Coffee. It is the only way I know how to wake up in the morning. Black, loaded with caffeine; after two cups I am ready to face my day- whatever that will bring.
"Mike." I turn, instantly recognizing the voice of a good friend. He nods to me and kicks over a chair, motioning me to join him. He is an older guy, early seventies, worked his entire life as a farmer somewhere in Texas. He still maintains that work ethic, early riser, don't stop till the job is done kind of man. I respect that.
"Jim." I sit down beside him and glance at the paper he is reading, sports section. He is an avid fan of the Longhorns and continues to follow them, even up here. I can tell already though, he isn't happy about the latest games' outcome. The scowl on his face is all the information I need to know not to discuss any kind of football with him.
We've been friends for years now, Jim and I. We met three days after my life ended, he greeted me "here" and has acted as sort of mentor for me ever since. He swears he didn't mean to bump into me with a beer in his hand that day, I argue that he was a lonely old bastard looking to finally talk to someone. As the days turned to weeks and the weeks to years, Jim slowly began letting me in on his previous life. How he had died a cranky old man, with not a person to love him. He had died in a nursing home, with the social worker by his side. He was never married, never had any kids, his parents and siblings were all dead. I have yet to meet them.
I had the exact opposite experience in my passing. I was forty two years old, a prominent attorney. I don't remember much about my death, but do remember my family. Three loving children (who are now all in college) and my wife; who since my death, has remarried. One thing I do remember vividly is watching how the FBI became involved in my death, how a team of agents worked diligently to find my killer. I watched with tears in my eyes as a blonde agent spoke softly to my still grieving wife, how the young woman comforted Lisa and vowed to find who was responsible. I watched as the blonde agent interviewed my kids in a way that was victim centered, she knew exactly when to stop, when things were becoming too much.
And she kept her promise.
Four days after my death, she personally went to my home, to my family and with a practiced tone announced that my killer had been caught, that he was facing a litany of charges ranging from drug trafficking to murder; that the likelihood of him ever seeing a chance of freedom was almost non existent. The agent gave my family her business card, gave one last hug and walked out the door. I, till this day, have no idea why that agent impacted me so much, but I will always remember what she did for my family.
"Mike!" I shake myself out of my flashback, Jim is staring at me, his brown eyes glaring at me. He is standing next to a woman I have never seen before. She is dressed all in white, and doesn't speak but instead hands me a simple envelope before walking away.
"Shit." Jim shakes his head and smirks, as he takes a sip from his coffee. I look at him and he motions for me to go ahead and open the mysterious envelope. "Good luck, kid." Jim chuckles to himself and walks away.
The envelope, I have a sinking feeling what it is. I have seen it delivered before, a person from "here" has to go "there" and bring a poor soul over to our side. We act as a mentor for them for the first while during their time here, to help them adjust. In four years, I have never been selected, I knew there was always the distinct possibility just never expected it.
My hands are shaking as I open the "assignment", as it is often referred to. I don't understand the exact process, but know that once you get the envelope you have no choice, you have been selected to become a mentor.
"You okay, kid?" I jump almost at Jim's voice, it's not the tone I am accustomed to hearing; this time it is soft and caring. He gestures to the envelope in my hands. "Got your first one?" I nod, its all I can do. "It's hard, it won't be easy. You are there, and they often sense your presence even before they have taken their last breaths." He pauses. "Sometimes they make eye contact, sometimes they reach for you, sometimes they cry." another pause. "and sometimes they are waiting for you." It is the first time I have ever heard him speak of his work as a mentor and his voice betrays what a monumental task this will be. "But you have to do it, you have to bring them here."
I nod with understanding and glance down at my assignment, still numb from even being selected as a mentor. The letter is written in gold handwriting, I know where it has come from, I have too much respect for Him to speak His name. As my mind continues to process what has just happened, I am overwhelmed with a sense of pride, this is a big job, and important job, and I have been selected.
Taking a deep breath, I look down again and begin processing the written information. An FBI agent, based out of Quantico, is currently in Fort Worth, Texas working a particularly dangerous case. A young woman, I glance at her age, she is in her mid thirties, blonde hair… and my heart rate picks up. No, it cannot be the agent I am thinking of, the one who did so much for my family. The one who kept my family sane, who helped bring justice forward…
A picture is attached and I refuse to turn it over just yet, maybe it isn't her. It proabably isn't. Hell, how many blonde haired, thirty something year old FBI agents can there be working in Quantico? I am sure more than one. My heart tells me something diffrent though and as I turn over the picture, I again close my eyes.
It is her, the beautiful agent from four years ago. Her name and expected time of death are stamped on the photo. I don't know the way she will die yet, as is typical. If I don't know how she'll die, I have no way of preventing it. I am sure that is intentional. The penalties for interfering are not something I care to entertain, but I can't help but think of a way to spare her life.
"Kid?" I look up and show Jim the photo.
After a moment, I am able to speak. "She brought my killer to justice, she comforted my family," a pause so I can breathe. "Her name is Jennifer Jareau, and she dies in less than twelve hours."