observed
the way they trembled. A day outside with the boys was exactly what
he needed.
Who was he
fooling?
Since Lachlan and Beth's
departure, he'd been haunted by something he couldn't begin to
define. He'd tried to tell himself he was simply going through a
period of mourning, but he knew that wasn't exactly true. Oh, he
missed them. He had resigned himself to the fact that there would
always be a void in him, one akin to that of the loss of his son.
Sometimes when he abruptly awakened in the middle of a night, he
almost believed he knew what was troubling him. But then it would
melt away, leaving him empty and puzzled and angry.
It was as though he were
standing at the very edge of a high cliff, waiting for something to
give him that slight nudge that would send him reeling into the
unknown. No, it wasn't about death. He had no fears in that
respect. Laura had been so supportive and understanding of his
moods, but the unfairness of placing her in that position also
bothered him. He loved her more than he ever thought possible. And
yet he kept distancing himself.
Why?
Wha' the hell is wrong wi'
me!
He looked to the swinging
door Laura had gone through. He felt as though he wanted to
explode. Not even Aggie seemed to understand what was eating at
him. In fact, she was more inclined to avoid him whenever possible.
He knew she desperately missed her son, Borgie, and his heart went
out to her. She remained because of the boys, but he knew she
secretly yearned to pass on and rejoin with her only child. More
times than he cared to remember, he'd thought of telling her to go
on, but the thought of losing her, too, had been too painful, and
he'd selfishly kept silent.
If only he could purge
himself of the gloom residing inside his heart.
C hapter 3
For the remainder of the
day, Winston stayed in his bedroom. In between Laura and Agnes
bringing him pots of tea, sandwiches, and snacks, and Roan lending
him a shirt and two woolen sweaters, he was content to embrace his
solitude with the hope of soothing the perpetual tingling invading
his body. The condition had manifested shortly after he'd retired
to his room. And although he had endured it often enough in his
life, usually when on a case it continued to make him
edgy.
Now and then he stared out
one of the windows, watching Laura, Roan and the boys build a tall
snowman near the snow-covered fountain. When they had finished it
later that afternoon—potatoes used for eyes, a carrot poking out
for the nose and stones forming a smiling mouth—Winston had laughed
outright to see the redheaded boy, aided by Roan hoisting him up,
place what appeared to be a frozen peacock on top of the snowman in
lieu of a hat. The bright purples, blues, and greens of the bird's
feathers stood out in sharp contrast to the white, compacted snow,
a perfect complement to the delightful creation.
Now that daylight was
waning, his solitude only served to feed his restlessness. Answers
eluded him but for the locale of the surrealistic garden. The
fourth dimension. His mind had often enough traipsed into that
relatively unknown realm. The cross-over dimension. A channelers'
only means of bringing individual times and space into the reality
of the third dimension. But never had Winston physically visited
the realm. The countless times his mind had channeled through it,
it was but a world of layers of grayness. Psychic energy, replete
with impressions and memories of all who had lived throughout the
ages in the third dimension were libraried within the infinite
region. Most psychics had only minimal channeling abilities to tap
into the information. He, Winston Ian Connery, was one of a few who
possessed the ability to utilize every nuance of the dimension. But
if he had one hundred lifetimes, he couldn't even begin to dent the
available knowledge.
As much as he thought about
transferring himself to the “lady's” garden, he stopped himself.
The prospect of causing her undue pain, yanked on his
the way they trembled. A day outside with the boys was exactly what
he needed.
Who was he
fooling?
Since Lachlan and Beth's
departure, he'd been haunted by something he couldn't begin to
define. He'd tried to tell himself he was simply going through a
period of mourning, but he knew that wasn't exactly true. Oh, he
missed them. He had resigned himself to the fact that there would
always be a void in him, one akin to that of the loss of his son.
Sometimes when he abruptly awakened in the middle of a night, he
almost believed he knew what was troubling him. But then it would
melt away, leaving him empty and puzzled and angry.
It was as though he were
standing at the very edge of a high cliff, waiting for something to
give him that slight nudge that would send him reeling into the
unknown. No, it wasn't about death. He had no fears in that
respect. Laura had been so supportive and understanding of his
moods, but the unfairness of placing her in that position also
bothered him. He loved her more than he ever thought possible. And
yet he kept distancing himself.
Why?
Wha' the hell is wrong wi'
me!
He looked to the swinging
door Laura had gone through. He felt as though he wanted to
explode. Not even Aggie seemed to understand what was eating at
him. In fact, she was more inclined to avoid him whenever possible.
He knew she desperately missed her son, Borgie, and his heart went
out to her. She remained because of the boys, but he knew she
secretly yearned to pass on and rejoin with her only child. More
times than he cared to remember, he'd thought of telling her to go
on, but the thought of losing her, too, had been too painful, and
he'd selfishly kept silent.
If only he could purge
himself of the gloom residing inside his heart.
C hapter 3
For the remainder of the
day, Winston stayed in his bedroom. In between Laura and Agnes
bringing him pots of tea, sandwiches, and snacks, and Roan lending
him a shirt and two woolen sweaters, he was content to embrace his
solitude with the hope of soothing the perpetual tingling invading
his body. The condition had manifested shortly after he'd retired
to his room. And although he had endured it often enough in his
life, usually when on a case it continued to make him
edgy.
Now and then he stared out
one of the windows, watching Laura, Roan and the boys build a tall
snowman near the snow-covered fountain. When they had finished it
later that afternoon—potatoes used for eyes, a carrot poking out
for the nose and stones forming a smiling mouth—Winston had laughed
outright to see the redheaded boy, aided by Roan hoisting him up,
place what appeared to be a frozen peacock on top of the snowman in
lieu of a hat. The bright purples, blues, and greens of the bird's
feathers stood out in sharp contrast to the white, compacted snow,
a perfect complement to the delightful creation.
Now that daylight was
waning, his solitude only served to feed his restlessness. Answers
eluded him but for the locale of the surrealistic garden. The
fourth dimension. His mind had often enough traipsed into that
relatively unknown realm. The cross-over dimension. A channelers'
only means of bringing individual times and space into the reality
of the third dimension. But never had Winston physically visited
the realm. The countless times his mind had channeled through it,
it was but a world of layers of grayness. Psychic energy, replete
with impressions and memories of all who had lived throughout the
ages in the third dimension were libraried within the infinite
region. Most psychics had only minimal channeling abilities to tap
into the information. He, Winston Ian Connery, was one of a few who
possessed the ability to utilize every nuance of the dimension. But
if he had one hundred lifetimes, he couldn't even begin to dent the
available knowledge.
As much as he thought about
transferring himself to the “lady's” garden, he stopped himself.
The prospect of causing her undue pain, yanked on his
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