The Prophecies Trilogy (Omnibus Edition): A Dystopian Adventure Read online

  I quickly put hair gel in my palm and rubbed my hands together. I ran my hands through my hair, preparing to be windswept. After grabbing a fleece scarf, a zippered sweatshirt, and my purse, I headed out to enjoy the fresh air along the Pacific coast while it was still light. Lulu tried to come along, but I had her stay. She didn’t like it when I played loud music in the car, which I intended to do.

  “I’ll be back very soon,” I told her, preparing her Kong ball with peanut butter and dog treats. She would work to get the treats out of it the whole time I was gone.

  I slid into the driver’s seat, expertly wrapping my scarf around my neck and lowering the top of the BYD at the same time.

  “Play Chuckanut Mix, low volume,” I said. Heading out of the driveway, I floored the BYD, smiling as I slightly peeled out the tires. Backing off my aggressive driving for the sake of my neighbors, I made my way through the streets, seeking the freedom of Chuckanut Drive. Five minutes later, I was through the city.

  “High volume. Start with ‘Burning Down the House,’” I commanded the BYD.

  While the wind blasted my cares away, I whipped around the curves of my very own freedom road, accompanied by the Talking Heads.

  Chapter 11

  BELLINGHAM, WASHINGTON

  The Year 2015

  I pulled into my garage, leaving the BYD’s top down, and walked into the house. After my head-clearing freedom ride, I felt centered and happy. I snuggled into the deep cotton cushions covering the window seat overlooking the sea. On the ledge next to the seat sat a pair of high-powered binoculars, which I used to spot sailboats in the bay. During the months of May through September, I often drove to Sandy Point with those same binoculars to spot Orca whales that fed and frolicked between the islands. Sandy Point was a finger of land, reaching out into the salt water toward Orcas Island in the San Juans. Every time that I successfully found Orcas from that point, joy filled my heart at the beauty of the magnificent place. It was just as Michael Gettel said: the sea is the heartbeat of the San Juans.

  In 2012, before I moved from Washington, D.C., to Bellingham, I sold my townhouse in the Adams Morgan neighborhood of the city for nearly four times what Armond and I had paid for it many years before. The sale generated enough cash to allow me to purchase the Bellingham house outright, make the peeker repairs, buy my BYD H12, and still keep a significant amount of savings in my pocket. I also had the cash in my house safe that I had withdrawn from investments and bank accounts in 2008. I didn't owe anyone any money, and for the first time in my life, I was financially flush. However, my Fairhaven neighborhood in Bellingham couldn't even try to compete with the lifeblood of Adams Morgan.

  I remembered the Red Sea Ethiopian restaurant, where patrons ate communally—without utensils. I longed for my metropolitan group of friends who accompanied me to the Red Sea once a month. They were an eclectic group and included an artist, a reporter, and a technology nerd. My friends were independent, outside-the-box thinkers who were full of passion. We had lively discussions about everything from politics to art. The Red Sea’s food was extraordinary, but the intellectual feast with my friends was even better.

  My new Fairhaven neighborhood didn’t offer Ethiopian food, but it was a haven where gifted artists could showcase their works in little shops that lined the bricked Main Street. The Main Street reminded me of Georgetown’s cobbled streets, and it was that one thing that drew me to the neighborhood when I was house hunting. Bellingham did have one spectacular beauty: its partnership with the sea. It was a harmonious marriage of salmon, seals, Orcas, salt, and wind. With hundreds of islands in the San Juan Archipelago begging for exploration, most people either owned a boat or knew someone who did. Bellingham’s soul seemed to exist on the water instead of in the small city itself.

  I looked over to my potter’s wheel, a wave of creativity buoying me up. I hopped off the window seat and began to set things up.

  “Let’s just see what I can discover in you today,” I told the clay as I kneaded it.

  “Sinéad, play a U2 mix, medium volume.”

  “Okay, Ann.”

