Chapter Six.
Meg Ravenson's Residence,
Los Angeles,
California
3am.
Megan Ravenson jerked awake, a muffled, startled exclamation on her lips, breathing quickly and raggedly as her eyes flew wide open and she found herself looking up at the ceiling in her darkened bedroom, heart racing erratically in her chest, legs tangled up in the knotted bed sheets and clutching her scrunched up pillow to her chest, the lower part of her face covered and her mouth buried in it to smother her anxious cries.
She let out a soft moan as she realized what had happened, and then reached out to turn on the bedside lamp, knocking her alarm clock to the ground and spilling a glass of water in the process.
"Damn," she grumbled as she flung the pillow across the room and fought off the bed sheets, kicking out at them in frustration and irritation as she sat up in the middle of the bed and hugged her knees into her chest.
"Damn, damn, damn," she cursed swinging her feet over the edge of the mattress and sat then for a moment, pushing her hair back off her face and trying to avoid putting her toes the puddle on the bedroom carpet.
The alarm clock had landed face up, and she could clearly see the time on the luminous dial.
Three am.
"Oh hell!"
Careful not to tread in the damp patch on the carpet, Meg slipped off the bed and quickly made her way to the adjoining bathroom where she picked up a towel and then went back to the bedroom to clean up the spill, her mind still preoccupied with the dream from which she had just rudely awoken, and even as she cleaned up the mess and restored order to the nightstand, Megan could not get the vivid images out of her head.
Pulling on a bathrobe, Megan did not bother to put on any lights as she returned the towel to the bathroom, tossing it carelessly into the dirty laundry basket, and then made her way down stairs and along the hallway to the kitchen, where she poured milk into a saucepan and set it to warming on the stove while she pulled a notepad and pen out of one of the kitchen drawers and began to make notes on her recollection of the dream.
It was a habit she had gotten into lately, writing down all the things she remembered of her dreams, impressions, imagery, the smallest detail, chasing down the elusive threads before they fled from her memory completely, before going back to sleep, although tonight she suspected that there was little prospect of her returning to the land of nod.
Her hands were trembling and her knees were actually shaking as she leaned against the kitchen counter and tried to gather her wits.
She was far too shaken.
So much so she was going to add just a splash of scotch to the milk when it had finished warming, as well as her usual two spoons of sugar, in the hope that the milk would settle her churning stomach and the alcohol would still her trembling hands.
Like most people, Meg often had difficulty remembering the fine details of her dreams, even the psychic ones, and quite often all she was left with was a general sense of setting, and the important information that she was meant to make sense of. Writing down everything that she remembered as soon as she could after waking, she had found, made it a little easier to focus and to try to recall more detail later.
She tipped a dash of scotch into her mug then added the sugar and the now warm milk, stirring it all together as she turned off the electric ring and then deposited the dirty pan in the sink. However as she carefully carried the mug and the notepad and pen through to the dining room, where she switched on a small table lamp, Meg had more trouble trying not to remember the incredible detail of the dream which had so unsettled her.
She sat down at the table and taking a gulp of the milk told her self to calm down and try to start at the beginning. Everything was so muddled and jumbled if she just wrote down what came into her head as she remembered it, it would just be a confusion of words.
Drawing in a long, calming breath she closed her eyes and tried to picture what she had seen in her dream, casting her mind back and trying to rewind her thoughts until she could focus on the point where the dream had begun.
Noise.
So much noise, she had actually jumped, her heart racing, as she became aware that she was surrounded by dense vegetation, the air humid and very damp, fronded plants and thick prickly shrubs, clumps of tropical trees dripping water over her face and into her eyes, as she sat crouched behind a bush and watched as men in camouflage battledress fatigues exchanged gunfire with an unseen enemy, deep in the shadows of the steaming jungle on the other side of the clearing.
The sound of gunfire and explosions all around was deafening, drowning out the anxious shouts of men giving orders, screaming in agony or calling out for medical attention and then she became aware of an even louder and familiar noise. The steady thwack thwack of helicopter rotors beating the air, as a chopper skimmed over the treetops and descended into the LZ or landing zone.
To one side of her an excited young man was screaming into a radio that he had sick and injured men and to get that damned Huey down on the ground. Yet even as he barked out orders, the jungle around him suddenly erupted in flame and Megan actually felt the heat and the shock wave of the grenade or mortar round or missile or whatever the hell it was that had just exploded, wash over her as she cowered behind her bush and when the smoke cleared and she was finally able to look back, the acrid smell of burning flesh assaulting her nostrils, the young man with the radio was gone.
However she did not have long to think about the man's fate for now another slightly older man was taking charge and shepherding his men toward the landing zone. He was of medium height with unkempt sandy colored hair and piercing blue eyes in the middle of a grubby face, directing his men, sometimes actually physically pushing them out to the edge of the clearing, where Megan could now see the landing skids of the Huey making contact with the muddy ground that ran along side the shallow stream which ran through the middle of the clearing.
