I'm in that lull. The brief time you fall into after expending all your energy and intense focus on a single target—well, I suppose suspect would be the preferred description in my world—and have finally reached the place where you're able to catch your breath and decompress. Trying to relieve some pressure and get out of the heightened state of alertness, I attempt to put the lingering, nagging remnants of my last case behind me. I need to—for my sanity's sake. My life has been consumed with the name Simon Clayborn for the past week. Tomorrow, I decide, looking at my laptop sitting on top of folders filled with documents from the case. Tomorrow, I think as I slowly crawl into bed. Tomorrow you will go to the filing room and out of my sight.
I look at the clock. 11:54 p.m. It's late, and I'm tired.
Hoping sleep will help, I pull my covers to my ears and gently nuzzle into my pillow. Finally, I hear nothing. All is still as my mind finally goes to black. I finally feel my body relax as my eyes close, quickly drifting off to sleep.
I lost him. Panic races through me as I sprint across the expansive parking lot from where I found his deserted truck; I hope he is at least winded at this point. He disappeared a few seconds ago, suddenly turning into the large abandoned industrial building. Cursing under my breath, I sprint into the building after him. I reach for my service weapon but can't feel it, making my earlier panic overflow. I know I had it on me; no way I forgot to bring it. That's not something I would do. Standing flush against the wall, I take a quick second to get my bearings. My eyes adjust in the darkness, and my other senses sharpen to any noise or movement coming from any direction.
No movement. Only electrical wires, moving slightly, hanging from the rotted ceilings. What is this place? And who am I chasing? This must be a dream, right?
Instantly, a flood of light from what I assume is our FBI Alpha 2 helicopter illuminates the room as a back door opens, and I see a silhouette against it as he darts outside. My adrenaline starts pumping faster through my veins, a rush of heightened desperation to catch whoever this is and not let them out of my sight again. I get to the door quickly, allowing myself a moment of pleasure at the breeze drying the sweat on my skin. This feels so real. This person is five feet from me now, running full speed in an alleyway.
"FBI! FREEZE!" I yell over the helicopter noise as I see Simon Clayborn bolt toward another dilapidated building across the alley. No. Anyone but Simon. Any case but Simon's. Try to wake up, Kate! High above me, pivoting toward us, Alpha 2 shouts the same order over the megaphone as my colleagues yell, flanking from the alley entrance, closing in fast, guns pointing. Suddenly panicked, Simon looks their way, slows a little, then takes a sharp turn away from the approaching line of law enforcement.
My years of FBI training kick in as I run to head him off. Get ahead of him, Kate, I tell myself as I try to run but can't. I look down at my feet, willing them to move, but they are cemented in place. Shaking in disbelief, I reach down and tug on my legs, still not budging. He didn't get away. I know I arrested him. I need to wake up from this nightmare before I frighten myself into believing this indeed happened.
"Simon Clayborn! STOP!" I shout from where I'm standing. When he tucks his hand inside his pants pocket, I yell, "Keep your hands where I can see them!" No way is this guy going to pull a weapon on me.
I hear the rest of the QRT team coming in fast, but Simon digs further into his pocket. In reality, I arrested him in a hotel room he reserved under a bogus name. What is this place? What does he have in his pocket? It's not a gun—if it were, he'd have it out already—so it has to be something smaller, a detonator for a bomb that I know he won't hesitate to use. He's done it before, and I won't let that happen again. Wake up, Kate! I want this nightmare to end. End now.
Impulsively, I launch toward him, my legs finally coming to life as my body covers the last few feet between us, and I tackle him to the ground. We fall hard, and my shoulder collides with the pavement. Simon must be surprised, or hurt, seeing that he doesn't struggle instantly. No, that's not how it happened. My shoulder collided with the wall in his hotel room as I took him down.
In one swift move, ignoring the searing pain in my shoulder, I grab my handcuffs. At least I have those with me. I fight to keep him contained as he starts to twist his body around. Before I can get him cuffed, he fidgets with something in his hand, and his eyes lock on mine. I look down to see a small, foldable knife in front of his face, and immediately, terror takes hold of me. I hear footsteps racing toward us, but my colleagues are still far enough away that I'm on my own. Simon's blue eyes are filled with fury and rage as he taunts me, twisting the knife in front of my face.
"You freeze, Special Agent Jacobson," he whispers coldly, a deep tone reverberating in my ears as all the blood in my body surges.
It's Simon speaking, Simon's mouth moving in front of me, but it's not Simon's voice. Simon Clayborn has an airy style to his voice; this guy has a deep, almost baritone, rasp. What's happening?
