home.
While packing up the last of the last of her vacation, Jamie heard from Mat’s secretary, who confirmed all the coordinates of her journey. The limousine would be there for her at 1:00 p.m. the next day. She would be driven to the airport in Christchurch, a short ride from the resort, where she would board at a private terminal. Upon arrival in Houston, she would be escorted to the company’spresidential suite at the Four Seasons Hotel, where she would be met by Mr. Anderson for dinner at 7:00 p.m., and then flown by private jet to San Francisco the following morning.
“Mr. Anderson’s personal chef will be serving you on board,” Louise said. “Do you have any special food preferences?”
Jamie grinned. This had to be some kind of proposal to be getting such red carpet treatment: something really huge. “I’m a vegetarian,” she replied.
“I will convey that to our chef, thank you,” Louise replied, officiously, adding, “We look forward to hosting you in Houston.”
Louise hung up with Jamie and then sent a text message to the chef to prepare a strictly vegetarian menu aboard the flight. “What’s with San Francisco?” Louise pondered, “… all those burned-out hippies. Damned vegetarian do-gooders … they think they’re gonna fix the world by not eatin’ a hamburger?” She pulled an emery board out of the desk drawer and retouched one of her pearl pink lacquered nails, filing the chipped edge. “Good Lordy! Who the hell is this bimbo, anyway, and what has that man got in mind now?”
Jamie luxuriated in the presidential cabin aboard USOIL’s extraordinary private jet like a diva—loving every minute of it, but wondering where the strings were attached. She was well aware of the chimera of wealth, and how easily one could become lost in pursuit of castles in the sky, and here she was … soaring over the Pacific Ocean in one. Sipping a glass of vintage Dom Pérignon, she giggled at the thought of it, reminding herself to keep a clear head, stay objective, and exercise caution when she touched ground. She had only committed to hearing Mat Anderson’s proposal—nothing more, nothing less—and then she was heading home to get to work for the whales and dolphins.
She took another sip of champagne and then lay back drowsilyinto the plush pillows, dozing off—thoughts of them guiding her way into the dreamtime. Deep in slumber—flying above and away from the tragic hour of their death—she dreamed her way back to the beach, where she was lying up close to the great mother whale. They were so close, she could feel her heart beating, pulsing through Jamie’s sleeping body, and then, slowly failing, like the last ticking of a clock, unwound.
As she and the whale gazed into each other’s eyes anew, a voice spoke out, ringing clear and powerful through the dreamscape. “Help us,” the whale was saying, “before we leave you.”
And then, there was silence—cold and lifeless, like long, icy shadows cast of the hollow light of winter—calling her back from the dream.
Jamie awoke with a lingering sense of grief and emotion that bridged the sleeping brain to her conscious mind, pervading the waking process, but from it she gleaned a clear idea of what she had to do. She was going home to set up a foundation for psychic investigation into what was causing the Cetaceans to die in mass suicides, like the one she had just lived through.
How could Earth, the great mother to all living beings here, be so cruel as to trick her mightiest into beaching themselves on her shores, where certain death awaited them? Why would the all-powerful, living oceans cast their gentle giants out and then pull back their great tides, empty-handed, unwilling to carry the mighty whales safely home, into the womb of the deep? What other forces were at play? Where was the disconnect?
How could there be Divine Order in such a travesty of nature?
These were the questions that tormented Jamie’s soul, and yet
While packing up the last of the last of her vacation, Jamie heard from Mat’s secretary, who confirmed all the coordinates of her journey. The limousine would be there for her at 1:00 p.m. the next day. She would be driven to the airport in Christchurch, a short ride from the resort, where she would board at a private terminal. Upon arrival in Houston, she would be escorted to the company’spresidential suite at the Four Seasons Hotel, where she would be met by Mr. Anderson for dinner at 7:00 p.m., and then flown by private jet to San Francisco the following morning.
“Mr. Anderson’s personal chef will be serving you on board,” Louise said. “Do you have any special food preferences?”
Jamie grinned. This had to be some kind of proposal to be getting such red carpet treatment: something really huge. “I’m a vegetarian,” she replied.
“I will convey that to our chef, thank you,” Louise replied, officiously, adding, “We look forward to hosting you in Houston.”
Louise hung up with Jamie and then sent a text message to the chef to prepare a strictly vegetarian menu aboard the flight. “What’s with San Francisco?” Louise pondered, “… all those burned-out hippies. Damned vegetarian do-gooders … they think they’re gonna fix the world by not eatin’ a hamburger?” She pulled an emery board out of the desk drawer and retouched one of her pearl pink lacquered nails, filing the chipped edge. “Good Lordy! Who the hell is this bimbo, anyway, and what has that man got in mind now?”
Jamie luxuriated in the presidential cabin aboard USOIL’s extraordinary private jet like a diva—loving every minute of it, but wondering where the strings were attached. She was well aware of the chimera of wealth, and how easily one could become lost in pursuit of castles in the sky, and here she was … soaring over the Pacific Ocean in one. Sipping a glass of vintage Dom Pérignon, she giggled at the thought of it, reminding herself to keep a clear head, stay objective, and exercise caution when she touched ground. She had only committed to hearing Mat Anderson’s proposal—nothing more, nothing less—and then she was heading home to get to work for the whales and dolphins.
She took another sip of champagne and then lay back drowsilyinto the plush pillows, dozing off—thoughts of them guiding her way into the dreamtime. Deep in slumber—flying above and away from the tragic hour of their death—she dreamed her way back to the beach, where she was lying up close to the great mother whale. They were so close, she could feel her heart beating, pulsing through Jamie’s sleeping body, and then, slowly failing, like the last ticking of a clock, unwound.
As she and the whale gazed into each other’s eyes anew, a voice spoke out, ringing clear and powerful through the dreamscape. “Help us,” the whale was saying, “before we leave you.”
And then, there was silence—cold and lifeless, like long, icy shadows cast of the hollow light of winter—calling her back from the dream.
Jamie awoke with a lingering sense of grief and emotion that bridged the sleeping brain to her conscious mind, pervading the waking process, but from it she gleaned a clear idea of what she had to do. She was going home to set up a foundation for psychic investigation into what was causing the Cetaceans to die in mass suicides, like the one she had just lived through.
How could Earth, the great mother to all living beings here, be so cruel as to trick her mightiest into beaching themselves on her shores, where certain death awaited them? Why would the all-powerful, living oceans cast their gentle giants out and then pull back their great tides, empty-handed, unwilling to carry the mighty whales safely home, into the womb of the deep? What other forces were at play? Where was the disconnect?
How could there be Divine Order in such a travesty of nature?
These were the questions that tormented Jamie’s soul, and yet
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