The rotors were whipping up dust and bits of vegetation, and when she tried to get a closer look into the cockpit Meg could actually see the face of the young pilot at the controls, gazing anxiously out of his window and beckoning to the men to hurry up and get on board.
Meg watched in horror as men streamed out of the trees and into the clearing, their already weak legs buckling beneath them, their feet skidding in the slick mud, only to be picked off one by one by sniper fire from the shadows on the other side of the clearing, and the pilot was no anxiously turning around to issue orders to the remainder of his crew, barking out a demand that someone get onto their machine gun, draw fire and take out the enemy position.
Although he was very young, so fresh faced and innocent looking, Megan Ravenson immediately recognized the young pilot, and felt her heart lurch violently in her chest.
In the next instant she somehow found herself seated beside Stringfellow Hawke in the cockpit of the Huey as his hands gripped the flight controls and he screamed encouragement to his older brother, Sinjin, to get the hell out of there and to make for the chopper, desperate to make the older man aware that he couldn't wait much longer, that the rear of the chopper and the rescue lines hanging from the skids beneath were already filling up with men who were relying on him to get them out of there and back to safety.
Someone in back was yelling that they were full and that if he didn't go now, they would be too heavy to take off, but still the young Stringfellow Hawke waited, terror written all over his face as he watched his brother and another man make a tentative move out of the clearing, only to have gunfire explode at their feet kicking up dirt and grass and stones, forcing them back into the tree line.
Now the young man in the back of the Huey was demanding that Stringfellow Hawke take off, and Meg could see the indecision in his eyes, the weight of the decision that he had to make. Torn between whether to stay and risk all their lives, or to do what he had been sent here for, to rescue these men and get them back to base in one piece, leaving behind his precious brother.
It was easy for her to see the torment the young man was going through; the desperate need to help his brother versus the lives of the men now aboard his aircraft, and to do his sworn duty.
No matter how much he loved Sinjin, Stringfellow Hawke could not forfeit the lives of his crew and the men that his brother had sacrificed himself for, to save the only family he had left in the world.
Meg could see the exact moment that the young Stringfellow Hawke made up his mind, the resignation on his face as his hands and feet manipulated the flight controls and she felt the Huey rising off the ground and heard the shrieks of relief from the men in the rear compartment.
She saw the tears streaming down the young pilot's face and watched his jaw working frantically as he fought back sobs of grief and screamed a vow over the radio mike in his helmet that he would come back for his brother and the other men.
Megan watched as the young man was forced to turn the chopper and steer it away from the clearing, rising higher and higher up over the trees, searching for another possible escape route, all the time vowing that he would never stop looking for St John Hawke.
Megan's heart went out to him.
It was such a horrible thing for anyone to have to face, such a terrible choice for any man to have to make, but more so for one so young, and she knew that he had carried the guilt with him for the rest of his life.
Just as she was beginning to come to terms with what she was seeing, suddenly the dream had shifted, and Megan had found herself standing on the side of a long and winding road, lined on each side by lush trees, the air warm and smelling of vegetation, earthy and green.
The sky a vast expanse of pastel blue, with just a hint of gauzy white mist covering the tips of the distant mountains, the few remaining snow fields on the highest peaks tinged with pink here and there, highlighted by the glow of the slowly setting sun.
Suddenly the quiet stillness was disturbed by another loud bang, and Meg found herself spinning around to face the other way, looking down the mountain road, watching as an open topped jeep suddenly began to swerve from one side of the road to the other, the driver doing battle with a steering wheel that stubbornly refused to respond.
She could not make out the identity of the driver as everything was happening so fast and because of the glare of sunlight bouncing of the windshield. She knew that there had to be one and raised her hand to shield her eyes, squinting to try to get a better look as she took a small step back out of the vehicles path.
In the next instant she was watching as the jeep failed to negotiate the sharp bend ahead of it and sailed through the crash barrier and over the side of the mountain.
Then, much to her astonishment, before her very eyes, Meg witnessed a very strange metamorphosis as the jeep change into a beautiful bird of prey, it's terrified screech filling the mountainside, as unable to stretch out its beautiful wings to save its self, the magnificent bird tumbled over and over until it disappeared into the foliage and trees out of sight.
Then, left standing alone on the roadside all that Meg could hear was the sound of the jeep careening down the mountainside, the over revving of the engine, the shattering of glass and the crunching and grating of metal as it collided with trees and rocks, until at last there was one last loud crashing sound, and then all was silent once more.
It was at this point that Meg had woken, startled and scared out of her wits, her heart racing and her hands shaking, and a sickly feeling in the pit of her churning stomach, knowing that she had never before had such a vivid and realistic nightmare.
Well, you knew it was coming, kiddo! Megan told herself scornfully, as she took another gulp of the now cooling milk and whisky, pulling a face at the sourness of the alcohol that still clung to her tongue after she swallowed and watched her hands still trembling.
