Bad Connection (6 page)

“You talk to me about it, Samantha.”

“And I thank God for you, Olivia, I honestly think I'd be going crazy if I had to keep this all to myself—especially today.”

“So anyway, you're worried that something's wrong here? Like if you really are a psychic, how could you be a Christian too?

“Bingo!” I nod. “It's like an oxymoron—a
Christian psychic.
Who would believe it?”

“But see, that's where I think some Christians shortchange God. It's like they want to put Him in this tiny little box. How can anyone say that God can't gift people in whatever way He chooses? He's God, isn't He? And not to put you on their level, but what about the old prophets in the
Bible? Wouldn't some people call them New Age or even -c religious psychics today? Wouldn't they be ostracized for their ability to predict the future even if it was God-given?”

“Maybe so…” I kind of laugh. “Come to think of it, a lot of them weren't treated too well during their own time.”

“Exactly. And that's only because we humans don't usually know what God is up to.”

“And even if God tries to let us in on things, sometimes we question it anyway.”

“Well, I believe that God has lots and lots of gifts to give His kids,” she persists. “Including things like prophecy and dreaming dreams and having visions. But maybe some of us are just too busy to notice.”

“Maybe…”

“Or maybe you're just special, Samantha.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, maybe…”

“Just know that I'm here for you,” she says as she pulls in front of my house. “I'm praying for you, and you can talk to me about any of this. And I won't tell anyone about it either.”

“Thanks.”

I can tell by Zach's old beater car in the driveway that my wayward brother must've decided to come home before midnight for a change. I say a quick prayer as I go into the house. Zach hasn't exactly been easy to get along with lately, and I'm guessing my mom is still at the park district board meeting.

My brother is sacked out on the couch in the family room as an obnoxious action movie is blaring from the TV.
Zach's coat and backpack and shoes and junk, along with ca the remnants of what looks like the entire contents of our refrigerator, are spewed all over the room like a hurricane just swept through.

“Zach?” I whisper. But no answer. I turn off the TV, thinking the silence might rouse him, but he's just lying there. I actually go over to look more closely, worried that something might really be wrong, but it appears that he's just totally conked out. I hope it's just plain tiredness, but I know that it could be something more.

I put a throw blanket over him, gather up some of his mess, and take it into the kitchen. It's not like I want to be an enabler exactly, but at the same time, I don't enjoy the idea of Mom walking in and seeing him like this. She has enough stress.

On my way to my room, I pause in the stairway to look at a family photo that was taken when I was eleven. It was my first trip to Disneyland and our last family vacation. The four of us are standing in front of the entrance together— we're all smiling, looking forward to a fun day of rides and adventure. Zach was about fourteen, and although he was starting to act like an obnoxious teenager, things were still going fairly smoothly for us as a family. And as I recall, it was a really fun trip. As I study this photo, I think that for all practical purposes, we just look like your average ail-American family. Not perfect, of course, but relatively happy. Like life is good, and it can only get better…

A lump grows in my throat as I consider how much things have changed since that photo was taken. Within
that year, Dad was killed. Then Mom pretty much turned -c into a workaholic, struggling to make ends meet. Later on Zach got involved with alcohol and drugs and has been in and out of rehab twice this past year. And here I am thinking God's sending me messages, which I know some people would equate with insanity. And I'm asking myself, what's wrong with this picture?

Once I'm in my room with the door closed, the lump in my throat gets bigger. It makes me so sad to consider how things once were, how we can never go back. It's times like this when I miss Dad the most. And sometimes I wonder if he can see us now. And if he can see us, what does he think? Does it break his heart? Does it hurt him like it's hurting me?

But then I think that God must have a different way of showing things down here; He must do it in a more complete way. Like maybe Dad can see how things will be, like when things get better for us—surely they will get better. Because honestly, I don't see how heaven could be heaven if Dad was looking down and seeing how things, really are—right now anyway. I think it would just kill him all over again.

I try to distract myself from these melancholy thoughts, as well as from my growing concern about Kayla, while I finish up the last of my homework. But finally I'm done and just turning out my light when Mom pokes her head into my room to check on me and to tell me she's home.

“Did you talk to Zach?” she asks.

“He was asleep.”

“Oh…” She nods. “At least he's home.” do

“Yeah. Good night, Mom. I love you.”

She smiles. “I love you too, Sam. Good night.” q

Then she closes the door, and I hear her going into her room. Worried that she might cry herself to sleep again tonight, I put in a good CD, turning it up just enough to drown 5” out her sobs—just in case. Then I get into my bed and I pray My theory about praying is that you can do it anywhere and everywhere, and if it makes you feel better to kneel by the side of your bed, then do it. If you prefer to stand on your head to pray, then do it. Most important,
just do it

After I've qovered my family as best I can, I pray for Kayla again. I pray that God will keep her safe and get her home as quickly as possible. And then I go to sleep.

It's stifling hot in here. And dry. So dry that my nostrils are burning. And I am so thirsty that my mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton.

Then I realize I can't even part my lips. It's as if they're glued together, but I can tell by the smell of vinyl that my mouth is taped shut.

