VINNIE’S DINER



Marcher Lord Select

Phase 3: Main Contest

Thank you for participating in Phase 3 of Marcher Lord Select.

In this document, each entry contains this information: title, genre, wordcount, premise, blurb, synopsis, and the first 30 pages of the book.

Vinnie’s Diner

• Title: Vinnie’s Diner

• Genre: Paranormal

• Wordcount: 66,000

Premise: When a freak accident leaves her stranded in the desert, Allie’s just happy she’s alive... or is she?

Blurb

It was supposed to be Allie’s dream trip, but a freak accident turns it into a nightmare.

She’s rescued from the wreckage by Vinnie, owner of a roadside diner filled with people who shouldn’t be there. Or is it Allie who doesn’t belong? Watching from the window as EMTs pull her own body from her mangled car, she understands that the diner is more than it seems.

In Vinnie’s Diner, Allie embarks on a harrowing journey of self-discovery, literally facing her demons. In the end, she must make the ultimate decision… between life and death.

Synopsis

New college graduate Allie Benson thinks her future lies right over the horizon at the US Trivia Challenge Championship. But on the long drive from LA to Las Vegas, a semi-truck has a blowout in front of her, sending a piece of tire rubber crashing into her windshield and changing everything.

She’s pulled from her mangled car by an odd man named Vinnie who takes her across the road to his diner. Allie’s driven this road more than once, but she’s never noticed the diner before. Once inside, things get stranger. The place is packed, even though the parking lot is empty. And the diner’s entertainment theme carries further than just the movie memorabilia on the walls. All the people inside seem to be impersonating dead celebrities.

It doesn’t take long for Allie to realize the diner is more than it seems. These people aren’t impersonators. She doesn’t know if they’re ghosts or figments of her imagination, but everyone from a young Marilyn Monroe to Albert Einstein offers Allie their unique kind of support.

When she hears sirens, Allie tries to go outside, but Vinnie stops her. From the front door she sees emergency vehicles drive up. She watches as the EMTs pull something out of the car. It’s a body. It’s Allie.

Back in the diner, she demands to know what’s happening to her. Through an old radio, Allie is able to hear the conversation in the hospital where her body’s been taken. Three people are by her side: Her mother, who she has a strained relationship with; her Aunt Bobbie, who she is very close to; and Jake, the man who loves her but who she rejected.

A mysterious man, whom Allie dubs Joe, volunteers to retrieve her things from the car. He returns with what looks like a pirate chest. But the contents are far from a treasure. Inside are mementos tied to pivotal, painful events in Allie’s life. With each new item, she’s transported back in time to relive the experience. Sometimes she watches as a presence in the room. Other times she becomes part of the scene. When she doesn’t think she can take anymore, she finally divulges her darkest secrets to Vinnie and faces her belief that she doesn’t deserve to be loved by anybody.

Just when it seems that her time in the diner is coming to an end, a demon named Ba’al bursts onto the scene. During a showdown in an old drive-in theater, Allie must literally face her demons and make the ultimate choice: life or death.

First 30 Pages

CHAPTER 1

Interstate 15 in the California desert

Here’s some of the stuff I know:

Whoopi Goldberg’s birth name is Caryn Johnson.

Stockard Channing was 32 years old when she played 17-year-old Rizzo in the movie version of Grease.

Flying tire rubber from a big-rig blowout can kill you.

I know all this because I’m a trivia nerd, my specialty being entertainment trivia. I know the tire rubber thing because I just saw it on a rerun of CSI. And the reason I’m thinking about it now is because I’m coming up entirely too fast on the semi in front of me.

I lift my foot from the gas pedal and back off a few feet. There’s no one else on the desert road between Baker and the Nevada state line. Just me and the pokey truck. I might as well go around this guy.

I’m thinking about the CSI episode–remembering how a go-cart driver, who had no business taking that silly thing on a main highway, had his head ripped off by a piece of flying, steel-belted tire rubber–when I hear a pop. A puff of smoke shoots out from behind the truck and it shimmies like a wet dog.

“Oh no.”

A moment later, something big and black crashes against the windshield and an explosion rocks the car.

Instinctively, I push my body back, yanking the steering wheel hard to the left. I turn my head away, trying to escape even though there’s nowhere to go. The whole world looks like some crazy mosaic through the spider web of cracks spreading across the windshield. The car veers toward the side of the road. Through my window, it looks like a good three foot drop into the wide expanse of dirt and desert scrub between the north and southbound lanes. I’ve got to stay away from the edge.

Turn into the skid.

The memory of half-listened to advice plays in my head. You better believe I listen to it now, turning the wheel in the opposite direction. The car starts to right itself. It’s working. But then I see a flash of something in front of me.

Something tall. Black material flapping around it like the tail ends of an old-fashioned duster. Long, straw-colored hair. A scraggily goatee.

A man?

What’s a man doing by the side of the road in the middle of nowhere? And why’s he’s just standing there? Why doesn’t he get out of the way? Not that any of it matters. I can’t hit him. I yank the wheel back the other way. Swerve around him.

And head straight off the road.

For a split second I have the impression of being weightless. Then the front end tips forward and rams into the ground. The glass loses what little cohesion it had left, raining down in silvery shards. The roar of the impact fills my ears. I tilt sideways. All sense of equilibrium vanishes as the car rolls once, twice. My head jerks violently from side to side. At the same time I’m pelted with loose objects – CDs, my purse, a water bottle – as if they’re all as frantic to get out of the car as I am.

Finally, the world stops bouncing. Am I up? Down? I don’t have a clue. An eerie quiet closes in on me, only to be replaced by a sound like the waves of the ocean amplified a thousand times. I squint, and through the empty place where the windshield should be, I make out the foothills.

They’re lying on their sides.

The waves pound harder against the walls of my head until the noise is deafening. I try to keep my eyes focused, but everything’s blurring around the edges. The waves ebb, and I hear a crunching sound, like boots on gravel. Straining to see, I barely make out something… it’s that flapping black material. Is this the man I swerved to miss?

A sweet, melodious voice makes its way through the undulating roar in my ears. “Let me help you.”

A crash, like the sound of two enormous cymbals slamming together, explodes right above my head.

A flash of bright, blinding white light.

Nothing.

CHAPTER 2

Interstate 15

My roommate, Sandy, is standing in the middle of our now empty living room. She looks around her, then looks back at me. “Are you sure you’ve got everything?”

Her voice is drawn out and deep, like a sound recording playing at super slow speed. Now her face contorts into a frown. “You don’t look so good.”

Funny, I was thinking the same thing about her. Sandy doesn’t look so good. She bends and quivers, becoming a reflection in a disturbed pool of water. She holds up one hand and waves. “Take care of yourself, Allie.”

Her image is almost gone now. Don’t go. I try to call out, but the words stay locked in my head. Thick darkness tucks itself around me, moist and heavy like a wet wool blanket. From somewhere in the distance, Sandy’s voice sends me one last warning.

“Watch out for flying tire rubber.”

Tire rubber.

I suck in a shocked gasp but the air is hot and burns my lungs. Panic prickles across my skin and my heart pounds so hard it feels like Ricky Ricardo is using my chest for a conga drum.

Think, Allie, where are you? What were you doing?

What was I doing? I packed up my car this morning and left my old apartment for the last time. I was on my way to Las Vegas to compete in the US Trivia Challenge Championship. I was driving behind a truck. There was a blow out, and then…

This is not good.

I crack open one a eye, but the blistering pain that sears through my forehead forces me to squeeze it shut again. That’s okay. I can work with this. Maybe I don’t need to see to get out of the car. I try to reach out with my left hand, but my arm is pinned against something. I bring up my right hand, reaching across my body, feeling for the door, but my fingers meet something coarse and dry. I stretch further, hoping to feel air, but it’s just more of the same: sand, rocks, and something crunchy. Dry plants, maybe. Nothing is where it should be. After a bit more fumbling, I acknowledge that the Braille approach isn’t going to work. I need to see what I’m doing.

I force my eyes open. White hot lasers drill into my skull, burning their way through my retinas. This kind of pain deserves a scream, but all I can do is whimper.

I want to call for help, but no words will come. Even if they did, what good would it do? I’m in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a whole lot of nothing. I could very well die out here, all alone.

Help me!

“Hold on!” A male voice calls out from somewhere above me.

Who is that? The overdressed stranger? Or the truck driver. That made more sense. Of course he would stop to help me. Relief oozes through my aching body as I force my head in the direction of the voice. It takes way more effort than it should. Above me, the silhouette of a person leans down into the car through the gaping hole that used to be the passenger window. It looks like he’s diving straight at me.

“Can you undo your seatbelt?”

I feel around with my free hand until I find the button. I press it, but nothing happens. I give it a few more tries, jabbing at it hard. The catch finally opens and the webbed belt snakes across my lap. My hips slide sideways, hitting the door, jarring my body and shooting a fresh wave of pain through my skull. It’s like someone decided to use my head for a soccer ball.

The man reaches down. “Give me your hand.”

I stretch my fingers upward but something stabs me in the side. My arm falls back down, landing heavy and useless against my thigh. Nausea and discouragement roll through my gut. This is just too hard. And I’m so tired. My eyelids drop shut as I slump against the side of the car. My cheek is pressed against the dirt and something sharp bites into my skin. Rocks, probably. Or glass. What difference does it make?

“Stay with me! Grab my hand!”

The man’s barked commands cut though the dismay and pain, making me bristle. I’m the victim here. How about a little tender loving kindness? I open my eyes and see him leaning farther in, grasping, reaching.

Then he speaks again. “It’s going to be all right. I promise.” His voice has become soft and comforting, and it turns my emotions around. How can I be angry with the guy who’s trying to help me? He just wants to get me out of the car.

I reach out. His hand closes in above my elbow. His fingers tighten around my arm.

He pulls.

Noises fill the air.

He grunts from the strain of holding all my weight.

I scream as a lightning bolt of pain rips through my spine.

He stops pulling, but doesn’t let go of my arm. “I know this hurts, but I’ve got to get you out.”

“Why not –” I force the words through lips that feel like old rubber, dry and cracked. “Why not out through the front?”

He looks at the jagged shards of windshield lining the window frame like broken teeth and shakes his head. “There’s too much glass. Besides, I don’t know if I could get you out from under the dash that way.” He pauses. “You have to get out of this car. If I can get you out of here, you’re going to be all right. Do you understand?”

It’s an effort to move my head. The best I can manage is a short, jerky nod. I understand, but I only want to do this once.

“Okay then,” he says. “Here we go.”

I take a deep breath. The next time he pulls, I tug my left arm free. I twist my body and clutch above his wrist with my other hand. Drawing up my legs, I push my feet hard against the door, groaning from the effort. With one last jerk, he pulls me free.

And then, it’s over. I might have blacked out for a second, because when I open my eyes again, I’m lying on the ground, sprawled across my mysterious rescuer.

“Success.” He gently pushes me to the side and squats beside me on the balls of his feet. “Are you okay?”

I look down at my legs, hands, arms, expecting to see a bloody mess. Or at the very least ripped clothing and bruises. But there’s nothing like that. Amazingly, I’m in pretty good shape. No blood, no cuts, not even a tear in my jeans.

My car, on the other hand, isn’t so lucky. The old, green hatchback lies on its side, front end wrinkled like an accordion. And it’s in pieces. I spot a hubcap over there, a side mirror over here, a license plate way over there, and bits of glass and chrome scattered everywhere.

Yet I’ve managed to make it through without a mark on me. Not only that, but most of the pain I felt just moments earlier is gone. It makes no sense, but I’m not about to question it.

I look back at the man. “Yeah, other than a killer headache, I’m fine. Thank you.”

This is the first opportunity I’ve had to really check him out. He doesn’t look like any trucker I’ve every seen. He’s wearing a crazy uniform made up of a white shirt, black pants, striped suspenders and a red bow tie. A paper hat shaped like an upside down banana boat is perched on his head. Pinned to his chest is a plastic oval name tag that reads “Vinnie.” The whole getup reminds me of what they make the employees wear at Steak ‘n’ Shake. I look around, as if I’m going to find the restaurant he belongs to, but I know there isn’t one for miles. Which brings me back to my first thought about him.

“Are you the truck driver?”

Shaking his head he stands and looks over his shoulder. “Nope.”

“If you’re not… then who…” Now I realize what he’s looking for. “Hey, where is the truck?” I shift my eyes to the road. No sign of it. “He didn’t even stop?”

“He had no cause to.” Vinnie is still looking over his shoulder as if he’s following the truck’s route. “By the time he looked in his side mirror, you’d already hit the ditch. As far as he knows, it was a simple blowout, so he’s going to a safe place to take care of it.”

I narrow my eyes at Vinnie. “How can you know that?”

He shrugs. “Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

I look down the long, empty road. “I guess so.”

“Well, sure it does. Any decent person would stop if he knew there was someone behind him who needed help.”

Sure, any decent person would. So Vinnie must have driven up right after the accident. But if that’s the case, then where’s his vehicle? I look around again, swiveling my head like a hoot owl.

Nothing.

Great. He must have broken down somewhere and been walking to the next stop when he found me. Just my luck to be rescued by an on-foot food service worker. I’m stuck in the middle of the desert with a total stranger. I peer down the road in the other direction, but it’s empty, too. Looks like it’s just the two of us.

Just me and Vinnie.

He reaches down, holding his hand out to me. I hesitate a second, then grab it. His grasp is firm as he pulls me to my feet, grabbing my elbow with his other hand to steady me. But he doesn’t need to. I had expected to feel something out of the ordinary, maybe strained muscles or bruised knees, but there’s none of that. My legs feel only slightly wobbly. Even the pain in my head is subsiding.

Weird.

When he sees that I’m not going to topple over, Vinnie lets go of my hand. I give him a nod of thanks, then wipe my palms against my thighs. “So, what brand of Good Samaritan are you?”

He hooks his thumbs under his suspenders and pushes out his chest, like a proud father in front of a hospital nursery window. “I’m Vinnie. You see that over there?”

He points at a building on the other side of the road. It’s flamingo-pink, with palm trees flanking the front door and a big, empty parking lot. A huge neon sign on the roof flashes two different images: first a coffee cup with a pot poised over it, then the pot pouring into the cup. Cup empty, cup full. Cup empty, cup full. It keeps flashing and pouring as I take in the scene.

It’s like something from another era.

It’s the kind of place I’d like to take my Aunt Bobbie.

It wasn’t there a few minutes ago.

I look back at Vinnie. “What is that?”

His smile grows even bigger. “That’s my place.” With a sweep of his arm he says, “Welcome to Vinnie’s Diner.”

CHAPTER 3

Vinnie’s Diner

What I love most about Interstate 15 is all the bizarre roadside stuff.

There’s the Mad Greek, which looks like a truck stop but serves authentic Greek food. I stopped there once. Enjoyed the stuffed mushrooms. Not so much the stuffed grape leaves.

At least half-a-dozen mini-billboards sport cartoon pictures of cone-headed green men and point the way to a shop that sells alien jerky – which has always made me wonder, are they saying the jerky would be enjoyed by aliens or that it’s made out of aliens? Is it a kind of extra-terrestrial Soylent Green? I never had the stomach to find out.

There’s even an abandoned water park sitting back from the road, the huge red slide faded a washed-out pink from years of inactivity under the intense desert sun. It’s always reminded me of the kind of place the Scooby-Doo gang would find themselves. Their van would break down, they’d go into the park and think it’s haunted, only to find out that some unscrupulous businessman is trying to steal the deed from a bunch of senior citizens. Of course, he’d be foiled in the end by those meddling kids… and their dog.

What all these spots have in common is that they’d be totally out of place in the middle of a highly populated area. Some are abandoned. Others just look that way. But out here, in the barren landscape of the desert, surrounded by scrub and sand, they fit right in.

Vinnie’s Diner is different. It doesn’t have the wind-battered, sand-blasted look of the other buildings. There are no chips in the paint, no cracks in the windows or missing neon from the sign. The parking lot, though empty, is well kept and ready for patrons. It looks like the kind of place that’s been around for a while and has been taken good care of.

Which is why my brain refuses to accept the existence of this diner. Because this isn’t the first time I’ve made this trip. I’ve driven this road more than once and I don’t recall ever seeing that building before.

Then again, maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised. I tend to zone out, especially on long drives. I must have gone right past it and never noticed. Sure, it's possible. After all, I have a habit of letting important information slip by. A fact my mother’s shared with me more than once. It's probably why I'm so good with trivia.

Vinnie lopes ahead of me and I have to jog to keep up with him. At the edge of the highway, I stop and carefully look both ways before I cross. It’s more out of habit than necessity, since my car is still the only vehicle on the road. Which is another odd thing. Even though it’s a weekday, there’s usually a lot more traffic on this road.

Once we're at the building, Vinnie opens the door and stands aside, ushering me in with an extended palm. Cool air rushes out to greet us and I lift my face to it, taking in big, greedy gulps.

He laughs and gives me a gentle push between the shoulder blades. “If you go have a seat I can shut the door and stop air conditioning the desert.”

Embarrassed, I step in far enough for him to enter the building and close the door behind us. But then I stop again. The place is full of people. Customers sit at tables, perch on counter stools, lean against the wall. One man chews on a toothpick as he talks to a circle of friends, then takes it out of his mouth and pokes it in the air to emphasize his words. A young waitress, her hair framing her face in tight, brown ringlets, picks up plates of food from the service window. On the kitchen side, a round-faced cook with huge, bushy sideburns offers her a lopsided grin.

“How did all these people get here?” The question sputters out of me as I turn back to Vinnie.

“Same way you got here,” he says with a shrug.

He’s kidding, right? “I walked in here because my car is lying on its side in the middle of the road. But your parking lot’s empty. I know these folks didn’t walk. So how did they get here?”

He twists his mouth and leans his head to the right. “That’s a good question. What do you think?”

Twenty questions isn’t my favorite game on a good day. I’m even less excited about playing it now. Despite my lack of enthusiasm, I think going along is the smart thing to do. When it comes right down to it, I’m not sure I trust Vinnie. This isn’t the reaction you’d expect to have when someone saves your life, I know. But I’ve learned the hard way that people who do good deeds usually have an ulterior motive. Besides, this guy's still a stranger to me. How do I really know what I’m dealing with? Sure, he looks harmless enough, but so did Ted Bundy. For all I know he could be the type with a hair-trigger temper. It’s probably best not to do anything that might antagonize him.

I consider his question and try to work out a plausible explanation. There are no cars in the parking lot, but the dining area is full of people. All of them have food sitting on the tables in front of them which makes me think they arrived as a group and placed their orders together. And the diner is on the way to Las Vegas. So… “Tour bus?”

Vinnie taps the tip of his nose twice with his index finger then points at me. “Good one. The driver could have dropped them off to eat while he went to gas up the bus. Makes a lot of sense.”

Sure it does. Except that any exit with a gas station has at least one fast food place nearby. But I see no point in bringing that up.

Vinnie moves behind the counter. He pats the open spot between two customers, inviting me to sit on the other side.

I hitch myself up on the red vinyl stool and rest my elbows on the counter. While Vinnie messes with something on his side, I check out the diner’s décor It’s an eclectic mix of entertainment memorabilia. Movie posters from just about every decade share wall space with black and white publicity photos and prop replicas. I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to be the Maltese Falcon peering down at us from a shelf in the corner. There’s a poster for the final episode of the Star Wars saga. I stop, squint, look again. Revenge of the Jedi. Wow. I’ve heard about those posters. George Lucas changed the title to Return of the Jedi because revenge is not an attribute of The Force, but not before a first fun of posters had been printed. Most were pulled, but some with the original title survived. I’ve never seen one in person before. I wonder if Vinnie was ever tempted to sell it on eBay. Or maybe that’s where he got it. My eyes continue to sweep the walls. This place is paradise for a trivia buff like me.

Shoot. The realization smacks me hard in the gut. The trivia contest. I need to let someone know what happened and where I am. If I don’t check in by five o’clock, they’ll disqualify me. I reach for my cell phone, but it's not there. Neither is my purse. Double shoot. They’re both still in the car.

“Vinnie, can I use your phone?”

Instead of answering, he sets down a tall glass sporting the Coca-Cola emblem on the counter. “Here you go.”

I look at the drink I didn’t ask for. “Thanks, but I really need to make a call. You don’t understand how important–”

“I think you’ll agree that nothing clears the mind and revitalizes the spirit quite like a vanilla coke.”

A vanilla coke? The mention of what’s in the glass manages to ease my anxiety over making contact with the contest officials. A few more minutes won’t hurt anything.

