Aja Minor: Fountain of Youth (A Psychic Crime Thriller Series Book 2)

By Chris Bliersbach

Aja Minor goes undercover. The target, an international child trafficking ring. When her cover is blown, the mission and her life are in jeopardy.
Fresh off of the Peace Sign Killer case, Aja Minor is asked to join a joint CIA-FBI task force based in New York City. Their aim? To take down the Fountain of Youth network – an international child trafficking and exploitation ring.
When Aja is asked to go undercover for the first time, all doesn’t go as planned. Her cover is blown, her back-up is shot, and the police detail supposed to protect her inexplicably left the scene. Aja wakes up strapped to a bed, only to learn she is in the clutches of the Fountain of Youth organizers. Dazed and drugged, with no way to use her powers or communicate her location, she is at the mercy of the most merciless of the network’s perverted predators.
Will this be the ignoble end to Aja’s brief FBI career and young life?
Aja Minor: Fountain of Youth is the second book in the Aja Minor psychic crime thrillers series, including Aja Minor: Gifted or Cursed and Aja Minor: Predatorville. Fans of fierce female protagonists with unique powers who overcome adversity will find a home with this series.
A portion of the proceeds from this series is donated to the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children, established in 1984 to help find missing children, reduce child sexual exploitation, and prevent child victimization.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Bliersbach
• Release date: May 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463516232

Chris Bliersbach

Chris Bliersbach is originally from Minnesota but now thaws out in Nevada. In 2019, after 38 years in healthcare, he pursued his dream of becoming a writer. He has since published 17 books, primarily in four thriller series.The Table for Four series is a medical thriller about a blockbuster cure for Alzheimer's that has ominous and unforeseen consequences. Books in this series include Table for Four, Dying to Recall, and Memory's Hope. A portion of the profits from this series are donated to the Alzheimer's Foundation of America.The Aja Minor series is a psychic crime thriller about a teenager who discovers she has unique powers, earning her an invitation to join the FBI. Books in this series include Aja Minor: Gifted or Cursed, Aja Minor: Fountain of Youth, Aja Minor: Predatorville, Aja Minor: Spider's Web, and Aja Minor: Shanghaied. The sixth book in this series, Aja Minor: Island of Lost Souls, is scheduled for publication in January 2024. A portion of the profits from this series are donated to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.The Slaughter Minnesota Horror series is an occult thriller about a vengeful old lady terrorizing a Northern Minnesota town. Books in this series include Old Lady Ketchel's Revenge, Hagatha Ketchel Unhinged, and Hagatha's Century of Terror.The Metronome Man series is a serial killer thriller about a man whose abusive and neglectful upbringing breeds an unhealthy obsession and murderous rage. Books in this series include The Metronome Man: Bad Timing, The Metronome Man: Dead on Arrival, and The Metronome Man: Not My First Rodeo.He has also published a standalone inspirational romance novel Loving You From My Grave, and two poetry books, Little Bird on My Balcony and Adilynn's Lullaby.

Book preview

I wish my life was simple. I wish that I didn’t have to always explain, in painful detail, how I became who I am today. Alas, such is not the case, and anyone who goes with me on this journey called life deserves some explanation and fair warning. That said, I can’t say that I fully understand why I’m so different. I’m still learning. Let’s just say that I’ve discovered some things about myself in the intervening years between my 12th and 18th birthdays that you should know.

My name is Aja, pronounced like the largest continent on the planet - Asia. How many times have I said that, I wonder? Had my parents seen fit to spell my name more conventionally, it would have saved me a lot of grief growing up having to correct people. The last thing you want to do when someone bothers to communicate with you for the first time is to correct them on how to pronounce your name. Every time I did, I felt like they looked at me like I was some pretentious little bitch. Which I am not, but how would they know that?

My last name is Minor. Until my birthday yesterday, that was my surname and the designation befitting my age. You would think one would graduate from being a minor to a major, but that’s not how it works. Now I had magically reached the so-called age of majority. An interesting legal concept meaning you’re an adult and now have control and responsibility for your person, decisions, and actions. I think I’ve always felt responsible for my person, decisions, and actions. However, the whole notion of control is another matter altogether. You’ll see what I mean.