  Using my hands to create ceramics gave me great satisfaction. There were no rules to obey in throwing on the wheel—there was technique to be sure—but no rules. It was in that moment of creation that I felt free. As I immersed myself in the clay, my mind drifted to my husband, Armond, and the life we shared.

  * * *

  He was my soulmate, and it was undeniable to both of us. Our love affair started before we had ever met. Armond was on a humanitarian mission in São Paulo, Brazil. At the time, I was doing some freelance writing for the Washington Post on humanitarian issues in South America. I learned about Armond’s work there through a mutual friend, and I began to write to him, asking for details I could include in my article.

  In the beginning, it was all in the spirit of journalistic pursuits, until I became impressed with Armond, as a man, through his letters. He wrote with compassion about the struggles of the people he was helping, and he seemed to really want to be a force for good in their lives. He told me of the long hours he worked to help a handful of families rebuild their shanty-like homes after a bad storm. As he tried to better their lives, he also helped them better themselves. “It won’t do them any good,” he wrote, “to build them new homes and buy them new clothes if they can’t learn to support themselves on their own.” I was surprised at the openness with which he shared some of the details of his work, but I was gratified that, though he’d never met me, he felt comfortable being open. I’d originally been drawn to him for his apparent generosity, but as we wrote over the course of several weeks, he became real, much more than the story I’d planned to write about. I opened up in response to his candidness and ended up sharing more about my life with him than I’d expected.

  At some point, I asked if he would agree to an in-person interview in São Paulo. I was interested in Armond, and I wanted to see if the chemistry I felt as I read his letters would extend to face-to-face interaction. When Armond agreed to the in-person meeting, I booked a flight. The journey to São Paulo was brutal. One of my planes was grounded due to mechanical problems, and I was rerouted through another city, missing my connecting flight. That created a chain of events, with one delay after another. Twenty-seven hours after I departed, I arrived in São Paulo, exhausted. As I stepped off the plane, my fatigue vanished when I saw him.

  Armond was standing at the end of the Jetway, six feet tall and fit, wearing hiking boots, knee-length khaki shorts, a worn t-shirt, and a fleece jacket. He had short brown hair, and his steely-gray eyes were framed by round wire-rimmed glasses. I attempted to contain my excitement but was unable to suppress my beaming smile. I walked towards him and attempted to shake his hand, but he laughed and pulled me to him instead.

  “You didn’t think that I fell for that interview guise, did you?” he whispered as he held me. “I knew you would be beautiful.”

  I guess he feels the same way I do.

  In his arms, I said nothing but hugged him back and was unable to stop smiling. The chemistry was incomparable to anything I had before experienced. Our connection was sealed; there was no going back now. After that, we were inseparable. The physical and emotional chemistry was there, there was no doubting that, but there was something else between us. It was a deeper spiritual connection, and it was something that neither of us had experienced before. We did sometimes fight—loudly. After an argument, we would both freeze the other person out for a couple of days, then come back together, agreeing to disagree about the topic, and turn our love for one another right back on—no grudges held. I stayed in Brazil for six months, working with the people of São Paulo, side by side with Armond, and continuing to write freelance for the Washington Post. By then, we both knew that we were meant for each other. We had become each other’s best friend. Finally, though, I had to return home after using up most of my savings.

  We arrived at the airport late, and I missed my flight. When the attendan
t told us the plane had just departed, Armond and I just looked at each other. No doubt it was accidentally on purpose. Thankfully, the airline was nice enough to re-book me two days later. That only drew out the pain we felt about leaving one another.

  During my flight back to America, I cried bitter, inconsolable tears. Armond's work was in Brazil, and my work was in the USA.

  When my plane landed, I had a voicemail waiting for me. I sat down on the unmoving luggage conveyor to listen to the message.

  “I know you won’t get this until you land, which means that you probably had an awful flight. I’m sorry about that. I want you to know that I love you, Ann, and I’ve given notice that I’m resigning. I’ll leave Brazil in three weeks…to be with you…if you’ll have me,” he said humbly. “Call me,” he said at the end, sounding excited.

