Losing Sarah (A Sarah Roberts Thriller Book 16) Page 28
“Wow, that’s a lot to take in.”
“There’s more, but we can save it for another time.” Sarah rolled over and held out her hand. Aaron took it. “Suffice it to say, I have to learn to trust the process. She’s got my back. Just do what she needs and keep my wits about me and it’ll all work out. Now, with you, let’s shake on it. Let’s make a pact, a deal. We will work together and be together without the added shit. If I need to meet a drug dealer to buy heroin and I’m suffering from withdrawal, you will have to let me go. Vivian sees and knows things we aren’t privy to. If she says meet the dealer, I meet the dealer. You have to agree, too, or it’ll never work between us. Deal?”
“Saying it that way sucks. It’s like we have a third person in our relationship, but I understand.” He shook her hand. “I’ll agree to the deal because there’s the deal and Sarah, or no deal and no Sarah. Can’t live without my Sarah.” He pumped her hand. “We now have a pact.”
The phone rang beside the bed. They looked at each other.
“Who knows we’re here?” Sarah asked.
“As far as I know, just the FBI.”
Sarah rolled away from him and grabbed the phone.
“Hello,” she said in a gruff voice.
“Sarah?” It was her father.
“Dad?” she said, glancing at Aaron. “How did you find me?”
“Called Parkman. He told me you were at Caesar’s. I called and got your room number.”
“It was that easy?”
“Yup.”
“Is everything okay?”
“When are you coming back to Santa Rosa? Anytime soon?”
“It wasn’t in the plans right away. The FBI need me here for two more days.”
“When you’re done with them, come as soon as you can, Sarah. It’s important.”
“What?” A thought struck her. “Is it mom?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
“It’s your sister. Vivian.”
For a moment, Sarah couldn’t work her mouth. She got up off the bed and walked to the room’s window.
“She’s been in touch with us, Sarah,” her father added.
“How—?” She swallowed, a sense of shock coming over her. “How is that possible?”
“A time capsule. We were to open it after twenty-five years. Well, we’re almost at twenty-five years and your mom and I couldn’t wait. Sarah, the whole thing is for you.”
“For me?”
“Your sister wrote a note for you before she died. It’s a pact she wants you to read. A pact between you and Vivian. If you can, come alone. I don’t think Aaron should be here for this.”
“Okay.” Her mind was stuck in one and two word answers. She couldn’t think to get it unstuck. None of what her dad had said was computing.
“A pact?” she mumbled.
“Yes, Sarah. You need to do what this note says and you can’t tell anybody. We shouldn’t even know, but we went ahead and read it anyway. I’m sorry, Sarah, but get home as soon as you can.”
“Okay. Two days.”
“Sarah, there’s something you should know.”
“What?”
“Your sister was psychic when she was alive. She helped people. We didn’t know. She was so young when she died. While on Earth, she talked to the dead. Now dead, she talks to the living. What she has to say, Sarah, is not something I can repeat over a phone. Just come home. Hurry.”
“Two days.”
“Okay, Sarah. Glad you and Aaron are okay after that cartel business.”
Her mind unstuck when she turned to face Aaron. How was she going to tell him he needed to stay behind or go home to Toronto because she had to go see what Vivian had left for her after the deal they just made minutes before the phone call? They had even called their deal a pact, too.
“You don’t know the half of it, Dad. I’ll fill you in when I get there.”
“See you soon, honey. Be safe.”
She hung up and set the phone down, her stomach full of dread.
Now what?
Shit cake with lemons. This was going to be sour.
“Aaron, we need to talk.”
Afterword
Dear Reader,
Many years ago, back in my youth, I was raised in a family that didn’t read for the most part. I learned at an early age what the written word meant to me. Before I attended school, at a very early age, my older sister would come home from her classes and I would ask to see her school books. I couldn’t read them yet, but was fascinated by all the words littered across the page, all lined up and in order.
The question I recall asking my sister over and over was could she read those words. She would always reply in the affirmative and then go watch General Hospital or whatever the show was after school. (Years later, for me it was Gilligan’s Island.)
One day, I got caught. I was reading—pretending to—with her school books. I had a blank notebook out and I was writing, word for word, in the blank notebook, every line, every paragraph of a novel my sister had to read for a book report. This is going back some time, but that’s how I remember it.
She commented on how if I loved writing that much, I would love school because there’s report after report and things called essays that I’d have to write. Well, in short, she was wrong. I did not like essays one bit. I just loved words. I loved writing. Something I still do to this day.
(Yeah, I know. That part is obvious. I wrote this book. Self-evident. Hang in there with me. I’m going somewhere with this.)
Soon enough, school taught me how to read. And I couldn’t stop. Book after book from the library. Oh, the adventures I went on sitting in a chair as the snow fell around my school.
But there was one problem. I only read books with pictures. Not comics. Just books like Peter Rabbit and Dr. Seuss.
Then I met Jerry—not his real name—and he asked me why I only read books with pictures.