My parents, Trace and Cheryl Minor, dreamed up my unique name while they were lying out under the stars in Florida. I exist because they did more than just lay out under those stars that balmy February evening. Whether the revelation for my name occurred before or after that deed matters little. What matters is that my Dad mistakenly identified a constellation of five stars as Asia Minor, which in reality is not a constellation of stars, but a country better known as Turkey. That I was born on Thanksgiving Day is my one and only connection to turkey.

What my father realized, eventually, is that he was thinking of Ursa Minor, which wasn’t even the constellation of stars with which my parents were enamored. The constellation they were spying is called Scutum, Latin for a shield, and a decidedly bad choice for a baby name. To make this long story a little shorter, by the time my father realized his error, it was too late, and he didn’t have the heart to fess up to my Mom, or anyone else for that matter.

But it wasn’t just my Dad’s challenged astronomy knowledge that consolidated my parent’s choice for my name. I was also a victim of a birthing accident. Yes, the doctor who was supposed to catch me dropped me instead. Somewhere in my descent or impact with the floor, I sustained a diamond-shaped laceration on my face. Similar in shape to the constellation of stars, my parents saw that fateful night of my conception. You might say that the stars all aligned to christen me, Aja Minor.

Then there is the whole matter of puberty, which I know isn’t a delightful experience for any girl, but mine was exceptionally discomforting. Not only did I have the usual physical changes, as modest as they were, but I also seemed to be toxic to some people. By this, I mean people would get sick to their stomachs in my presence or recoil when they touched me as if I had burned them. This effect was not restricted to any one gender but was preceded by a very uncomfortable feeling of self-consciousness. That is, I would feel like I was naked. If you, like me, guessed that perhaps this self-consciousness was due to hormonal changes, you, like me, would be wrong.

Through a series of incidents and ultimately an assessment process conducted by the FBI, I discovered that I had a unique ability to identify people who prey on children and, in some cases, also prevent abusive crimes and punish the predator. Technically, the FBI says I’m clairvoyant and have some sort of active denial system. More specifically, I have precognition, retrocognition, and remote viewing powers and can transmit certain adverse sensations towards perpetrators. Sound confusing? Yeah, you should try living with it! Let me explain further.

I have some kind of internal barometer that can signal me when in the presence of a sexual predator. Sometimes this barometer is a feeling of being naked. Other times, it’s just a general feeling of uneasiness, and occasionally, it feels like I’m under full attack and being violated in whatever way the depraved individual is scheming. This is called precognition, the ability to see or feel something that will occur in the future.

Occasionally, I can see or feel what has been done to victims of exploitation when I see the perpetrator or when they’re in proximity to me. This also happens sometimes when I visit a site where a sex crime has been committed. This after-the-fact experience is called retrocognition, or the ability to see something that has happened in the past.

At other times, I see or feel abuse or exploitation happening in real-time, as it’s occurring. This is called remote viewing. Most recently, while staying at a hotel in Washington D.C., I saw and interrupted an assault on a little 7-year old girl named Amber Lane. A janitor had pulled her into a supply closet and likely would have killed her had I not stopped him. Unfortunately, I didn’t totally prevent his depraved actions, but I did manage to save her life. I suffered a broken nose in the process, but that was nothing compared to Amber's physical and emotional injuries.

Then there’s my active denial system, which neither I nor the FBI has totally figured out. As best as I can describe, when I get signals and see or feel abuse or exploitation, I emit a burning sensation that varies in intensity. In some cases, the individual has only experienced a minor tummy ache. In other instances, the individual has dropped dead and was subsequently found upon autopsy to have cooked internal organs. To some degree, the intensity of my active denial system corresponds to the severity of the crimes. At first, I didn’t know that I was even responsible for the adverse sensations. More recently, I learned I could control these sensations' intensity just by reciting a phrase before receiving a signal. The word control might be a bit of an overstatement because sometimes the phrase doesn’t work, like in my Uncle Phil's case.