I force myself to calm—I still have the upper hand, literally. All I have to do is grip the wrist of the hand holding the knife or wake up. I urge my reflexes to kick in, but when I try to move my arm, nothing happens. I don't move. I look at Simon, but his face has become distorted. I'm looking at a blank surface like someone erased all facial features. I can't see his eyes or nose, just a human silhouette. The former Simon tilts his head ever so slightly, which terrifies me to the point where I stop breathing. Who is this?
Sensing my panic, whomever or whatever this is, jabs the knife toward me, sending a cold shudder down my spine.
"No one can save you now," it whispers, drifting the blade toward my throat. "I'm coming for you."
I feel heat rising from my neck as the image of the faceless man penetrates my soul. The evil, dark energy coming from him as I feel the cold blade against my neck. I look at this faceless human, not wanting this to be the last thing I ever see. Involuntarily, I gasp. Sharply. So sharply that my reflexes kick in, and I sit straight up, my eyes wide open.
Another nightmare. This would be the third one this week, but the first with a faceless man.
My hand flies to my chest, my heart pounding hard beneath it, heavy breaths coming in and out. My eyes slowly adjust to the darkness of my quiet bedroom as sweat forms on my forehead. Still panting, I eventually find my breath, and slow, sweet relief begins to come over me as my awakened body reminds me that I am very much alive, despite the lingering dull ache in my shoulder.
Slowly recovering from my night's terror, I grope for my phone, just out of reach on my cozy bed. The cool early morning Seattle breeze comes in from the open window, calming me further. My hand finally finds my phone and retrieves it from the waves of blankets. Blearily, I squint to read the time, even though I know what it will say. I’m right: 3:30 a.m. I let out a moan. I've woken up at 3:30 a.m. on the dot every morning for the past three weeks. Chalking it up to stress from the intensity of the last few cases, I set the phone down. My mind drifts back to the familiar nightmares I've had lately, yet the one tonight is more vivid, especially with the creepy faceless man. No doubt it's because of my mandatory 'fit to go back to work' evaluation yesterday morning with Dr. Bertrude, the only FBI psychiatrist I trust. Knowing where it came from doesn't make reliving the case any more pleasant.
That case. The sickening bombing in the Port of Seattle and the subsequent hunt and arrest just two days ago of Simon Clayborn, a former employee of Heighton Freight. The cornerstone of every news station's top story from here to Spokane. Images of the oil and shipping materials on fire in the Harbor while Port Authority desperately tried to contain it cycle through my mind. I can still smell the burning steel, and my body lurches involuntarily.
As a special agent in the Seattle FBI Field Office, there are specific moments in cases that you never forget, and the night terrors will remind you. The Bureau brings in psychiatrists to help us deal with the trauma, but no one avoids the triggers that pull you back into the case and the carnage of the crime scene. The psych sessions are supposed to help, and sometimes they do, but they still have a way of bringing into the present the things you are desperately trying to close in a vault in your mind so you can move to the next case. My vault is enormous, as are the number of cases I have cleared, and I hope the Clayborn case gets shut up in there soon.
Too awake now to go back to sleep, I scroll to the local news station's latest report of the arrest. I see a picture of me escorting Simon Clayborn, handcuffed and looking away from the cameras. I look so confident and assured, but in reality, I was hurting. It had taken everything I had to rip those keys from his hand—it wasn't the knife from my nightmare—but the keys to his truck. My knuckles have finally started to scab over, at least. Another photo shows our Quick Response Team, Field Forensics, and Crime Scene Investigators, illustrating the amount of FBI presence needed to close this case. Just seeing it now sends added relief.
He's locked away, Kate. It was just a nightmare. You got him, I remind myself as I take another deep breath, tossing my phone aside. I bring my knees to my chest to comfort myself, my breathing more under control. It's always strange in the aftermath—in the moment, I'm fearless, but then to feel this unprotected and vulnerable to a nightmare just a few days later. I groan, knowing I should make another psych appointment soon.
A sharp pain shoots through my shoulder, and I will myself out of bed, gingerly rolling it around as I slowly head to my bathroom for pain medicine. Turning on the light, I peer in the mirror and see my tired, exhausted reflection staring back at me. My long, light-brown hair is coming out of my sloppy attempt at a ponytail. Drained brown eyes look back at me, and I feel a horrendous headache developing.
I glance at my shoulder. The large raised purple bruise is getting bigger, darker. I look at my hand as it instinctively touches my shoulder, still shaking from the panic racing through my veins. I wince, thinking about how I crashed into that wall. Still, I had no choice but to take him down—no way was he escaping. I would have sacrificed anything to stop that man. Still would.
