Out of Body: A Paranormal Mystery

By Carolyn Chambers Clark

In Out of Body: A Paranormal Mystery, Cassidy Courtland, registered nurse, is dead.

Or so she thinks. Come to find out she’s only out of body...temporarily. Now she’s got to figure out who killed her and how to keep her eight-year-old daughter safe.

Good thing her sister’s up to the task. Or is she?
Cassidy’s got a slight memory block, but who wouldn’t? Lucky she’s got Sergeant Jeremy O’Hare, on the case. Too bad he’s so attractive. Hard for a girl to keep her mind on the case.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carolyn Chambers Clark
• Release date: Aug 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466120549

Carolyn Chambers Clark

Carolyn Chambers Clark is a board-certified advanced holistic nurse practitioner with a master's degree in mental health nursing and a doctorate in education. She is a faculty member in the Health Services Doctoral Program at Walden University, and she hosts http://home.earthlink.net/~cccwellness and http://HolisticHealth.bellaonline.com.

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OUT OF BODY

Copyright, Carolyn Chambers Clark, 2011

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OUT OF BODY

Chapter 1

I’ve been dead for three seconds and counting.

Until minutes ago, excited voices fired directions and needles plunged into me.

Doug, a first year resident with red hair and acne who’s green as they come, leaned over the ER table and stared at me. His surgical mask hung down and he hadn’t changed his gloves since he worked on the last patient. Didn't they teach these guys anything about infection control?

Isn’t this that nurse from 13W, Cassidy something? he said, glancing into my eyes. Doug tried to put the make on me at last year's hospital Christmas party. I could smell his sweat and fear. He hadn’t had enough experience with death to get comfortable with it. I felt sorry for him.

Yes, I’m one of your own, I would have said, if I could still speak, and you should at least know my name, especially since you’d planned to commit the most intimate act on earth with me. You still get a gold star, Doug, at least you recognized me.

He couldn’t hear me. I couldn’t even move my lips. One of the many disadvantages of being dead.

A spectacled thirtyish guy with a prominent Adam’s apple and ears the size of Hubbard squash gazed down at me. Draw up one more eppie. Her name’s Courtland, or Ms. Courtland as she told me about a hundred times. He took a syringe from the nurse by his side and squirted it into the IV running into my arm. I am no longer married, so I’m not Mrs. Anybody, she says. Get this. She tried to tell me what meds to order for a patient once. He opened the clamp and let the rest of the IV pour into my vein. Claimed I’d given him a dose large enough for a horse.

Typical. Jeff Norton, an attending physician, believed nurses have to be lectured about stuff we learned in nursing class while he was still a snot-nosed dork in high school---like checking the dosage or making sure you’re giving it to the right patient, at least one who's still alive. Jeff topped the male chauvinist, pompous ass list, but he tried his darnedest to keep me alive, and for that I was grateful.

Doug picked up two paddles and yelled, Gonna shock her. Clear! Everyone except me stood back. I got a jolt of electricity that normally would have sent my blood pressure through the ceiling. Being dead, it didn’t do diddly, but somebody should tell him not to start at such a high voltage.

Throughout all this, Sarah Weingold, my friend and a topnotch nurse, whispered to me about what they planned to pump in and out of me. What a sweet person. Only she paid attention to me and my reactions, and I’m no picnic when something’s wrong with me. She even held my hand when she didn’t have to run around doing the bidding of the two physicians.

Sarah’s the smartest of the three. Her voice cracked when she said, Look at the monitor.

Let’s shock her again, Doug said.

Forget it. Jeff stared at the flat line progressing across the screen. At least he knew when to pack it in. Who wants to call it? You want to call it Doug?

The resident shook his head. No, go ahead.

Jeff gawked at me.

Sarah grabbed the clipboard, knowing the two guys would have spent hours trying to decide who would call it. Time of death, eight-oh-two a.m., she said.

The pronouncement meant the end of my life as I knew it. Simple, direct and frightening.

While the two guys clomped out of Trauma 1 for further adventures, Sarah shoved aside the shock paddles and monitors. The tubes and wires hanging out of me she left for the autopsy.Sadness glowed in her eyes so deep I wanted to say something to comfort her. She shifted a clump of hair off my face and said good-bye to me. Her hand felt warm when she squeezed mine. We’ll miss each other.

I could tell her all about what happened to me if I could only talk. But I can't. I'm stuck in some kind of light tunnel with no time and no place, but I can see what's going on below me. It’s a strange sensation to be in two places at once.