Uncle Phil, my mother’s brother, used to visit us a lot, which changed dramatically when Misty, my older sister, started sharing a bedroom with me. You see, Uncle Phil had sexually assaulted Misty on repeated occasions in her bedroom. But when she moved in with me, my powers protected her from such shenanigans. Frustrated, Uncle Phil supposedly moved to California. I ultimately learned that this was not the case—more on that in a moment.

My Dad left the rest of the family and me when I was 7 to join the FBI and then the CIA. I didn’t know this at the time. Mom just said he was away at work. This was a satisfactory explanation for me, but Misty was more suspicious and thought he probably ran off with the neighbor lady who used to sun herself topless in the summers. Mom eventually told us about his secret work with the CIA. One day, while I was suffering from an existential crisis over the disconcerting powers I possessed, I called my Dad – against protocol. He hooked me up with a buddy of his, Special Agent Trig Halvorsen, who invited me to do an internship at the FBI Academy in Quantico after graduating high school.

At Quantico, Special Agent Halvorsen took me under his wing. After a few months of training and assessments, Trig asked me to join him on my first case – the hunt for the Peace Sign Killer. The perpetrator had earned this moniker because he carved the peace sign into his victims’ abdomens. He had raped and murderer 7 young girls in 7 different states over two years, one of whom was my girlfriend, Heather. Heather was my first love. Not only did she have a bright future in gymnastics, but we had plans for the future. Today, I wear a silver butterfly pendant that contains some of Heather’s ashes. It is not only a constant reminder of our love, but occasionally, it will tingle as if Heather is trying to communicate with me from the next dimension. At any rate, it was my connection to Heather that caused Trig to put me on the case.

Our investigation took us to a few of the sites where the Peace Sign Killer’s victims had been found. Trig and my hope were that my unique powers might help us identify and capture him before he struck again. While visiting the site of Heather’s assault and murder, I had a vision and saw Uncle Phil was the perpetrator. On our visit to the next site, I confirmed that the perpetrator was Uncle Phil. Although I had recited the phrase designed to just disable him, it didn’t work, and I fried Uncle Phil’s organs. I must admit to a fair amount of ambivalence going in, which may be why the phrase didn’t work, and Uncle Phil was commended to hell sooner rather than later. He died in a hospital in Richmond, Virginia. We learned he had an apartment in the neighboring community of Short Pump. There we found evidence of his crimes – fingers he had removed from his victims and a diary detailing his plans and conquests. There were also photo albums of hundreds of young girls he was presumably stalking and one album reserved for me. He had designs on killing me, according to his diary, because he blamed me for ending his sexfest with my sister. Misty, I learned, has a small birthmark near her vagina that looks like the two-fingered peace sign, which was the origin of Uncle Phil’s crime signature.

With my first field experience under my belt, I had returned to Quantico to complete my training and assessment process. I should also mention that I met a guy in my FBI trainee class. His name is Travis. As is beginning to be a pattern in my life, even my sexual orientation doesn’t seem to observe any detectable consistency. Despite my previous intimate relationship with Heather, I was now sitting at dinner with Travis celebrating my 18th birthday at a Bed & Breakfast in Fredericksburg, VA. It wasn’t the dinner that I was concerned about, but the fact that I was about to share a room and a bed with a man for the very first time.

Chapter 1: Travis Plays with Fire

I made sure that Travis knew exactly what he was getting into before making our way up the stairs to the bedroom after my birthday dinner.

You see, over dinner, I finally felt compelled to confess my unusual powers and horrific experiences to Travis. Admittedly, my sudden transparency was due to my anxiety about what might happen to Travis if and when he elected to hop into bed with me. There was a very real possibility that he would literally be jumping from the frying pan into the fire. Or should I say, humping? How’s that for foreplay? Telling your boyfriend about how he might get incinerated in the act.

The truth was that I had no real experience having sex with a man. I say real experience because I certainly had plenty of imaginary experiences of men raping and assaulting me as part of my clairvoyant episodes. In those cases, it never ended well for the man. Not that any of them deserved any mercy. I never had cause to doubt Travis’s intentions towards me. Nor had I ever experienced any of the signals that presaged the use of my sometimes fatal active denial system. Despite this, I was painfully aware that I did not have full command of my powers. My powers were unpredictable, and it probably wouldn’t look good on my FBI record to off a fellow trainee. What’s more, I really felt something for Travis, and I would be devastated if, in the throes of lovemaking, I hurt, or God forbid, killed him.

