Chapter 1

Driving briskly through the sunny Saturday morning, I enjoyed another beautiful early July day in Seattle. The air felt crisp and sparkling in the light breeze. The pine, oak and maple trees shone and shimmered in the sunlight, and Mt. Rainier loomed in the background, a huge, silent white icon. I had finished my shopping early. I topped it off with a visit to Pike Place Market to buy fresh halibut.
The employees at one of the open air seafood shops had developed the habit of throwing whole fish back and forth to each other - an amusing sight, good for laughs from tourists and locals. I watched the fish being thrown, then, as is the custom, shouted my order to a young man behind the counter.

Leaving with dinner in hand, I stopped at my favorite small coffee shop for a latte and croissant. I sat for a while on a bench in the park looking out over Elliott bay and West Seattle, eating and drinking, savoring the warm sunshine and the crowds.

A Jamaican steel drum band played marvelous, tinkling, upbeat rhythms, and families and couples walked from shop to shop, laughing, still eager to soak up the brightness after an unusually long, gray Pacific Northwest winter. Even the street bums and wanderers seemed more cheerful than usual. I finished my treats and strolled slowly to my RX-7 - which I privately referred to as my little red rocket. After negotiating downtown traffic, I started home on Highway 99, cruising north out of the city toward Edmonds, where I lived. I planned to take a run upon arriving home, before the day became too warm.

Edmonds is a picturesque, endearingly quaint little town located on a hillside sloping down to the waters of Puget Sound. The large hillside affords many residents a spectacular view of the Olympic Mountains. The city's main feature is the Ferry Terminal, where large white vessels pause to unload and reload upon their departure to and arrival from points around the Sound.

As I drove, I automatically made use of my years of training and experience as a police officer, making smooth lane changes and staying aware of the locations of other cars around me. As I enjoyed the morning, I abruptly experienced an image entering my consciousness, the picture of a man standing over a woman lying on the floor between his feet.

"Now, where did that come from?" I blinked and shook my head, slowing, driving with automatic motions. The image persisted in my mind's eye, clear and sharp. The man stood six feet tall, muscular, around 30-35 years old, with long, dark auburn hair with blonde streaks. He wore a thick red mustache and outdated sideburns down to the level of his earlobes. As part of my brain continued to wonder if this could be a scene remembered at random from a forgotten movie or book, another part of my brain went into "police mode", coolly recording details of the scene, observing the man's clothing, his build, his facial features.

The picture I "saw" in my mind did not represent what I would consider a normal situation. I saw the woman trying to rise, and falling back on her face. I saw the man clench his fists, shouting at her, a fierce grin on his face, his eyes enraged. Her long thick brown hair spilled out on the floor as she tried again to rise. The feeling I got from the man was one of fierce exultation. He enjoyed his victory over the woman, his total control over her. I felt that he would kill her and she knew it. The image changed, the brown-haired woman fading and a smaller, blonde woman taking her place under the man's feet. The blonde woman appeared slender to the point of being tiny, almost childlike. Profound weakness, which I felt arose from some sort of illness, prevented her from rising. She lay on a linoleum floor. There appeared to be a patch of darker colored linoleum under her.

In my mind's eye, a kitchen formed around the two figures, with counters, cabinets, stove and refrigerator, a window looking out into the back yard, and a door leading into the garage. My vision went through this door, and I "saw" a pegboard in the garage, upon which hung various household and automotive tools. My mind's eye zoomed to the pegboard, to where a large red pipe wrench hung. The pipe wrench stayed visible until I realized the man would strike her on the head with the wrench, killing her. Nearly all murderers have a weapon of choice.

The blonde woman, like the brown-haired one before her, knew her fate, as he had told her with great enjoyment what he planned. She was making spiritual, mental and emotional preparations to die. I felt a sense of detached compassion for her. The word "agreements" echoed through my mind. I had no idea what that meant. It repeated twice more, a thought which I recognized as being similar to the one I heard several years earlier, when I nearly shot a boy with a cell phone in his hand.

