The following is taken from Final Beginnings, the new novel by John Edward. It is published by Princess books and available at all bookstores and online.

JOHN EDWARD
FINAL BEGINNINGS
A Novel
Natasha Stoynoff

Four families. One tunnel. And the survival of the country is at stake. Drawing from his expertise in psychic phenomena, John spins a suspensful thriller that culminates in midtown Manhattan. Reminiscent of the tradegy that is still fresh and deep in the hearts of Americans, these interwoven stories of love, faith, good, and evil answer the questions Edward is often asked by people all over the world: Do we choose the time when we die? Does everything happen for a reason? Do our loved ones guide us from the Other Side?

John Edward is an internationally acclaimed psychic medium, and author of the New York Times bestsellers One Last Time, Crossing Over, and What If God Were the Sun?. In addition to hosting his own syndicated television show, Crossing Over with John Edward, John has been a frequent guest on Larry King Live and many other talk shows, and was featured in the HBO documentary Life After Life. He publishes his own newsletter and also conducts workshops and seminars around the country. John lives in New York with his family. For more information regarding John Edward, see his Website at: www.johnedward.net.

Background:
Eight lives. One tunnel. And the survival of the country is at stake. Against a backdrop of terrorist attacks, psychic medium John Edward and his co-author Natasha Stoynoff follow the lives of eight New Yorkers in a post-9/11 world, and their experiences with life and death on both personal and universal levels. Reminiscent of a tragedy that’s still fresh and deep in the hearts of Americans, these interwoven stories of love, faith, good, and evil answer the questions John Edward is most often asked: Does everything happen for a reason? And Do our loved ones guide us from the Other Side? In the twilight moment of crossing over, you’ll discover that the final end is really...
the beginning.

Chapter 4

"We got a floater in the East River. . . ."

Zoe Crane’s fingers froze in mid-stroke, the plastic staccato clacking of her keyboard falling silent.

"Did you copy, Central?"

Zoe cocked an ear toward the police-scanner room on the other side of her cubicle. Her eyes darted to the travel clock by her computer, her hands hovering over the keyboard. She sucked her lower lip between her teeth.

Her AstroChart column was due in three hours, and she hadn’t even gotten to the earth signs yet. The managing editor was looking for any excuse to crucify her; and handing in late copy would be like donating nails for the cross. But she couldn’t help herself; she was a cop reporter through and through, and a hard-news junkie, addicted to the electronic chatter of the police-scanner room. Besides, a good floater was a guaranteed shot at the front page.

A serious reporter by trade, Zoe had been banished to do horoscopes and fluff pieces for the lifestyles section of the newspaper. She didn’t buy any of this zodiac nonsense and usually let Carolyn, her assistant and a true astrology fanatic, write all the horoscopes. But Carolyn had called in sick today, leaving Zoe in a real jam.

"Say again, Harbor Unit 2 . . . was that a ‘boater’ on the East River?"

"Negative, Central . . . a floater . . . possible 1029. We’re a couple hundred yards out, but through the binoculars it looks like a female, faceup in the water and definitely DOA. She’s snagged on the rocks at the bottom of the bridge support."

"The Queensboro Bridge—is that affirmative, Harbor 2?"

"Affirmative, Central—Queensboro Bridge, at the support pillar on the Manhattan side of Roosevelt Island."

"Okay. 10-4, Harbor 2 . . . East River floater under the Queensboro Bridge, west side of Roosevelt Island. Check it out and report back."

"10-4, Central . . . but . . . uh . . . we’re stationed here as lead security detail for the mayor and governor’s arrival . . . Harbor 2, over."

"Copy that, Harbor 2 . . . stand by for instructions."

Under the Queensboro Bridge? That’s practically right beneath our office . . . I bet I could see it from the scanner room, Zoe considered.

Her fingers dropped to the keys, her eyes focusing on the planetary-chart cheat sheet Carolyn had taped to the edge of her computer screen. She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and began typing.