I also told Travis about the extent of my relationship with Heather, including how her death had caused me to overdose on pain pills. Pills that I had after I received a broken nose intervening in Amber Lane’s attack. He already knew about Heather from our first date when I told him about her rape and murder. He also learned about my butterfly pendant, not that it vibrated and communicated with me, only that it contained some of Heather’s ashes. He didn’t seem bothered when I told him that Heather had been my first lover. And his understanding and reassuring hand on mine when I started to cry only endeared me to him even more. I let him know that he was my first real boyfriend. I didn’t count Thomas anymore, who I initially thought I was dating in high school until he admitted he was gay and was in love with a boy named Robert. We had never been intimate, and obviously, as I eventually learned, I wasn’t equipped with what turned Thomas on.

It takes a courageous man to proceed under those circumstances – making love to a virgin who might kill you. But proceed, he did, and it was tender, patient, and fantastic after the first few moments of pain. He didn’t die, although I must confess to some concern when he started to moan loudly, which turned out to be the ecstasy of release, and not his innards being sauteed. I can’t say I experienced quite the same level of bliss from our play's first act, but from what I understand, that’s not uncommon. Just as I was about to resign myself to this inequity, Travis accommodated my needs with a technique my body was more familiar with responding to. This time I wasn’t so concerned about torching him as I was about suffocating him or crushing his skull with my thighs when the waves hit the beach like a powerful tsunami. Travis survived. In the process, he gave me an experience that was so incredible and extraordinarily satisfying that I’m afraid we were both a little chafed from our multiple repeat performances. Sated, we finally fell asleep in the early morning hours.

We awoke, or should I say I awoke midmorning, went to the bathroom, and turned on the shower. As the hot water pelted and enveloped my body, Travis joined me. I didn’t have to ask if he was happy to see me. Taking me in his arms, he kissed me. His swollen excitement slid into me as my legs instinctively wrapped around his hips. His strong arms held me as I rose and fell back repeatedly, racing to the finish line in a dead heat. My legs were weak and shaky when I finally needed them to support my modest weight again. I kept my arms around Travis as he ran his soapy hands over my body, which was tingling more from our union than the water pressure. Had the hot water heater not abbreviated our shower, we may have single-handedly caused the nearby Rappahannock River to run dry.

Yes, we were very much obsessed with each other. The good news was that Special Agent Trig Halvorsen, our boss back at FBI Academy, had given us both a week off before we needed to be back on base. His only instruction was to make good on my promise to take Amber Lane to the petting farm near her home in Ellicott City, Maryland. Trig and I had previously visited Amber and her mother, Cynthia Lane, at their home for lunch.

Amber was the 7-year old girl who I had rescued from a Washington D.C. hotel supply closet. I had checked into the hotel, and on my way to my room, I had a vision of a man pulling a scared little girl in a red bikini into a closet. I frantically searched and found the closet, which was locked. As I pounded on the door demanding the man stop what he was doing, the door burst open, hitting me in the face and breaking my nose. I found Amber, naked and spread-eagle on the floor, her arms and legs bound to shelving stanchions with duct tape. Broom handles had been violently rammed into her vaginal and anal orifices. She was bleeding, and when her mother came upon the horrific scene, she immediately went to remove the broom handles. I discouraged her from doing this, indicating that we should wait until paramedics arrived, fearful that Amber might bleed out. Doctors later reported that my instructions to Amber’s frantic mother had likely saved Amber’s life. I also had a vision of where the janitor was hiding, and the police found and arrested him. The janitor never got his day in court. His cellmates learned of his crime and administered their own brand of justice, beating him to death poetically with broom handles. He lingered for a time in a hospital ICU before the devil welcomed him to his fiery new accommodations.