The first time I had a vanilla coke was when my Aunt Bobbie took me on an old-fashioned Hollywood sightseeing trip for my tenth birthday. We saw everything: the hand and footprints in front of Grauman’s Chinese, the star-studded walk of fame, the Capital Records building, the Pantages Theatre, Hollywood and Vine. We’d ended up at an old fashioned diner not far from Farmer’s Market. When the waiter came to take our drink order, my aunt spoke for both of us.

“We’ll have two vanilla cokes.” She promised me it would be the best thing I’d ever had to drink. And she was right.

After that, vanilla cokes were our special thing. Some of the nicest memories of my life include my aunt’s eccentric wit and an ice-filled, condensation-beaded glass like the one in front of me. My throat is so parched, and the memories are so strong, I let it slide that Vinnie still hasn’t told me where the phone is. I guess I can wait a few minutes to make that call. “Thank you.”

He pushes the glass closer to me. “So what’s your name, Miss?”

The fizzy liquid pricks pleasantly at my throat as I swallow. I take another drink and smack my lips before answering. “Allie.”

Vinnie nods gravely, as though I just gave him the correct answer to a very difficult question. “Nice to meet you, Allie.” The smile returns to his face and he slaps a menu down in front of me. “In case you want to eat something.”

The waitress hustles around the back of the counter and stops next to Vinnie. Her uniform is nothing like his. While his unique, quirky outfit seems to compliment his personality, her dull brown dress is completely at odds with her full-lipped smile and sparkling blue eyes. And it’s much too tight. The buttons up the front are straining, particularly where the dress pulls across her generous hips and chest.

“What’ll you have, honey?”

There’s something about her voice. Rich and smooth, but breathy at the same time. I feel like I know her, but I can’t imagine where we would have met. She holds an order pad in one hand and a stubby pencil in the other, ready to write down my order. Absently, she reaches up and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear with her pinky, revealing an enormous rhinestone drop earring. At least, I think they’re rhinestones. Nothing that big could be real.

I don’t know if my eyes got big, or I gasped, or what, but she can tell I’ve noticed her jewelry. Her smile is shy and hesitant. Her eyes dart from me, to Vinnie, then back to me. She flicks the earring with the pencil eraser, making the stones flash as it swings from her lobe. “You like?”

Since we just met, I doubt she cares about my approval in particular, but approval in general must be important to her. I nod. “It’s beautiful. Gives your uniform a little extra zip.”

Her smile unfolds like a time delay shot of a blossoming flower. She shakes her head, setting both her earrings to dancing. “You know what they say, honey. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

A shrill ding cuts the air and plates clatter as the cook sets them on the edge of the serving window. He leans out as far as he can, nearly laying one sideburn-covered jowl in a plate of chicken fried steak. “Norma Jeane, your order’s up!”

“I’ll be right there,” she calls over her shoulder. The waitress winks at me before she flounces off toward the kitchen.

I stare at her as she walks away, trying to make sense out of what I’ve just heard. Norma Jeane? The earrings, her voice, her shape… all the pieces come together, forming one unfathomable conclusion. It’s impossible, but at the same time it all fits. It explains why she looks so familiar and why I feel like I know her.

Norma Jeane Mortenson, baptized as Norma Jeane Baker, married name Norma Jeane Dougherty.

More commonly known to the movie-going public as Marilyn Monroe.

A chill permeates my body. I reach for the vanilla coke, try to grab it, but my fingers have become stiff and clumsy, like fat tubes of overstuffed sausage. I can’t bend them, and instead of gripping the glass, I push it over, spilling the contents across the counter. I watch as the liquid pours out. It’s moving slower than it should. More like molasses than soda.

Vinnie’s right there with a rag. He wipes it up, his movements so casual it’s like he was waiting for the accident to happen.

I grab his wrist, stopping him in mid-wipe. “Where am I?”

The words come out of me, thick and slow. My head spins. Without letting go of Vinnie, I put my forehead down on the counter, feeling the cool surface against my skin.

I need a minute.

Just a minute to collect myself.

I close my eyes. Just for a minute.

CHAPTER 4

Nine years earlier

“Marilyn Monroe had it made.”

I lift my head and open my eyes, expecting to see Vinnie, but he’s not there. Neither is the diner. I’m not sitting on a stool anymore, either. I’m on a carpeted floor, knees drawn up to my chest. I look around, taking in the entertainment center on one wall, the tall bookcase with shelves bowing from the weight of hundreds of DVDs and VHS tapes, the framed family photos on the walls, and I slowly recognize where I am.

It’s my Aunt Bobbie’s apartment.

And if that’s not shocker enough, I realize that the person I heard talking is none other than a younger version of me.

There I am sitting on the blue and white striped couch, collecting empty bowls from the coffee table. From my place on the floor, I wrinkle my nose. It’s hard to believe I ever dressed that way. And that hair. What was I thinking?

I raise my hand, just a little, hoping to get my own attention, but afraid at the same time. What will happen if past me becomes aware of future me? Will we rip a hole in the space/time continuum? But past-me is oblivious. When nothing happens, I become bolder, raising both hands and waving them frantically. Still no response.

I would appear to be nothing more than an observer, like Ebenezer Scrooge being forced to relive his history. But a look to my left and right reveals there’s no Ghost of Christmas Past along for the ride. I’m on my own.

Aunt Bobbie comes in from the kitchen and looks at the girl on the couch

“What did you say?”

“That Marilyn Monroe had it made.” I… she… oh heck… Allie hands her the bowls and puts two empty soda cans inside them.

Aunt Bobbie’s hand shakes, just a little, as she reaches for the trash. Then she looks over her armload, one eyebrow cocked. “How do you figure?”

Allie shrugs as she digs a few stray popcorn kernels out of the cracks between the couch cushions and wraps them in a napkin. “Guys thought curves were sexy back then.”

Laughter trails behind Aunt Bobbie as she heads into the kitchen. “Honey, guys will always think curves are sexy. The problem for us women is having those curves in the right places.”

Allie picks up a few more used napkins, follows Aunt Bobbie into the kitchen, and tosses them in the trash can.

I’m starting to remember this day. It was during the week I spent with my aunt because my mother had just gotten married and was on a honeymoon. Again.

I watch Allie walk back into the living room. She scoops the remote off the coffee table and hits a button. The credits for Some Like it Hot disappear from the TV screen. In their place is a commercial for Slimfast. Image after image flashes by, “real people” morphing from pasty, flabby before to tan and tone after. As the chatty women talk about how easy the program is, and how much it changed their lives, almost microscopic print appears at the bottom of the screen: Results not typical.

Which had pretty much been my point all along.

Allie looks down at her torso and sucks in her gut. At the same time, she tries to push out her chest. Nostalgia and regret ripple through my mind. I know exactly what she’s feeling. I remember the thrill that my flat chest was finally starting to blossom, and the irritation that my stomach never would be flat. It was as though my body was playing some ironic joke and it caused me no end of frustration. Now, I want to tell the girl in front of me to slow down, not to worry about the outside so much. Enjoy being a kid while you can.

She pokes her stomach with one finger. “But how do you get the curves to go in the right places?”

Aunt Bobbie comes back in the room, wiping her hands on a paper towel. “Honey, you’re only fourteen. You should thank the good Lord you don’t have to worry about any of that yet.” She turns off the TV, pops out the DVD, and puts it back in its case. “If you ask me, curves are nothing but trouble. Look what they did to poor Norma Jeane.”

“Yeah, they made her famous.”

“They made her miserable.” She shoots the DVD case into an empty spot in the entertainment center, then turns back to Allie, shaking her head. “People saw her as an object, a sex kitten. They didn’t care about how smart she was, or how much pain she was in. They just took what they wanted.”

“But didn’t she use that to her advantage?” Allie flops down on the sofa, propping her bare feet on the coffee table. “I mean, she didn’t really have a career until she stopped being Norma Jeane and started being Marilyn.”

“They didn’t give her a choice. She did what she had to do to survive.” Aunt Bobbie’s eyelashes flutter like crazy, and for a second, it looks like she’s going to burst into tears. Instead, she takes a deep breath and shakes her head. “I know you think it’s important to be attractive, sexy even, but trust me… Beauty is really a curse.”

Looking at my aunt now, with the perspective and distance of the last eight years, it strikes me that Aunt Bobbie has lived her life by that belief. A thick woman, I suspect her measurements are the same for bust, waist and hips. She’s always been neat and clean, but I’ve never seen her wear makeup, or nail polish, or do anything to her low-maintenance hair other than cover it with a scarf when the Santa Anas start blowing. She’s the exact opposite of the flashy celebrities she’s so in love with.

Still, underneath all the dowdiness I can see the possibility of who she could be: her wide smile, bright green eyes, expressive hands. She bears enough of a resemblance to my mother – who is a striking woman – for me to know that Aunt Bobbie has worked pretty hard to exorcise the curse of beauty. But why?

I’d wanted to ask her about it then. Not because I understood her as well as I do now, but because I couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want to be beautiful if they could. But there was no way to ask that question without insulting her appearance. And I would never do anything to hurt my aunt. So I went at it from another direction. “Mom says the only thing a woman can control is her own body. She says it’s never too early to learn how to use it to get what you want.”

The smile slips from Aunt Bobbie’s mouth and she gives her head another shake. “My sister is one of the smartest people I know, but that’s surely the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Even though I agreed with her, I remember feeling like I should at least try to stick up for my mother. That’s what a good daughter would do.

“She must be doing something right or else she wouldn’t keep snagging husbands.”

Aunt Bobbie snorts. “If that’s so then why does she keep losing them?”

Good question. A better question might be why she chose them in the first place, but that wasn’t any of my business, which my mother had told more than once.

The whole reason I was with Aunt Bobbie that week was because mom and hubby number five, which made him step dad number four, were in Mexico on their honeymoon. By then, I shouldn’t have had anymore expectations. But Ethan had seemed different than the others. I found myself hoping he’d stick around for a while, even though I knew the chances were slim.

How I wish I could take the younger version of myself by the arm and tell her a thing or two about expectations. And fashion.

“What do you want to do now, Aunt Bobbie?”

My aunt taps her temple, then with a snap of her fingers she turns, making an awkward dash for the hall closet. “I know! I found a great board game at the thrift store. It’s brand new. Whoever donated it hadn’t even taken off the plastic.” The rest of her words are muffled as she digs for her new found treasure. When she comes back into the living room, she holds out a grey box. “See. Trivial Pursuit. Silver Screen Edition!”

As Aunt Bobbie sets up the game, I see it again. That tell-tale tremor in her hand. But the young version of me doesn’t notice. She’s picking at the fuzz pills on the arm of the sofa, absorbed in her own troubles.

She’s wondering what mom and Ethan are doing right now.

She’s wondering how long this one will last.

She has no idea what’s coming.

In my corner on the floor, I wrap my arms tight around my legs, drawing them closer to my chest, drop my forehead on my knees, and squeeze my eyes shut.

CHAPTER 5

Vinnie’s Diner

“Allie?”

Vinnie’s voice cuts through my haze, pulling me back to the present. I raise my head, slowly, and look around. I’m back on the red vinyl stool, my arms crossed on the cool counter top. I’m back in the diner.

I open my mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. My throat is so dry and scratchy, my tongue is stuck behind my teeth, unable to form words. Vinnie lowers his chin, his forehead creased with concern. He pushes a glass of water toward me but instead of taking a drink, I grab his wrist again, almost toppling the glass. But he saves it.

I swallow once, twice. I force my mouth to work. “Where am I?”

He covers my hand with his, gives it a reassuring squeeze, then peels my fingers off him. “You’re in my diner, remember? Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

I wave off his concern and grab the glass, gulping the water down until my throat no longer feels like the bottom of a terrarium.

“That waitress.” I point to the woman who now has three plates balanced across the length of one arm. “Your cook called her Norma Jeane.”

“So he did. It’s her name.” Vinnie laughs and shakes his head. “She’s really something. Have you ever seen anyone carry so many plates at one time and not make a mess out of any of them?”

My eyes dart from Vinnie, to the waitress, and back again. He can’t be so oblivious. Doesn’t he see it?

“But… she’s…. I mean, look at her. She looks like…” I cover my face with my hands. This can’t be happening. She can’t be who I think she is. It’s not possible. What am I supposed to say to him? Hey Vinnie, did you know you’ve got a dead movie star working in your diner? It’s just too stupid. The dream, or hallucination, or whatever it was I just experienced, is making my mind jump to bizarre conclusions.

Stop. Think. There has to be some kind of reasonable explanation. Is she an impersonator? It’s possible, especially considering how close we are to Las Vegas. But I’ve had a little bit of experience with female impersonators. Most of them are men, and the waitress I’m looking at can’t possibly be a man in drag. There’s not enough makeup and prosthetics in the world to create a getup that convincing. Besides, I’ve never seen anybody impersonate the pre-Marilyn Norma Jeane before.

Even if my wild thoughts are wrong and she turns out to be just another impersonator, why would she be waiting tables in character? Is she just part of the diner’s entertainment theme? But if that’s the case, wouldn’t she want to look more like the Marilyn everyone’s familiar with?

I’ve got to get out of here. At the very least I need to make contact with somebody outside of the looking glass I’ve fallen into. “I need my phone.”

Vinnie takes a box of paper wrapped straws from beneath the counter and starts filling them into a glass jar. “What you need is to sit and relax. You still look a bit pale.”

One hand balls up into a fist while the fingers of my other hand nervously play the counter top as if it were piano keys. “You don’t understand. If I don’t check in with the contest officials, they’ll think I’m a no show. I’ll be disqualified.”

“Contest?” Vinnie glances at me briefly, his look only mildly interested. He’s much more fascinated by the straws he’s fiddling with.

“Yes, a trivia contest. It’s why I’m going to Las Vegas.”

Vinnie makes a sound in his throat, but says nothing else. It’s a good thing there’s no silverware on the counter, because I’m frustrated enough to throw it at him. He doesn’t understand how important this is. There’s more at stake than just winning a contest. I need that money. Aunt Bobbie needs that money.

A hand rests firmly on my shoulder. I jump and spin around on the stool, accidentally jabbing my knee into the man sitting next to me.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

The man turns slightly, brushing his hand across a white pant leg, his mouth curving up beneath a fat gray walrus mustache. “No need for apologies. Since I don’t believe in accidents then surely Providence meant for the collision of our limbs. In time, when the pain has subsided and the bruises have dissipated, all will become clear.”

He turns back to his coffee and I stare at the back of his white suit jacket. Who’s this guy, a Mark Twain impersonator? If so, it’s a first for me.

“Excuse me.”

Now what? Is Frank Sinatra going to croon me a song? I look up at the fellow in front of me. He’s tall with weathered skin and a shadow of stubble dusting his cheeks. His brown hair curls up at the ends, against his neck and around his ears, like he’s gone a few weeks too long without a trim. His eyes are chocolate-milk-brown and the skin around them crinkles when he smiles at me.

My heart jumps a little. I look at him more closely, try to place him. But nothing comes to mind. In his long-sleeved, denim work shirt and clean but slightly wrinkled Dockers, he looks like any guy you might pass on the street. I relax. I’ve never seen this man before in my life. Thank God. I don’t think I could have taken another one.

He puts his hand back on my shoulder. “You’re going to be here for a while. I’ll get your things out of the car for you.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. “Thank you.”

It’s not until he walks out the door that what he said hits me. “What did he mean I’m going to be here for a while?”

I spin back around on the stool and look for Vinnie. The straw holder is completely full, but he’s not behind the counter anymore. I reach for my glass of water, which is right where I left it. My stomach growls. When was the last time I ate? Oh yeah, I’d picked up a bag of overpriced nacho cheese Doritos when I gassed up in Victorville. What was left of them must be strewn in broken bright orange bits all over the highway.

My stomach rumbles again. As if on cue, the beefy cook pushes his way through the swinging kitchen door and sets a plate of food in front of me with a clunk.

He leans his elbows on the counter and lets his head bob back and forth like one of those tacky dashboard hula girls. “You’ve got to keep up your strength, little darlin’. I didn’t know what you’d like, so I fixed you up my personal favorite.”

With a wink and a dip of his shoulder he turns and propels his portly body back through the door. My eyes drop to the plate and my stomach lurches. Not because the food looks gross, which it does, but because of what it is.

A fried peanut butter and banana sandwich.

It can’t be.

The edges of my vision become fuzzy, and the diner starts to fade around me. Aunt Bobbie's voice echoes in my ears, bouncing around inside my skull like a ball in a bingo cage.

"It's no wonder Elvis got so fat at the end. All his favorite foods were fried."

Elvis?

Brakes squeal, the sound loud and sharp in my ears. My body starts to tip. I grab at the counter, but it’s not there anymore and I fall from the stool.

A scream shatters the air as I land hard on my side. My head bounces against the ground with a dull thud, igniting a thousand sparks inside my brain.

Pain shoots through every part of my body. The air around me is hot, thick with the smell of dirt and burned rubber. I try to move, but my left arm is pinned again and hurts so bad it feels like it’s on fire.

I force one eye open and try to determine where I am but it's like looking through a kaleidoscope smeared with bacon grease. Blurred colors and shapes melt and merge into each other. It’s no use. I squeeze my eyes tight and feel something wet slide down the side of my cheek and into my ear.

"Hold on! I'm calling 911! I'll get an ambulance!" A frantic voice calls to me from somewhere far away.

Who was that? I know it wasn’t Vinnie.

Where is he?

Where is the diner?

Where am I?

H2O

• Title: H2O

• Genre: Speculative

• Wordcount: 82,000

Premise: What’s the price of your sanity? Contact with pure water—any form—sparks unexplainable visions. Could you avoid water forever?

Blurb

Kate Pepper has it all. . . intellect, health, beauty, a career, and more money than she needs. Or rather, she thinks she has it all. Despite the perfect shell, there’s something dark inside Kate. Unexplained eye-popping visions force her to question her sanity and her world crumbles. All her business savvy and elite connections don’t make any difference. Who can help her? The doctors? Her predatory boyfriend? Or a Down Syndrome waitress at her favorite coffee shop? Wallowing at the bottom of a dark mental well, desperate to get out of the water, there’s nowhere to reach but up.

Synopsis

KATE PEPPER is at the top of her game and she knows it. She adores coffee, the Seattle rain. . . and herself. Determined to make it on her own, she revels in power and control—until waves of debilitating dizzy spells accompanied by stunning mental imagery cause her to wonder if she’s losing her mind. Each contact with water sparks a vivid flashback to a Bible narrative that speaks about water—a vision “seen” from water’s point of view.

Self indulgence, impatience and lust lead to boyfriend XAVIER MORTON’s downfall in Kate’s eyes as she seeks an answer to her spells of dizziness and visions. Her boyfriend and her boss at Consolidated Aerodyne, Xavier chases other women as he loses patience with Kate’s unexplained problems and her need for some loving attention.

CANDICE, a Down Syndrome waitress at the ISIP Coffee House, reminds everyone she meets that “Jesus will make you clean.” She shares that essential wisdom with Kate, a regular customer who always wants to be left alone when Candice stops by. Kate has built an “emotional shell” around herself to avoid dealing with any spiritual issues.

The onslaught of mental imagery that plagues Kate each time she gets wet eventually becomes so severe that she makes the life-changing choice to avoid water altogether. Determined not to sink into a medicated psychiatric stupor, Kate invents her own remedy: she retreats into a waterless hermit lifestyle that degenerates into an intolerable grunge. Fired for failing to come to work, she retreats to a nasty apartment life amidst the detritus of take-out food boxes, used baby-wipes and bottles of hand sanitizer. Life hits rock bottom one day when her toilet clogs and she has to call for help.

JOHN CONNOR, her anonymous best friend on the Internet also runs a plumbing business; he responds to her on-line request for a house call. He’s a plumber by day, and also a social networking genius. Fixing her clogged toilet while responding to a Facebook post with his Blackberry, John discovers that Kate is the woman he’s communicated with during hours of Internet chats. Will he come back to see her again after she pays him and says good-bye? “Did God pull us together for a reason?” he wonders.

John returns soon; his gift is helping. He is unpretentious and ready to assist her in any way he can. Her outer shell cracking wider, Kate at last allows herself to accept help from another, and soon finds she needs John more than ever. The sudden death of her mother back east forces a tough decision—how to travel after shutting herself off from the world, and any possible exposure to water. John escorts her to snowy New York, and so doing, finds his way into her heart as he leads her to confront a lifetime of buried pain.

