Title: Swan Song

Author: Alexis Katherine

Rating: T

Disclaimer: If it's from the show, I don't own it! Jake Sloan belongs to Jen and first appeared in the CSI fic, Settling the Score. I offer my most sincere 'thanks' to her for letting me use him in this story. The storyline and incidental characters are mine.

Summary: When a film composer is killed in a car accident, he asks Melinda to help him find his protégé so she can complete his last project. The young woman, however, is on the verge of making a terrible mistake.

Feedback: Reviews and comments are very, very welcome! I'm new to Ghost Whisperer, so I might have take a bit of creative license with the town and such.

Author's Notes: I know I have other stories that I haven't updated in a long time. It's been a crazy year. I'm hoping that working in a new area will help me get over the writer's slump that's keeping my other work unfinished.

Dedicated to the real-life Jess. Don't forget us "little people."

- Prologue -

"Thank you for tonight." Melinda Gordon leaned over and kissed her husband on the cheek. "Dinner was wonderful."

Jim Clancy chuckled lightly. "You're welcome. It's not often that we both have a free evening."

"You work too much," Melinda pointed out.

"No, you work too much," Jim countered and Melinda playfully punched his shoulder.

"One weekend a month. Dinner. Maybe a movie. You and me. Is that too much to ask?"

Jim smiled, shook his head. "No, that sounds reasonable." He gestured out the window. "But let's pick a night not in the middle of monsoon season."

Melinda laughed. "April showers bring May flowers," she said with a singsong lilt to her voice.

The SUV slowed and came to a stop at a red light. It was Saturday evening and traffic was always congested near the business district. The weather seemed to magnify the volume.

Melinda looked out at the rain-soaked world with a sigh, watching the cross traffic file through the intersection. The windshield wipers swished back and forth, filling the momentary break. She closed her eyes and felt Jim's hand on her shoulder, massaging softly. She smiled...and then bolted upright.

A icy chill ran down her spine. The kind she got in the presence of certain spirits. The kind she got when something was very, very wrong.

"Jim..." Her voice was a choked whisper.

"What is it?"

And then they heard the collision.

There was a squeal of tires, of rubber skidding on rain-slick pavement, of brakes failing, the sickening crunch of metal on metal, glass shattering.

For whatever reason, the driver of a silver Suburban failed to see the stoplight. He braked too late, too suddenly, and the SUV hydroplaned. It slid through the intersection and plowed into a black BMW. The smaller car recoiled from the impact, skating sideways. It glanced off of the car in front of Jim and Melinda's SUV and came to rest only after it slammed into a light post.

The whole chain of events was over in less than thirty seconds. Melinda watched the scene as if was playing out in slow motion; to her, it felt like thirty minutes. She didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until Jim shook her.

"Melinda? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, sorry," she mumbled, stunned by what she had just witnessed. In her line of work, as it were, she often saw the aftereffects of tragedy and death. But she had never witnessed it from this perspective, so violent and sudden. So close...

Jim was still speaking.

"...and I need to go, " he motioned towards the wrecked vehicles, his paramedic training kicking in like second nature. "...survivors will need help..."

Melinda shook her head, clearing away the cobwebs. She nodded, though she hadn't heard what he had said. She didn't need to; she knew Jim. "I'll call 911," she said, reaching for her purse. "Do you want the umbrella?" But Jim had already gone, leaving the door open in his haste.

Through the windshield, Melinda watched as more people appeared on the scene, other passersby who, like herself, had witnessed the accident. Some stood on the periphery, huddled under their umbrellas, looking on. Others moved into the accident scene, probably emergency workers: doctors, nurses, off-duty police officers, firefighters, or EMTS.

The driver of the silver SUV was attempting to climb from his vehicle. Melinda watched as Jim pointed a group of responders in that direction before turning towards the BMW. Another group approached the car in front of Melinda's. It had only received a glancing blow and the occupants were conversing with the first responders through the window.

Melinda dialed 911 and then held the cell phone to her ear.

"911. What is your emergency?" the dispatcher answered, voice crisp, professional.

"I'd like to report an accident...intersection of Fourth and Haggerty..." Melinda reported, taking a deep breath, keeping her voice calm. She answered the dispatcher's questions about the wreck until she was asked, "Do you know how many are injured?"

"I, I'm not sure," Melinda said.

"Two." The voice was male, soft but sure. "The guy in the truck and a passenger in the BMW. The other driver didn't make it."

Melinda repeated the information to the dispatcher, but she could already hear the whine of sirens. She ended the call and, bracing herself with another deep breath, she turned her head, ready to see her source of information. She hoped the voice had come from one of the emergency workers, but she had a sinking, chilling feeling that it hadn't.

A man was standing in the space created by the door Jim had left open. He looked to be in his mid-40s, blond and goateed. He was dressed in black, with a leather jacket and black-framed eyeglasses. He leaned against the side of the SUV, watching as emergency vehicles arrived on the scene, oblivious to the rain. When he turned to look at her, Melinda could see a nasty gash along the side of his head, the blond hair matted with blood. That dismissed any lingering thoughts she had that he might still be among the living.

The driver of the Suburban limped away from his truck, collapsed, and was taken away in an ambulance. Another arrived a few moments later, presumably for the passenger in the BMW. A fire rescue vehicle parked alongside the crumpled sedan and out came the Jaws of Life, the powerful tools used in extracting car crash victims from twisted, crushed metal. Police officers in rain gear where directing the stalled traffic around the accident, shooing away onlookers, and cordoning off the scene for the accident reconstruction team.

Off to the side, there was a commotion, shouts. A woman was trying to push through the police lines, arguing with the officer standing at the perimeter. A loved one of one of the victims, Melinda thought.

The blond man was still watching the scene, but his eyes were distant, half-glazed, watching but not really seeing.

She had seen enough. She couldn't do anything for the accident victims, but she could help the man outside her SUV. She focused her attention on him. "My name is Melinda," she said, smiling warmly. "Melinda Gordon."

"I'm..." he started and then stopped, frowned. "I'm..." He stared at her, eyes wide, a genuinely bewildered expression on his face. "I have no idea who I am..." He gave a bemused laugh and shot her an 'I-can't-believe-this-is-happening-to-me-look.' "Hold on," he said. He patted his hip pockets, first one and then the other. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and came up empty. "My wallet's gone."

"Don't worry. You're in shock," Melinda said softly, gently. "It happens. You'll start to remember things soon." But you may wish you hadn't. "Names are usually the first thing that comes back." She didn't see the need to point out that his wallet was most likely still in the car with his former body.

He gave her a curious look.

"I have a...gift. It's a long story." She shrugged, palms up.

The blond man fell silent and didn't press for any more of an explanation.

Over at the accident site, the passenger from the BMW was being loaded into an awaiting ambulance. Melinda watched as a third vehicle pulled up, a dark blue van. COUNTY CORONER was stenciled on the side in bold white letters.

"The driver didn't make it," the man said, mostly to himself, his voice barely a whisper. "I didn't make it." And then he was gone.

How am I doing? R&R and let me know!

- TBC -