Taking slightly more than the prescribed dose of pain pills, I head back into my bedroom, looking out the open window to the silent but bright night sky. My overpriced apartment overlooks Elliot Bay, and I have come to appreciate the quietness of my neighborhood. It's expensive, but this apartment and its surroundings are essential, a much-needed reprieve from my days spent investigating criminals. I lean my head on the cool trim of the window, looking at the moon's reflection on the water. I stay there for a while, enjoying the quiet and calm. Eventually, I crawl back into bed, close my eyes, take a deep breath, and try to go back to sleep.
It was a good attempt. Right away, my mind wanders back to that case. As part of the initial investigation, I asked the family of one of the female victims of the bombing about their last conversations with her to gain insight into their life, daily patterns, and anything specifically she said on that horrific day. Her son, with tears rolling down his cheeks, flashed a brief, sad smile as he recounted his mom saying, "Finish your homework." Everyone gave a soft laugh at that, nodding their heads. The daughter chimed in a few moments later with, "Your phone charger is on the counter," which elicited similar responses.
The victim's husband could barely verbalize his last conversation as the family consoled him, holding his shaking hands. When the husband finally spoke, he whispered, "It was the very last 'I love you' I will ever hear from her." This was particularly hard to take, and made me think of my own mom's last 'I love you,' spoken hours before her fatal car accident. It's hard not to hear her voice come through in a moment like this.
That was sixteen years ago, and my memories of her have faded. I can recall only a few, now somewhat faint, conversations I had with her. Still, she creeps into my thoughts from time to time, most welcomingly. I try not to let my FBI work get too personal or let any similarities between the victims and my mom come in and cloud my perception or judgment on cases, and usually, I manage. I wouldn't have my job if I didn't. Even so, it's hard sometimes. This case was challenging because another of Simon's victims looked like my mom. Eerily so. Enough that this last case triggered something in me that the FBI QRT picked up on. I worked day and night obsessively, pulling every resource available to get closure for the families. According to Dr. Bertrude, I'm still trying to solve my mom's car accident all these years later. Maybe she's right. And yes, as FBI agents, we'll prioritize a case if it resonates in our personal lives. It happens.
Sighing, I sit up in bed, quashing any attempt to fall back asleep. Rolling my head around, hearing the faint pops coming from my neck, I cross my legs, ruffle up the blanket all around me, close my eyes and begin to focus. Taking a deep breath out, clasping my hands together, I begin to center my thoughts, a practice my mother taught me years ago. It doesn't take long as I sharpen in on the sound of her voice, the natural curls in her hair, and how her soft hands made perfectly round cookie dough balls. My childhood home smelled like a bakery on those lazy Sunday afternoons, Mom in the kitchen while my dad and I watched SuperSonics games. Thinking about her oatmeal cookies, I feel a smile coming across my face.
Cookies are easy, though. More importantly, I am trying to remember her.
Sitting in my silence, it comes back to me in a flash, with such clarity that I almost gasp. Not the last, but the most important conversation I ever had with her. I was eight years old, and we were planting flowers in front of our old house on Hickory Street. The home my father still lives in and always will. She and I had spent that whole morning clearing, bagging debris, and planting the garden, now overrun with weeds, weather, and time. Back then, though, it was glorious. Honing in my focus, I feel the warm breeze in my hair, the sticky layers of sweat on my forehead and arms, and the smell of the earth on that particular special day.
"The yellow one is going to be ok if we keep watering it, Mom," I suddenly remember saying with all the confidence of an eight-year-old child. My hands and nails were covered in rich brown earth as I quickly grabbed the yellow California Poppy from the box top.
"How do you know that, Kate?" she'd asked, giving me a scrutinizing look, holding a shrub with one hand, a gardening shovel with the other. "The blooms look wilted, but you insisted on getting that one from the nursery."
"I just know," I said, shrugging my shoulders, then carefully setting the flower in the rich earth. Mom looked at me for a moment, eyes full of curiosity, then began to position her shrub in the garden. "Like my ears heard that it just needs water," I said once she looked away. I remember being nervous in that moment, my small voice shaking. But even as that all too familiar voice in my head told me that Mom knows more, I still knew I was right.
Because that's how I understand things, perceive things, even when I can't see anything with my eyes. I hear the directions, the hints, sometimes in my head or next to my ears, right beside me, telling me things. I might hear tunes, soft music that I know I've never heard before, and hum the melody. I still do it to this day.
Looking back, it never seemed creepy or scary; this is how I learned my way around the world and how I continue to navigate it now. I sometimes catch myself looking just to my right to detect the source of a voice or noise. When I don't see anything, I quickly realize no one around me can hear it, only me. Everyone goes about their business as I stay still, focusing on the vibrating reverberations of the sounds I hear, just to the right of me or in my head.