Sagittarius: You’ve been too self-indulgent for too long! Dwelling on your problems while ignoring the needs of others has left you spiritually bereft and emotionally stunted. Nourish your soul by doing a good deed or selfless act for someone else—and do it soon! Work also looms large this week—time to think of a career change?

Zoe stopped typing, and started to laugh. I can’t believe how accurate these things can actually be sometimes. I’m a Sagittarius. And this prediction is dead on. I really do need a career change, and it doesn’t look like I’m going to get it here.

But if she wanted to keep working at The New York Daily Trumpet, she had to bite the bullet and put her name on this fluff, at least until she could get her hands on a real news story again. And that wasn’t going to happen until either the managing editor dropped dead from a heart attack or some Pulitzer Prize–winning story landed in her lap.

What galled her the most was that she didn’t believe a single word of the psychic mumbo jumbo she had to write about.

She checked her work calendar, groaning at the heavy load. There were weekly horoscopes due by noon, a feature on the Manhattan Ghost Finders’ Club due by 6 P.M., and a palm-reading class to attend so she could write a scathing article on those phony psychics who were all over Manhattan. Then there was that stack of mail from her "fans" that she had to respond to.

Zoe picked up the first letter from a large stack of envelopes on her desk, and her stomach knotted slightly. The letter had obviously been written by a child. It had no return address, there was a picture of a pony drawn on the envelope in crayon, and it was covered with little paste-on stars. She read the badly misspelled letter:

Dear Zoe,
I love your collimns about horriscopes and read them everyday. I live in a foster home now, but I use to live on a farm and had a pony like this one. If I move to anuther farm, I will get another pony and name it Lucky Stars, like after your collimn.
Your big fan,
Cassandra

ZOE STARED AT THE LETTER for several minutes. ‘Cassandra’ was Zoe’s favorite name. She even used it as the password to log on to her computer.

If I ever have a daughter, if I’d only been able to—stop it! That’s enough sentiment—the past is the past, she reminded herself, tucking the letter back into the envelope and tossing it into the trash.

A moment later, she pulled it out.

Well, it is kind of sweet, she thought, and pinned it to her bulletin board, next to the picture of her dog Rewrite, a little border collie she’d had since moving to New York. She’d found him on the street near Columbia University, shivering and half-starved.

"You’re a stray just like me," Zoe said, when she took him back to her room. Rewrite was the only thing she’d ever really loved since leaving New Jersey. But he’d gotten old, and sick with cancer, and she had to have him put him down just last week.

Don’t think about that . . . back to work, what else do I have to do? Oh yeah, I can’t forget the ultimate bullshit artist herself, she recalled, remembering that in five minutes, celebrity psychic Katherine Haywood would be on the radio.

Exposing the country’s best-known and most-respected psychic as a fraud could be a one-way ticket back to serious reporting.

Zoe had already caught a few fraudulent psychics red-handed since being stuck on this beat, but they were your typical fortune-teller types or those 1-900 dial-a-psychics.

No matter how hard she studied Katherine Haywood’s style on the radio, on TV, or at seminars, Zoe had never been able to discover how she did it. But she still wasn’t about to believe any of it—not until she saw some hard evidence. She was convinced that Katherine had a sophisticated con-artist system going, and sooner or later she’d figure it out. She’d even implied as much in one of her columns, but still didn’t have the hard facts she needed to put her out of business.

"Harbor 2 . . . you’re cleared to check out your floater. Harbor 3 will cover your security detail. . . ."

"10-4, Central. Proceeding to the bridge pillar."

"And Harbor 2, don’t take the body onto the island; transport it to Manhattan by boat—we don’t want to ruin the mayor’s ribbon cutting at the new BioWorld Supercomputer Re-Creation Center by dragging a corpse in front of the TV cameras."

"Copy that. Will do, Central. We’ll hide the stiff from hizzonner and the cameras.
Harbor 2 out."

