One to the Wolves, On the Trail of a Killer Read Online Free Page B

and had a myriad of tests which revealed no overt
     cause for a stroke. I was in seemingly good health.
    “There’s no good reason for a non-smoking, middle-aged woman to suffer a stroke,”
     one doctor said accusingly. “You are going to have to learn to cope better with stress
     and to stop letting life’s little problems become major issues for you.”
    The only obvious after-effects of the “TIA,” as the doctors were now calling it, was
     that my smile was lopsided and my left hand didn’t type as fast as my right one. However
     it had triggered neurological problems. I would get weak and nauseous, see flashing
     psychedelic lights, and experience the sensation of plunging down an elevator shaft. 
    The idea of going on the road in such a condition was terrifying, and for the first
     time I found myself questioning whether it was worth it. I’d written a freaky book,
     a book with no ending, an outpouring of grief and frustration and accusations of forms
     of crime that police officers didn’t think existed. Why would anyone read such a book,
     much less take it seriously? Why would they take me seriously when I appeared on their TV screens, even if I kept my chin down and crossed
     my legs at the ankles? What if I blacked out on camera or my speech became garbled?
     Viewers would think I was drunk.
    A torrent of hopelessness swept over me and, like a child groping for a security blanket,
     I reached out to our hometown psychic, Betty Muench.
    Kait’s sister, Robin, had first visited Betty, without our knowledge, after reading
     in the paper that Dung had stabbed himself. Robin wanted to know what had spurred
     that action — grief or guilt?
    Ignoring our skeptical reaction when she told us what she had done, she had handed
     Don and me four single spaced typewritten pages that described Dung’s relationship
     with Kait and some of the circumstances that led to the shooting.
    That reading, which Betty had done without charge, contained information that was
     new to us but much of which would later prove to be accurate. About Dung, it said, “It is not as if he will have been the one to do this, but he will seem to know who
     did it.” Betty had since done several other readings for us, and Don and I had come to accept
     the validity of her gift, even if we didn’t understand it.
    Now I phoned her and said, “I have a question for you. I’ve written a book about Kait’s
     murder and I need to know what the prospects are for its success.”
    Betty asked me the name of the book, and I told her the title that the publisher had
     selected. Then I sat and listened to the rattle of her typewriter as she appeared
     to be taking dictation from some source that only she could hear.
    After she completed the reading, she read it aloud:
    QUESTION: WHAT IS THE POTENTIAL FOR LOIS’S BOOK, WHO KILLED MY DAUGHTER?
    ANSWER: There is this energy that shows that this work is to fulfill its purpose.
     This will not have been only to find the murderer, but this will have also been a
     tribute by this one mother to this one child, and this will go beyond this lifetime.
    There will be in this a potential which will reach out to many people in many different
     ways. There will be people who will find affinity in the loss of a child, and others
     who will find affinity in the inappropriate behaviors of police and crime solvers.
     There will come much attention to this aspect of the book all over the country, and
     much will come out of that for the betterment of policemen all over.
    There is much that Kait can say about all this energy that has been expended on her
     behalf, and she will know that all is being done that can be done at this time.
    There is an assurance in Kait that there will come this which will seem to put the collar on the wolf who will have been after her. There will be this image of a kind of wild wolf with something on its neck as it howls
     with its neck up in the air. There is a sense of message which