After Amber’s traumatic attack, she had become fixated on me, almost to the point of worship. Trig and I both recognized that an essential part of Amber’s recovery would be having a continuing relationship with her. I had called Amber’s mother and arranged our petting farm visit for Sunday, now only a day away. I had asked Cynthia if she thought it would be alright for me to bring Travis. You see, Amber had not only suffered that horrific attack, but she had also been physically abused by her father in the past. Consequently, and unsurprisingly, Amber had a healthy fear of men. Amber’s mother encouraged me to bring Travis, saying that it would be good for Amber to see that a healthy relationship with a man was possible.

Travis and I eventually got ready and just made the last sitting for breakfast before checking out of the Bed & Breakfast. Ellicott City was about a 2-hour drive from Fredericksburg, but our plan was to stay in Baltimore and make the short drive to Amber’s house the next morning.

What do you want to do when we get to Baltimore? Travis asked.

It sounded like a loaded question since we hadn’t been able to keep our hands off of each other. I avoided responding with an easy and obvious answer.

I’d like to go to the restaurant my Dad took me to on the harbor where I had crab-stuffed lobster, and then maybe a movie.

When did your Dad take you there? Travis asked innocently, knowing that my father had been more away from home in the last 10 years than at home. Little did he know his question would cause me to recall the less than happy circumstances.

A few months ago, after I, I couldn’t finish the sentence as my memory of that time caused a lump in my throat. A tear fell off my face, landing on my jeans.

Jeez, Aja, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, Travis said, trying to backpedal.

Taking a minute to collect myself, I finally gave Travis the answer to his question.

It was just a hard time. I had just recovered from my overdose, and we were on our way to Heather’s funeral. It was the only bright moment in an otherwise very dark time.

Well, then we’ll go there, Travis replied. And I’ll even let you pick the movie if we go.

Travis’s obvious desire to please me and reverse the painful thoughts his question had caused had its intended effect.

That’s all? You make me cry, and I get dinner and a movie choice? I joked.

No, that’s just what you get in the early evening. I’ll give you whatever you desire later tonight, too, he said salaciously.

That’s better. You’re forgiven.

For the rest of the trip, we talked about Travis’s mother and how she was doing. Travis had left the FBI program emergently when his father had become seriously ill. When his father died, Travis took over running the family’s hardware store in Cumberland, Wisconsin. He thought his dream to become an FBI agent was over. After a few weeks, however, he and his mother decided to sell the business, allowing him to return to Quantico.

We arrived at the hotel in Baltimore mid-afternoon. After checking in, we decided to take a nap before our 7 p.m. dinner reservations. Both of us were suffering sleep deprivation from the previous day’s late-night into early morning bedroom gymnastics. Yes, we actually napped and probably could have slept much longer had the alarm not jolted us out of our slumber.

Dinner was as good as I remembered it, and Travis didn’t bat an eye when the bill came. As we left the restaurant, both Travis and I felt the somnolent effects of having gorged ourselves, and we decided against a movie. Instead, we went back to the hotel, and after Travis fulfilled his earlier promise to me, we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Chapter 2: Amber Takes a Shine to Travis

The chill in the air when Travis and I exited the hotel and walked to his car signaled winter’s imminent arrival. Our 15-mile drive from our hotel to Amber’s home in Ellicott City was quick, given the light Sunday morning traffic.

I was surprised when we pulled into the driveway, and both Amber and her mother came out to greet us. The last time I had visited with Trig, I had to coax Amber from her room to get her to join us for lunch. As she had the last time, Amber leaped into my arms, nearly knocking me back into the passenger seat I had just vacated.

I missed you so much, Amber said as her arms and legs wrapped tightly around me in a death grip.

I missed you too, Amber, I replied, or more like croaked as she squeezed the air from my lungs.

Amber, you’re choking her, her mother called. Let the poor girl breathe.

Amber released me from her bear hug but continued to hold my hand as her mother gave me a one-armed hug.

This is my boyfriend, Travis, I announced, realizing it was the first time I publicly acknowledged our relationship.

Amber’s mother was quick to hug Travis and welcome him. Amber was less enthusiastic, choosing instead to offer her left hand to Travis as her right continued to hold mine. Travis obliged her by shaking her hand with his left. The awkward handshake was abbreviated when Amber quickly retracted her hand and looked warily at Travis. Undaunted, Travis spoke to her.

Nice to meet you, Amber, Travis greeted. Wow, is that an FBI pendant on your necklace?