“Is there any other kind?” I responded. “The rest are all textbooks or too hard for me. I just started reading not too long ago.”
“Here.” He handed me a Hardy Boys book. The House on the Cliff. “Try this. It’s not that hard to read.”
I loved the cover and the feel of the book. Then I opened it and saw chapter after chapter of words.
“Looks interesting,” I said, handing the book back. “But not for me. I prefer pictures.”
He didn’t take the book. Just pushed it gently toward me.
“This book does have pictures.”
He must be crazy. I had just looked. To humor him, I flipped through the pages again and when I got to the end of the book, I held it up.
“No pictures.”
“Sure there is,” he said.
I remember thinking how stubborn he was.
“The pictures are hiding.”
Now he had my attention. I looked down at the book in my hand.
He continued, “The pictures are inside the words.”
“What?” Now I was confused. (Remember, I was quite young.)
“Read the first page. Maybe the second. You’ll see.” He nodded at the book. “The pictures will rise out of the page and into your head. Don’t worry, your eyes will form the pics from the words.”
He started to lose me at that young age, but I did what he said. I opened the book to chapter one and started reading.
And I gasped.
A picture formed instantly. He was right. Frank and Joe Hardy were off on a mystery and I was sold. I saw everything with my mind’s eye and reading became as much a part of me as breathing. I’m forever grateful to Jerry for that moment in time and I will never be able to thank him for what he did for me because I have no idea where he is or what his real name is. It’s been a lifetime since that day.
So I write in pictures, just as I read.
And I read newspapers because I need to stay current with world affairs. I started reading newspapers when I was fourteen and became addicted. Today
, I read at least five papers a day, all online, sometimes more. Newspapers serve as inspiration as the world is a terrible place to live sometimes.
Having said that, the statistics and supporting data in this novel regarding India and rape are all true. I did the research and what I wrote here can be substantiated with an easy search online.
In addition, the selling of dirty bombs still goes on today. Moldovan police have arrested and stopped black market smugglers of nuclear material to extremist groups four times in the last five years, and that’s just the Moldovan police. Sliven and Russian arms dumps are real and sales happen on the black market routinely.
Having said that, I enjoy delivering what I see in the news through Sarah’s eyes. I also enjoy bringing these people down fictitiously. It’s a wild ride of words and pictures for me.
I’m having fun. I hope you are, too.
Lastly, I’d like to add a few plugs. The TV show Ray Donovan was mentioned in the novel. It’s an unbelievable show. Watch it. Amazing.
Band of the Hand, a movie by Michael Mann was also mentioned. When Agent King said she rewound the VCR and re-watched the entire movie, that was me circa 1986. To this day, wherever I travel around the globe, I have that movie on DVD. Still my favorite of all time. It’s the 1980s in that movie and it’s an ‘80s movie completely. Get past the hairdos and the clothes and just watch the movie.
Finally, I talked about Greg Iles. I’ve loved every one of his novels. Loved Sleep No More and Dead Sleep. So good. Check him out. You won’t regret it.
Credits:
Karen Hopkins: for reminding me of how much I love Drake Bellamy and to bring him back from the dead. What a twist that turned out to be. Thanks, Karen. And thanks for loving Sarah.
Samantha Puig: Appreciate you letting me use your name for the FBI Special Agent in Charge in Las Vegas. Get caught reading!
Stacy King: Again, thanks for the use of your name. I loved you as an antsy agent in the field, hating stake outs and wanting to deal with Jane Turner first hand. You got guts, Agent King!
Mary Fitzgerald: Using your name as the lead agent on the Jane Turner case was great. Thanks! I loved your quiet demeanor, by-the-book attitude.
Tracy Martin: Thanks for the use of your name—Detective Tracy Martin—for the bit part of being in Toronto when Parkman called through. Many thanks to you!
And to all the readers out there, I am eternally grateful to you. I can’t do this without you and, in the immortal words of Whitney Houston, (I know, Dolly Parton, but I only knew the Whitney version, so I’m quoting her here), “I Will Always Love You.”
Now, as is my ritual when I finish writing a novel, I go and have a tall glass of my favorite whiskey. It’s Sarah’s favorite, too.
This is me, raising my glass to Sarah, because without her, I’d be lost.
See you all in The Pact for a crazy time on the wild ride of the written word.
Until next time, get caught reading.
All mistakes found in this novel are mine and mine alone. If you’ve ever done heroin or dealt with withdrawal (or know someone who has), I apologize if I got some of the facts wrong. You have my sympathy and my love. May you be Sarah, be strong, and stay on the solid path of being clean.
Yours truly, with warmest regards to you and yours …
Jonas Saul
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Sincerely,
About Jonas Saul
Jonas Saul is the author of the Sarah Roberts Series and The Mafia Trilogy.
Visit his website, www.jonassaul.com for upcoming release dates, and to sign up for the newsletter. Jonas lives in Washington, USA.
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