Through his patient witness, John helps Kate to realize that her strange experiences—the images that appear when she gets wet—might be God’s unique way of reaching out to a tough woman who’s built impenetrable walls around her soul. His words, and the loving reminders by Candice that “Jesus will make you clean,” suddenly gel for Kate. In an “aha! moment” Kate realizes that John is right—God is using “visions” to draw her to Himself, perhaps the only way He could get her attention. She was too self-absorbed to be reached in any other way.

Kate rushes home, desperate for a shower, and determined to experience the inner cleansing that John and Candice both spoke of. She’s overjoyed when she releases her stubborn hold on self-determination, control, and years of buried guilt. Led back to God through the inspiration of water imagery, she is redeemed and made a new creature.

First 30 Pages

Chapter One

Water spilled over the blade of my knife like liquid silk. Flushed by the stream, raw fish swirled down my kitchen drain on a mysterious journey, headed back to Puget Sound and home. Fluid poetry gushed from my tap, beauty rinsing away grime. I held my hand under its caress, entranced. Water is too special, too eternal, to be so common.

“Aren’t you finished yet?” Xavier shook his head as he peered into the sink of my Seattle condo, an arm’s distance from the fish I prepared. “I can’t believe people eat this stuff.” He backed away as though contact with beady-eyed water creatures might taint him. One brush against piscine slime might transform him into a rough guy on the wharf or a wrinkled old man sitting by a pond with a cane pole.

“Skip the drama, Xavier.” I brushed bangs out of my eyes with the back of my wet hand and pivoted to face him. He turned away and ignored me.

“My guests will be here in half an hour,” he said, retreating toward the den. “The main dish still has scales on it.”

“You can’t see tuna scales, X. Quit worrying. I’ll be ready.” I waved a slice of raw tuna in his direction. “They’re donating for your cause, but they’re here to eat my sashimi—and they’ll love it. Go pour some more wine or something.” I sighed, wishing he’d go out for a walk and leave me alone.

“What-eeeever, Ms. Pepper.” He turned and walked away, not looking back.

“Shut up!” I slapped the fish down on a wooden cutting board and stepped toward him with a dripping knife. Xavier spun around and caught my glare. When I waved the razor sharp ten-inch Fujiwara in his direction, he backed out of reach.

Every time I hear whatever I’m stuck back in Queens trying to drag a conversation out of my couch potato father, Norman Pepper. It was his throwaway word for “Don’t bother me.” An absent father glued to his TV and recliner, the epitome of sloth.

I sliced an ‘X’ through the air as I glared at Xavier. He turned with a shrug, walking toward the bay window. The knife began to shake in my hands, images of my father springing to mind, salt rubbed deep in mental wounds.

The shaking worsened as I watched Xavier move with a feigned slowness, spinning around to drop into a seat in the den, a wine glass in one hand and the remote control in the other. His gaze was locked with mine. I felt my grip tighten on the knife. Surely he wouldn’t do this.

As he settled into the padded chair like a movie running at half speed, he raised the remote control and pointed toward me, his digital rapier. He made a click sound with his tongue and pushed a button, presumably to command me, his human television. He drew out the disgusting word again, for effect. “What-ev-er!”

“Stop it!” I screamed, pivoting to my left to impale the tuna. With a trembling arm I rammed the knife through the big fish and deep into a wooden cutting board. Xavier didn’t blink, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. We faced off, wrapped in the temporary armor of a prickly silence.

I choked back a dozen words I’d regret, then turned away and let him win the standoff. I could hear him snicker his trademark “beat you!” when I started to retrieve the thousand-dollar slicing knife. I hesitated, hand to the hefty weapon, and glared at him. He shut up. I wiggled my precious Fujiwara out of the wood, then returned to the sink, fish in hand.

I had to cut something.

●●

The artery under Xavier’s left temple crawls like a scared earthworm when he’s wound up. His little maggot danced in a wriggle-fest right now. Watching him pace the den while I finished cutting fish, I could see he was close to a meltdown. Almost as close as I was to losing it, slaving away to prepare this special sushi dinner for his customer. A dinner that meant nothing to me.

My boyfriend is the unlikely hybrid of a giant redwood and Bruce Willis. He’s a towering shaved-head stoic and a brilliant businessman with a rock-hard body. Xavier has many faults. He’s selfish, impatient, a germaphobe, and punctual to a fault. But his strengths make him tolerable. He’s gorgeous, well-connected and rich. And recently promoted—ahead of me. Not my parents’ idea of a marital match, but it works. . . most of the time. What I like best is there’s nothing mediocre about our relationship. Conflict defines us, but I’d rather fight than be average.

I despise ordinary.

●●

Never slice fish when you’re angry.

The thought shot through my mind as a piercing sting mingled with the familiar dull thud of knife contacting wood. Mentally distracted, I watched an inch-long serving of the fleshy base of my thumb tumble into the platter of tuna.

Human sashimi, I thought. What the Japanese call ‘pierced body.’

But it wasn’t fish; it was part of me. The damage finally registered when my blood started to flow.

I screamed.

Xavier reached me a couple of heartbeats later and pressed a white cotton cloth into my wound. The rice vinegar on the wet rag, used to wipe out my sushi molds, shot daggers of pain into the severed muscle of my hand. My body’s red flowed across the dinner platter of yellowtail, mingling with the wet pinkness of raw tuna flesh in a Hannibal Lecter admix of seafood and blood. Xavier took one look at the ruined meal, his face white with a pitiful jumble of empathy and fear, then turned and thrust his head into the sink.

He vomited. And the doorbell rang.

●●

“Kate! What happened?” Andrea dashed in the door but never noticed Xavier’s mess; he’d churned the last of it down the disposal. My blood became the center of her attention, and I suspect her-boss-slash-my-boyfriend welcomed the momentary distraction. Saved him again.

“We need to get a dressing on that,” my one and only girlfriend said, her hand shaking. She dropped the thin sliver of my left palm into a glass of cold milk. “There’s a doc-in-the-box over on West Garfield. We’ll take you there.”

“There’s no time, Andrea. Our party starts in an hour.” The words were for Xavier’s benefit, in hopes of gaining some sympathy. I couldn’t expect he’d cancel this event; it was too important. “I did this five years ago. It’ll grow back. Really, I’m okay.” I forced a smile.

“You amaze me, Kate,” she replied. “You carve your hand into sashimi and all you can think about is feeding a bunch of snobby rich folks.”

“They’re our customers, Andrea.” Xavier’s color—and his voice—returned. “I’ll take her to the doctor. Finish this up while we’re gone.”

“And what? Host the party, too?” she asked.

“That’s what I pay you for,” Xavier growled.

Andrea shrugged, looked at me with that ‘do you really love this guy?’ roll of the eyes, and grabbed a rag. “Okay, boss. Come wash her up. I’ll get a dry cloth while you get some water on that.” She motioned to the sink, and he complied. Xavier hates blood. He never looked at my hand, but his warmth felt good when he took me gently by the wrist and shoulder and started the water.

Before the liquid swept over my wound, I remembered slicing my hand when I was a young girl, crawling over a ragged chain-link fence outside the elementary school playground. The sting of water when Mother washed me was a fresh memory. I braced for a repeat of the sensation, but it never came.

Somewhere between Xavier’s warm touch and the silver stream of water before me, I lost my connection with reality. For the briefest time a picture formed in my mind—a rugged basin, like a wooden bowl, filled with water. And a cream-colored garment, like a robe, laid aside it. Nothing else. And nothing like it in my kitchen. The mental picture flashed into view, then it fled.

Was it for a heartbeat or a minute? I had no idea. One moment I’d pulled closer to him, and next he held me up, my knees reduced to rubber. His hand pressed a dry cloth into my freshly washed crimson palm. My hands were wet; I could feel their dampness but I had no memory of the washing. Seconds of my life had vanished.

“Kate? Did you hear me?”

Xavier’s huge blue eyes, dotted with the tiny black spot of his pupils, were mirrors. My face reflected in his blue. The waxed line of his dark eyebrows made perfect umbrellas over his eyes, deep-set above high cheek bones. I let him hold me up and tried to remember what had just happened.

“Kate?” he implored. The tone of his voice was soothing, inviting. He blinked and it broke the spell.

“Yeah?” My sandpaper tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Wasn’t it just a moment ago that he took me in his arms and thrust my hand under the water? I never remembered the embrace of the cool wetness. Only the basin, the water and the robe. I shook my head, trying to reboot.

“I’m—I’m okay,” I said. “I need to sit.”

Xavier lowered me gently and I settled on the cool tile of the kitchen floor, holding the cotton mitt to my wound with my good right hand. I looked up at Andrea, her mouth agape where she’d been standing near the sink. She reached toward me, her palm to my forehead.

“What just happened?”

●●

After a drink of water and Andrea’s gentle touch with a cool wet towel, I could stand again. I glanced at the clock, time now my enemy. I took a fresh white cotton towel from Xavier and wrapped it around my palm, then motioned to the glass of pink milk on the counter.

“I need to stay here, Andrea. Can you go to the doc by yourself? Ask about sewing that back on while I bandage up and get dinner ready.” I secretly hoped Xavier would object. He didn’t. No surprise there.

“You fainted, Kate! Your hand’s sliced up and you just bled all over your catered supper. You’re the one who needs to go.” She stamped her foot like it made a difference. Xavier tried to butt in but I pushed him back with my good hand.

“Please, Andrea. I’m better. I can finish preparing the tuna. Hurry over there and call me if the doc says I need to come in. Otherwise, we’ll just let it grow back.” I shoved my white cotton paw toward her. “Do this for me, okay? But hurry back. I need you here when the guests arrive.”

“Go,” Xavier barked. “Kate’s right. Find out what the doc says while we get dinner wrapped up.”

“We?” she asked, eyebrows raised. I pinched her forearm, shaking my head.

Don’t taunt this bull.

Andrea relented and headed for the door with her gory glass. “Mr. Compassion,” she whispered as she passed me. “Be sure to get some antibiotic ointment directly on the wound before you bandage her up, boss. If you don’t, the flesh will knit into the gauze and she’ll hate you forever. Then keep it good and dry.”

“Just go, Andrea,” Xavier replied, distracted by his iPhone and yet another e-mail. He left me standing at the sink.

Dry. Yes.

I reached out with my good hand to touch the faucet handle, recalling the first drip of water before I’d blanked out. I traced the chrome lines of the expensive spigot, the curved silver of a goose neck spout reflecting a distorted view of the room around me. Distorted like the strange moments when Xavier held me at the sink.

Missing moments. Seconds of my life that mysteriously vanished.

●●

Five days later

Xavier is tight. Tight with his money, and tight-lipped. I hate lots of empty talk, so we go well together. But it’s special when he splurges on me, because I know he’s really trying to make a point. He made that point on Thursday night.

The restaurant? Exquisite. When he told me a special dinner awaited, I knew something was up. No one goes to a restaurant like Canlis on a whim. It takes far-in-advance reservations and a wad of cash. But it’s worth every penny. With a view of Lake Union and the Cascades, and a private table for two off in a corner near tall windows that draw you into the distance, I knew that he’d gone all out. Just for me.

“Did you see this?” I asked. Napkins folded like swans craned their pale-blue necks over brilliant silver cutlery that adorned starched white tablecloths. A hand-written card atop the menu spoke to my heart. “‘Cooking is like love, Kate,’” I read from the dainty card. “‘It should be entered with abandon, or not at all.’ That’s me!” I turned and took Xavier’s hand. “Thank you. For this.”

Xavier nodded and took a seat next to me. He shrugged. “You deserve it. You serve the finest sashimi in Seattle.”

I massaged my left hand, remembering the sting of the slicing blade.

“You really put yourself into that dinner,” he said with a grin. “Very fresh. And they loved it. Corporate got a very nice thank you from our guests, by the way. You outdid yourself.” He reached out and laid a gentle hand on my bandaged paw.

“The things I do for you. . . ” I said with a wink. “But this is a huge gift. Thanks.”

“Has Andrea forgiven me?” he asked. “She’s been a cold shoulder all week at the office.”

“She’ll come around. She’s a little upset I didn’t take her up on the palm transplant and the milk preservative.” I smiled. Dear Andrea was crushed that she’d gone all the way to the medical clinic to learn that you’re never supposed to put severed flesh in milk. That, notwithstanding the doctor’s diagnosis that the wound wasn’t deep enough to sew the sliver back on.

“Keeping it clean and dry?” Xavier asked. He fidgeted with the obscene silver watch on his wrist, his beloved timepiece worth more than my salary. His eyes darted around like they did on our first date, desperate to make conversation—and failing. I couldn’t understand it. We’d been together for two years and we’d seen our share of troubles. A sliced hand was something he should shrug off. He usually did.

He tapped my bandage and spoke, his eyes focused on something distant. “I want to keep Andrea happy, that’s all.”

Sure you do.

“It’s dry,” I said, hoping he’d make eye contact. “I wrap it before I shower. But you knew that.”

Xavier nodded, looking out past me to the mountains. I caught his eye at last and forced my best smile.

“This place is posh, X.”

“Wait ‘til you try the wine,” he replied. He broke my gaze and went to the wine list. “They received the Grand Award for their collection.”

I reached out and tried to dislodge the list, to pull it down and get him to look at me, to talk to me and not the wines. He dropped the list but kept chatting, his eyes diverted to the fancy menu.

“You’ve got to try their special salad—romaine, bacon, Romano cheese, mint and oregano. With a lemon, oil and coddled egg dressing.”

“You sound like a cook,” I said, leaning across the table toward him, then scooting part way around the table closer to him. “You hate the kitchen, remember?”

He smiled, looking up past me, his eyes still focused beyond the windows. “Maybe, but I love to eat.” He opened the menu for me and finally met my eyes. I didn’t move, marveling at the depths of his blue. He took my good hand, holding it for a long embrace and I squeezed his fingers.

The warmth of Xavier’s hands tingled my spine, a magic electric connection I’d felt the first time his skin met mine. He still had the touch, the gentleman who swept me off my feet when I transferred from Silicon Valley to Seattle. That gentleman appeared less often these days as we became more comfortable—more familiar—with each other. I missed those early days, the marketing manager in hot pursuit of his company’s new media director. It was exciting to be noticed, to be desired.

Mother used to comment about men all the time: “Familiarity breeds contempt.” Familiar as an old worn slipper in our relationship, I craved the spontaneity of our early days. Lately it seemed I competed with work for his time. I’d birthed his mistress; the promotion I’d helped him secure now spirited him away. A nagging voice reminded me that—thanks to me—our relationship would never be the same.

An hour later I leaned back, too stuffed to move after we’d split a Canlis salad, then a lamb shank for him and grilled prawns for me. “Delicious, X. But please, no dessert.” I waved my hand over a tummy pressed too tight into my dress. “No room.”

A waiter approached to refresh my glass of water. Even the wait staff wore coat and tie. The evening, particularly Xavier’s long stares and his unabashed holding of my good hand in public, turned perfect. I loved the feel of his long fingers pulling mine into his warm palm.

“Thank you,” I said, extending my glass to the young man who tilted a crystal pitcher of ice water. When he poured, a few cold drops spilled on the back of my hand, rolling slowly down to my wrist.

I nearly dropped the goblet.

A wave of dizziness swept over me, like I’d not felt since I was seventeen—a desperate dizziness I’d worked hard to forget. I re-gripped the glass but my leaden arm fell, upsetting more water and spilling more icy wetness on my fingers. Another bout of disorientation engulfed me. I fell forward toward the table.

Xavier’s fresh glass of Shiraz teetered and spilled onto his chest, inky red trashing his starched white shirt and dinner jacket. At first the poor waiter dove for a towel to wipe me dry and steady my arm. He spun about, all elbows and thumbs in a failed attempt to control the damage, thrusting his wet towel at a cursing Xavier. The young man gushed apologies, convinced the spilled wine and water had been his fault.

But was it?

I let go the glass and grabbed my own napkin, then put a hand to my forehead. I steadied myself against the table with the wrapped hand, and tried to focus on Xavier. Head cocked to one side, dabbing at a twenty-dollar glass of wine he wore from chest to waist, he snarled something vulgar under his breath and waved the waiter on.

Moments later he grabbed the arm of the approaching maitre d’ and spoke sharply to her in a hushed voice. At the limit of his patience, he nearly made a scene. He released the head waiter, pushing her away, and then turned on me.

“Kate. What’s wrong with you anyway? You keep flaking out.” He reached for a fresh napkin while his glare bored into me through a tense silence. “Are you pregnant?”

He watched me for a moment, then resumed furious wiping on his blood-red shirt. “God, I hope not. There’s too much at stake.” He looked up again, shaking his head. “Not now.”

A thousand choked-back words caught in my throat. I turned and reached for my sweater on the back of my chair. “We need to go,” I hissed.

“Sure,” he mumbled, throwing down the trashed napkin and pushing back. Then he moved to my side. The waiter babbled apologies, drawing the attention of other patrons. A lady to my right, with ears too keen for my liking, crooned “She’s expecting! Help her up!”

Xavier seemed to remember his manners again and offered me a hand with my chair. I pushed him away and stood, unsteady.

“I want to go home, X.”

“We’ll go to my place. It’s closer.”

I shook my head—his was the last place I wanted to be right now. I narrowed my eyes. “My place. Now.”

After that last gaffe, the thought of his bachelor pad disgusted me—a hideous white-walled prison three blocks from the office. A place he called ‘modern,’ blanketed with the overbearing smell of gaudy leather. It suffocated me, and for some reason the starkness of his place always led to sex.

Pregnant? I wondered. Surely not. Not again.

“I can take better care of you downtown,” he insisted.

I ignored him and headed for the door, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. I felt groggy, like waking up from an operation or a deep dream. Not all my synapses were firing and it took some work to walk to the exit. I left him to deal with the bill. I needed to be alone, to get outside into the fresh air

When I passed through the doors into the chill night, the young waiter with the water caught up with me, a sequined purse in hand. “You left this, ma’am. I’m sorry—”

The waiter steadied me while I walked down the steps to the car, handing me off to a valet, another of Canlis’ well coordinated restaurant team. He held my arm and I slipped into the front seat of Xavier’s Mercedes Roadster.

“Please. Come back,” the valet said before he closed the door.

By myself? Certainly.

With Xavier? It would be a long time. . . if ever.

●●

“Want a bath, Sho-Gun?” I tapped at the glass of his aquarium and my little Japanese fighting fish darted at my finger, ever on the attack.

As the tiny carnivore circled about, seeking a path through the glass to my finger, I watched the lights of Xavier’s sleek black roadster fade away. He didn’t hover, but he’d been known to stalk when he’d been spurned. It was a relief to see him leave, wine-stain and all. I could deal with this dizziness—if I were alone.

“I’ll start the shower. You let me know if you’re up to it,” I joked, tapping the glass once more. Sho-Gun darted for the fingernail, ready to feast.

Pregnant?

Xavier’s question haunted me. Unexplainably dizzy, then blanking out at the sink last Saturday. Disoriented and falling apart tonight at dinner. The same not-quite-nauseous, I-want-my-balance-back, disorientation that plagued me for weeks a distant twelve years ago. Dizziness that started weeks after a romantic Valentine’s date during my freshman year of college—the night of my one moment of weakness. Xavier’s question brought it all back. History has a habit of repeating itself, and I’d taken precautions to make sure there were no more dangerous moments of weakness—and no pregnancy.

Or at least I thought I had.

I commanded my voice-activated shower on and protected the bandaged hand with a Saran-wrap-like protective sheet. Tonight I’d let the bathroom fill with steam. I’d soak in the elegance of hot velvet spewing from multiple shower heads, a delicate warm water massage. My liquid silk.

Xavier had once returned to my apartment when snubbed and tonight could be a repeat. I locked the door to the bath, just in case. He had an apartment key, but the bathroom was my one hiding place, my first obsession. A naked body luxuriating under streams of hot water, my ultimate indulgence. Steam engulfed me when I stepped into the large tiled stall. I savored the vapor’s hot embrace as it billowed around me, then plunged my hair under the gentle shower stream.

The first skewers of spray stabbed me like a knife.

Dizziness overwhelmed me in an instant and my feet slipped, no longer under my control. Reeling, I fell forward to the floor under a stream of near-scalding water. Instinctively, I reached with my right hand in a futile grab for the shower door’s handle. My left arm jutted out and took the brunt of the fall, a hot searing pain radiating up from the raw slice on my palm. Torrents of nausea rained down from the nozzle. I shivered in the heat.

My head swam with strange wet images in the tortuous moments of a pre-vomit nightmare. Mental pictures of water swirled in my head. Lakes, rivers, rain clouds, springs and water jugs. Cool cups of water and boiling springs. Through it all, I saw the word—I heard the word—screaming ‘pregnant!’ Fear gripped me with a woozy paralysis.