I don't look much like I used to. I still have light brown hair and a pale face and almond eyes. It's the rest of me that's a mess. I see a lot of bloody skin and my jaw might be broken. I have marks around my neck from where he choked me and stab marks up and down my arms and chest. Pretty gruesome. At least he didn't take long.

Down below on the table, I lay flat in the glare of hard light. I'm staring straight ahead as if there's no tomorrow.

I guess there isn't.

When you die, your whole life doesn't flash in front of you. There's not time for historical replays. Maybe there is for other people who come back from the dead and talk about it, but not for me. I could see the end coming and I braced myself and said, I'm going to die now.

And I did.

But that didn't erase the fact I had a daughter. Morgan was eight, the pride of my life, the one perfect thing I’d produced.

I have a much broader perspective now that I’m dead. I can see farther and hear farther than I ever could before. Try miles. Right now I can see Morgan. She sits in Mr. Cramer's third grade class, and raises her hand. She wears her favorite plaid dress with the white collar and cuffs and her patent leather shoes. Always so neat. Her face shines and her pigtails have little white bows on them.

Morgan knows the answer when he calls on her. Argentina, she says and he nods and smiles. Cute kid, and smart, too. I’m so proud. Poor kid, she doesn't know what happened to me yet.

What's going to become of her is anybody's guess. That really bothers me. I want to do something to protect her, but I can’t. I just hope my ex-husband doesn't try to worm his way back into her life. My sister, Helen, and I swore a blood oath one night, after we got high on after-dinner drinks, we'd take care of each other's kids should anything happen to one of us. I think she’ll take care of Morgan. As kids, Helen and I whispered to each other about our boyfriends late at night, defended each other in school when one of us acted up, and both played in the band. I wish I could do something to help her when she finds out about me, but I don’t think I can.

I see Helen in her kitchen now, checking her watch and asking Al if it had stopped again. Her watch always stops. It’s been that way since childhood. I remember when she timed me while I ran a race. Her watch stopped and she thought I’d run a four-minute mile. We jumped up and down and hugged and screamed about going to the Olympics. I swear the woman has some kind of magical power. Watches, clocks, even oven timers refuse to tick when she's around. It used to drive Al wild because he thought Helen did it on purpose. Neither of our husbands ever appreciated our finer points.

Helen won’t only be worried when she finds out I’m dead. She'll be furious and she'll take it out on Al.

Cassidy said she'd come by for breakfast. Where is she? I can hear her saying. She’s worried something has happened to me. She's pouring Al's coffee, fixing him eggs and bacon and forgetting he isn't supposed to have too much cholesterol because she’s thinking about me. She's sniffing and starting to cry. Helen turns every emotion into tears, but she’s a good person. I’m really going to miss her.

But I can’t worry about Helen or Morgan right now. I have to figure out who killed me, it’s like something or somebody is urging me on to find my murderer. I knew him well, but I couldn’t remember who he was. That's another bad thing about dying, at least in my case. You can't remember half the things about your life before you died. Maybe it'll all come back to me like the made-for-TV movies, but there's no guarantee.

I remember every single second of what happened when the guy killed me. It comes to me in crystal clear action, but other parts, including his face, are dead space. My murder plays and replays in my head. It's annoying, but there's no shut off valve up here on the ceiling.

Last night, I got out of work late. The VP takes no pity on nurses and makes them work double shifts if their relief doesn't come in. That's what happened to me the final night of my life. Usually, I glance around the parking lot before leaving the lighted area by the exit, but I was just too tired. I foolishly plunged into wet darkness.

The rain pounded down hard enough to fill a thousand-gallon tank. Good thing I still had the raincoat I’d borrowed from my sister. She never nagged me about when she’ll get back things I borrowed. Thank God, because my closet brims with her stuff. When I took the garment, she told me, I got this from Al. It’s my lucky coat. Whenever I wear it, good things happen.

I sprinted across the parking lot to get to my trusty mini-van, hair sticking to my face and water pouring into my shoes. Sergeant O'Hare, the cutest cop I'd ever seen, taught us to take our car keys out and have them ready. Of course I didn't follow one thing I'd learned in the safety course I took with the Sarasota County Sheriff's Office.

Why didn't I use what I'd been taught? That kind of question is fruitless now, but it does point out the kind of smart aleck I am. Sergeant O'Hare tried to teach me something that worked, and I went blissfully along, thinking I knew better. No matter how I chastise myself now, it doesn't help.

I arrived at my mini-van, gasping for breath and drenched from dodging puddles. Wondering where I’d put my key, I rummaged around in my bag until I found it, and clicked the door unlocked.

Got a light, Cassidy?