  Elation flooded me; I was so grateful. Tears of joy exploded from my eyes as I stood. Other passengers stared; I didn’t care.

  Armond proposed to me the day he arrived at Dulles Airport. Years later, we would talk about our parting in Brazil, and both of us recalled how we felt as if we were being halved, torn in two that day. Neither of us could deny our uncommon connection.

  After he proposed, we began to plan our simple wedding. The hardest detail was my dress—I wanted to make it myself. Once I’d finally finished that, the other details were easy. The ceremony would be at the home of some of our close friends. Another friend who played the guitar would be in charge of the music.

  I remembered the day vividly. I came out of the bedroom in my white renaissance wedding gown, holding a simple bouquet of white roses and baby’s breath. As I rounded the corner into the living room, I met Armond’s eyes, and he flashed his infectious smile. He came toward me, taking my hands in his and leading me to where the rest of our friends stood. I’ll never forget the poem I wrote to him—and the vows I promised—the last stanza burned into my mind.

  I pledge my loyalty—strong and true.

  I will love you well, my dearest friend.

  We were married at sunset in 1997; I was twenty-six years old. As we drove from our friend’s house to our home, we drove up a ridge heading east. Above us, a full moon appeared, enormous in the clear sky, shining bright orange. It seemed to us that we had a celestial blessing.

  Our daughter was conceived on our wedding night. We decided to name her Elinor because it meant bright and shining light that drives away ignorance and suffering. We wanted her to bring compassion to the world. Elinor was such a beautiful baby, easy and joyful, and the three of us were a close family until Armond’s death.

  * * *

  It always comes to that. I wished that I could just remember the perfection we had. Most people never got to have it. Most people settle. Most people give up. Armond and I were conscious of it. We lived in the moment, stacking up perfect days on top of perfect days.

  I had stopped the potter’s wheel and sat staring at the ceramic piece I’d just created. It was beautiful—a bowl that he would have loved. I decided to fire it in Armond's favorite color, eggplant purple. As I took the wire and cut it off the wheel, I moved the piece onto the drying shelf.

  I’d take it to the kiln on campus and have it fired.

  Later, as I lay in bed, exhaustion snuck in—a warm, welcome guest. Sleep came quickly.

  Chapter 12

  BELLINGHAM, WASHINGTON

  The Year 1988

  Just before graduating high school, I went down to the Bellingham Air Force recruitment center and took the entrance exam. I entered into the delayed enlistment program, so my active duty wouldn’t start until after I graduated. My scores in the entrance exam designated me for an Air Force intelligence job, whatever that meant. It was a vague job description, but it looked promising for a seventeen-year-old.

  I raised my hand and took the Armed Forces enlistment oath. Its words resonated in my mind:

  I, Ann Torgeson, do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.

  Six days after graduating from high school, I was flown to Lackland Air Force Base, Texas, for basic training. It was June and one of the hottest summers in history. As my enlisted group of Airmen traveled by bus from the commercial airport to the base, the sweat poured off me, my body shocked by the San Antonio humidity. Besides the heat, I didn’t find basic training too difficult, except for the fact that I was taller than most of the women in my squadron, which gave the Air Force Training Instructors visibility of me that I would rather have opted out of. I quickly got used to hearing, “Torgeson! What’s wrong with you?” screamed in my face by a giant with a Texas drawl. There was one occasion in basic training with my lead TI that I will never forget.

  It was my squadron’s day to learn to shoot M16 semi-automatic rifles; I was excited. We marched over to the shooting range and were given instructions and a demonstration by the TIs. My father and I had regularly practiced shooting pistols and shotguns starting when I was twelve years old, so I didn’t expect to have any difficulty shooting the M16.

  After the sergeant finished his instructions, the lead TI gave us one last warning: “Do not…I repeat…do not even consider shooting any of your fellow Airmen. Gonzalez—don’t even think of pointing that weapon at any of your compatriots from Harlem. Is that understood?” the Texas TI bellowed.

  “Yes, sir,” we responded in unison.