Then nothing.

Only blackness.

Chapter Two

“Ninety-nine percent effective when used properly. Detects pregnancy as early as one day after a missed period.” I read the instructions a dozen times, desperate to learn the result, yet scared to peel open the package. I’d walked this path twelve years ago. I had no desire to walk it again.

I paged through my Blackberry, opening calendar appointments from my seat on the toilet, mentally walking through each day for the past month as I sought some clue to when I started last. Searching for some event that would trigger the memory, prove to me I hadn’t missed something. But it was pointless. The calendar didn’t lie. Tomorrow was “patch change day.” I never missed that event, listed in bold red on my digital calendar. If the patch worked—and it had for years—I had another week to go before cramps.

I tore into the package, ripping through the blue wrapper, desperate to get this over with. Wet it, wait it, read it. The three minutes crawled by as my eyes burned text into the damp strip. Letters began to emerge slowly from the background of the saturated material and I could feel that tell-tale nausea grip me like it had as a scared teenager. I closed my eyes, wishing words onto the stick.

I held my breath and opened my eyes, looking up at the ceiling, walking my gaze down the wall to the floor, then across tiles to the base of the toilet and up my calves to the device in my hand. I blinked, then focused on the words, breathing deeply. My fingers ached from their tight grip on the tiny device.

“Not pregnant.”

●●

An hour after my home test, I was on the road. I celebrated my freedom, racing along dark pre-dawn highways while I hugged the backbone of my second obsession—a Dodge Tomahawk—the world’s fastest motorcycle. Dodge calls it “the ultimate response to mediocrity.” I loathe mediocrity.

Dad grounded me once for riding around Manhattan on the back of Spike LoFaso's chopper. I recall those two months of misery with a perverse sense of justice every morning when my chrome-and-blue beauty growls to life. Xavier calls riding the Tomahawk my “guilty pleasure.” Mother says it’s “improper, something a true lady should never do.” I think it’s quite proper. I’m the only woman in Seattle who can go from zero to sixty in two and a half seconds. I proved it again this morning.

Ironically, I can thank my slug of a father for this obsession with speed. He never got his internal speedometer off zero as long as I lived at home, stuck to his easy chair like a human slip cover. He never budged, but I intended to move very fast. The faster you move, approaching the speed of light, the slower you age. Beat that, Oil of Olay.

Five minutes after I gave the “Ice Rocket” its ritual morning highway workout, I pulled off my helmet in the special parking “jail” assigned to my baby at our corporate garage in downtown Seattle. That’s what Andrea calls it—“the jail.” A special steel cage in the basement of our building where no one could ever heist my ride. You don’t park a collector’s bike like mine in an open lot.

“Kate!” a man yelled from far behind me. “How fast today?” Justus, Andrea’s two-year boyfriend waved and ran in my direction.

“Hundred and five on I-5,” I yelled back. I shook my hair free. Shoulder-length cuts were great with bike helmets, and shorter was even better. The salon-princesses upstairs who trotted around with long tresses could keep them. I preferred short and sassy over hair-clogged drains and hours at the mirror with a hot straightener.

He came closer; his eyes never left my bike. “You’re crazy. Cops are gonna nail you some day.”

“Maybe. Life’s full of surprises.” I smiled. He was the perfect man for Andrea. Wholesome goodness, a straight arrow. Probably never broke the speed limit—or looked twice at another woman. There weren’t many like him. “Why so early today, Mr. Fowler?” I asked, watching his lanky form walk into my space.

“I came for you. I mean, the Riddle briefing’s at nine thirty, right? You asked for tech support. So here I am.”

“Oh yeah. Thanks. Sorry to drag you in so early.”

“No prob. Gives me a chance to see your mean machine. Ever take it out to the desert when you lived down south?” he asked, buffing a fingerprint off the gas tank’s deep blue flake finish. That color, like the sky after a bitter northerly, was my special touch.

“Every couple of months. Went to Bonneville once, too,” I said, motioning to the gate. Time to lock up the Ice Rocket and get to work.

“And?” he asked, his jaw dragging behind him. I pushed him out of the cell, pulling the gate closed behind us. I had places to go, but to be honest, I enjoyed the attention.

“Lost my nerve at a hundred and fifty. A stunt man from LA took her up to two hundred once. Beyond that—” I winked. “Suicide.”

Justus stood speechless, not a common sight. “You gotta go?” he asked as I picked up my bag and helmet.

“No. No rush,” I lied, mindful of the ticking clock but desperate to have someone to talk to. After last night it felt good to be noticed.

Justus helped me with my helmet and messenger bag as we walked. While we waited for the elevator he pointed at my left riding glove. “Andrea said you sliced your hand up pretty bad.” His voice sounded somber. “You gonna be okay?”

The hand hurt, particularly after last night’s fall in the shower and this morning’s ride. It throbbed inside the tight leather confines. “Oh, it’s fine. Thanks.” I unbuttoned my jacket while we waited, pulling the sleeve off gingerly.

“Here. Let me help,” he said, extending a hand to help me out of the taut jacket. When the elevator opened he had his arm behind me, jacket in hand. His strong biceps radiated warmth where they touched my bare shoulders. It felt good, sending shivers through me. I snatched the leather jacket from him, then moved to the far side of the car. We rode nine floors in silence.

“I—I could use some help, Kate,” he said, breaking the ice when we neared my floor.

“Yeah?” My heart jumped, the thought of Andrea—my only girlfriend—meeting us as we stepped out. This was too intimate. The door opened and the automatic hall lights were dimmed. We were alone, and my heart skipped again.

“It’s Andrea,” he said from behind me and I froze.

I turned and he handed me my bag and helmet; I’d almost dashed away without them. “I really care about her, Kate. That’s no surprise; you know that. But she’s got me frazzled. I thought. . . well, hoped you could help.”

“How?” My voice echoed in the empty hall. There were always ears lurking in this company, siphoning up juicy tidbits. I wished he’d asked me this in the basement. Justus looked down at his feet for a long time, then back up at me and blurted it out, exasperated.

“What do women want?”

That one caught me by surprise. I knew the answer, my version of it at least. I’d never expected someone would force me to verbalize it. Before I could grab the words, they dashed out of my mouth.

“Women want to be noticed.”

A dozen thoughts ran into each other, memories of last night’s dinner and Xavier’s insult. My upcoming presentation today. Worries that Andrea would walk up or worse, that X. lurked around the corner. Dreams of a bouquet of flowers waiting on my desk.

“Noticed? How?” he asked, head cocked to one side. The poor boy was clueless.

I flashed a quick smile, no desire to be Ann Landers for my girlfriend’s hunk, and turned toward the ladies’ room—my safe haven. This had to end. “Think on it, Justus. I’ve got to go, okay?” I saw his face fall before I spun about. He wanted more.

At the door to the restroom I paused and looked back. Justus’ eyes had a faraway look. “Tell Andrea I’ll be tied up in the Riddle briefing,” I said. “But I’ll see her after staff meeting. She wanted to know about dinner last night.”

“And?” He was a dry sponge, read to absorb whatever I gave him.

“It was dinner, Justus. That’s all. Bye.”

●●

What am I running from?

I stood in front of my locker, safe inside the washroom, and put a finger to my throat. My heart raced. I hated that.

Why did it have to be Justus?

I stood for a long moment in front of the mirror of the executive washroom, wishing my heart to slow, breathing deep. A bruise on my cheek stared back at me from below a careful application of makeup. The throbbing hand screamed through tight leather. Another bruise on my bare shoulder showed above my skin-tight black camisole. I hoped Justus didn’t pick up on the damage; I looked like I’d weathered a minor fight.

Something tempting, something dark and sensuous, tugged at me from deep inside. It made my heart quicken again, made me shiver. The truth? When I’d shed the jacket, his bare arms against my skin, I’d wanted Justus to notice me. The thought made me feel dirty, yet quickened my pulse all the more.

I despised myself, my mind playing the elevator scene over and over, fantasizing about what might have been. A fantasy I would never want, yet part of me—the hidden part of me—wanted very bad.

●●

Focus, Kate. It’s time for work.

Some bikers wear boots and never shed them. I’m probably one of the few that dons stilettos once I’m off the road. The leathers come off, top and bottom, and skirt and blouse are waiting in my special locker. That’s my perk number two at Consolidated Aerodyne. I stock the wardrobe with two weeks of outfits and some poor girl makes sure they’re fresh and pressed every day. The mystery woman also keeps my shoes ready. This month it’s a long rack of Italian Fendi stilettos.

Today, I would be in a black Cinderella Moire´ stiletto sandal with a top strap. I’m tall, yet these shoes gave me four more inches. More than enough to go eye to eye with any man. Very few people can look down their noses at you when they have to look up. Today was no different; there were people to impress and contracts to win.

As I snapped the last strap, my mind wandered back to Justus again. His question made me uncomfortable, mostly because it made me confront myself.

“What do women want?” For any other man, that would have been a leading question. Knowing Justus, he simply wanted to figure women out. I’d brushed him off with hasty escape into the restroom, then let fantasies about his intentions play games with my head. But I knew the answer when he asked. I knew exactly what I wanted. What we all want, if we’re honest. I ran my hand down the length of my skirt, gathering the silky material between my fingers.

Women dress to be noticed.

I want to be noticed by a man.

There’s a part of me no one ever sees, the part I shove down deep until wounds expose me. Wounds like last night’s verbal gash. Mother used to say that I built a shell around myself to protect the vulnerable inside. Justus had cracked my shell this morning, or at least made me confront it.

I don’t simply want be noticed by a man.

I want to be cared for.

I felt a tear form at the corner of my eye and touched it. Something I’d not felt in years. I rubbed the salty drop between my fingers as a dozen poems ran through my head all at once, sweet verses like Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s love poems from my childhood, poetry about being held and comforted.

To lose the sense of losing. As a child,

Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermore

Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth

‘til, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled,

He sleeps the faster that he wept before.

That’s what I wanted. Comfort. Security. Those were the words I should have shared with Justus—the truth about women that he needed to hear.

The meek part of me screamed to be heard, to slow down and get off the treadmill, to find someone to clothe me and protect me. Someone to caress my forehead and bandage my cuts. Bruised from unexplained falls, hands sliced, and spirits damaged from clumsy dinners. I sank onto the bench in the wash room and closed wet eyes, trying for the first time in years to listen for that gentle voice I’d buried for so long.

I hurt. Deep aches in my shoulder reminded me of last night’s fall. My bandaged hand, free of the glove, burned under its dressing. And the wounded part of me, scabs ripped off by Xavier’s self-centered comments, bled freely inside. For a moment I wished I had been pregnant. At least I’d have something on which to blame my string of misfortune. I craved someone to share it with, a partner. A loving mate.

Then I smelled leather. The scent of my motorcycle gear jolted me back to the present.

I reached up and fingered the smooth black of my jacket. For a long moment I stood at the locker door, squeezing my eyes shut, focused on the narcotic allure of speed and work while I struggled to shut out vacuous desires for comfort and simplicity. For men. It worked. The hurt part of me that had surfaced for just a moment—the part of me that loved poetry and barefoot walks in grass—escaped to the dark recesses of my shell. I compartmentalized my other half into an emotional jail, buried away where it wouldn’t be found.

I grabbed my tiny handbag and slammed the locker shut. Time to wrestle another corporate alligator for Xavier and make him look good. A new day lay ahead, and in it, a special opportunity to excel. There were big deals to be won today.

I was ready.

From hot wheels to skirt and high heels, in five minutes flat.

●●

“Was that one of your famous ‘Ice Slice’ looks? The scowl you threw the boss’s direction just then?” Andrea asked. We turned the corner, headed toward my office. Xavier stood somewhere behind us and out of earshot.

“Is that what they call it?” I asked her, stopping outside the copy room. “Ice Slice?”

“Yeah. Which makes you—”

“The Ice Queen. I could have gone all day without hearing that nickname. Again.” I looked down at the floor. I hated office gossip, and this place had turned into another Peyton Place. Or Sex in the City. Funny how nicknames stuck. At least here I’d be a queen. The ‘Ice Princess’ moniker never left me in my last job.

“He deserved it, Andrea. After the way he treated me last night, what would you do?”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s an executive VP now Kate. Not your peer anymore. He simply asked if you were ready for the Riddle presentation. That’s all.”

“I’m sure I told him this weekend.”

“Don’t read too much into that.” Andrea pulled me close to the wall, out of the way of someone dropping off recycled paper. She waited until the intruder had passed. “You have to separate this thing with Xavier into personal life and office life, Kate, or you’re gonna get burned. Don’t assume that when you tell him something at your place that he’ll remember it when he’s here. He compartmentalizes. At your condo, he’s in another world.”

Compartmentalize. Like me.

Andrea had it nailed. I thought that Xavier would trust me more since we were close. But I’d come to realize our intimacy could work against us.

“Justus said you two had a long talk in the garage this morning.” She looked up, straight at me. Her face was a mixture of pain and question.

“He really cares about you,” I blurted out, pushing back memories of his skin against mine. “He asked my advice about some stuff. And I told him we’d catch up about dinner.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. I ran off to get changed.”

Andrea raised an eyebrow, and then looked down at my dress. Her eyes stopped at my middle, then tracked back to mine.

“What?” I asked, looking down.

What’s on my skirt?

“Are you?” She nodded in the direction we’d just come. “You know. ‘Prego’?”

“Pregnant?” I gasped. “No!”

“You sure?” she asked, pressing too hard. “You fainting anymore?” Her eyes bored into me.

“No. Not pregnant. Not dizzy. Just fine, thanks.” My pulse rose with the temperature of my face. I suspected I’d turned beet red. A dead giveaway.

“Rumor mill’s going full tilt, Kate. Someone overheard Xavier at Canlis last night. And word travels fast.”

His three words: “Are you pregnant?” The damage was done. I was Kate Pepper, the office mistress. Human resources would stalk me for sure. I drew a deep breath, thankful that Andrea had been so blunt about what she’d heard, but unsure what to do next.

“You had to know this would happen. Eventually,” Andrea said with a school marm’s tone. “Now what?”

She wanted to help. And I didn’t deserve it. I felt dirty in Andrea’s presence, afraid she could read my thoughts about her boyfriend. I forced myself to concentrate. To focus on work.

“What’s next? Do my job. The Riddle briefing’s in an hour.”

“Is he ready?”

“He who?”

“Bill. Have you talked with him?” she asked. “You asked him to build the Riddle presentation. Have you seen it?”

“No. I tasked him last Friday. We were busy, remember?”

“Yeah. Busy getting ready for a charity dinner. But did you pull up the files last night and check them out?” She touched my bandage, holding my wrist for a moment. “That’s all Xavier wants to know. He’s not busting you. Just checking.” She tried to smile, something to lift me up, then added “Trust but verify. Xavier says it all the time.”

Trust. I failed on that count.

I shook my head. “I meant to. But last night. . . ” I snapped my mouth shut; I wasn’t about to fuel her concerns about my problem. Whatever it was.

She pushed away. “Gotta run, Kate.” She motioned her head in the direction we’d just come. “Go find Bill. Close the loop with Mr. X. And ignore the looks. The rumors will pass. They always do.” She turned and smiled, then started to walk away. “This time next week there’ll be someone else they’re talking about.”

Headed down the hall, she waved over her shoulder. “Smile, Kate. You’ll get through it.”

I nodded, unable to speak. A traitor and a tramp.

●●

My stilettos made a clack-clack on the cherry wood floors of the office corridor as I headed to the main conference room. I loved that about this shoe. The staccato snap of a heel was a woman’s gunshot. Less bloody but no less deadly. Someone once suggested that stilettos are a metaphor for sex. I prefer to say they’re about power. Perhaps there’s no difference.

Riddle Incorporated came to us as the world’s leading manufacturer of miniature plasma computer screens. In an era when flat screen meant big, they’d found a way to make huge profits by putting high resolution in a tiny package. In our hands at Consolidated Aerodyne, combined with my new concept for virtual e-mail—v-mail—their screens in our seat backs would make every airline a wireless, video-based, keypad-free remote office. For a third the cost of the competition. As the New Media Executive for Seattle’s fastest growing aerospace firm, this account—and this technology—was in my sweet spot. And I’d taken a big chance, delegating the success of this big presentation to one of my staff. I snapped the power heels louder and picked up the pace. We’d win on this one on substance, not glitz—if Bill had prepared. And if he wasn’t ready, we’d still win. I always had a plan.

Xavier met me three doors from the appointment, matching my stride. It wasn’t hard to find me. Just use your ears. His Italian loafers clacked alongside my power points.

“Ready?”

I didn’t look at him, but kept my gaze straight ahead, increasing my pace. “Double ready.”

“Sure? Maybe I can help.”

I wouldn’t look at him, even if he begged. “I tasked Bill. If he blows it, I have a backup.”

“You’d better. Management will crucify you if you lose this deal.” We walked in silence the rest of the way to the room. A part of me yearned for him to say something—anything—about last night. I wanted him to at least acknowledge me, not just match strides with my staccato shoes. Expecting an apology from Xavier was fantasy, but surely he could try.

I forced myself to snap out of it; I had to rattle my own cage and get back in the game. Riddle’s people would arrive in twenty minutes. Andrea knew him well; “Trust, but verify” was written all over Xavier’s face, and draped in a stony silence. He’d let me fail on my own, or help if I asked for it. But for assistance, there would be a price. His offers always meant some form of control.

I blocked the entrance when I stopped outside conference room. Xavier waited behind me as I’d hoped. My eyes met Bill’s, my assistant seated on the far end of a blond oak table. No fancy conference rooms for me.

“Are we ready?” I asked.

Three sets of eyes darted about the room with a guilty avoidance, finally settling on Bill Jackson, a key business developer on my staff. His eyes shifted from me to the projector, and then to the floor. Andrea had been right; he wasn’t prepared. Andrea was always right.

“I sent you a text—” he began, fumbling for his phone.

I flipped a thumb drive that cost more than a used car—a sleek one the size of my little finger with eighty gigabytes of data capacity—flying across the room at no one in particular.

Let’s see who grabs it.

The co-op whose name I can never remember jumped to his feet. He caught the plastic stick in one hand and had it in the USB port of our presentation laptop in one smooth motion.

The kid’s good.

I flipped my phone open while I balanced a sheaf of indexed charts under my left arm. Xavier stood behind me watching in silence—a leopard who feasted on customer opportunities with amazing success. He’d been in this predicament before, and he waited.

I pressed the “7” speed dial, hit the “speaker” button, then stared at Bill.

The “Ice Slice?” Is that what Andrea called it? Well, take this Mr. Jackson.

I narrowed my eyes, and launched a shaft of frozen glare followed by two words. “You’re fired.”

The phone answered.

“Security. Please escort Mr. Jackson from the building. You’ll find us in Conference A-5. He’s been replaced.”

“Now wait a minute, Kate—” Bill began. “I told you about my problem.” He shuffled his feet, looking down. “I had a family emergency.”

“And I covered it,” I replied and flipped the phone shut with a loud snap. “Never got your text, though. Did you get my fax?”

He floundered, shrugging as he looked up.

“No? Too bad. Security will hand it to you when you leave.” I stepped into the conference room where Mr. ‘No-Name’ the co-op loaded my briefing. Xavier followed me in silence and stood against the wall. I could feel his eyes on Bill. You could hear the heartbeats of six people in the silence until security arrived seconds later.

The Sword of the Patron

• Title: The Sword of the Patron

• Genre: Fantasy

• Wordcount: 118,000

Premise: An oppressor’s assault, a father’s terminal illness, an elder knight’s enigmatic challenge…could a single thread interweave them all?

Blurb

When Danae Baledric leaves home in search of a cure for a mysterious illness that plagues her father, she never expects her journey to teach her the price of her own ignorance. In The Sword of the Patron, Danae learns that the eternal war between The Creator and the Impenetrable Darkness is waged one soul at a time. Does Danae possess the strength to confront those who hunt her and escape her bonds of debt to the Darkness? Will she find the bravery to cast off her trust in her own power and accept the leadership of One immeasurably greater?

Synopsis

Danae Baledric’s everyday life teems with insurmountable troubles. An enemy occupation of her homeland, a worsening illness that plagues her father, and a sense of defilement in her spirit--these hardships flood Danae with frustration. From what might she draw strength? For Danae, the answer lies in her sense of self-sufficiency combined with the uncanny ability to work magic.