As I drove with dazed motions, keeping up with traffic, stopping and accelerating automatically at lights, my mind tried to grasp the significance of what I "saw". I found myself feeling somewhat disconnected from my surroundings, as though in a trance-like state. The images faded as I pulled into my parking space at the apartment complex where I lived.

I sat and stared straight ahead, stunned at what had just transpired. Part of me wondered what the hell I had just "seen", and another part of me, the part that watched television shows such as The Twilight Zone and Outer Limits, felt intrigued. I wondered briefly if I had just had a true clairvoyant experience. I felt unaccountably sure that I had witnessed something real, something that had happened, or perhaps was going to happen. I couldn't really put my finger on why I thought this might be possible, I just did. My police officer side clamored for more information, but none came.

I sat in my car for a short time, trying to sort out and analyze the events of the past few moments. Directly in front of my car a large maple tree spread out, casting shade on the courtyard, around which the apartments formed a U shape, two stories tall. Located at the end of the left arm of the U, my apartment faced the courtyard and the street. A neighbor's 8-year-old son walked across the courtyard in front of my car, looking curiously at me. I shook off the disoriented feeling and got out. "Hi, Christopher." He continued walking and mumbled in my direction. "Hi." Oh great, I thought, his mother will hear the tale of my behavior and decide, in her dramatic, overly-excitable and nosy manner, that I'm probably on drugs.

Shrugging, I carried my groceries up the stairs to my apartment.
Walking through the living room to the kitchen, I managed to make a mental note to water my plants, and set my bags and packages on the counter. The kitchen, as well as the rest of the apartment, had natural wood ceilings and pale gray carpeting, white walls and new flooring. I had found the place almost by accident, picking up the want ads and zooming in on this apartment immediately. The moment I walked in and looked around, I knew I had found the right place.

The kitchen, open and airy, received a great deal of light from a large window with a view of a generous grass yard, a grove of pine trees, and a garden. The countertops were white tile, my favorite surface. I had hung white lace curtains in the window, a nod to my own femininity. White linoleum floors completed the decor. The noon sunlight shone through a huge birch tree just outside the window, and the spreading, lacy branches and pale green leaves filtered the view and cast cool pale green reflections throughout. This same birch provided a natural modesty curtain in front of the bathroom window at the back of the shower.

The apartment had been easy to decorate, the open, airy design and colors lending themselves well to my furniture, wall decorations, and several Boston ferns, which looked perfect hanging from the wood ceilings. The two bedrooms had large windows that were excellent for my many house plants.

Still feeling a little lightheaded, I experienced a sensation strange to me, almost as though I were still disconnected in some way from my body. As the visions had appeared in my mind, I'd felt as though each of my body cells had been inflated with tiny amounts of helium. Perhaps food would help, I thought.

After making myself coffee and toast, I sat at the kitchen table and mulled over the events of the past hour. As I ate, I felt more "solid", more attached to my surroundings. I cleaned up the crumbs, set the cup and plate in the sink, and went to my blue velour wing chair. It had recently been removed from storage along with my other furniture. My living room, comfortable and homey, held pictures from my days in law enforcement and others from my college years. Photos of my family members looked at me in silence, as though asking what in the world I was up to now.

Sitting in the comfortable chair, I looked at the maple tree in the middle of the courtyard, at the street with the baseball field at the far end, at the houses across the way. Cautiously, I searched my thoughts for another look at the image that had popped into my mind as I drove. The inquiry met with another full-blown "vision".

Clutching the arms of the chair, I suddenly looked upon a scene which included a woman and a small boy. The woman lurched and struck the boy, who appeared about five years old. She held part of a curtain rod in her hand, and raised it over and over, bringing it down on the boy's tender skin. She shouted drunkenly, "Devil child, devil child..." The little boy cried.

As I watched the actions for a few seconds, I realized that I witnessed the cause and the source of the man's killing rage, the reason he hated women. I suddenly understood completely, and a sense of compassion for all involved - the victims, the murderer, and the mother - rolled through me in a huge wave. The word "agreements" again echoed through my brain. Then shock replaced sympathy, and I jumped up, banishing the images. I ran to the bathroom, feeling nauseated.