  Gonzalez wants to shoot someone? I was grateful to have heard Gonzalez affirm the TI’s instructions.

  The senior TI reluctantly gave us our M16s, with an evil look towards Gonzalez. The junior TI, Sergeant Pick, worked with us hands on while we loaded our weapons. Then we practiced. Once the TIs were confident that we wouldn’t shoot each other, they moved on to describe how we would be shooting at targets fifty feet away. Sergeant Pick gave us the go ahead, and we started to shoot.

  No big deal, I thought as I began to fire.

  I calmly unloaded my magazine into the target with practiced hyperfocus. Before I knew what was happening, I was yanked up by the back of my collar, and my weapon was seized by the Texas Terror while he screamed his now familiar line.

  “Torgeson! What’s wrong with you?” he raged, a few inches from my face.

  “Nothing, sir,” I replied, dumbfounded at what could have enraged him.

  “Why did you fire all your rounds?” he stormed. The expression on his face started to scare me a bit.

  “Sir, I thought that’s what we were instructed to do,” I timidly replied.

  “Stand over there at attention,” he snapped, pointing to the wall behind us. “And if you move one little muscle, you’ll find yourself repeating basic training like all the other washouts.”

  “Yes, sir,” I obediently replied, perplexed about my error.

  I stood at attention as commanded, my back against the wall, facing the rest of my squadron. Sergeant Pick pushed the electric button, moving all the targets forward to assess the squadron’s shooting accuracy.

  As the papers flew closer, Texas Terror hollered, “Well I’ll be a son of a gun. We’ve got a sharpshooter,” he hollered, staring at one target.

  I could see that everyone else had fired one bullet, while I had unloaded my entire magazine. So that’s why he’s angry. But the target the Texas Terror held was mine. My bullets had all penetrated either the bull’s eye or the ring next to it. Suddenly, I felt a bit smug.

  Then I heard, “Torgeson, get over here, pronto.”

  I stepped forward to the TI immediately, then resumed standing at attention.

  “Torgeson, how did you do that?” he spoke in my face, with his rage now replaced with astonishment.

  “Sir, my father taught me how to shoot when I was a young girl.”
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  “Well ya don’t shoot like a girl,” he responded with a smirk, leaning into me.

  I didn’t smile. I was putting every ounce of energy into keeping an indifferent expression, but I wanted to laugh out loud with joy.

  “Well, thanks to him, you’ll stay in our squadron.” He chuckled. “Maybe you should have joined the Marines—they could use some girls who can shoot. Now back up against that wall at parade rest,” he commanded, simmering down from his hot boil.

  Thanks, Dad.

  I wrote my father a letter the first chance I got, telling my M16 story. I received his reply a little over a week later. He said simply, “Good job on that target practice, Airman.” Dad was a Navy veteran and a man of few words about the military, but I knew he was proud of me.

  After showing my skill with the M16s, both TIs treated me respectfully through the rest of basic training. My shooting reputation followed me to Keesler Air Force Base in Mississippi six weeks later, where I was to begin my formal training in Air Force Intelligence. I still wasn’t sure exactly what that entailed. As I reported for duty after my flight, the sergeant who processed my incoming paperwork looked at my name and said, “You’re not the M16 sharpshooter, are you?” I guess news traveled fast in the Air Force.

  My first task at Keesler was to complete fourteen pages of forms, detailing all eighteen years of my life; it was nearly a page per year of my life. Apparently the Air Force was investigating my eligibility for a Top Secret/Special Intelligence security clearance. Until the security clearance was completed, I wasn’t allowed to learn anything about my intelligence assignment. While I waited for my TS/SI security clearance, I attended forty hours per week of classes on and off base.

  This formal training was in addition to the forty hours of basic training classes I had already taken at Lackland—on Air Force history, combat, and war strategy. At Keesler, I completed a number of psychological classes. The Air Force seemed to be intent on educating me about the paranormal, which was fascinating to me. I had no idea what I’d be doing with all that knowledge, but I figured that my job was going to include some crazy psychological scenarios.