Zoe leaned back on her chair, past the edge of her cubicle, peering at the two night-shift reporters assigned to the scanner room. She called them Sleepy and Dopey, because no matter how loud the police scanners chattered, they kept dozing. Today was no exception: A floater in the river, and they were sleeping in their swivel chairs—two pasty-faced old-timers dreaming their way to retirement.

A floater was a homicide or a suicide—and either could be a huge story. It’s right outside their window and they don’t even know it’s happening. Zoe scowled, picking up her new palmtop computer with the super-zoom camera lens and strolling nonchalantly into the scanner room.

Through the window, Zoe could see that the Queensboro Bridge was busier than usual. She looked down at the East River and across to Roosevelt Island, where a crowd was gathering for the opening of Bioworld’s new Supercomputer Re-Creation Center.

Zoe zoomed in on the crowd. There were plenty of cops, a bunch of balloons, what looked like a string quartet, and maybe a dozen or more members of city council that
she recognized. She focused in on the bridge’s support pillar and followed it down to
the water.

"Bingo . . . thar she blows," she whispered, bringing the NYPD police boat into the crosshairs of the lens. An officer was tossing a hook out toward the shore of the island. Zoe pressed the shutter button, and the camera beeped softly as she followed the rope to the corpse.

That looks weird, she thought, snapping a few more shots before the police scanner kicked to life again.

"Central, this is Harbor 2."

Sleepy and Dopey stirred in their chairs as Zoe slipped by them and back to her cubicle.

"Go ahead, Harbor 2."

"Central, it’s negative on the 1029. The floater is a Miss Bloomingdale. She’s caught up in some old fishing cable or something. We’ll be a while cutting her loose from the bridge piling."

"Okay, copy that, Harbor 2. Let us know when you’re done. And, boys, do be gentle with her. Central out."

So much for the front page, Zoe concluded. A "Miss Bloomingdale" meant a department-store mannequin.

But it might have been Jimmy Hoffa they found in the river, and those two guys would have slept through it! And these guys are my replacements?

Zoe had come a long way from Trenton, New Jersey. Until a year and a half ago, she’d been the top police reporter in New York City and had broken more crime stories than any other journalist in the city—probably the entire country. And she didn’t have to slum around cop bars or sleep with desk sergeants to do it. She’d never once cashed in on her looks to get ahead—she’d left all that behind in New Jersey. She was determined to be the city’s best crime reporter, and figured that learning what crime looked like up close was one of the best ways to get there.

Zoe landed her first real job as a gofer at The New York Daily Trumpet, the best-selling tabloid in New York City. She had loftier ambitions, but it was a good place to start. A few years later, she got her big break—covering a drive-by shooting in Spanish Harlem that left three young brothers lying dead in the doorway of their housing complex.

It was her first big story. The front-page headline above the pictures of the dead boys screamed: CROOKED COPS AND DRUG KINGS KILL KIDS!

Half a dozen police officers were arrested, several senior officers were forced to resign, and Zoe was immediately promoted to the police beat over many more senior reporters. Within a year New York magazine had dubbed her "The Queen of Crime" for her relentless investigations of both criminals and cops. At 29, Zoe was at the top of her game . . . but the game had come to an abrupt end.

After being tipped off that an NYPD sergeant on medical leave was peddling drugs near a Bronx schoolyard, Zoe was convinced she had another cop-on-the-take feature. She’d found the sergeant’s house and tailed him for weeks until he turned up near a schoolyard of screaming kids. She was half a block away with her camera when the sergeant exchanged packages with a man Zoe recognized as a known drug dealer with mob connections. She snapped a picture of the drug deal, and could practically taste the Pulitzer Prize.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t get any comment from the police department spokesperson.

Two days before the story ran, the police chief called her at home at midnight and left a message on her answering machine.

"Zoe, I’d appreciate it if you held that story until next week," the chief had asked. "We’re running our own investigation, and anything in the papers right now would be a goddamn disaster. I’ll explain it to you in a few months."