Driven by her strong will, Danae rails against her circumstances, which invites her enemies’ virulent attention. An unscrupulous use of magic makes her a target, a problem Danae can solve only by fleeing from her conquered city. Rather than complacently hide in the countryside, she uses her new freedom to pursue another goal: a cure for her father’s illness. She hopes to discover some new wisdom in the far-off city of Bilearne.

An encounter with an elder knight of the Elgadrim named Praesidio sends a tremor through the foundation of Danae’s intentions. Though she began her trip in search of medicine for the body, Praesidio explains her father’s trouble festers in his soul. A curse threatens more than his life. Worse yet, her own dabbling in incantations indebts her to the dark forces of the spiritual realms, a debt they will collect in violence and human sacrifice. Praesidio knows the panacea for both Danae’s and her father’s ills: the cleansing power that comes only from Creo, the Creator.

Assuming Creo’s mercy is a charm Danae might earn, she offers a favor to his blessed people, the Elgadrim, in exchange for knowledge of how she might undo her father’s curse. Danae learns of an otherworldly artifact, The Sword of the Patron, which the Elgadrim have lost to the thieving hands of their enemies, and she proposes that she be the one to hunt it. Praesidio’s people meet Danae’s suggestion with skepticism, but between Danae’s argument that they lose nothing in allowing her attempt and Praesidio’s offer of guidance, a quest unfolds.

They travel into the wilderness, but the servants of darkness pick up Danae’s trail, intent on collecting the payment she owes. A battle sunders Danae from Praesidio’s protective care and leaves her badly injured, yet free from the enemy’s clutches.

After the battle, Danae awakes to find herself incapacitated and in the care of a stranger. Under the patient tending of an elf named Culduin, not only does her body mend, but she also begins to realize that submitting to help is not a sign of weakness.

Danae and Culduin pick up the thread of the quest begun with Praesidio, still dogged by Danae’s enemies and harried by the press of time. As they forge on toward the High Temple of the false god Queldurik, a twist of fate reunites them with Praesidio, and together, they pursue the lost Sword. When they reach the temple, they find the Sword clutched in the clawed hands of a demonic High Priest of Queldurik.

Teetering on the edge of a fiery pit of sacrifice, writhing in mental agony as she combats the probing lies of this towering demon, Danae Baledric faces staggering odds. Does a mere alchemist’s apprentice have any hope of wresting the Sword of the Patron from the hellish apparition before her? For her father’s sake, she stakes her very life on the attempt. Only if Danae realizes the single source of true power and releases her grip on her compulsion to master her own destiny, will she escape the ravenous fires of sacrifice that wait to devour her.

First 30 Pages

Prologue

The iron-bound door that separated Baledric's Apothecary and Alchemy Shop from the Baledric home burst open, jostling the flask of gritty liquid in Danae's hands. She stepped back in surprise as her twin brothers barreled through the entry.

“Would you two watch where you're going?” Danae said. “Honestly! Can't you take your sparring somewhere…anywhere…else?”

The two teenagers ignored her, swinging slaps to the head and kicks to the shins at one another. Brothers. She cast her glance at the delicate composition that bubbled in the cast-iron cauldron over the fire and shook her head. How was she supposed to help their father with his work if her seven younger siblings kept popping in and out of the laboratory and shop like ground squirrels in a burrow?

The boys continued to do battle, passing by the laboratory, banging against the long shop counter and rattling every bottle, box and tool that sat upon it. Their continued small-scale war risked upsetting every stack or shelf of goods in range of the tussle.

“You watch yourselves," Danae called after them, “or Papa will have you apprenticed now instead of holding off until next summer.”

Once the twins had wrestled into the center of the room, Danae headed for the fireplace, bearing her chemical compound in gloved hands. With a deep breath, she prepared to pour it into the already-bubbling cauldron, but then caught herself and backed away from the fire. She placed the flask and gloves on the counter behind her, pulled her cascade of strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder and deftly wove it into a long braid. She wound the plait around the back of her head and pinned it in place. No use tempting disaster. She wiggled her fingers back into the protective gloves and returned to the cauldron's edge with her glass vessel of combined ingredients.

Slowly, gingerly, she tipped the flask. The blue-gray slurry spilled from the mouth and spattered into the waiting kettle with a gurgle and hiss, and Danae jumped back as the concoction roiled with increasing violence. The drama of the display halted the twins' boxing match. As the tumult of the liquid settled into a steady burble, she nodded and turned from the fireplace, empty flask in hand.

Danae returned to the snug room that stood to the rear of the shop, pulling a stoneware mixing bowl from the closest shelf. Her father's laboratory brimmed over with supplies and materials that lined every wall from ceiling to floor. Danae surveyed the variety with an adept eye. A pinch of powdered iron…a tiny scoop of sulfur…the bark of the mournbriar…these and many more exotic ingredients she dropped into the bowl, then blended them with practiced precision and the lilt of a hummed tune in her throat.

As she stirred, she could just make out her brothers' voices in the other room.

“Do you think this one could explode?” one whispered with a hint of awe in his voice.

“How should I know?” his brother hissed back. “Anyway, we shouldn't be messing with Papa's work.”

Good. At least Connall had an iota of sense. Danae suspected that only his virtue of restraint had kept the inseparable twins alive this long. Left to Tristan's sagacity, they might have long ago met a foolish end. She continued her work.

“What if we sloshed a little…just a tiny bit… into the fire?”

Danae dropped the mixing bowl and bolted for the shop. As she reached the doorway, however, the front door of the shop swung open with a tinkle of its bronze bell. A lean, middle-aged man stepped through. His gaze immediately fell upon the twin boys by the cauldron, and his expression bespoke more than his typical consternation at her brothers' meddling. The tight, drawn lines of anxiety on her Papa's face struck Danae as odd.

“Tristan, Connall!” he said, “Out of the shop. Join your mother in the house please.”

One less hassle I have to handle, Danae thought, turning her back on the scene to focus again on her batch of ingredients.

“Aw, Papa…Mama'll just give us more chores if we go back over,” Tristan said.

“Boys!” their father bellowed. “I expect you to--”

The door of the shop swung open again, wildly jangling the bell that hung above it and cutting off their father's command. Whoever entered stumped across the floorboards of the shop, and their heavy footfalls drew groans from the wood.

“So, what do you say, Baledric?” someone drawled.

Danae knew the voice and barely contained a moan upon hearing it. What could he want? Surely Drex of Cray realized there was little finished product left in her father's shop to seize for redistribution, given the thoroughness of Drex's last raid. Danae set her work on the heavy table and slinked to the doorway. She pressed her body against the inside wall of the laboratory, peering tentatively around the doorjamb to see how her father would face down the presence of this Tebalese soldier.

As she glanced into the shop, Danae saw that Drex, the insufferable bully, had not come alone, but had brought two more soldiers in tow. They all stood in the middle of the close space, and Drex stared fixedly at her brothers, now frozen in fear by the fireplace. He seemed to relish their cowering, and an ugly sneer twisted his ash-colored cheeks.

Danae's father pushed his wild, dark hair back from his forehead, out of the beads of sweat that had begun to glisten there.

“My opinion remains unchanged,” he answered in a quiet, unruffled voice. “There's no deal you could offer that would convince me to give my sons over to you.” He stepped forward, placing himself between the formidable soldiers and his boys. Drex towered over him, despite her father's straight posture.

“Surely you could use the money, shop-keep,” Drex said. “They will learn much more useful skills in my enforcement squad than here in your sad little chemical brewery.”

So that was their aim. How many times would Drex propose to recruit a member of the Baledric family before he would realize none of her father's sons sympathized with the occupation? A protracted silence hung over the room. Had her father run out of rebuttals? Danae could no longer remain still.

“You heard what he said, Drex,” Danae said as she turned the corner into the shop. “My brothers aren’t going with you, so you had best take your business elsewhere!”

The boys gaped at her with a mixture of horror and admiration. Her father lanced her with a sharp stare. Drex gave a disquieting, low chuckle.

“Oh, must it all come down to this?” Drex sighed. He slowly drew a long, curved knife from a sheath at his hip, his gaze lingering upon its smoky blade. “I have offered you a peaceful, even advantageous opportunity to respond to my offer. But since you bore me with your stubbornness…”

The room exploded into chaos.

The massive Drex lunged at Danae's father, but the smaller, nimbler man caught Drex’s raised weapon arm. Scrambling and stumbling over one another, Tristan and Connall barreled for a thick, heavy door at the rear of the shop. The two retainers behind Drex pursued the boys. The brothers dashed through the exit, Danae right on their heels.

“Bar the door! Bar it!” she screamed through the door as she pulled it shut. Danae slammed her back against the wood and turned to stare wide-eyed at the soldiers before her, limbs trembling as she sought to stand between the boys and these brigands. The crossbar landed with a satisfying thunk on the other side of the door. Her brothers were safe--for the moment.

As the two burly men reached to grab her, she twisted and dodged, wriggling her way between them into the center of the room. She whirled to see how her father fared. Her face blanched. The behemoth Drex had forced her dear Papa to his knees and raised his knife for what looked to be a killing blow. Father and daughter met glances for only an instant, when suddenly he threw an outstretched palm toward her.

Danae did not have time to wonder what her father’s gesture could mean. A great jet of flame erupted from his hand, streaked across the shop, and burst into a fireball behind her. She felt the wave of heat swell through the room, though no flame threatened her. The two soldiers, however, fell back. They howled like crazed bulls as they tried to snuff the flames that licked their clothes and hair. After a moment of stupefied amazement, she rushed to her father.

She had lingered one moment too long.

Drex, with a look of sickening relish flooding his scarred features, plunged the knife.

Chapter 1

Four Months Later

The door to the chemist’s shop closed with a jingle as the last customer of the day walked out. Slanting through the rippled glass of the shop windows, beams of afternoon sun kindled the swirling dust in the air to an amber glow. Danae watched the customer go and gladly welcomed the conclusion of a busy fall day. She entered her final sale onto a smooth vellum page of the leather-bound ledger that sat upon the shop’s counter, and then lightly dropped her quill into the inkbottle that sat amidst many corked flasks and jars. Grabbing a broom from the corner, she gave the floorboards one final sweep.

Danae found it nearly impossible to keep the dust from accumulating upon the innumerable materials and tools of the chemist’s trade that lined the shop upon towering columns of shelves. Whether a customer sought herbal remedies for the ills of the season, cosmetics to conjure up miracles of another sort, or even something as outlandish as her father’s prized strike-on-anything matches, all these wares and more awaited purchase here. As a matter of pride, she lovingly ordered every flask, bottle, little box and sack which offered nooks and niches that continually begged for cleaning. The rhythmic swish of the broom played a relaxed duet with the bubbling of the kettle over the fire, and Danae sighed with a moment of contentment.

“Just about time to lock up, I suppose,” a voice called from the laboratory at the rear of the shop.

“Yes, nearly,” Danae replied. “Have you finished with the batch of tinctures, Papa? I’ll wash the kettle if you have.”

Danae’s father, spry and quick of limb, emerged from the alcove. He turned his sharp, though jovial gaze on his daughter and smiled. “No, the batch isn’t quite done simmering yet. I was just rummaging through the back looking for some tin sheeting, and couldn’t find a scrap. I swore I had at least a few pieces in there.”

Danae sighed heavily through her nose, her lips pursed. “No, the sheeting’s gone. I’m sure the squadron took that on the last raid--”

“Right, now I recall. They took it with the salves and the big bundle of new matches I had just made.” His face twisted into a frown. “They weren’t even dry yet. I hope they blew up in their packs!”

Danae laughed and grimaced at the same time. Her momentary humor soured quickly, however.

“Well, if the matches did explode,” Danae began, lifting a freshly washed mortar to dry it, “the brutes more than deserved it.” She thumped the mortar down upon the counter.

Her father sighed, his countenance troubled. “Danae, you'll do no good by simply railing. Not to mention, it's unbecoming.”

“Maybe so, but I'm weary of this whole process. We make it, they take it, and the people who actually need what we can provide never see so much as a jar of balm,” Danae said, her face growing warm as her voice rose. “You'll never do anything about it, and you won't let me. You know enough incantations to make sure no putrid Tebalese soldier bothers anyone on this block again, and yet, you won't use them!”

Her father slowly pulled a stool beneath him and sat with uncharacteristic weariness. “Danae,” he began, but a sudden fit of coughing snatched away his speech. Every time he took a breath to speak again, the words lodged in his chest, and the coughing gripped him anew. With a trembling hand, he lifted his teacup from the counter and took a long draught. Finally, the hacking subsided. He spoke again, his voice weak. “You're being awfully short-sighted about this. Do you really think that retaliation on my part would gain me anything but a trip to the pillory, or worse?”

Danae persisted. “Well, if you won't take the chance, then teach me what you know. There's got to be something we can do besides capitulate. To me, that's just as bad as sympathizing with the whole occupation.”

“Knowing the difference between a losing battle and supporting the evil the Tebalese perpetrate on our people are two very different things, Danae.” Her father leveled a dark gaze upon her, setting his jaw.

“But don't you think there's something more we could do?” Danae asked. Her father's lack of response provided all the answer she needed.

With a final stir of the tinctures in the kettle, he turned and disappeared back into the laboratory.

Danae’s gaze drifted through the windows, while her mind wandered farther. She looked up and down the street. Here stood the homes of so many honest, hardworking families, all who deserved better than to be treated like garbage under the feet of occupying soldiers, but as the familiar pall began to settle over her, Danae shrugged it off. She snapped herself from her melancholy reverie and rejoined her father in the routine tasks that marked the end of the day. They both worked for some time in their own respective areas of the business, but their silence shattered every time Danae’s beloved Papa broke out in another fit of coughing.

As she placed a last flask on the shelf to await further use tomorrow, Danae ducked her head through the doorway of the laboratory.

“The cough is getting worse, you know. You won’t admit it, but I can hear it worsen by the day. Is there nothing else we can try?”

Her father did not look at his daughter, but swept past her. “I have tried everything I or anyone else here in Dayleston can think of. I have exhausted every resource. I can only hope for the illness to run its course.”

Danae returned to the window, her forehead against it and her eyes downcast. She shuddered at the thought of her father’s mysterious cough ‘running its course’, and again turned her attention outside in an effort to drive away gloomy fears.

The sun hovered just above the shingled rooftops of the city, and the streets grew empty as people concluded their day’s business. The sound of shod hooves rang over the cobblestones not far off, and the baker across the narrow way lifted his head from his sweeping of his front step. His face grew ashen, and Danae turned to follow his line of sight.

Around the corner came the scraping clackitty-clop of the horses, short, stout animals already shaggy of coat, despite the comparative warmth of the fall days. Five of them approached, ridden by men armored in bands of hard leather and plates of steel, their heads capped in close-fitting leather helms.

“Wonderful,” Danae muttered. “Drex and his goons have decided to grace us with their presence.”

“Watch your tone, Danae,” her father said. “That glass isn’t very thick.”

The broad, smug, Drex of Cray waved the group over toward the baker, who sweated and trembled at the approach of the armored men. Even Drex’s horse seemed to saunter as he ambled toward the shrinking baker.

Mopping his brow with a worn handkerchief, the merchant avoided looking at the squad. He winced as the leader of the squad rapped the pommel of his broad bladed sword upon his battered shield, which bore the telltale gargoyle device that heralded the soldier’s loyalties.

“Baker!” the dreadlocked, thickly framed leader barked, reining his horse in and jumping from the saddle with a loud rattle of armaments. His ritually scarred cheeks twisted into an unpleasant smile as he approached the baker, who clutched his broom with white knuckles.

“My men are hungry,” Drex reported. “Tell me you have not emptied your bins for the day.”

The poor baker shook uncontrollably, and his mouth opened and clapped shut, wordless.

“Speak!” the leader bellowed.

The baker put his back to the door of his shop, and stammered, “It’s n-n-not customary to have goods left at the e-e-end of the d-day. They would be…stale. Unusable for tomorrow’s customers.”

The armored ringleader gestured to the other four. They, too, jumped down from their horses and encircled the baker, so Danae could no longer see the merchant from her vantage point at the window. Drex himself stood back from the group, his arms folded across his chest, and his wide grin devoid of warmth. The squad laughed and jeered, raising their gauntleted fists as the baker stammered incoherent pleas for mercy.

Danae gestured to the window. “Surely this warrants some intervention?”

“I'm finished discussing this, Danae,” her father replied, scrubbing a spot on the counter with atypical force.

“Well, I can’t watch another moment of this barbarism!” Danae exclaimed. She reached for the door handle. Her father brought her up short, putting himself between his daughter and the door.

“Don’t, Danae. You won’t be able to help. You know that. Our help will come later, if necessary.”

Danae gave her father a grieved look, but also one of resignation. She knew what it was to stand her ground with the soldiers of Tebal, and to pay for it in blood and bruises. Tebalese brutality had grown commonplace in the lives of the residents of Dayleston, and many of Danae’s people were broken in spirit because of it.

She turned her attention back out the window, and despite her limited view, she could see the soldiers taking turns throwing punches, kicking and stomping with iron shod feet, enacting their vengeance upon the baker. After a sickeningly long time, they finally grew bored of using the hapless man as a punching bag, and the group turned from the doorstep of the bakery and remounted their horses. The merchant slumped in front of his shop, his eye already swelling and his nose and mouth bleeding freely. Danae turned to her father, who hugged her close to his chest. He pressed his lips to the top of her head.

Outside, Drex said, “Consider yourself warned. Keep bread on hand for my men and me, or the cost will be much higher next time!” He wheeled his horse around and trotted down the street, the others soldiers clattering behind. An eerie silence hung over the street once the riders departed and the sun finally sank below the rooftops, submerging the causeway in the colors of dusk. Far away, the sunset bell began to toll.

Chapter 2

Danae and her father held their breath until the soldiers passes from sight, and then bustled about, gathering bindings, salves and other supplies to tend the baker’s injuries. They dashed out the door of the shop, and crossed over to the battered merchant, who slowly drew himself into a sitting position. He held his head with one hand and his side with the other. As Danae’s father knelt by the unfortunate man’s side, other neighbors began to peer out cautiously. A few of the braver ones crept toward the scene.

Danae’s father assessed the man’s wounds and sighed in relief. “None of your bones appear broken,” he said, clasping the baker's shoulder warmly. “You'll be sore for a few days, but I don’t think your banged-up mouth or bruised ribs will need much more care to soon be good as new.”

They pressed bandages to his wounds to stop his bleeding and helped him to his feet, just as the baker’s wife opened the door.

“Galen! My poor Galen! What in the world--” the plump little woman began. She turned her stricken expression to Danae and her father. “Thank you for helping my husband. I just can’t believe…what has he ever done to anyone?” Tears spilled down her rosy cheeks. “Please excuse us.”

She sniffled as she tenderly led her limping husband back inside. The heavy bakery door shut, and soon after, the lock rasped and clicked. The spectators shuffled back to their homes, whispering their dismay to one another.

Danae stooped to wash away the small pool of blood on the doorstep with a bucket of water she had carried out with her, when another voice broke the stillness of the empty street.

“Deklan? Danae? Heaven and earth, you two, where are you?”

A woman in her mid forties poked her head out of the chemist’s shop, her green eyes so much like Danae’s that their relation was unmistakable. She was small of stature, but of a sturdy sort, and her face announced her displeasure to find the father and daughter in the street.

“Deklan Baledric!” she blurted. “You heard the sunset bell, didn’t you? I’ll not have those brutes lock you up for being out after curfew!”

Deklan turned back to his shop, gesturing for Danae to come along. “We’re coming, love,” Deklan said to his wife. “Drex and his men were bullying old Galen this evening, and we’re just tidying up.”

A sad expression softened the older woman’s face as Deklan delivered the news, and she waited in the doorway for him. She stepped back to usher both husband and daughter inside. With a solid push, she shut the door, and she, too, turned a long brass key in the lock. She looked into Deklan’s eyes, searching his expression.

Deklan gave his wife a soft kiss.

“Don’t worry, Fiona. Galen will be well in a few days. The squad was merciful…for them.” After a moment, Deklan stepped into the shop. He sniffed, and his eyes widened.

“The tinctures! Blast!” he blurted, dashing to the fireplace. He yanked the kettle from the hook over the fire and placed it on the butcher-block counter. Stirring the mixture with practiced steadiness, he leaned over the kettle to breathe in the vapors. After several tense moments, his face relaxed, and he stood upright. “Just in time, I think,” he said, heaving a great sigh. “I was on the edge of losing three days’ work, but I think we came back before it was too late, thanks to my conscientious wife.” He turned to wink at Fiona, who stood with her hands on her hips, head cocked to the side and eyebrow raised.