When she had had psychic dreams in the past, she had merely been a witness to the events going on, like watching a movie in her head. Now and again she was made aware of some of the emotions of the people that she was watching, but she didn't usually feel them for herself. She was usually just a bystander, watching events unfold.
If she was affected at all, it was because the things that she saw moved her. They were often distasteful and upsetting and scared her, or disturbed her or made her angry on behalf of the people that she was working for.
She had never before felt as if she were actually there, participating; experiencing all the sights and sounds for her self and it was a shocking new development that she had not been prepared for.
The intensity of it, the clarity of it was new and overwhelming and she suddenly had doubts that she was strong enough to deal with it, without actually losing her self.
Well, at least now she knew for sure that she was right about this having something to do with Stringfellow Hawke.
At least now she was beginning to understand what made him tick just a little better.
It was no wonder he was so cut off emotionally and so guarded, so scared to love and be loved in return.
Stringfellow Hawke equated love with sacrifice. He associated love with pain and loss, because for all of his life, all his experiences of love had resulted in the sacrificing of that individual's life.
From her past dealings with him, Megan had learned a little of his past, had sensed some of the ghosts he carried around with him, and the heartache and guilt he associated with them.
People he cared about died.
It hadn't just happened to him once, but over and over, embedding the belief deep in him that he was responsible, that somehow his love was a poison chalice, killing these people, and so he had made a conscious choice to remain detached and alone.
Except of course, he had omitted one undeniable fact from his little equation. He had forgotten that he was human, and that he was capable of feeling love and inspiring the same feelings in other people.
See, I told him we weren't so very different from each other!Meg thought to herself sourly, as she took another sip of the milk and whisky concoction.
Haven't you been doing the same thing for most of your life too? She reminded her self solemnly.
Perhaps that was another reason why she had felt so drawn to Hawke, compelled to offer him a small piece of advice and make him aware that he was not alone. That she too understood.
Hawke went out of his way to make people back off from trying to get close to him, and over the years, Megan Ravenson had learned to do the same, for in the long run it saved her a lot of pain and heartache.
She was just too different, and no-one seemed able to accept her for what she was.
Her gift always got in the way and like it or not, it inspired people to have a strong reaction toward her.
People saw her as Meg the freak, or Meg the fortune teller.
Meg the bearer of bad news, or Meg who might be able to predict a big win on the lottery for them.
She could never just be Meg.
In a way, they were both trying to protect themselves from further pain and misery, but in his mind and in his heart, Stringfellow Hawke was also protecting someone else from what he considered to be inevitable.
He did not want any one else to die just because they cared for him or he cared for them.
With one notable exception.
Dominic Santini.
Returning her attention to the notes she had scribbled on the pad, Meg was puzzled by the two very different locations in the dream. The first quite obviously foreign and alien, a tropical jungle, and from the events she had witnessed, the vivid recollection sending a shudder down her spine and making her hands shake again, probably Vietnam.
That made sense.
Both Hawke brothers were old enough to have seen action in that particular conflict.
Stringfellow had never said anything about his brother, but it made sense to Megan that he had either been killed or was missing in action in Vietnam.
Somehow she had not gleaned any sense that St John Hawke was dead, and she had told String so that last time she had seen him, telling him that his brother wasn't one of those ghosts she had seen from his past, and that he should trust in the gut instinct that was telling him to keep looking for him.
Seek and ye shall find.
Had Hawke followed that advice and gone and gotten himself in trouble?
The second location was far more benign and tranquil, and hadn't felt so foreign and alien to her.
Stringfellow Hawke lived in a remote log cabin up on Eagle Lake, surrounded by vast tracts of woodland and mountains, Meg recalled from snippets that Dominic Santini had told her about his young friend's home and his inclination to shut himself away from the world, like a hermit.
Magnificent isolation, Dominic had called it, whilst what he had really been thinking was that it was still a self imposed exile. A prison, no matter how beautiful and tranquil or spectacular the view, or how well Hawke lived when he was at home.
Was that what she had seen?
What was she supposed to make of the jeep and that darned bird of prey again?
There was only one thing that made any sense to Megan.
Logic was telling her that there had been some kind of accident, or there was some kind of threat or danger involving Stringfellow Hawke, and the only way she would know for sure was if she sought him out.
If he was fit and well, then perhaps the dreams were indeed all about his brother. Or, perhaps something had happened to Dominic Santini and she was meant to warn Hawke.
Perhaps something had happened to Hawke himself, and she was supposed to warn Dominic.
Could it be that straight forward?
Just for once in her life?
Could what she saw, and how she interpreted it really be all that there was too it?
Either way it meant going to the Santini Air hangar again and playing it by ear.
Damn, I knew I wasn't done with you, Stringfellow Hawke!
Megan buried her head in her hands and let out a long, deep sigh, wondering how Hawke would react to seeing her again, and if she was strong enough to cope with his scorn and derision and doubts.
Well one thing is for sure, kiddo, you're not going to get another peaceful night's sleep until you find out!
This isn't just going to go away, so you'd better take the bull by the horns and get to the bottom of it!