Yeah, right . . . a few months to cover up another bad cop, Zoe thought. That story is running tomorrow.

And it did run the next day, right across the front page. Zoe came to work early, half expecting The New York Times or The Washington Post to be calling her with job offers. But when the phone rang, it was her managing editor summoning her to his glass-enclosed office.

His chubby face was beet red, and she knew she was in serious trouble.

"I’m told the police chief called you last night and asked you to hold the story. Is
that right?"

"Um . . . someone called, but my answering machine isn’t working. Is there . . . a problem?"

"Not really, except that your so-called dirty cop was undercover, investigating a drug ring suspected of funneling money to terrorists. But guest what? He’s not doing that anymore, thanks to you. He’s not a cop at all anymore because his picture is on the front of my damned newspaper!"

He stood there, struggling for breath, mopping his face with a Dunkin’ Donuts napkin. "I want your resignation on my desk in an hour," he finally spat.

"I’m not quitting. You want to fire me, then fire me. But you approved the story, and if I go, I’m taking you with me," Zoe said.

The man’s face turned gray. Zoe though he was having a stroke.

"All right, Miss Crane, have it your way. Don’t quit. In fact, take the rest of the day off and enjoy yourself. But be here early tomorrow for reassignment. Now get out of my sight."

The next day the receptionist directed Zoe to her cramped new cubicle across from the police-scanner room. There was a yellow self-help paperback on her desk called Astrology for Absolute Morons.

The book was signed by the managing editor: All the best to a "star reporter." Copy is due Fridays—don’t be late.

A clipping from that day’s "Life" section was tucked inside the pages of the book:

For amusement purposes only! The Trumpet is happy to introduce a new feature in the ‘Life’ section called "Your Lucky Stars." This column will keep you abreast of the latest in New Age news, as well as provide your daily horoscope, and a column from Lucky Stars reporter Zoe Crane.
"I can’t wait to get started on my new beat," said Zoe. "I’ve been preparing for this my entire career, and now that I’ve got the New Age beat, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to leave. I’m polishing my crystal ball and counting my lucky stars!"

ZOE SAT DOWN HARD. She knew that staying on at The Trumpet could mean the end of her career as a serious journalist. But quitting would be a sign of weakness—and other papers wouldn’t exactly be clamoring to hire her after a major front-page screw up.

She opened Astrology for Absolute Morons to page one and started reading. If it hadn’t been for her assistant, Carolyn, she would have been completely lost. Fortunately, the young woman was obsessed with anything New Age and threw herself into research on the topic, giving Zoe time to do more investigative stories, like tracking down phony psychics.

"Central, this is Harbor 2. There’s some weird stuff on this mannequin. . . ."

The scanner was buzzing again.

Zoe looked over to the cop room and saw that Sleepy and Dopey had nodded off again.

"This is Central, Harbor 2, didn’t copy that . . . say again."

"There’s some weird graffiti or something painted on this dummy—looks like an exploding castle or something."

"Harbor 2, don’t waste time on this. Cut it loose, pull it out of the water, and get back to your post. Central out."

"Roger that, Central . . . Harbor 2 out."

Busy day on the river, Zoe thought, returning to her column and beginning to type:

Capricorn: You may have forgotten something . . .

She looked at the clock. Oh, shoot, talk about forgetting something—I almost missed the subject of next week’s column.

She turned on the radio and tuned in to WARP. The static was terrible, but as soon as the reception cleared, she could hear Katherine giving bad news to what seemed to be a very angry caller.

"I see fire all around you . . . there’s smoke, I’m choking—"

"You should choke on your words, lady! You should be ashamed of yourself. Screw you and the broom you flew in on!"

Zoe laughed. But seconds later she realized there was nothing funny about what she was hearing: "Oh my God . . . oh my God! It’s an explosion . . . many explosions . . . God, no . . . it looks like another attack. The explosions are going to happen here, in New York. Oh my God, it’s going to happen today!"

Zoe froze, and her reporter’s instincts kicked into high gear. Holy crap, did she just predict another terrorist attack? And on national radio?