“Good,” said Fiona. “Then if I may claim your assistant, there’s a supper to get on the table. Danae? Please come cut the bread and set out the dishes.”

The women passed through a doorway at the back of the shop, and were met by the warmth and homey smells of the kitchen. A large pot of root vegetable stew bubbled over the fire, and two loaves of fresh golden bread sat on the board, waiting to be sliced. Danae moved to the door-less cupboard and pulled out ten earthenware bowls. Nimbly, she carried them over to the long pinewood table on the opposite side of the kitchen and set them around.

The rustic table had seen many years of service, and the benches on each side were smooth with continual wear. On each end of the table stood a chair, each appointed with a simple cushion, covered in a plain canvas cloth that once in life was cornflower blue. It had long since faded to a lighter shade, washed of its intensity by years of service. Danae then turned her attention to the bread, pulled out a large knife, and began slicing.

Danae’s mother stood over the fire, blowing on a spoonful of stew to cool it. Taking a thoughtful bite, she pulled out a wooden box of ground, dried herbs, and sprinkled several liberal pinches into the pot. “After you're done with the bread,” she said, “Please call your brothers to wash up. And make sure your father has actually made it in from the shop and hasn’t gotten up to his elbows in some project!”

Once she arrayed the dinner bread in a basket on the table, Danae sprang up the narrow spiral staircase in the back corner of the living area. As she poked her head into the upper room of the home, she found all seven of her brothers engaged in different activities, ranging from whittling a wooden spoon to fighting to break out of a headlock. “Boys!” she said. “It’s time to wash up for d--”

However, her words were suddenly drowned out by a stampede of hungry young men who thundered as one to the stairway. Only one member of this tribe did not move from his place: the youngest of the bunch, a sandy-haired boy of about nine years. He sat on his worn cot, staring intently into the pages of a small leather volume, his brow knitted with concentration, his lips drawn into a thin line.

Danae slipped to his side and sat on the cot with him. “What’s this you find so interesting that the offer of food hasn’t tempted you from it?” she whispered.

The boy did not look up, but continued to study the pages before him. “It’s an explorer’s journal,” he said. “Full of maps and notes all about other lands. I don’t understand a lot of it, but it’s still very fun to read.”

Danae’s eyes lingered on the book for just a moment, a flutter of wistfulness arising in her stomach. She forced the emotion away and instead smiled as she ruffled her youngest brother’s hair. “Weylan, you're ever discovering something new! But if you don’t come down now, all you'll discover today is that one of your brothers has eaten your portion.”

Weylan reluctantly closed the journal, stashed it under his cot, and followed Danae down the creaking staircase to the first floor of the cottage.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, the older brothers all bustled in from outside, hands and faces hastily washed. Weylan and Danae headed out the back door that stood beside the staircase, and against the back wall of the house, found a large basin filled with water. Peering into the basin, Danae wrinkled her nose and tipped the murky liquid onto the ground, liberally watering a patch of mums that brought a last bit of color to the autumn days, before the coming of the frosts turned everything bleak and monochromatic. Weylan rolled his eyes and shuffled through the courtyard to the well.

The courtyard shared by the block’s houses echoed with the muffled sounds of families gathering in their homes, the clatter of dishes and the murmur of unintelligible conversations adding a thrum of activity to the evening. Weylan turned the crank on the well to bring up a bucket of fresh water, which Danae tipped into the basin she had carried over. Taking great care not to slosh the water on her clothes, she returned the basin to its perch on a barrel, and proceeded to wash her face and hands. Danae’s young brother followed suit, and they joined the family inside.

Each family member took his or her customary seat along the benches of the dinner table, while Fiona ladled stew into each bowl from the large cauldron over the fire. Danae was about to summon her father from the shop when he ducked in through the doorway that stood between home and business. Stifling another cough, he took his place at the head of the table, casting a sideways glance toward his wife. If she noticed the evidence of Deklan’s nagging illness, she refrained from commenting as she bustled about serving the family. Finally, she sat at her end of the table and looked to her husband. Quiet fell over the table, and Deklan breathed a sigh that released the pressures of his day.

“Creator of all things, we thank you today for this bounty set before us, and for loving diligence of my dear Fiona to prepare it for us all. We acknowledge every good thing we have is a gift to be managed with care and thanksgiving. May this meal bring us health and strength, and may the company of our family bring us joy. To you be the honor and praise.”

As the father of this still cluster of children closed off the last syllable of his prayer, the boys all dove wholeheartedly into devouring their meal. There was little conversation for a few minutes, as the family members took the edge off their hunger, though Fiona did find it necessary to occasionally remind her sons to act more like young men at a dining table, and less like ravenous wolves.

“So, Danae,” Fiona eventually began. “I hear Willem Blakestone will soon be finished his apprenticeship and ready to fully take on his father’s business.”

Danae restrained herself from rolling her eyes, although she dreaded the familiar road upon which this conversation was embarking.

“Really?” she replied blandly. “He has worked hard.”

Danae’s mother cocked her head and frowned. “Come, come. Surely you have more to say of him than that! Didn’t you have quite a pleasant conversation with him, just the other day?”

Danae spent a long moment chewing her bite of dinner.

“Mama, I did speak with him when he came to the shop the other day, but it was no more than a simple exchange of pleasantries while I filled his order. He didn’t know what to say to me, for his part.”

“Well, if you would let him come to call on you, he would get to know you better, and then he might make more interesting conversation,” Fiona countered.

Danae slumped in her seat.

Her mother persisted. “Is there no young man that strikes your fancy at all?”

Connall piped up, though he spoke with his mouth half full.

“Well, maybe if Danae would take to wearing a maiden’s clothes, she would catch the eye of some likely suitors. I don’t know what most think of a girl dressed like a shop boy!”

“Dress-wearing isn't practical for some of the work I help father with,” Danae said, a note of weariness in her words. “And besides, I don’t hope to win suitors by how fashionable I may be.”

“Well, Danae,” Fiona said, “It wouldn’t hurt for you to look a little more ladylike. You’re a pretty girl, and much of that is missed when you tramp about in trousers and a tunic. I’m certain I don’t need to remind you you’re not getting any younger.”

Danae put her head in her hands. She could predict, word for word, what her mother would say next.

“The number of unmarried men your age is only going to grow smaller as each year goes by and you remain so aloof to the idea of matrimony.”

“Matrimony,” Danae said, drawing out the word. “Speaking of matrimony, what about you, Farrell?” She turned to her oldest brother. “Have you decided when you will ask for Ellen’s hand?” Danae stared at her brother earnestly. She lifted her napkin to her cheek, hiding from her mother behind it as she mouthed the words Save me!

The twenty-year-old Farrell sat at Danae’s right hand at the dinner table, and he was just finishing his portion when the plea for rescue came hurtling his way. He smiled crookedly and looked at his sister, then his parents in turn.

“Yes, yes. I will speak to her father at the onset of the next week. I believe I have all of my affairs in order, now that I have been offered a position as a scribe for Master Callaghan.”

“The courier?” Danae asked.

“Right,” Farrell replied. “If we have our way, Ellen and I will be married in the spring.”

Deklan said, “Farrell, I am certain Ellen's parents will be most willing to offer her to you as a bride. You have done well in establishing yourself, and proving you are a man of character.”

Farrell lowered his head in modesty. “Thanks, Papa. But, that being said, Mama, Papa, may I take your leave? I wish to draft just what I’ll say when the time comes.”

Fiona and Deklan happily excused him to his task.

Much to Danae’s relief, the conversation did not return to the critique of her clothing choices or lack of courtship. Deklan spent some time drilling the boys on their school lessons, and just listening to their enthusiastic recounting of the day’s events. Weylan, however, remained quiet, and mournfully studied the bottom of his empty stew bowl.

Danae reached across the table and patted his hand. “So, why don’t you tell me more about that book you were reading?”

Weylan turned his large eyes to his sister, then cast his gaze back down to the table. While the family waited upon his response, a pregnant silence hung over the table.

“I’m still hungry,” Weylan muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Danae closed her eyes with a sigh, and then met her mother's gaze. A look of sadness and long-suffering filled Fiona’s round features.

“Dear one,” Fiona said. “I know it’s hard. But if I give you more now, there will be no portion for you at week’s end. You may not feel full right now, but if I allowed you to eat your fill, then in a few days you would learn what it is like to go to bed with no supper at all.” She turned her attention to buttering her bread, giving the task an uncharacteristic level of concentration.

One of the middle children, a continually pert lad of fifteen years by the name of Anyon, snapped, “Curse the rationing! Our block has its own garden, and we work hard to grow what we can there, and still we're forced to go on short supply. Why should foreign soldiers eat what we grow and leave us only with whatever scraps they don’t care for?”

Deklan’s turned a sharp stare on Anyon. “Mind your tongue, boy. You are quick to complain and ever a thrall to your temper. If you speak your mind thusly in the wrong company, much worse shall befall you than suffering with a small dinner.”

Anyon narrowed his eyes. “I suppose I'm finished with my meal. May I be excused?”

Deklan nodded and watched with a forlorn expression as his son rose and headed for the stairs.

One by one, the family members finished eating and departed from the table. Relative silence overtook the home as they all readied themselves for a night’s rest. Danae settled into the quiet nook that was her favorite for reading, a deep window seat in the upstairs dormer. She left the window open slightly and breathed deeply of the earthy smells of the fall evening drifting in. She leafed idly through a small journal and watched the sickle moon ride silently up into the sky.

Eventually, the sounds of the household grew silent, aside from the rhythm of the deep breathing of sleep that came from her brothers. Once she was quite certain the family had all retired, she rose from her perch. With the greatest of care, and the most silent of stride, she glided down the stairs and slipped out the rear door of the home, disappearing into the shadows of the night.

Chapter 3

The streets of Dayleston were silent, the sliver of the moon casting only the faintest glow upon the sleeping city. Danae, now hooded and cloaked, stole through the streets without a sound of footfall or rustle of clothing, ducking from one dark corner to the next. This winding through the alleys and byways of Dayleston had become second nature to the alchemist’s daughter, and she made certain to keep to the narrowest streets when as she could. Despite having to dodge piles of refuse, step over puddles of questionable origin, and shrug off the shivers she got from the sight of the gleaming eyes of rats, Danae knew the more of her journey she could conduct in these byways, the better.

Here, in these tight easements between homes, the likelihood of encountering a Tebalese patrol was slim, and Danae thought it best to take advantage of this fact while it lasted. There would be plenty of opportunity to run into trouble when her journey forced her out of the comfort of cover. She pushed the rumors of the punishments dealt to curfew breakers out of her mind, shoring up her crumbling resolve as she pressed closer to the end of the narrow alley. She stopped and wiped her sweating palms on her breeches.

Danae had reached the trickiest part of her journey: the crossing of Market Street, the broadest, most open street in the city. The long, straight road ran through the center of the city, and in its emptiness, Danae could see up and down it clearly for many blocks. The street seemed antagonistic in its silence, yawning before Danae. She took a deep breath and lifted her foot to dash into the street, but caught herself and shrank back against the wall of the alley. About two blocks to her north, a patrol of six Tebalese soldiers had turned the corner and now marched toward her position.

She carefully backed farther down the narrow way in which she stood, searching for a place to conceal herself until the patrol passed. She found a mossy rain barrel nearby, ducked behind it, and waited breathlessly. The steady footfalls of the soldiers grew louder with each passing moment. Panic welled up and lodged in her throat.

What if they saw me? What if they turn down this street? They would have to be half blind to miss me. Should I give up the hiding place and run as fast as I can?

Her heart hammered in her chest as the patrolmen grew closer. She realized now her indecision had chosen for her. She had no time to run. She would have to count on her insufficient hiding place and a heaping helping of luck to keep her safe.

At the end of the alley, she caught a glimpse of the armored figures marching by, and to her relief, they did not pause as they passed. She listened for a long time to the fading tramp of their ironclad feet, and only after her straining ears were convinced the soldiers were well beyond sight and hearing did she emerge from behind the rain barrel. She crept back to the edge of the alley. Her legs trembled, and her whole body felt cold with fear. This time, as she peeked out, not a soul moved on Market Street, so, with the blood pounding in her ears, she dashed for the other side. She dove into another side street and clapped her body up against the wall, seeking the sanctuary of the inky shadows.

Once Danae was able to calm her nerves and cease her panting, she resumed slinking toward her destination. She slipped along silently, a mere vapor within the deepest shadows, putting one block behind her at a time. At long last, she turned the corner into the side street that contained her destination: a monstrous grain box that stood at the far end of the causeway. Danae skulked up beside it. Just as she crouched and pressed her shoulder to the side of the box, it shuddered. Danae sprang back, whipping a dagger from its sheath. The lid of the box groaned on its hinges, and out peered the face of a young man the same age as Danae. He, too, wore a dark, hooded cloak, and the glint of his eyes caught Danae in her defensive posture. He smiled.

“It’s just me,” he whispered. “You're edgy tonight!”

Danae’s body relaxed, and she sheathed the dagger. “Yes, I am, Garrett,” she replied. “I had a near miss on Market, and I haven’t quite unwound from that.” Her voice sounded strange to her, muffled by the black scarf that covered the lower half of her face.

Garrett climbed from the grain bin, his long limbs carrying him over the edge and to the cobbled street with ease. He crouched beside Danae at the far end of the wooden box, and both of them focused on the spartan stone building across the street. Its single window glowed with lamplight; loud conversation and the clanking of metal tankards drifted through it into the night air. The voices spoke in a fluid tongue, but what was normally a fast paced and complicated language lumbered along, the drunkenness of the speakers defiling their speech.

Garrett pressed his lips together into a thin line, and his dark eyes darted to and fro as he listened to the boisterous conversation. Danae, too, feverishly translated the words that rattled through the quiet of the night.

“What does 'selamboache' mean?” Danae asked her more fluent friend.

“Shhh. It's a type of ale.”

The conversation wended on, in and out of many colorful phrases of the convoluted Tebalese tongue. Garrett’s face grew taut with displeasure as he listened, and he turned his frustrated gaze towards Danae.

“Well, nothing these drunkards are jawing about is terribly informative tonight. I’m going to have to get closer if I am going to find out if this is one of their storehouses.” Garrett rose from his spot and looked to the lit building. Danae shook her head and clasped his forearm.

“There’s no place for you to hide over there,” she whispered. “Let me go. There's a crawl space below the building I could get into, but I’m sure you couldn’t.”

Garrett scowled. “Danae, you're out of your mind! You’re a civilian. It’s out of the question.”

“Well, were I not a woman, I wouldn’t be a civilian,” Danae retorted, though without malice. “Our whole country suffers because of these drunken Tebalese gluttons. I want to help however I can, and I'm willing to take a few chances in order to do my part!”

Garrett paused, his brow furrowed and his cheeks looking pale in the dim light of the moon. “I don't think I've taught you enough Tebalese to risk sending you over. What if you miss something?”

Danae huffed. “I've done quite a bit of studying on my own, Garrett. I might not know the preferred brands of beer, but I'm certain I'll catch the important discussion.”

After a long silence, Garrett turned to her, his expression sober.

“Very well. I saw the crawlspace you mentioned. Go. But be more careful than ever, my friend.”

Danae nodded, her face grim, and she stole across the street, the flutter of her cloak whispering in the night air. She swiftly reached the opening to the crawl space, which was perhaps two feet across. Almost without hesitation, she dove inside. To her dismay, she did not find level ground inside the dark crevice, but instead slid headfirst down a gravely slope, into the blackness below the floorboards of the low building. She clutched at the loose scree but could catch no handhold to halt her noisy slide. When she came to a stop at the bottom of the ramp, she twisted to see how far she had tumbled, and was surprised to see the slope was only just over a yard long. In her panic, the slide seemed much longer.

She laid her body flat, listening with intensity. With a series of long, slow breaths, she tried to steady her galloping heart. She could see very little in this close space, though small shafts of light occasionally peeped through gaps between the floorboards above her. Her only companions below the building were a wooden crate or two and some earthenware jugs that lay scattered about. The stench of mildew made Danae’s nose itch.

Despite her noisy scrabbling through the gravel at the crawlspace entrance, the conversation in the room above did not pause, much to Danae’s relief. The scrape of a chair moving across the floor, the heavy footfalls of someone moving about the room, and the clatter of dishware continued to punctuate the conversation. Danae sat up and listened.

“I wish we had a better district for the redistribution,” a nasal voice complained.

“Well...maybe we’ll get lucky this time,” slurred another. “You never know when one of the li'l rats will have stowed away a trin...trinket worth keeping for your trouble.” He struggled to form his words, and they dribbled slowly from his lips, as an old, toothless horse dribbles grain.

“Hah!” bellowed a third voice, “Mind how much you keep, or the commander will take notice. Don’t think I’m going to stand behind either of you if you push your taxation rights.”

Danae’s blood froze. The voice was all too familiar: Drex of Cray. As if it was not bad enough the man continually prowled her neighborhood, now she must endure him here, as well? She heard him slam a tankard down, and his loud voice and sloppy words told Danae he was as drunk as the rest. The conversation paused, and she heard the groaning of floorboards and the shuffling of feet. Then Drex’s voice began again.

“Throw on another log, Ragshir,” he said. “The next patrol should be here soon, and they’ll start throwing punches if we let the fire burn too low.” He laughed harshly and added, “Maybe I’ll just hold up Van here as a shield. He won’t feel a thing in his state!”

“Pfah! The drinking's the only thing that makes this lousy night sitting here with you idiots tolerable,” Van grumbled back.

A pair of feet clomped over toward the wall. With the thump and the series of snaps and crackles that followed, Danae assumed Ragshir had followed through on Drex' instructions

“There. Log's on,” Ragshir said in his pinched, nasal voice. “Speaking of burning, maybe we should burn the baker’s shop on the next raid. No bread at the end of the day?”

“Perhaps.” Drex replied. “He has his warning for now, but if we pay him a visit between now and the next redistribution, and he hasn’t remembered to take care of us, then perhaps burn it we shall. That whole block is getting a little too headstrong for my taste.”

“It’s the...al...alchemist who puts 'em up to it, I think,” Van said.

Drex snorted. “It’s just a matter of time for him.”

Danae stifled a gasp. What could he mean?

“He’s been a lot quieter since our run in with him a couple of months ago,” Drex continued. “He had better stay quiet, and teach his flap-trapped daughter her place, or his family will pay the price for his insolence. I’ve no patience for rabble rousers.”

Danae set her jaw at the audacity of these poor excuses for soldiers and their threats against her family. Her father? A rabble rouser? The very idea was absurd, and yet, the squad members seemed convinced of Deklan's guilt. As if their bullying was not bad enough, to pair it with flagrantly false accusations made Danae's seethe.

Danae sat poised to hear whatever plans Drex might have to enact his sense of justice on her father, but unfortunately, the men now began haggling over a bet in the game of chance they played to pass the time. Danae looked about the dark space, trying to locate a spot where she might get a glimpse of the interior of the building. In the furthest corner of the building from her, she saw a substantial point of light, so she crawled over to this hole in the floorboards. She knew she needed to act quickly, if she was to escape from her hiding place before the next patrol arrived to relieve Drex and his drunken underlings. These fresh troops would most likely be sober, and in much better form to notice any noisy mistakes she might make.

Once she had made her way across the crawl space, Danae pressed her nose to the wood above her, peering through the hole left behind by a missing knot in the board. Though she could only see a fraction of the space, she discovered the drab little building held innumerable shelves, stocked with provisions of every type, from bolts of fabric to crocks of butter, from gardening tools to wheels of cheese. She bristled at the site, and her mind drifted back to her father’s search for tin sheeting earlier that day. If she could just get into that room, perhaps she could get back some of what those Tebalese brigands had wrested from her father.

Another distraction! Every moment she wasted put her closer to potential discovery, so she buried her personal concerns and focused on the more immediate challenge of returning to Garrett’s position.

With a swift scuttle back across the cramped area, Danae poked her head out of the crawlspace entrance, and quickly surveyed the street. It looked empty now, but how long would she be safe from notice? She slinked out of the crawlspace, took a deep breath, and dashed back to Garrett.

“It’s a storehouse, alright, and from the looks of it, the soldiers have been busy. I could only see a few shelves, but they were packed,” she said between heavy breaths.

Garrett turned an approving smile her way.

“I owe you a great favor, then, Danae, for you've done my work for me tonight,” he said.

“If only…” Danae began, and then allowed her words to trail off.

“Go on,” Garrett chided. “You can’t begin a wistful thought like that and leave me to wonder.”