I whirled around. The tall man wore a grungy raincoat and cowboy boots. Although I knew him well, I didn't call him by name. He held out his hand to retrieve a match or lighter. For a second, a gold bracelet on his wrist glistened in the light streaming down from the parking lot lamp above us.

Sorry, I don't. Since he knew me, he should have known I don't smoke. Maybe he just pretended he didn't know. I didn't get a good look at his face, not that there was much to see with his coat collar pulled up and a big hat covering his eyes. Not wanting to get any more soaked, I turned back to my vehicle, opened the door and threw my bag onto the passenger seat.

Before I could get inside, he grabbed me from behind and slapped a wet cloth across my face. I recognized the sweet chemical smell. Ether.It gave me a buzz and made me dizzy at the same time. My knees started to give way, and my eyes fluttered shut.

I woke up in his car, trussed up like a Christmas ham with tape over my mouth so I couldn't scream for help. He'd laid me down on the back seat behind a curtain, and secured me with a rope. The ether odor had disappeared and left me with a Class A headache. I smelled Old Spice and cigarette butts, and noticed a lot of old coffee cups and burger wrappers on the floor.

He drove like a maniac, darting around cars and splashing through the water collecting on the road. Even with the rope he’d tied around me secured to the door handles, my body banged around as we bumped along the streets.

The car squealed to a halt in front of a warehouse. I couldn't see a name or symbol on the outside, but from the distance we'd traveled, I thought we must still be near Venice, someplace out in the Florida countryside. He opened the car door and yanked me out. I felt myself being lifted. My head fell backward when he hoisted me over his shoulder. His body felt hard and muscular beneath me.

What was his plan? He didn't bother telling me, he just hurried toward the building. Although I weighed 125 pounds, he rushed along as if I weighed 10.

Darkness surrounded us and my eyes hadn't quite adjusted to it. I tried to inhale deeply

through my nostrils to get enough air, but the jostling messed up my breathing. Based on the fish smell, I figured we had to be close to the Gulf of Mexico. Strangely enough, fear hadn't taken over my mind yet, or if it had, I’d hid it from myself pretty well. Instead, I’d caught myself up in an adventure, trying to figure out our location and what would happen next.

I’d learned as a kid to do daring things, which was probably why I loved dangerous feats. My sister used to tell me to stop being so curious and to use more common sense. I used to climb tall trees and walk along cliffs and pretend to do a high-wire show in the circus. Helen feared heights, so anything above the first floor scared her. She’d whisper to me to stop when I’d crawl out our bedroom window and slide down the oak tree to the grass after being grounded.

So far in this adventure, escape hadn't been an option, except of course for opening my van door sooner and jumping inside in the first place. Now, tied up and swinging like an Italian sausage, I had little recourse but to let him decide where we went.

My captor jogged along, his feet crunching across seashells, my body banging against his back. The rain slowed, dripping and pattering on my back. From my upside-down position I stared at the sand and broken beer bottles on the ground. Whoever owned the building drank a lot.

A loud creak later, he stepped inside a huge room, and locked the door behind us. A flashlight beam spun around the warehouse. I craned my head up and saw an orange crate next to a mattress. Dozens of bulging travel bags hung from a makeshift rack and rows of straight-back chairs piled almost to the ceiling. Newspapers, half empty paper cups and more liquor bottles filled the wooden shelves running around the outside of the room. This guy must have been here before. The clutter matched his car.

I smelled rust and kerosene. His feet echoed across the cement as if they belonged to a giant. The one window had been boarded up. I jerked my head around. Only one way in and one way out that I could see.

The first glimmer of fear started up inside me. He hadn’t brought me way out here on a fluke. This guy planned on doing some serious damage.

Before I could react, I felt myself falling. My head glanced against something hard on the way down. He let go, dumping me. My elbows and head took the brunt of the jolt as I hit the mattress. It felt hard and uninviting beneath me.

His boots scraped against the floor as he stepped forward and ripped the tape off my mouth. It burned my lips so bad I rubbed them against my sleeve, but it didn't take the pain away. I managed to spit out a few words. Why are you doing this?

I thought about screaming, but who would hear me?

Conserve your energy, wait for a good time to take action, Sergeant O’Hare’s voice whispered in my head.

You know why. My captor propped the flashlight up on the floor so it shone directly into my face.

No, I don't. I ducked out of the beam.

He gave me a sick smile, showing off the gold molar on the side of his mouth. You'll figure it out.

I didn’t want to be around for what might happen next. The thought of getting out of my body occurred to me at that moment. I just couldn't figure out how to do it.

My hands felt stiff and cold. I tried to shove them into my pockets but I couldn't reach. Can I have some water?