It's too dark to see anything, other than a narrow strip of light over there. It must be a window draped with something very dark. I lie on my side, on something lumpy and covered with fabric, maybe an old mattress. But it smells horrible. Like a dog, or worse.

My shoulder joints ache from my arms being stuck behind my back, but when I try to move, I realize that my
wrists are bound together, so tightly that the skin feels raw and irritated. And my ankles are tied together as well.

I want to scream, to cry for help, but I am unable to do anything. All I can do is to lie here and wait. But for what? Why am I here?
Why am I here?

I wake up with tears pouring down my cheeks and my heart pounding so hard it feels like I've been running for hours. I get out of my bed and turn on the light and look around. But I'm in my own room, and everything is just as it was before I went to bed.

Nothing is really wrong. It just feels wrong. All wrong.

It was only a dream. Rather, a nightmare. A horrible, horrible nightmare. The worst nightmare I've.ever had So real. So frightening.

I get back in bed and immediately begin to pray. “Dear God, please take away the horror of this nightmare. Replace it with Your perfect peace—the kind of peace that goes beyond my human understanding. Thank You. Amen.”

I take several long, deep breaths. And finally, when I am calmed down, when my heart has returned to a normal pace and I can breathe without panting, I realize that the dream wasn't about me at all. It was about Kayla.

Kayla is in trouble. Very serious trouble.

I consider calling the police right now, but what would I tell them? That I've had a dream? How would that help anything? And so I earnestly pray for Kayla. I beg God to watch
oyer
her, to protect her, and to send help—
quickly.

I get up early the next morning. And although it feels as if I've barely slept, I am wide awake. And I am asking God to show me what to do. I open my Bible to where it's marked from the last time I did my daily devotion. But instead of reading the next passage in John 18, my eyes o are fixed on the verses at the top of the page, ones that I o read yesterday—part of Jesus' prayer in the Garden before He was arrested.

But for some reason I feel that God wants me to take this personally, iread from John 17:15-18. It's as if Jesus is speaking specifically to me!

I feel such a sense of power from these verses—as if God is telling me to go and to take care of what He's shown me in the dream I had last night, in the visions He gave me yesterday. Yet I'm not sure where to go or what
to do. So I pray some more and ask for specific guidance. And just as I am finishing up, a name comes to mind.
Ebony.

Almost as clearly as if I had heard it spoken audibly, although I'm sure that I only heard it in my head.
Ebony.

Now the only person I've ever known by the name of Ebony is the woman who was my dad's partner on the police force, just before he died. And while she seemed like a nice enough person, I never really got to know her well.

In fact, I've never told anyone this, but I've always been slightly suspicious of her. Like how did she manage to escape the bust-gone-bad without getting hurt? And wasn't she supposed to back up my dad? Naturally, these aren't the kinds of questions anyone expects a twelve-year-old to ask. Besides, there was so much else going on at the time…combined with the loss of Dad. I suppose I just sort of forgot about her. I think the last time I saw Ebony was at Dad's funeral, and she did stand up and say some very nice things about him. But then she should've since he was her partner.

Unfortunately, I can't even remember Ebony's last name right now. And I have no idea whether she still works for the police or not. But I get the distinct impression that I'm supposed to look this woman up. Hopefully God will show me just how I'm supposed to do this. Like do I call or e-mail or just walk into the precinct or what?

A
s Olivia drives us to school, I tell her about my frightening dream, the new Bible verse, and finally my impression to contact Ebony.

“Wow!”
she says after I finish.

Once we're at school and getting out of her car, I have to admit that in the light of day, just walking through the parking lot toward school, where everyone is acting the same as any other day, my story sounds pretty weird, even to me. “I know… pretty freaky, huh?”

“So are you going to call Ebony?”

“I thought about it…but I don't even know her last name or if she still works there. Talk about a cold call.”

“Just call up the station and ask to speak to her.” She drops her keys in her purse then fishes out her cell phone and hands it to me. “If she's not there, they'll tell you. And if she is, well, how many Ebonys do you think there could be anyway?”

I'm surprised that I still know the precinct number by heart, and I carefully dial it, praying that I won't sound like a basket case in the off chance that I actually get to speak to Ebony.

“Ebony Hamilton?” a man asks after I've made my inquiry.

“Yes!” I say quickly, and it comes back to me:
Ebony Hamilton.

“And this is regarding?”

“Uh, I'm a friend of Kayla Henderson, the girl who's missing.”

“Hold on and I'll see if I can put you through to her.”

“She still works there,” I mouth to Olivia, who nods and smiles.

“This is Detective Hamilton,” says a smooth, official-sounding female voice.

“Uh, this is Sam, I mean, Samantha McGregor. I'm not sure if you remember me or not, but—”

“Samantha McGregor,” she says in a warmer tone. “Cliff's daughter. How are you?”

“Uh, I'm okay. I wasn't sure if you still worked there.”

“I've been here for almost ten years now. I just made detective last year.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you. I'm sure your dad would've been higher than that by now. He was such a good cop.”

“Yeah…” I take in a breath.