The Last Apostle

• Title: The Last Apostle

• Genre: Fantasy / Historical

• Wordcount: 93,000

Premise: Imagine that John, the last Apostle, never died, because nineteen centuries ago Christ sent him on a special mission.

Blurb

The 100 year old John is on his death bed ready to rejoin Jesus, but Christ has other plans for his last apostle. He restores John’s youth and sends him on a special mission. John flees to an Aegean isle where he shares the story of Christ, participates in a Roman trial, and receives a stunning offer from the village leader.

Today, the last apostle leads a groundbreaking Christian charity as he struggles to share the good news with the people of his community. Unfortunately, he also attracts the attention of an ancient enemy who seeks to stop him.

Synopsis

Professor Wes Cavanaugh, celebrity expert on the Da Vinci Code, tells a Seattle lecture hall stories of the apostle John and speculates how he could be alive today. He reveals that the concept is the basis of a television show being pitched to a studio. Unbeknownst to Cavanaugh, the 2000 year old subject of his fictional series is sitting in the audience.

After the lecture, John confronts Cavanaugh but fails to convince him to drop the idea. On his way home he encounters a meth addict in the act of robbing a young exchange student. Using martial arts he has learned over the past nineteen centuries, John subdues him. The next day he bails the would-be robber out of jail, after getting him to commit to treatment at a local men’s mission.

When John sees Professor Cavanaugh announce his coming television series on a national talk show, he recalls the true story of how Christ visited him on his death bed, restored his youth, and then sent him on a mission to share the love of Christ without revealing that he is the last living companion of Jesus. He flees to an Aegean isle where he befriends and converts many of the local villagers before a nearly fatal accident and assassination attempt stops him. After John’s miraculous recovery the man who attempted to kill him demands a trial by the Roman authorities, a trial that could expose the fledgling Christian community on the island.

John struggles to save both his new island home and the man who attempted to kill him. In the process he receives a stunning offer from the village leader, an offer that would cause him to turn away from the command of his Lord and savior.

In modern day Seattle, John tries to guide the wounded young woman in the apartment down the hall, his self absorbed racquet ball partner, and the ground breaking Christian foundation he leads. John continues in his millennia old struggle to master his anger and other passions, and protect his true identity.

Just as John’s foundation is on the verge of a scientific breakthrough that will radically improve the availability of water in developing nations, a reporter threatens to expose John’s personal cover story and smear the reputation of the ministry. In the middle of this crisis, an ancient enemy helps the meth addict that John rescued escape from his treatment program, and brings him to a fateful encounter with John that takes the Apostle to the brink of death.

First 30 Pages

Chapter 1

Peter turned and saw that the disciple whom Jesus loved was following them. … When Peter saw him, he asked, "Lord, what about him?"

Jesus answered, "If I want him to remain alive until I return, what is that to you? You must follow me." Because of this, the rumor spread among the brothers that this disciple would not die. But Jesus did not say that he would not die; he only said, "If I want him to remain alive until I return, what is that to you?"

JOHN 21:20-23

“Imagine that the last Apostle to die—didn’t. What if the only Apostle reported to have succumbed to old age is actually living among us today?”

John Amato dropped the heavy pen that he had been twirling idly in his fingers. It clattered across the floor and rolled up against the seat in front of him. John ignored it, his gaze focused on the speaker at the front of the room. The evening lecture by noted biblical scholar, Wes Cavanaugh, had been routine until that moment. John’s eyes had been wandering the room, observing that the audience seemed to consist primarily of students. Others, like him, appeared to be visitors. Probably drawn by the subject of “The Fate of the Apostles” and the chance to see the well known professor. John recognized one man in the audience as a regular visitor to the local men’s homeless mission. John suspected he had come to the free lecture to escape the cool Seattle evening. He was currently snoring softly in the empty seats at the back of the auditorium.

But now John’s attention was firmly on Professor Cavanaugh. He watched as the professor paused to let the audience absorb the statement. Cavanaugh sipped on a bottle of Perrier placed next to his podium, his languid pace seemingly calculated to prolong the moment. John scowled.

Finally, the professor sat the bottle down and stepped out from behind his podium. “I can see from the expression on at least some of your faces, that you’re trying to think where you might find wood suitable for a bonfire, so that you can burn me at the stake as a heretic.” Some, but not all, members of the audience, chuckled.

“Now, I don’t want you to think that I believe John, the Beloved Disciple, is still alive after two thousand years. I’ve just found it interesting to think, what if Jesus meant what he said when he told Peter, “If I want him to remain alive until I return, what is that to you?”

Cavanaugh stepped back behind the podium, gripped both sides, and enunciated every word of his next sentence slowly: “What if Jesus meant exactly what he said, that John would remain alive until he returned?”

John ran his fingers through his curly, dark hair, and itched his scalp. What is this guy up to?

“I am pleased to announce that this idea also intrigues a well known producer. I am in discussions on a television series based on a living Apostle John.” Cavanaugh grinned broadly. “And with that, I will take some time to autograph a few books.” He stepped away from the podium.

The noise from polite clapping in Pigott Auditorium at Seattle University was supplemented by the buzz around Cavanaugh’s surprise announcement. John heard comments ranging from, “That’s wild,” to “That’s way out there,” in the audience around him.

Most of the crowd headed to the exits to enjoy what was left of the cool, Seattle summer evening. John joined the small line of autograph seekers at the book table. As John inched toward the front of the queue, he could hear the supplicants. Several asked the one-time celebrity expert about a fine point in his talk. Others seemed bent on impressing Cavanaugh with their own knowledge of New Testament history. Several were enthusiastic about the idea for a television show based on, “Imagine that the last Apostle…is living among us today” and asked questions along those lines.

As he stood in line John compared the picture of Cavanaugh on the back of his book with the flesh and blood author sitting behind the autograph table. John guessed from the few silver strands in the professor’s reddish brown hair that he was in his mid-thirties to early-forties. He looked more like a television newscaster than a New Testament scholar.

When John reached the head of the line, he pushed his copy of The Fate of the Apostles across the table for Cavanaugh’s autograph. To his own surprise, John snapped at the professor, “Why a show around the idea that the Apostle John is still alive? Didn’t that idea die in the second century?”

Cavanaugh raised his left eyebrow and looked across the table at John. He scanned him up and down as if he was looking for concealed weapons.

John sighed. “I’m sorry, professor. It’s seems that idea is out of line with someone like you—a man who has a reputation of refuting stories that attack the Christian faith.”

Cavanaugh seemed to relax. “I’m not attacking the faith, young man. I’m just using an old legend to entertain people. Entertain them in a way that makes our faith live.”

The professor opened the book in front of him and poised his pen over the title page. He looked up at John. “And, your name?”

He hesitated for a moment. “Amato, John Amato.”

As Cavanaugh inscribed the book he asked, “Are you a student here, John?”

John hesitated again. Finally, he said, “No, just interested in New Testament history. I teach a few local classes on it myself at church.”

“Yes, I thought you had some very interesting questions during the question and answer session this evening. It’s obvious you know something about the subject.”

As he signed the book he asked, “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a counselor.”

“A worthy calling. I know I wouldn’t have the patience for it myself.” Cavanaugh closed the book and pushed it back across the table to John. “Good luck with your work. Thank you for stopping by.” He turned to a middle aged woman in line behind John and beckoned for her book.

John forced himself to walk out of the Piggott building at a deliberate pace. He controlled the urge to sprint away from the scene. In the atrium he paused to look up at the tower of glass over the building entrance. The fiery orange and yellow tendrils of the twenty foot tall Dale Chihuly sculpture looked like a genetic experiment on squids gone wrong. After a few moments John tore his gaze away. “Idiot,” he said quietly. “I never should have confronted Cavanaugh like that. Why do I even care?”

He exited the building and strode to the bike rack near the entrance to the building. By the time he reached it, his self-directed anger had dissipated. Another lesson learned, he thought. If Solomon, the wisest mortal to ever wear human skin strayed, who am I to think that I’m perfect?

As John strapped on his helmet, he looked skyward and concluded his internal conversation. You would think that after all this time I’d remember that it is not about me.

He turned on his iPod and put the earphone in his right ear as he scanned the playlists: Arabic, Afrikaans, French, and a half dozen other languages. John selected the Arabic language course and strapped the player onto his arm. He turned on the rear blinker and head lamp, slung himself onto the seat, and pushed off down the wide pathway that passed by the campus chapel. In moments, he reached one of the city arterials that bordered the campus. He stopped to wait for the light to change, and pressed the play button on the iPod. John followed the lesson, quietly responding to the instructor, paying special attention to his pronunciation so he could speak without an accent.

When the light turned green, he pushed off into the street, and stroked hard to build up speed. He frequently glanced around him, keeping an eye out for drivers oblivious to his presence. His left ear was open to listen for traffic noise. As he pedaled up hills on his route, cars moved gingerly around him. On the downhill parts of his route, he was able to keep up with the traffic.

He turned down a long alley that ran behind a seafood restaurant, one of his usual short cuts. Ahead he could see a blue garbage bag ripped open, contents spilled out like a pumpkin that had fallen off of a tall counter. On one side of the garbage stood two seagulls; on the other a trio of crows. One seagull screeched and flapped at the crows. They responded with a cacophony of caws. The face off over the trash reminded John of rival Wild West gangs ready to battle over an overturned stagecoach.

As he approached the scene, he swerved toward the bag. All five birds took off, flapping madly to get out of his way. John coasted, and turned his head to look back. Two of the crows had already dropped down onto the bag and were ripping at the garbage. The seagulls circled, screeching loudly at the midnight colored birds that had frustrated their quest for an easy meal. The third crow stood behind the other two, cawing warnings to the two grey and white birds trying to horn their way in. John turned away, and began to push on the pedals again to build up speed.

The ride from the Seattle University campus to his apartment in the Queen Anne Hill district of Seattle took about thirty minutes. As he biked up the hill toward his home, he stopped at a small park to take in the view on this clear summer night. To the left was the downtown area of Seattle, with the iconic form of the Space Needle in the forefront. Ahead of him were the waters of the Puget Sound. A fully lighted ferry pulled out from the dock on the waterfront. Small craft and large ocean going freighters were making their way to and from the piers below his vantage point. Their green, white, and red navigation lights lent a Christmassy tone to the summer evening. Passenger jets en route to the international airport south of the city passed overhead. Several photographers were set up in the park capturing the brilliant orange and red sunset. Stars dotted the evening sky far above the city lights. The beauty and activity of the view was both breathtaking and engrossing.

John removed his helmet, and scratched his sweaty scalp. What an amazing place, Lord. What an amazing place. He watched the photographers snap away as the sun set. A small congregation of onlookers shared in John’s appreciation of the view. Finally, he donned his helmet, fastened the chin strap, and pushed off toward his apartment.

He cruised smoothly downhill, toward his home, the language lesson filling his right ear. He pulled up to a stoplight, and was responding quietly to the Arabic speaker, when he noticed a young couple standing at the cross walk, observing him. He paused the lesson, and smiled sheepishly at them as they crossed the street. No need to have people think he was some nutcase talking to himself, especially if they recognized him.

Several minutes later, he had turned off onto a residential street only a few blocks from his destination. Motion in a passageway between two buildings caught his attention. Two figures, but were they in an embrace or a struggle? The evening light was fading so fast that in another five minutes he would have missed them entirely. He swung his bike around for another look.

As he pulled up on the sidewalk he could see the broad back of one of the figures. The back of his head was covered in short, charcoal colored hair. He had the other figure in a grip. He could hear a woman pleading in heavily accented English. “Please, let me go. Don’t hurt me.” He placed the accent: Portuguese—Brazilian Portuguese.

The click, click, click of John’s bike gears echoed in the passageway. The man jerked his head around to face John. He realized that what he had mistaken for hair, was really a dark ski mask pulled down over his head and face. His pale skin shown through the large holes for his eyes and mouth. “Go away,” the man said. He flashed a large military style knife at John with his right hand. His left hand firmly gripped the blouse of the women. He shook her in warning. “Go away or I’ll cut you and her up.”

“Please, help me,” the woman said. Her voice quavered with fear.

John stopped, about twenty feet away. He gently laid down his bike, and pulled the earphone, still chattering away in Arabic, out of his ear.

He held out both hands at his side, palms forward, to show he was unarmed. In his most soothing voice he said, “If you let her go and leave right now, nobody gets hurt.”

The man pulled the woman around in front of him, and faced John. He pointed the knife at her throat. “Go away, or I cut her up.” She began to plead frantically, in Portuguese.

As John’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see heavy beads of sweat around the man’s eyes. He was breathing rapidly through his nostrils. “Easy friend. Just let her go. We won’t follow you.” He stepped slowly forward.

In response, the man pulled the woman more tightly to his chest with his left hand. He held the blade against her throat. John noticed the corners of his eyebrows move up and together. His eyes opened wide. The guy’s terrified. He’s no professional thug. John looked at the woman. In Portuguese he calmly said, “Don’t move. Be absolutely still. Close your eyes.”

She looked at him in shock for a second, then nodded imperceptibly. She stiffened and squeezed her eyelids shut, as if she could make the scene go away. Tears trickled out of the center of both her eyelids. The man said, “What did you say to her. Stop that. I tell you—”

John heard the screech of a car braking behind him. The man looked past John, to the street behind him. Bystanders—I have to end this situation before anyone tries to interfere.

John stepped forward again. He stopped, standing firmly with his feet a shoulder’s width apart. Now he was in range. “Let me give you some money. Just let her go.” He reached back and pulled out his wallet, and slowly extended it toward the man. The woman, eyes still tightly shut, began to wail. He heard a car door slam on the street behind him.

“I warn you, get out of here now,” shouted the man. He moved the tip of the blade away from the woman’s throat, and pointed it at John.

Now! John pivoted on his right foot, and swung his left foot up and at the hand holding the knife. He connected solidly to the back of the man’s wrist. The knife flew out of his hand, and he shrieked in pain.

The masked man released the woman, who fell forward onto her hands and knees. He grasped his knife hand with his other hand, and howled. He looked up just in time to see John stepping forward. He held up both arms in front of his face to block the expected blow. Instead, John grabbed him by one shoulder, while pushing on the other, spinning him around. Then he pulled one arm behind his back and, with his foot, swept his legs out from under him, and pushed him face first onto the ground.

John put his knee in the back of the man, and held his arm behind him. John was trembling with anger. He took a few seconds to control his breathing before he leaned forward and said, “Don’t move. Don’t even think of it, or I will hurt you.”

“Dude, that was awesome.”

John looked behind him. “Scott, what—”

“I was coming down the street and saw you go into the alley. Man, you kicked his—”

“Scott. Call 911.”

“Hey, did you see my new car?” John looked at Scott. He was pointing at a red Mustang on the street behind him.

“I’m kind of involved in a situation here. We can check out your car later.”

“Oh, yeah.”

John pulled his cell phone out of a front pocket in his cargo shorts and tossed it at Scott. “911, please.”

The masked man started to struggle. John grasped his wrist more tightly and pushed his arm higher up his back. His captive howled in pain. John let off some of the pressure and leaned over. “I told you, don’t move.” He took several breaths. “Now put your right hand on the back of your neck so I can see it.” He complied, moving his hand as ordered.

John looked over at the woman. She was sitting on the concrete surface of the passageway, face in her hands, sobbing. He asked in Portuguese: “Senhorita, are you okay.” She looked up at him, and nodded. “Senhorita, you should fix your blouse.”

She looked down. Her blouse had been torn partly open in the struggle. She slowly buttoned it, then stood up, and started to brush herself off. She looked down at John who was still holding her assailant on the ground. “Obrigado—thank you. I was so afraid.” She started to sob again, and sat down on the ground. She buried her face in her hands.

John said, “It’s okay. It’s all okay now. It’s all over.”

The sound of a police siren approached rapidly. John could see Scott standing on the sidewalk, waving his arms. A Seattle Police Department squad car squealed to a stop in front of the passageway. Two officers jumped out and approached John, hands on the butt of their holstered weapons.

“It’s all over officers. This is your guy.” He nodded at the man on the ground.

“Yeah,” Scott said. “You should have seen it—”

“We’ve got it,” the first cop said, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. He addressed the man on the ground. “Little warm for a stocking mask, don’t you think?” The second cop tended to the young woman, who was still sitting on the ground.

The captive moaned as the cop cuffed his right wrist. John released the captive’s left hand and the cop cuffed that one. John stood up and stepped back. The officer pulled the mugger firmly to his feet. He howled with pain as the handcuff pulled at his bruised knife hand.

“Dude, what happened to your ankle?” said Scott.

John looked at Scott, then down at his own ankle. A long cut on his left ankle, right above the sock, was bleeding down into his shoe. He felt the warm blood spreading under his foot. John sat down and started to gently pull off the shoe. “The knife must have hit it when I kicked him. Looks like it only cut the flesh.”

“Man, we should call you an ambulance.” Scott picked up John’s phone.

“No need, just get me the first aid kit off of my bike.” He pointed to a pack located on the handlebars. Scott rushed to retrieve it.

The second officer bent over John’s ankle. “Does look like a nasty cut. We can get you an aid car.”

John pulled a gauze pack out of his kit and wiped away the blood. The cut was deep, but the flow was already slowing. “That’s alright. I’ll bandage it up till I get home.”

“Suit yourself. We still need to ask you some questions. Can you come down to the station?”

“Sure thing.” As John cleaned up the wound and put on a temporary bandage, the officer asked him for his name and address. John gave him some other basic information about the attack.

The officer passed him a card. “That’s a good start, Mister Amato. But we’d like to get an official statement. If you wouldn’t mind coming down tonight… .”

John had just finished lacing up his still bloody shoe. “I’ll be there in about an hour.” He glanced up at Scott. “My neighbor saw the tail end of the incident. You probably want a statement from him too.”

The officer glanced over at Scott. “That would be great. Maybe you can both come down.” He nodded at the two of them, and headed over to help his partner push the mugger into the back seat.

John stood up and walked over to his bike, and pulled it upright. He looked at Scott and nodded at the sports car out in the street. “Okay, let’s take a look at your new chick magnet.”

Chapter 2

Saints...die to the world only to rise to a more intense life.

Lynn M. Poland

Ker-pock, ker-pock. The crescendo on the racquetball court rose to a climax as Scott and John fought for the point. The match stood at one game apiece. They had traded the lead several times. After several volleys, John managed to blast it past Scott for the point.

As he stood bouncing the ball, getting ready to serve, he asked, “So, where did you get the money for a fancy car like that?”

“Credit man, credit. But it will be worth it. You should see how the girls turn their heads when I pass by with the top down.”

John grunted, then fired the ball at just the right angle to return it over Scott’s reach. To his surprise, Scott leapt up and returned it. John made a half hearted attempt to return the ball, and missed it.

Scott shot him a big grin. “My serve. Match point.” Scott held the ball in his right hand, and squeezed it several times, like he was trying to force it to accept his will.

He looked over at John. “Man, you were something last night. Where did you learn to fight like that? Some karate dojo?”

John looked away from Scott and gazed at the wall in front of them. “Long time ago, I was living with some friends on an island in the Mediterranean. They taught me the basics.” He glanced over at Scott, then back at the wall. He crouched down, ready to return Scott’s serve. “Gets me out of a jam once in awhile.”

Scott faced John and moved into a fighting stance. “You gotta teach me some of that. Ready for first lesson, Master Amato.”

John waved him off. In his best imitation of Yoda, he said. “Ah, young Master Scott, these forces only for good. How I not know you use them for your own purposes?”

Scott laughed. “Good one.” He served the ball with a powerful overhand. They battled for what seemed like several minutes. Finally, John fed his neighbor an easy lob. He was ready for the game to be over, and was going to let Scott have the win. Scott took the gift and put all his muscle behind it. The ball raced straight toward John’s face. He jerked his head to the left and the ball whizzed by his ear.

“Dude, I win.” Scott ran his fingers through his sandy blond hair. He rubbed his sweaty forehead on the sleeve of his t-shirt. “That was one tough game.”

John bent over, panting from the exertion. He was a good five inches shorter than the 6’ 3” Scott. Keeping up with his taller friend was hard work.

Scott crossed the court and bumped fists with John. “Not bad, old man. Not bad.”

They left the court and headed to the locker room. “Hey,” Scott said, “I’m going to take a rain check on that beer. I’m meeting up with some friends downtown.”

“No worries. I’ve been thinking about paying a visit to someone anyhow.”

“You’re still buying next time.” He grabbed a towel from a rack and rubbed it over his face. “Hey, you could come tonight with us and buy.”

John shook his head. “I’ll pass. I’ve got an early appointment tomorrow. Besides, I can’t handle staying out all night like you and your friends.”