The ringing tone is an alert, indicating that what comes next is going to be of importance. And then, I can tune into my internal voice with little or no effort. At times the voice offers comfort, and at others, it guides me on my way to pick the best flower for the garden. It's hard to put into words. I had trouble trying to describe it to my mom, but even when I've tried to explain it to myself, I find I don't have the words to do so.
The best I've come up with is that it's like a heightened sense of auditory awareness, something telling me what to do and where to go. I don't always fully understand the message, but at least it sets me on a path. It's like the world around me slows down while I quicken to become more aware of everything. I have listened to and trusted it all my life.
At first, I dismissed the sensation, thinking it was my imagination (I'd always been told I had an active one). But time and time again, it proved correct and subsequently invaluable when I finally listened and fully understood. That high-pitched ring in my right ear comes seconds before an ultra-sensitive gut feeling pulls me to be in tune with what is happening around me. It's become especially helpful in my work with the FBI, and I've become sensitive to the stillness it brings around me, elevating my senses to a higher plane of understanding and focus. That knowing assisted me in tracking down Simon Clayborn and hundreds of criminals before him. It warned me away from purchasing the first car I came across and led me to my apartment. I have a name for it: my' whisper.'
On that summer day in the garden when I was eight, I remember my mother leaning in closer to me. "Is that the first time your ears have told you something," she asked. Her eyes had an understanding look, and as I carefully stepped over the plants and sat in the dirt right in front of her, she smiled. Suddenly, I wasn't so nervous. I wanted to tell her about it, my whisper.
"No, I've heard it a lot of times before today," I said, noticing that she didn't seem surprised at all to hear that. "Mommy, it's like my ears start to feel funny—like everything around me gets quiet, like the air is going to pop inside my ears, and I get all warm. And. And then my head feels light. Like it's a balloon that could come right off my head and float away sometimes. And then I feel prickles on my skin and in my stomach."
"Prickles?" she asked lightly, a giant smile coming across her sunlit face.
Even thinking about it now, thirty-three years old, I feel a familiar comfort at what I know is coming next.
"Yes, like when you get cold fast, and the hairs on your arms come up," I said, taking my fingertips to her arms, which made her giggle. Eager to finally share my secret, I spilled out everything about my whisper. "Sometimes I hear songs, but other times the voice is loud—a lot louder than it was today," I explained, and Mom just nodded like she understood completely.
Then, her expression turned thoughtful. "Kate?" she asked, and I remember being nervous at the sudden concern that crossed her face. "When did this voice get loud?"
"Remember that time, it was a while ago, when I played in the front yard, and my ball rolled into the street? The whisper YELLED at me to leave it alone," I said dramatically.
"Oh!" my mom said, brightening, and tears welled in her eyes. "My God. That's why you stopped and stood on the sidewalk," she whispered in astonishment, her eyes piercing mine. She grabbed my hands. "So, you didn't see the car coming down the street, but it was the voice that told you to leave the ball alone?"
"Yeah. But that time, it was louder than I had ever heard it. I didn't see the car until it was fast in front of our house," I said, happy but also confused at her reaction—there was a look of pure joy and amazement on her face, but she was wiping a tear, too.
"Kate, sweetie, please listen to me carefully," my mom said after a long moment, squeezing my small hands tightly into hers. "Listen to that voice. Trust that voice. It will be one of the most important voices you will ever hear in your life." There was such a fierce determination in her eyes, and in her words, all I could do was nod and promise her that I would.
Then, something came to me. "Do you hear it too, Mom?" I asked, excited about the idea that I wasn't the only one. "Does it sound like your voice when it talks to you?" There, at that moment, rooted one of the few really sharp images of my mom I have etched in my soul. I recall this moment when the ache in my chest from missing her overwhelms me, and the waves of grief surround me. The intimate connection she and I share. Share still. Her sunlit face, the slight breeze blowing her short curly hair, the enormous smile radiating as I feel pure joy and love coming from her. This snapshot brings me back to that magical moment, and I can't help but smile, feeling uplifted again, knowing this connection with her is still with me.
"Yes, I can hear it also, my sweet girl. Here is the important thing," she said, fixing me with a serious look. "Not everyone can hear it. Even fewer people know it's there. I will help you hear that voice more and more as you get older." She pulled me in her lap, beaming with happiness. "Oh, I'm so happy. I thought our family gift jumped over you. Hold onto it, Kate, as it will guide you throughout your life."
Her tender, protective arms wrapped around me, and we sat in silence. It was the beginning of a journey that formulated in that half-planted garden that sunny day.