Zoe reached under her desk for the knapsack she’d had ready ever since 9/11. It was stuffed with everything a reporter would need in the field to handle any dangerous situation—from bandages to a stun gun.

She grabbed her palmtop and ran to the elevator. Katherine has either gone crazy, or she has some kind of inside information on a possible terrorist attack, she thought. Either way, I’ve got a major story. If I hurry, I can be at the radio station in less than
five minutes.

She was already on the street, halfway to the BioWorld Tower, when the police scanner at her office went off again. This time no one was listening.

"Central, this is Harbor 2. The wires on this dummy are . . . oh no . . . we’ve got fire in the hole . . . our gas tank just . . . oh my God, there’s a . . ."

There was a sharp burst of static, and then the scanner was silent.

Chapter 7

Katherine was suspended in midair, stretched out in a hammock, swinging between
two poplar trees by the beach house of her dear friend Julia.

She could hear snatches of Julia’s favorite Sinatra song drifting on the breeze, and she began singing along to herself.

The summer wind . . . came blowin’ in . . . from across the sea . . .

The song stopped abruptly as a voice called out, "Kathy, go find Frankie’s place."

Katherine sat up in the hammock, startled. She saw Julia walking toward her.

"This isn’t the best time or place for a visit, Katherine," Julia said in her soft, cultivated voice.

"Julia! What am I . . . what are we doing here? Am I—?"

"No, Kathy, just sleeping . . . sleeping when you should be up and moving. Remember when I told you that you had a mission in store for you? Well, it’s here. It’s time for you to begin your journey."

"What are you talking about, Julia? Why did you bring me here?"

"I didn’t bring you here. You came to me, Kathy, and you have to find the answers. Go
find Frankie. Drive to Sinatra. I have to go."

"Wait. I miss you so much," Katherine begged, reaching up to touch Julia’s cheek.

"I miss you too, Kathy. But you have work to do. You don’t want people looking like this, do you?"

Katherine recoiled in horror. Julia’s beautiful, delicate face was filling up with open, weeping sores, and it seemed like her face was melting off her bones.

"Drive to Sinatra, or everyone could look like this," Julia said. "Now wake up . . . wake up . . . wake up. . . ."

Katherine opened her eyes, and for some reason she thought she saw an image of Abraham Lincoln above her . . . and then Tarzan’s face came into view, and he was yelling: "Wake up, wake up . . . wake up!"

Pain shot through Katherine’s skull as her headache returned in full force.

"Are you having some kind of mental breakdown?" Tarzan demanded, shaking his head. "Do you know the trouble we’re in?" He was prancing around the room like his feet were on fire.

"What happened? What’s going on here?" Katherine asked, slowly getting up off the floor and drawing herself up to her full height. She looked down at Tarzan, who quickly retreated backward a few steps.

"That’s a question a lot of people, including the police and the FBI, will be asking you, Ms. Haywood."

Katherine whirled around and came face-to-face with a tall, blond man wearing what appeared to be an SS uniform. She rubbed her eyes and steadied herself again. She realized that the man was actually wearing an expensive, well-tailored black suit.

"Okay, please just give me a second," she said, taking a deep breath and surveying the tiny studio. There were several people in the little room, all staring at her like she had six heads.

Bronwyn, the production assistant, came running into the room and gave Katherine a glass of cold water.

"Are you okay, Katherine? You passed out."

"I . . . I think so. I don’t really remember anything after the first caller. Maybe I’m still jet-lagged. I’ve only passed out one other time in my life.

"Well, the phones are jammed. There are a lot of freaked-out people wondering what’s going on," said Bronwyn.

"Oh my God! And you don’t remember what happened?!" Tarzan pressed Katherine. "Well, let me refresh your memory. You basically announced—on my show—that New York City is going to be attacked by terrorists today. Do you know what the FCC could do to me? I could get pulled off the air!"