I realized I hadn’t told Travis about Trig’s little ceremony the last time we visited when he gave Amber the pendant.

Yes, Special Agent Halvorsen and Aja gave me this for bravery, she said proudly as her eyes brightened and seemed to let down her guard a bit. I’m going to grow up to be just like Aja.

That’s great! Travis replied while I wrestled with whether that was really a great aspiration. Are you excited about going to the petting farm?

Yes! Amber shouted, releasing my hand and jumping up and down. Let’s go!

Not so fast, her mother interjected. It doesn’t open until 10, and I made Aja and Travis some breakfast. You haven’t had breakfast yet, have you? she asked, putting a hand on my shoulder.

Nope, only some coffee, I replied, as my stomach growled in response to the thought of breakfast.

We walked into the house, Amber holding my hand the whole way. The smell of bacon permeated the house, only making my hunger more apparent. Amber led me to the chair I had sat in on my prior visit, and seeing Travis put his hand on the chair next to mine, she erupted.

No, that’s my chair! You sit over there, Amber commanded, pointing to the chair across the table.

Amber, don’t be rude, her mother scolded.

But Amber’s outburst didn’t seem to bother Travis, and he didn’t remove his hand from the chair back. Instead, he pulled it out from under the table.

Oh, I wouldn’t think of sitting in your chair, Amber. I was just pulling the chair out for you like I usually do for Aja.

Amber’s face softened and then blossomed into a smile as she went to sit in the chair, and Travis pushed it in place at the table. She didn’t say it, but I could tell it was the first time anyone had ever done that for her. It was a small gesture, but to Amber, it must have been huge because she didn’t stop smiling or looking at Travis when he went to take his seat. He had won her over, just like he had won me over.

How nice of you, Travis. Your parents obviously taught you well, Amber’s mother said. Her face transformed from embarrassment at her daughter’s outburst to admiration that chivalry was still alive and well in some men.

Travis smiled, but I could see from the glint of a tear in his eye that her comment had struck a painful chord in him. I could only imagine it had to do with missing his father.

That they did, he said, unable to say more as to do so looked like it would open the floodgates.

On the table was a bounty of food, including scrambled eggs, breakfast potatoes, bacon, fresh fruit, and homemade waffles, some plain and some chocolate chip, presumably for Amber. Surprisingly, Amber did most of the talking at breakfast as Travis and I must have looked to Amber’s mother as if we hadn’t eaten in days. She informed us of her plans for us at the petting farm and regaled us on her teachers and friends in 2nd grade. Compared to the sullen and frightened waif Trig and I had visited a couple of months earlier, she had been transformed. I shot a glance at Amber’s mother during one of Amber’s tales and could see the relief and pride in her eyes. She had her daughter back.

As breakfast was winding down, Amber’s mother made an announcement.

Before we go to the petting farm, we have a little something for you, Aja.

What? Why? I asked as Amber sprang into action and momentarily left the table to retrieve something.

We heard that you celebrated an important birthday recently, Amber’s mother replied as Amber raced around the corner with two small presents in hand.

Open mine first, Amber said, handing me a box.

I carefully removed the gift wrap and delicately lifted the top off of the small square box. Inside was a friendship bracelet in a vibrant pattern of blue, pink, and yellow string.

I made it myself, Amber declared. Here, let me put it on you, she said, lifting it out of the box and wrapping it around my left wrist.

This is beautiful, Amber. I love it. Thank you, I said, feeling tears make their way to the surface as she finished tying the bracelet.

I hugged her, and she promptly handed me another similarly-sized present.

That one’s from my Mom, Amber announced.

This time when I opened the box, the tears flowed freely. Inside was a silver chain bracelet with silver butterfly charms.

All I could think to do was hug Amber’s mother, who whispered in my ear as I sobbed on her shoulder, Thank you for teaching my little butterfly how to fly again.

This only made me cry harder.

Why are you so sad? Amber asked after her mother and I released our embrace.

I’m not sad, Amber, as I wiped tears from my face. Sometimes I cry when I’m really happy, I added, giving her a hug. Thank you. I love my gifts.

For good measure,