Running cold water in the sink, I plunged my hands in, splashing my face over and over, waking myself up, bringing myself back to the present. As I toweled my face off, I stared into the mirror above the sink. I felt sick at what I had "seen." Child abuse cases had always horrified me as a cop, and were the only aspect of the job that ever made me momentarily consider quitting.

The face that stared back at me in the mirror was oval-shaped, with olive skin and high cheekbones. I stared into deep-set, light hazel eyes. My straight dark brows made bird's wings under equally dark wavy, shoulder length hair, a blunt nose, and full, rose colored lips. My appearance had come to me as a legacy from my Greek paternal grandmother. I had once been told in a romantic moment with a former boyfriend that I looked like a cross between a faun and a Mongolian princess. I thanked him, but could not help laughing. The idea seemed absurd to me.

"Tall, you have no idea how attractive you are. That's one of the things I like best about you." The other half of my lineage held mostly Irish genes, and my female cousins on that side tended toward tiny, delicate physiques, with pale coloring. I joked about liking Greek food, but craving a baked potato on the side.

I considered myself odd-looking, having grown up in the era of the "surfer Sue" image that flooded the media, the Bo Derek and Cheryl Tiegs ideal. The more exotic ethnic look in fashion would not appear until I was in my twenties, but by then my self-image had been well-ingrained. I had recently become more grateful for my Mediterranean heritage, as my skin remained smooth and without wrinkles into my 30's and my coloring did not fade as those of the blonde persuasion so often experienced. I had remained slim and found it easy to stay in shape, getting good return for a minimum of time spent working out. I had inherited that tendency from my father.

His oldest daughter and a near-clone of him, I grew up the apple of his eye, his pet. My childhood memories included him in his police uniform, and I counted among my most prized possessions his police whistle. He had presented this treasure to me upon my graduation from the Academy, and I wept upon receiving it. He was so proud of me that day, he nearly burst the buttons of his suit. My sounding board during the years I was in uniform, I still missed him tremendously, dreaming of him occasionally.

Leaving the bathroom, I walked slowly to my bedroom and sat on the futon. Opening the Chinese lacquer cabinet to reveal a small television set, I turned it on and aimlessly watched the "Movie at Noon", a John Wayne western. It distracted my mind from what I had "seen" earlier. Drowsiness overcame me, and, having no plans until evening, I decided to take a short nap on the warm summer afternoon.

In my dream, I live in a village in a country I do not recognize. I wear a long black dress, and my physical appearance differs from the present time. Much shorter in stature, I stand about 5'2", petite, with a tiny waist, full breasts, pale complexion with freckles, and slanted, cat-like cornflower-blue eyes. My hair falls to my waist, long, straight and black. I become aware of a feeling of fear, the feeling that all does not bode well for me, or for a group of women, my friends. I see us meeting in wooded places, singing, making objects, and mixing formulas from herbs and roots. We live in Europe several centuries in the past. I belong to a group of witches. Great amounts of time seem to pass in the dream, years spent with family and friends, joys and sorrows, day to day village life. That lifetime seems to be compressed and shown to me, translated for me so that I might understand its significance in this lifetime.

The name "Tristan" sounds clearly in my mind. I do not know whose voice says that name. I know then that he is my lover in that lifetime, and he is the village minister as well as a member of our group.

Dark-haired also, with brown eyes, his coloring is considered unusual in a country of fair-haired people. I realize I live in Germany in the 1600's, in the midst of the great witch purges, the terrible Inquisition.

The next picture in my dream shows me standing in the kitchen of my family's farmhouse, looking out a window toward a group of men. They march from the village to our home, to take me into custody and charge me with witchcraft. Tremendous fear freezes my limbs, my heart; I have heard stories of torture and rape. I know that those found guilty burned at the stake. As the image fades and I awake, I hear once again the word "agreements" in my mind, and the word "Hester" appears before my eyes as though in flaming letters. I know my name in that lifetime.

If you would like to read the rest of Leslie Ann Garrison's book "Tall Tales : Visions of Murder, you can purchase it here