had a narrow escape.”
“We need to talk to her,” someone said. “We have to ask her some questions.”
“Not now,” the doctor said, his voice firm.
There were two strangers behind the doctor, a dark suited man and a woman with frizzy orange hair. Beyond them, Walter, her husband, watched her with anxious, red-rimmed eyes. Seeing him, she remembered all of a sudden: the parking lot, her daughter, the yellow-bearded man. Somehow she was sure she knew, knew already what she was going to hear, but she had to have it confirmed. Despite the doctor’s order not to talk, she managed to croak one word at Walter: “Becky?”
Walter bit his lip. He began to cry, tears spilling from his eyes and streaming down his cheeks. He shook his head and sobbed aloud, “She’s dead, Cathy. Becky’s dead.”
I should have died instead, she thought, it would have hurt far less.
* * * *
The scene kept playing over and over, like a tape loop, on the screen of her mind. She saw herself come out of the market. It was a warm Friday, late spring in Los Angeles. She had been shopping for a special dinner to celebrate Becky’s last day of school, and she saw, puzzled, the empty Buick where Walter and Becky should have been waiting, the wide open door setting off alarm bells inside her head.
Her eyes raked the crowded parking lot and as if by magic her gaze went directly to them, to Becky and the two men trying to force her into a rusty black pickup. She saw Becky fighting and kicking, heard her cry: “Mommy, Mommy, help me!”
“Becky! Stop, let her go,” Catherine shouted. She dropped the bags of groceries and ran toward the truck. Startled people turned to look but she had eyes for nothing but the little girl struggling in the arms of two men.
One of them clambered into the truck, dragging Becky with him. The other, tall, skinny, shoved her toward the middle of the seat and tried to get in after her.
Catherine caught the door as he started to swing it shut. “No,” she screamed, “I won’t let you.”
The skinny man, green-eyed, with an artificially bright yellow beard, swore at her and tried to kick her away with one foot that caught her in the belly. She gagged with the pain, but her hands still held on to the door.
“Get away, bitch.” He bared his teeth in an angry snarl and yanked the glove box open, pulled out a gun and waved it wildly. “Let go of the damned door.”
“Mommy,” Becky sobbed loudly. The truck’s engine roared to life.
Somewhere behind her, Catherine heard Walter cry, “Catherine! Becky!” but she couldn’t, wouldn’t take her eyes from the man with the yellow beard. His face was so close she could smell his beer-laced breath and the scent of his sweat.
“Give me back my daughter!” This couldn’t be happening, not to her, not to Becky, it must be a nightmare. She sobbed with terror. The truck began to move, but still she would not let go of the door. “Give her back.”
He aimed the gun in her direction, held it practically in her face, and fired. It felt as if she had been struck alongside the head by a rock. She seemed to be falling upward. Her fingers slipped from the flailing truck door. Gears ground, tires squealed. Her head hit the pavement and blackness fell over her like a thick, dark blanket.
* * * *
“It’s my fault, totally,” Walter said, his voice breaking. He waited for her to say something, waited for expiation. When none came, he went on: “It was only a couple of minutes, I swear it. We walked over to look in the window, at the toy store, you know, and then we came back, and I had just put Becky in the car when this man came up and said I had dropped my wallet. I felt my pocket and, sure enough, it was gone.
“‘Back there,’ he said, ‘back by the toy store,’ so I walked back to look for it, but I couldn’t find it, I was just looking around when I heard you scream, and I saw....” He choked back a sob.
Still Catherine said nothing. She would have to forgive him. Someday. She understood what guilt he was suffering. It would kill him to remain unpardoned. She couldn’t do that to him.
For now, though, her grief was all but killing her, it was all she could manage. She couldn’t even look at him, let alone give him the forgiveness he needed.
“They found her at the beach. They had....”
She found her voice then, an icy, a toneless voice. “I don’t want to hear it. Don’t mention that to me, ever.”
He shrank down in his chair and sobbed helplessly.
* * * *
She had hardly any more to say to the investigators who came the next day to see her: L.A.P.D. Sergeant Jess Conners, and the woman with the frizzy orange hair, who introduced herself as Agent Chang with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. “Child Abduction and Serial Killers Unit,” she added. “CASKU.”
“Agent Chang,” Catherine acknowledged.
“Most of the guys just call me Chang.” She hesitated briefly. “We’re sorry to trouble you now. I know how difficult