Flight to Freedom (Flight Trilogy, Book 3) (9 page)

His third dream regression into his past was certain to fix everything. The rest of their lives would be restored and their original purpose fulfilled. All of his failures resulting from poor judgment and the subsequent painful consequences would finally be purged. Any memories of the
other
life—if it existed—would be completely morphed into the unanswerable “what if”, only to be remembered as a dream, including the horrid night of May 29, 2003, when Keri, David, and Martha almost died at the hands of an evil monster.

A satisfying calm relaxed him. He flipped on the radio. The announcer said, “Here is that 1997 hit by Sarah McLachlan,
Angel
, from her best-selling album,
Surfacing
.”

“No way!” He turned up the volume.

A few soft piano chords introduced the ethereal ballad. McLachlan’s smooth voice followed… “Spend all your time waiting for that second chance…”

As he listened, his thoughts drifted into his past as he followed the lyrics of the song. The powerful emotion found in the music transcended the songwriter’s original theme, touching his life. He had always been a fan of McLachlan’s music, finding it a soothing escape, but to hear this particular song at this time could only be the result of divine intervention.

Over the years, he had become more sensitive. The trials of life had softened his heart to the pains and joys of mankind. He even cried in movies when the hero overcame insurmountable obstacles to save the girl or the town.

By the time McLachlan had reached the last line in the first stanza his eyes were watery. Then she rolled into the chorus… “In the arms of the angel fly away from here…” His chest tightened. Tears spilled from his eyes. He could not contain himself. Almost every word she sang seemed directed to his situation.

When the song ended he turned off the radio, not wanting to spoil his blissful state; his heart full of joy and peace.

He pulled into the garage and tucked the
Angel
perfume into his flight bag. Keri greeted him at the door. “Did you have a good day?”

“I’m just glad we have a weekend for a little R&R.”

And
a
bit
of
needed
time
travel
.

“Me, too.” She kissed him, pausing to look at his eyes. “Have you been crying?”

He rubbed his eyes, turning his head away. “No…I’m good.”

“Supper will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be back in ten.” He rushed upstairs to his bathroom and hid the box of
Angel
in his medicine cabinet behind a can of shaving cream.

Tomorrow morning he would be at Starbucks by six o’clock, order a tall coffee, and ingest a healthy whiff of
Angel
. By this time tomorrow night everything would be perfect—finally free from all regrets and any chance of reliving the horrid events of May 29th.

Returning to the kitchen, he whistled the tune to Sara McLachlan’s
Angel
.

CHAPTER 11

Southern
California

Saturday
morning
—
April
2003

Ryan arrived at Starbucks at 5:30 a.m. in early-morning darkness. He stood by the entrance of the store as an employee fiddled with a handful of keys.

After unlocking the doors, the employee said, “Hi, Ryan.”

“Good morning, Ashley.” He moved to the counter. “Hi, John. I’ll have a tall coffee, please.”

He took his coffee to the condiment bar, added milk and sweetener, then found a seat near the window. He pulled the palm-size, star-shaped dispenser of
Angel
from his pocket. He patiently sipped his coffee observing customers.

When his cup was half empty, he sprayed
Angel
on the inside of his left forearm. He lifted his arm to his nose and inhaled. A slight burning sensation tingled the inside of his nostrils. The volatile top note, or first scent impression, was light and refreshing with a hint of sweetness. The middle note—the “heart note” as it is called—would follow in about ten minutes after the oils in the perfume fully developed on the skin and the top note had evaporated. He inhaled a second time.

Nothing yet.

It’ll
take
a
few
minutes
.

He took a sip of coffee waiting anxiously for a sneeze. Just to be sure, he pumped another squirt of
Angel
on his arm and drew in the fragrance. He waited approximately three minutes.

Nothing.

His heart raced.

I
should
be
sneezing
by
now
.

Concerned too much perfume would draw attention, he took his coffee and left the store. Sitting in his car he pumped the star-shaped dispenser a third time, sending a mist into the cabin of the car. He inhaled deeply and coughed. He waited a minute.

Still nothing.

I
don’t
understand
.

Frustrated, he tossed the bottle of
Angel
on the passenger’s seat and started the car.

Grace
must
have
sold
me
a
dud
.

He backed out of the parking spot and drove toward the exit.

I’d
better
get
this
stuff
off
or
Keri
will
wonder
why
I
smell
like
a
woman
.

He stopped the car and wiped his forearm with a Starbucks napkin. He sniffed his arm. The oils in the perfume were still emitting a strong scent of the fragrance. He took the napkin, spit on it, then rubbed his arm hard, until it was hot from friction and the napkin almost disintegrated. He sniffed his arm again. The scent of Angel was still strong.

I
need
something
strong
…
some
type
of
cleaning
fluid
.

He searched the car for anything he could use to rid him of the prissy-smelling fumes. Between the seats he found a small half-filled bottle of hand sanitizer. He squirted a liberal amount on his arm where he had previously applied the
Angel
perfume and rubbed it back-and-forth with his hand. A strong scent of alcohol quickly replaced the sweet fragrance of the perfume. Once the sanitizer evaporated, he lifted his arm and sniffed his skin. It was clean and fresh—free from the fragrance of the perfume. He lowered the windows.

Turning onto the street, it hit him hard. “Ahhhhhh….chooooo!”

Now
we’re
talking
.
Bring
it
on
!

His eyes began to burn and itch, much worse than any of the other times.