He pulled a bottle out of his raincoat and held it up to my mouth. Here, take a swig.

It smelled like cheap scotch. No thanks.

Drink it!

I took a swallow. It felt like fire going down my throat. I managed to spit some out before he forced my jaw open and poured more into my mouth.

He grabbed the bottle back, finished it off and untied me. For a second I thought he'd decided to let me go, but I knew he had another plan in mind. I watched his every movement like someone hypnotized, all the while knowing I was trapped. I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

Signs flashed in my brain. No way out. No exit. You're finished.

Take off your coat. The way he said it told me he meant business.

Don't do this. Everything I’d read about how to handle this kind of situation flew right out of my mind and all I wanted to do was grovel. That’s what raw fear can do to you if you let it take hold. I tried to remember what else the cute cop had said I could do to stay alive.

Take it off. Do as I say and you won't be hurt, the man said.

I didn't believe his words, although I wanted to. I didn't tell him that or anything else.

I heard Sergeant O’Hare’s voice speaking to me in a consoling way. Humor him. Maybe he'll relax and you can escape.

My hands shook while I unbuttoned the raincoat I'd borrowed from my sister. I had a crazy idea I wanted to get out of this alive so I could see her face when I told her the raincoat wasn’t lucky after all.

My captor must have gotten impatient watching and he ripped the coat off me. Now the uniform. I heard him panting hard.

Not rape, God. Please not rape. The one thing I feared more than dying was being raped. I felt so powerless, so exposed. The thinness of my uniform offered no protection against his rough hands.

Please let me go, I finally managed to say, my voice pleading with emotion.

If you’re in trouble, drive to the police station or go to a public place where there are people around, Sergeant O’Hare’s voice said, and I wished I was in my van driving away.

You're not going anywhere. My captor's voice boomed in the big room.

He yanked something out of his belt. Unsheathed, the blade glittered above me in the light.

I'd rather be shot than cut. One swift bullet to the head and another to the heart, please, if you're going to kill me. I could almost feel the pain the knife would bring.

You deserve this, you know. The sound of my uniform ripping filled my ears.

Act confident, as if you have a plan, Sergeant O’Hare’s voice whispered to me. I tried to think of one.

I'd lifted eight pound weights for years and done my yoga every day. I'd even race walked on the beach. None of it prepared me for the strength of a mad man high on adrenaline and alcohol. I kicked and punched and tried to get away, but he held me down.

The struggle sucked the energy out of me.

Morgan's face popped into my mind and I renewed my fight. A fist cracked against my jaw and my head jolted back.

Don't fight and I won't hurt you anymore, he said.

Words tumbled from me automatically. Stop now and you won't go to jail. Let me go if you know what's good for you.

A few other idle threats spilled out of me before he threw back his head and roared. He leaned forward and braced an arm over my throat.

I choked for air.

The knife ripped into the flesh of my arms and chest. Blood spurted out and I tried to grab the weapon from him. Big and determined, he held onto the knife.

I screamed in pain a few times and then losing all hope, I just whimpered. Tears trickled down my face. Blood leaked down my arms.

God must have taken pity on me because I stopped feeling. After the third slash, I sensed no pain. I heard my body fluids dripping out, sensed them gathering in a warm puddle beneath me.

His breath reeked of scotch and the mattress under us smelled like mold and the acrid odor of stale perspiration. I wondered how many other creatures, living and dead had lain on it. My heart skipped beat after beat. Whatever blood I had left in me must have slowed to a gentle lap against my veins.

I started to leave my body. It seemed to be the right thing to do. I arched up into the air above, waiting, watching. It took no effort and seemed completely natural.

I pictured Sergeant O’Hare’s face and those great lips of his moving in words I couldn’t make out. Maybe he was saying goodbye.

My sister's voice called to me. Don't forget we have tickets to the tennis match next week.

Something rough and hard yanked around my neck, cutting off my air.

My sister's voice got softer and farther away. Remember to wear sunscreen.

To myself, I said, I’m going to die now.

Chapter 2

I spun up on the ceiling until the blinding light faded. Then I was aware of being in a different room---a place where I lay prone and had my eyes closed. I felt very tired, as if I’d been through a tremendous challenge, and I guess I had. Having tubes and medicines shoved in you is tiring, not to mention what happened to me in that warehouse.

Sometime later, I felt myself starting to go out of body again. Up on the ceiling, I gazed down at the nurse beside my lifeless body, and wondered how she got her blonde hair to curl away from her face that way. Mine always went whatever way it wanted, blow dryer or not.

When I tired of that---it’s lonely