Early on Stolen Child was findable—the abductor was no genius, no more than a lackey—but that was before the airbus. Before being wrenched away from the neighborhood and plunged into a dreamscape: a whirlwind of strange faces, hazy dulcet echoes, and the low drumbeat of threat.
Before clockwork took hold and the cold-blooded began the countdown until wings could spirit her westward into the land of pinion pines and red rock canyons. Where adobes dot the landscape. And the sun bakes the air to dust. Into the southwest. Into the badlands. Where a ranch—a camp of sorts—waits for girls like her. Children cursed by innocence. Children snared in a baited trap.
Big Mouth Genius—that’s how they mock the abductor. He is a loud mouth. And woefully deficient in the brain department. But he’s not stupid. He’s a Christian. Proud to be forgiven and saved. Obsessive about serving Jesus. Sweeping floors and cleaning toilets in the church—the cleansing work of penance. So when they told him that the little girl needed protection, saving, he didn’t ask questions. He just sprung into action. He sweet talked her. Drugged her. And lured her away.
The search was too tight. Too restrictive. A mouse in a haystack. That’s what the cops said they were looking for: a mouse in a haystack. But they were looking in the wrong direction. And eventually fate took its ugly turn.
I am with Stolen Child, standing directly behind her—a medium, a scribe—peering intently through her eyes. Alert to her senses. Feeling for her impressions. Observing what she observed. Determined to fashion order and clarity out of the drugged vision of a helpless child. Capturing the afterimages. Electrical discharges—X-rays of shapes, sounds, sights—locked like movie stills suspended in time. Ghost flames scorched on hardwood. Fingerprints superimposed onto the breeze. Readable as a map. Detectable as a heartbeat. Knowable as the velocity of yesterday’s wind.
Car tires crunch across gravel—a toneless chewing and grinding that batters the earth. She is staring at a low-to-the-ground walkup. Two floors of windows and cement. Four apartments? Six? A convenience store sits close by. Close enough to walk to. Pollo. That what she imagines. Eating pollo. Comfort food.
Then she thinks about the cow. Driving past it in a slow-motion trick of the brain. How she stared at it from afar. From somewhere beyond herself. In a groggy fog. But sure it was not a real cow. Instead, a make-believe cow. A landmark on the roadway? A South Jersey oddity?
It’s early morning, so early the sun is just beginning its rise through the mist. Behind the marsh grass that borders the swamp water with short, spiky green stalks. Not very far away a double row of thick pilings stand plunged into the muck. The once supported pier, long since rotted. An old man fishes off a nearby dock that wades deep into the mud and stands as a rickety hint to an abandoned fishery somewhere in the vicinity.
It’s death quiet. This place is all nature. Except for the shacks. And the wooden boats worn down to skeletal hulls. And the recycling business that can’t be too far away because of the undercurrent of clanking bouncing across the silence.
Atlantic City Airport, I’m sure of it. I’ve never been here before, but I am “here” now even though I am at least sixty miles away deep in meditation in the quiet dark before dawn. I am looking at Stolen Child. She’s is no more than five diagonal feet from me standing in line for Spirit Airlines. Beside her is a man reeking of pimp and money so dirty it should stink of sewage. They’ve dressed her up a in a long, bright red wig and a silly floppy hat that obscures her face. They flatter her by calling her Ariel, the Disney princess. Stolen Child thinks it’s a fun game of pretend.
Lots of little girls are dancing in sparkly costumes. Sequins and fringe. Recital costumes. Small legs silhouetted in fishnet. Dancing and twirling. Dancing and twirling to catcalls. Performing. Like they’re in a tawdry beauty pageant. Mini show girls. Sexy toy girls. Little girls in brassy makeup. Ruby lips. Smoky kohl cat eyes. Flaming scarlet cheeks. Dancing and twirling. For the men who watch and whistle. Little girls who think they are playing dress-up. They’re not.
So, here we are at the moment where the story and timeline become fractured into elemental fragments, jagged edges of disjointed intelligence—information that veers backward and forward in time, defying organization and structure. Challenging the process of comprehension.
The moment that calls for those who understand that what is recorded by time remains in time…eternally. No different than a forgotten memory triggered by a stimulus. Making that memory accessible to decoding and comprehension.
The moment that calls for those who understand that these elemental fragments/images/visions are animated by the very same life force that propels you through your day. That receiving these visions is not the mystery. The mystery lies in the messages within the visions. And working out those messages requires a willingness to expand your intelligence.
The moment that calls for the efforts of an evolved, dedicated team--a village—to weave together and connect all the scattered pieces until they merge into a whole, as alive as a bouquet of flowers. Combined with the guiding perseverance of a skilled, emotionally intelligent investigator with a holistic approach on which success in a seemingly unsolvable mystery is dependent.
Abductor knew of the child’s mother.
Abductor has something obvious “wrong” with one of his hands. A significant scar?
There are local people who know, but who are not speaking.
There is a connection between the names Santos—Sanchez.
“Tonto” (name/term) comes across as important.
A powerful dog energy surrounds Stolen Child, comforting and watching over her. It is unclear if this dog is on the physical plane, in the child’s memory, or is on the Spirit plane.
Underground network. Elaborate scheme.
A tight union of men.
Criminal boss comes across as tall, 6 ft. or so. Ponytail. Graying black hair. Bit of a gut.
A man connected to this elaborate scheme services a local community in a very large truck. Possibly a trash truck. This community appears wealthy.
A “soft woman” (on the ranch) appears to be a caretaker of sorts. The men ignore her. She is not part of the power structure. She knows what is going on, but does not speak.
Distant craggy mountains. Cactus. Grande. Ranch. Horses. Long Horn Cattle. Cowboy hats.
Gauchos. Black Crows.
New Mexico/Texas energy.
Understanding energy is to accept that energy, like scent, is around us always, wherever we venture. Even though we cannot see it with our eyes and many times cannot smell it, scent is a constant. When we permit ourselves to become aware of that which exists beyond our physical vision, we can access what we’ve wrongly judged to be imaginary and mistakenly condemn as the fantasies of the deluded. However, by aligning ourselves fully with all of our natural capabilities and senses, we both consciously and inevitably expand our intelligence and become capable of capturing vital information.
Yet, just because energetic information remains forever available to us does not mean that what we perceive with activated awareness always makes sense. It does not. It truly could take years—a lifetime, possibly many—before all the scrambled pieces and ghosts of outlier players line up and reveal what has been hidden in plain sight all along. In other words, all the stars must align, as eventually they must.
** This energetic information was received in 2019 and has not been updated.