Burn
baby
burn
.

Tears flooded his vision making driving almost impossible. “Ahhh….chooo!”

Yeah
…
that’s
it
.
Sneeze
your
head
off
.

His nose dripped like a garden hose, but he managed to whistle the tune to
Angel
until he arrived back home. The house was dark and quiet. He headed straight to the bedroom where Keri was still in bed sound asleep and then into the bathroom. He washed his face and blew his nose. Thankfully, the sneezing had subsided. He was hopeful he could get back in bed without waking Keri.

“Is everything okay?” Keri said.

“Ahh…choo!”

“Are you getting sick?”

“No, I’m fine. I went down to Starbucks and I must’ve gotten a whiff of something I’m allergic to. I just need to lie here and sleep it off. I’ll be fine in an hour or so.”

She would not remember anything about his other allergic attacks leading to his previous two dream regressions, as they were not a part of her present—and only—reality.

“Okay, I think I’ll go downstairs and let you sleep. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.” She closed the bedroom door as she left.

According to his numbers theory, he expected this dream would take him to the year 1984—nine years earlier than his last dream. If so, it seemed only logical his dream maker would choose Saturday night June 23rd. That night had defined his future more than any other day in life.

As he relaxed, he imagined sitting in his 1964 Chevrolet Impala parked on the circular driveway in front of Keri’s old home in Buckhead.

Sleep came quickly…

* * *

Where
am
I
?
This
is
not
right
.
Where
is
Keri
?

Ryan sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee. He was in the kitchen of a previous house where he once lived. It was early morning. The black of night was slowly yielding to twilight, releasing the once colorless world from its prison of darkness. He was in California. He was alone.

The TV was on, but muted. He picked up the remote and pressed the MUTE button and adjusted the volume to low. He took a sip of coffee.

A sense of gloom engulfed him before he could even process what he was seeing on the TV. The reporter was on location. A beautiful shot of the Pacific Ocean filled the background.

Ryan’s heart thumped hard against the inside of his chest. More gloom accompanied by despair darkened his spirit.

I
remember
.
It’s
the
crash
on
July
11
,
2002
.
Rex
was
the
pilot
.

The TV cameras zoomed in on the ocean. Rescue boats, rocked by ocean swells, searched through floating debris while helicopters circled above. The camera slowly panned the hopeless scene, occasionally zooming in on pieces of wreckage as the news reporter recapped:

“
Late
last
night
at
approximately
eleven
-
thirty
,
a
commercial
airliner
departing
Los
Angeles
International
Airport
bound
for
New
York’s
JFK
was
shot
down
by
U
.
S
.
fighter
jets
.
We
have
been
told
that
authorization
to
destroy
the
airliner
was
given
after
officials
learned
the
plane
was
headed
for
a
target
in
northern
California
.
Numerous
unsuccessful
attempts
to
contact
the
pilots
left
officials
with
little
doubt
that
the
plane
was
under
the
control
of
terrorist
hijackers
.”

He sipped his coffee, unshaken by the news, as though he expected it.

Keri rushed into the kitchen. “RYAN! DID YOU HEAR THE NEWS!?”

He calmly turned to her. “Yeah, one of our planes crashed last night.” He took another sip of coffee.

“IT WAS SHOT DOWN! DID YOU HEAR ME? SHOT DOWN!”

I
wish
she
would
stop
screaming
.
I
can’t
enjoy
my
coffee
.

He said without emotion, “I know…blew it out of the sky. Everyone died.” He paused. “Listen, what did you have planned today? I thought we might drive out to the cemetery and put some fresh flowers on Rex and Emily’s graves. How does that sound to you?”

Her tone had lowered just below a scream. “What! Are you crazy? What graves are you talking about?”

He pointed to the TV. “Theirs.”

“Who?”

“Rex…and of course Emily…we can’t forget Emily…after all, she was murdered last night. So, we should pick up enough flowers for both graves. I was thinking some carnations would be nice, or maybe some roses. We want to make it look nice.”

“Ryan, you are freaking me out! What are you talking about?”

He pushed back from the table, moved to the coffee maker, and slowly poured a fresh cup of coffee. As he poured, he calmly said, “You’ll see…just keep watching.”

* * *

“Ryan…how do you feel?”

“Keri,” he groaned, “I really need to sleep right now.”

“Honey, you have been asleep for two hours. I just came to check on you.”

He opened his eyes.

Where
am
I
?

“Did you say two hours?”

“Actually it’s been a little longer than that. I left the bedroom about six-fifteen and it’s almost eight-thirty now.”

I’m
still
in
the
same
place
and
time
.

“I don’t understand.”

“
What
don’t you understand?”

He thought for a minute. “My dream.”

Why
was
the
dream
in
2002
and
not
1974
?

“What was your dream about?” she said.

This
is
not
good
.
The
number
theory
didn’t
work
.

“It was all wrong.” He sat up. A part of him was still in Neverland. “I dreamed a plane crashed and somehow I knew Rex was the pilot of the plane. The same people responsible for the crash murdered Emily.”

“Wow! That sounds like a night horror, not just a dream.”

He looked her in the face. “It was
sooo
real, but it was all wrong.”

“How can a dream be wrong?”

I
can’t
explain
it
to
her
.

“
You
came screaming into the room…hysterical, while I sat calmly at the kitchen table drinking coffee. I didn’t seem to be concerned about the crash at all. I don’t understand.”