"Please lower your voice," Katherine said evenly. "My head is hurting. I’m sure it will all come back to me in a few minutes. I apologize if I’ve disrupted your show."

"Disrupted?! We had to pull the plug on you. My show was putting out nothing but dead air for 30 seconds—dead air! That’s the kiss of death in radio."

Katherine was trying to regain her bearings and recall the last few minutes. A second later, the images from her last readings came back to her in a flash: the red ski lift, car wrecks, a burning bridge, a collapsing tunnel . . . a uniform and a gun.

"Look, I’m sorry about what just happened here," she repeated, looking at the apprehensive faces surrounding her. "I’m as upset about it as any of you. The last thing I want to do is frighten anyone during a reading. What I said just came out, and it’s—"

"‘Sorry’ isn’t going to cut it here, lady!" Tarzan’s voice was rising.

"Please, Tarzan, I’m trying to tell you that what I saw was real. Surely if your producers invited me on your show, they don’t think I’m faking all of this, right? Now, I have to figure this out because someone’s in trouble. Something bad is going to happen, and it’s connected to this place . . . to the man on the phone. If you could just forget the show for a minute and—"

"Forget the show? It’s my show! I’m Tarzan—"

"Shut up and sit down, Tarzan. She’s right—this isn’t about you," the tall blond man interjected.

"No, this is about me. The Jungle Hour has a reputation—"

"If you don’t sit down, I will make it about you. And trust me, that’s something you don’t want. Do we understand each other?" the blond man asked menacingly.

Tarzan sat down behind his microphone and the man turned to Katherine.

"Now, Ms. Haywood, let’s have a little chat, shall we? My name is John Wilson. I’m chief of security for all the BioWorld facilities, including the BioWorld Tower. There have been a lot of calls coming in from local, state, and federal law enforcement regarding your statements about a possible attack on New York. Besides panicking several thousands of our listeners, your little performance has upset a lot of high-ranking officials from the local police chief to the Department of Homeland Security in Washington," Wilson said.

"‘Performance’?" Katherine said, shaking her head. "You think that was some kind of act I was putting on? I would never deliberately panic people. I’m a professional, and what I said could very well be a warning to—"

"That’s all well and good," Wilson interrupted, "and I’m sure your credentials are impeccable. Unfortunately, we’re preparing for a rather sensitive, high-security ceremony. You’ve jeopardized that, and I need to find out why. So if you would please
join me and my employers in the security office across the main lobby—"

"What? Are you placing me under arrest?"

"No, although I could. At the moment, I’m leaving that up to the police. I’m merely inviting you to join me in a discussion."

Katherine felt extremely uneasy about this man, but she knew that a line had been crossed, and she had to make things right.

"Okay, as long as you’re asking politely, take me to see them. I’ll be glad to provide an explanation," Katherine said, hoping she’d be able to clear everything up for all of them.

Bronwyn popped her head through the door to say, "We’re going back on the air in 30 seconds. You’ll have to clear the studio. Are you good to go, Tarzan?"

"I’m a professional—I’m always good to go," Tarzan spat, putting on his headphones and glaring at Katherine as she turned to leave.

He leaned in front of his microphone and was back in character.

"AhhhhEEEEeeee AhhhhEEEEeeeee Ahhhhhhhh! Hello, folks, it’s Tarzan swinging back to you in the Jungle. Sorry about that little interruption. That was just a bad joke . . . nothing to worry about. This solar storm is really playing havoc with all our systems, and our guest psychic was feeling under the weather, but I think we’ve got things sorted out now. So whaddaya say we cool down those solar flares with a hip-hop version of an oldie but goldie—a tune made famous by the hippest cat to ever cross the Lincoln Tunnel, Hoboken’s favorite son, Ol’ Blue Eyes himself, my man . . . Frankie S."

Katherine stopped in her tracks. "Julia," she whispered, as Tarzan pushed the play button and the familiar words filled the suite.

"The summer wind . . . came blowin’ in . . . from across the sea. . . ."