Scott laughed. “Hey, you’re only about thirty, thirty five, right? You could if you wanted to.”

“Maybe that’s it. That’s not where my heart is.”

They stopped to get a drink from the cooler outside the locker room. As John sipped the chilled water from a paper cup, Scott playfully punched him in the shoulder. “You really were something last night. Someday, you will have to show me a few moves.”

John drained his cup, crumpled it, and ricocheted it off the wall and into the trash can. He lapsed back into his Yoda imitation. “Help you I can, Master Scott. But about the Force, first you must learn.” He turned and entered the locker room.

After a quick shower, they dressed. John stood before the mirror next to Scott. He ran a comb through his curly black hair and his grooming was done. Scott worked the gel into his hair, teasing each lock into place, trying to get just the right look. He looked up at John and grinned. “Got to look good for the ladies.”

John gave him a faint smile in response. “Go easy on the ladies, bud. Go easy.”

Scott pointed down at John’s ankle. “What happened to that nasty cut? It don’t look so bad now?”

John glanced down at his left ankle. The bandage he’d been wearing had come off in the shower. All that remained of the slice from the knife was a thin line across the ankle. Mild puffiness on either side accented the injury.

“I thought you were going to need some serious stitches. I guess it wasn’t that bad after all.”

John put his foot up on the counter and ran his finger over the wound. “I tend to heal quickly.”

Scott turned back to the mirror. John slung his jacket over his shoulder and left the locker room.

As he walked through the gym, he noticed five women on treadmills. They all sported ponytails that swayed to different beats as they walked, jogged, or ran. John slowed his pace, mesmerized by the sight. For a single beat, their pendulums of hair swung together, before separating once again into individual rhythms.

A toffee colored ponytail at the far end flicked away as the young woman turned to meet John’s gaze. The athletically built woman with a small nose flashed a shy smile, before averting her eyes. John, responded with a look of embarrassment at being caught watching. She glanced back up at him again before returning her attention to the book on the stand in front of her. From the size of it, she was studying a college textbook. John picked up his pace as he headed toward the lobby of the gym. Just before he turned the corner, he glanced back over his shoulder at the row of treadmills. The toffee haired woman at the end was watching him from behind. He gave her an amused look. She blushed, and turned back to the textbook in front of her.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, John sat down in a cheap plastic chair at a visitor’s station in the King County jail. The clock on the wall read a quarter to six. An inch of Plexiglas separated him from the room where prisoners came and went from appointments with family members, friends or their attorneys. The seat across from John was still empty. To his right, a woman chattered away in Mexican Spanish with a man, connected by a telephone handset. From her side of the conversation, it sounded like he had been brought in for domestic violence. She seemed to be alternating between wanting him back, and being afraid of what he would do to her if he was released. Out of the corner of his eye, John watched the man. He grunted occasionally, but said very little. John noticed that he clenched, and unclenched his jaw, as he listened to the woman.

His observation of the drama was interrupted when a guard led an orange jump-suited inmate to the plastic chair across from John. He pushed the inmate down into the seat and held up his hand to John with all five digits extended. He mouthed, “Five minutes.” John nodded and picked up the phone.

The young man across from John squinted at him, and then jerked his head back in surprise. The same look of fear that John had seen through the eyeholes in his ski mask the night before spread across his face. John smiled reassuringly, and pointed at the phone.

He finally leaned forward and picked up the phone on his side. John noticed that he used his left hand to pick up the phone. His right wrist, was heavily bandaged. “Hey, you’re the guy who stopped me last night.”

“Yes, Seth, that was me.”

“What are you… .” He left his sentence unfinished, as he stared at John.

“Seth, I’m here to give you a chance.” John glanced down at some notes in front of him. “They tell me this is your first arrest.” He looked up at Seth, and noticed him twitching. As he watched, he wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jumpsuit. “They also tell me that you’re a meth user.”

He glanced over John’s shoulder, and then down at the desk in front of him.

“Seth, when I looked into your face last night, I saw fear. I could tell you’re not some career criminal—atl least you aren’t yet.”

Seth looked into John’s eyes; he seemed to be eager for some measure of reassurance.

“I can help you get clean, and stay off this path, if you just let me.”

He scowled at John. “Who says I need help?”

John shook his head. “The choice is yours.” He waved at the room behind Seth. “You can live like this, or go straight and get your life together.”

Seth scowled again. “Do you do this to everyone you beat up?

“No, just the ones I think I have a chance.”

He sat in silence, for a few moments, then said, “What’s the deal?”

“I handle your bail, and the court releases you to a treatment program run by the local Men’s Mission.”

“Men’s Mission? Is that like a place for homeless guys?”

“Yes, and they also run a very successful treatment program for drug and alcohol addicts.” John leaned forward. “The director is a friend of mine. He’s already agreed to save you a spot.”

Seth wiped his nose again, then looked up at the ceiling for a few moments. Finally he said, “What about the charges against me?” He stared down at the counter in front of him.

“Most likely you’ll still go to trial, or cop a plea. But things will go better for you if you’ve got your life together.”

Seth looked back up at John. “What about the girl? Is she okay?” The flash of fear on his face was replaced by a look of pleading.

“She’ll be okay.”

“I wouldn’t have hurt her you know.”

“I hope not. I think you were so afraid and drugged up at the time, that things could have gone either way.”

Seth looked away again. “She’s not from here, is she?”

“No, she’s here from Rio on a fellowship program at the University of Washington. She leaves for home in a few weeks.” John rapped his knuckles on the counter in front of him. “Not exactly the way to end her year in America, but she’ll be okay.”

Seth looked back up, relief washing across his face. John noticed the guard glance down at his watch, and then start across the room toward Seth. “What do you say, Seth? Get your life together, or this?” He waved his hand again at the facilities.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been much for religion.” The guard put his hand on Seth’s shoulder. He jerked his head, and pulled the phone away from his face. He looked back at the guard. They had a short conversation, and Seth turned back to John. “Tell me something. Why are you doing this? Are you some kind of lawyer?”

John nodded, and smiled. “I’m in the business of helping people. I can tell you more, later.”

Seth shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. This is just too freaky.” He rubbed his nose on the sleeve of his orange jump suit.

John frowned. “Okay. I’ll arrange to have some information delivered to you, but don’t take too long. This is a great opportunity for you.” He pointed to Seth’s bandaged right wrist. “Sorry I hurt you. I heard people coming, and I was afraid things would get out of hand.”

Seth looked down at the wrist, and stroked the bandage. “I’ll be okay I guess.” He looked down at the counter in front of him. “Can’t blame you for trying to protect her.”

The guard tapped Seth on the shoulder. John hung up his phone.

* * *

An hour later, John pulled up to the wrought iron fence that guarded the courtyard in front of his apartment building. He lifted the lightweight bike by the top tube, and headed up the stairs to his third story apartment, bypassing the rickety elevator in the lobby. The evening air and the breeze from the bike ride had kept him cool while he was riding. Now, perspiration broke out on his forehead. As he climbed up to his floor, he could feel sweat trickle down his back.

When he reached his floor, he dropped the bike on the carpet and wheeled it up the hall. The click, click, click from his hub echoed off the bare walls. As he passed the third apartment in his hallway he could hear an animal pawing at the door. He looked back over his shoulder and saw the door open a crack. A furry, dark brown cat raced past him. The feline stopped in front of John’s door and looked up, purring. The door down the hall clicked, as it closed.

“How’s it going, fuzz ball,” John asked as he inserted the key in the lock. He pushed the door open and the cat raced inside, straight to the kitchen. The sound of munching soon emanated from her food dish. “Man, you’d think that Sharon never feeds you the way you eat here.” He parked the bike in the corner and headed to the bathroom for a quick shower.

* * *

After his shower, he sat down in front of the TV and picked up the remote. He turned on the ancient set, and after it warmed up, started flipping through the channels. The cat jumped up on the coach next to him and pushed its head into his lap. He started to scratch her behind the ears, and she purred so loud he could feel the vibration in his fingertips. “Good kitty, good Mocha.” He set the remote down and scratched the cat on both sides of her face. She stared into his eyes for a moment, and then closed her eyes to resume her deep thrum of a purr. “Don’t forget your mission, cat. Sharon is a wounded soul, but between the two of us, we’ll get through to her.” John continued to scratch her, until she pulled abruptly away, and jumped down off the coach. She looked around the little apartment, then headed to the door, where she pawed furiously. He went over and opened the door. “Good Mocha. Go show her some loving.” He closed the door behind her, and flipped the deadbolt closed.

He picked the remote up, and continued his scanning. He paused on different channels to catch a few local sports scores, national headlines, and then stopped when a familiar face filled the screen: Professor Wes Cavanaugh.

The camera cut to a raven haired reporter, sitting on a chair opposite Cavanaugh. “We’re back with Professor Wes Cavanaugh, a popular pundit on matters of religion.” She turned toward him and flashed a brilliant smile. The white of her teeth contrasted with her tanned skin. “Professor, you were just about to tell us when your new series on the Apostle John is scheduled to appear.”

“Yes, Megan. I just signed a contract with your network this morning, so you get to be the one to break the news. The series is scheduled to premiere in January next year.”

John gritted his teeth.

The reporter continued. “I understand that this is fiction, but you were telling me that there are many legends that support the idea of a living Apostle John.”

“That’s true. Many people know that John was exiled to Patmos where he wrote the Book of Revelation, but most don’t know why he was exiled instead of being executed, like many of his fellow believers.”

“Why was that?”

The Roman Emperor Domitian attempted to execute John for his Christian faith. Sometime around the year 95 AD, Domitian had him brought to Rome, and ordered him thrown into boiling oil for refusing to renounce his Christian faith and worship the emperor.”

The reporter wrinkled her nose and grimaced.

Cavanaugh laughed, reached over, and patted her on the hand. “Not to worry Megan. He emerged from unscathed, and made many converts that day. But Domitian exiled him to the quarries of Patmos to keep him out of the way. After Domitian’s death, he was freed and returned to Ephesus where he lived to be an old man.”

She leaned forward. “What about more recent legends?”

“One of the better documented ones involves Edward the Confessor, King of England, in 1042. Edward was accosted by a beggar asking for alms. The pious king took off his ring and gave it to the beggar.” Cavanaugh turned to speak directly into the camera before continuing.

You shameless ham. John glanced down at the parts of a disassembled cuckoo clock on the coffee table in front of him. He picked up one of the counterweights, and began to squeeze it. “Twenty four years later two English pilgrims were in Jerusalem when a man gave them a ring and told them to take it to the king with a message: That Edward would be joining the Lord in six months. When they asked the man for his name he replied, ‘John the Apostle’.”

“What happened then, Professor?”

“The pilgrims reported back to Edward the Confessor. He recognized the ring he had given to the beggar nearly a quarter century before. He prepared himself for his passing, fell sick on Christmas Eve, and died weeks later, on the feast of the three Kings.”

“That’s fascinating, but tell me something.” She reached over and touched his forearm. “How would John have survived all these centuries? What would he be doing now?”

Cavanaugh started to open his mouth, but John had heard enough. He yelled at the TV screen. “You’ll never know the truth.” He reared back to throw the counterweight in his hand at the screen. At the last instant, he thought better of it, and changed his aim slightly. The lead weight hit the wall at full force, and it sunk halfway into the plaster, just above the television, one end pointing back at John. A puff of white dust emanated from the wall and settled slowly on the fake wood of the TV cabinet.

John swore at the screen. If you only knew the real story, Cavanaugh, if you only knew.

Chapter 3

God, when he makes the prophet, does not unmake the man.

John Locke, English Philosopher

100 AD

It was a cool, spring night on the eastern shores of the Aegean Sea, near the town of Ephesus. The sole remaining Apostle of Jesus Christ was being carried from the shores of the azure waters to his hut. The withered arms of the century old man were draped around two of his own disciples.

They sat him in a chair, padded with several blankets to protect his parchment thin skin. He leaned back and raised one wrinkled hand to shade his eyes from the setting sun. A young man grabbed a fan and shielded Johanan’s eyes from the light. Johanan lowered his hand to his lap, and gazed toward the ocean, watching a small fleet of fishing boats come in from their labors of the day.

A dozen disciples sat on the ground next to Johanan’s chair, and peered out at the sunset as well. His aged eyes could only see blurry outlines of the boat hulls and sails.

He asked, “Does it look like they had a good day?”

“Yes, they’re all riding low in the water,” the man holding the fan said.

Others spoke in agreement.

The scene brought back fond memories of the days when a young Johanan fished with his father’s fleet, before he left all that to follow Jesus.

Johanan turned his head to look in the room behind him. Several scribes had ceased their work of copying the gospel penned by Johanan, or one of his many letters, to enjoy the peaceful scene themselves.

He turned back to the scene on the sea. “Little children,” Johanan said in a raspy voice, “as the sun sets so does my life.”

Johanan paused to catch his breath. His exile to the marble quarry at Patmos, decades ago, had coated his lungs with a thin film of stone dust. The effort to speak cost him dearly.

“You must never forget what the Lord taught me. Love one another.”

A young man at his feet turned to him. “Sir, why do you always say the same thing? Why don’t you tell us stories of the Christos?”

The Apostle leaned over and put his hand on the shoulder of the young man, “It is the Lord’s command, and if this alone be done, it is enough.”

The young man nodded and turned his gaze back to the incoming fishing boats.

As Johanan leaned back he thought, soon enough it would be time for him to go. The writings left by him, his fellow Apostles, and other church leaders, would have to carry the message.

* * *

Johanan lay on a straw filled mattress set on the floor. Rolled up blankets elevated his head and upper torso to help him breathe more easily. A small fire burned in a brazier near the window to keep away the chill of the night air. Moonlight showed through the partly open window shutter above the fire. On a short stool next to his bed sat a simple clay cup filled with wine. A drink before bed aided his sleep, and periodic sips throughout the night soothed his dry throat. An oil lamp, recently extinguished by one of his loyal companions, sat next to the cup. Occasionally during the night someone would come into his room to tend the fire in the brazier and make sure he was comfortable. Johanan suspected they were also checking to see if he was still with them.

As Johanan drifted into sleep, he became aware of a presence at his bedside, as if in a dream. He opened his eyes, and there stood Jesus, clothed in brilliant white, just as he’d seen him at his transfiguration seven decades before. The light filled the room, as if it was daylight.

“My Lord and my God.” His heart beat faster and his eyes watered with joy at the sight of the mentor of his youth.

“Johanan, my Beloved Disciple. You have done well,” Jesus said, “and now I have a new mission for you.”

“My Lord, it is my time to go with you.” He struggled to sit up, finally propping himself up on his elbow. “I have been waiting for this day for many, many years.”

“No, my good and faithful servant. You will leave this community and travel the world, spreading the message of the love that my Father and I have for our children. You will model my love through the way you live.”

“My Lord, I am an old man. I am ready to come home to live with you.” He wheezed as he struggled to catch his breath. “To live with you, and my brothers and sisters.”

“No, Son of Thunder.” Jesus leaned in and placed his hand firmly on Johanan’s arm. Johanan felt a tingle where Jesus’ hand touched his arm. In a moment, the sensation spread up his arm and throughout his body. Jesus withdrew his hand and smiled down at Johanan. “You will live as other men and show them my love through your life. Shine my light through you. But from this day forward you may never tell anyone who you are.”

“But Lord, I am an old man… .”

Jesus visage became grim. “Know that many powers will oppose you, because of what you do in my name. At times the trials that you’ve been through until now will seem as nothing.”

“But, how will I… .”

“Johanan, my beloved disciple,” Jesus said, “go down to the shore and you will find a boat with a man in it. He is there to help you start your new life. Remember: you may never tell anyone who you are. Never. Go now and know that I am with you always.”

Jesus stood before him and smiled down on Johanan. The light grew in intensity, until Johanan finally had to close his eyes because of the brilliance.

He awoke and sat bolt upright from the dream, breathing hard, as if he had just finished a foot race. He continued to pant, in exhilaration from the vivid vision.

Wait a minute—he was sitting up without pain, breathing hard without wheezing.

He felt like a young man full of energy. Not like a centenarian eagerly awaiting his reunion with the Lord. He looked over at the fire. He could clearly see the patterns of flame on the coals, rather than the dim glow that he’d grown used to seeing through his failing eyes. He looked at the back of his hand in the moonlight and saw the skin of a young man, not the sallow flesh of his recent years.

He was confused and exhilarated. Then he remembered, “Go now.”

Johanan pulled back his blankets and swung his feet over to the dirt floor. The pain in his joints and the feebleness of an old man were gone. He jumped nimbly to his feet, and moved slowly across the room. He gently eased the door open, and stepped out into the night.

He could clearly see the brilliance of the individual stars above and hear the splashing of waves on the nearby shore. Johanan started walking toward the shore, and then broke into a sprint, reveling in his newfound energy. He could feel the cool sand between his toes. As he pushed off with each step, he noted the absence of pain in the joints. He resisted the urge to break into joyous laughter.

As Johanan approached the shore his pace slowed. He walked gingerly, over a band of rocks, to the soft sand near the water. He now regretted that he had left his sandals back in the hut. He waded into the surf in his bare feet, pulling up the hem of his nightshirt to keep it dry. Tears of excitement rolled down his face.

He remembered the commandment of Jesus, and looked up and down the shoreline. There, away from the houses, on the beach, he could see a short mast in the moonlight. He broke into a sprint as he ran toward the small boat.

As he came upon it he could see that the bow was beached on the sand, but the stern was still in the water. It rocked gently in the waves. It was a small vessel, more suitable for a lake than for the Aegean; big enough only for two, maybe three men. He looked into the boat. There, facedown, in water deep enough to cover his head, was the body of a man. Johanan turned him over and was surprised to see how old he was. The face was bruised and cut. Being soaked in salt water had swollen and distorted his features. Evidently he had fallen in his boat, injured himself, and died. Or maybe he had died first of natural causes, and then collapsed into the bottom of the hull.

Johanan placed his arms under the body. With his renewed strength, he lifted the man and carried him up onto the beach. He placed the corpse gently on the sand. In the moonlight he could see that he was a frail old man about the size of Johanan. Looking more closely, he noticed that the fisherman closely resembled him, at least the Johanan who had gone to bed that night. They could have been brothers. The battering he had taken only served to hide any differences. This was clearly the man sent to help him start his new life.

As this man was dead, so must Johanan be. He quickly stripped off his nightshirt. As he did he marveled at the young flesh and firm muscles that had reappeared in his formerly withered body. He gently removed the clothes from the body of the old man. Johanan redressed him reverently in his own garment. He looked down at the ring on his own finger given to him by his own disciples a decade before. It was a simple bronze band with the inscription of the ichthus, or fish. This secret symbol of believers had gained popularity during recent decades. With a lump in his throat, he removed the ring and placed it on the finger of his deceased companion. It fit, perfectly.

This Side of Eden

• Title: This Side of Eden

• Genre: Speculative / Fantasy

• Wordcount: 73,000

Premise: What would the world be like today if no one had ever sinned? Carter Friese is about to find out.

Blurb

From the beginning of days, there has existed a world parallel to our own.

One sun, one moon, it shares the same precepts, processes and natural ingredients as our earth. Despite identical geneses, a single choice changed everything. Thousands of years later--our world is marred by floods and fire, war and decay. The sister realm knows only beauty, harmony, synergy. It holds delicious, life-giving delights denied its cursed twin…because on that earth, no one has ever sinned.

Today, the powers of darkness pit one realm against the other. They scheme for nothing short of a second fall.

Synopsis

In our world, he’s one of the good guys. With looks, smarts and charm, Carter Friese is the most popular professor at Lima Bible College. He’s got enough faith to feel good about the next life and enough flirtatious verve to keep things exciting in this one.

Just when he thinks things can’t get any better—they do. Carter is transported to Gomor, a place of unfathomable beauty. With the help of his enchanting guide, Euphonie, he learns that he has stepped into a parallel universe—a perfect version of earth—one where no one has ever sinned.

Euphonie is a song writer, or was, rather. In a world where “everything is good,” she has developed a singular dilemma: writer’s block. When she asks God for help, He sends her to Carter—a guest from a darker realm.

Scene after scene unfolds to Carter’s amazement. As he grows in knowledge of God’s original plan for creation and mankind, he is satiated with joy and beauty. But Carter’s flawed instincts open the door to spiritual battle—an opportunity the powers of darkness have long awaited in this pristine realm. A momentary slip in paradise costs Carter his life. Euphonie’s fiancée, Andy, makes a sacrificial intercession, restoring Carter to life, and to his perilous assignment: escorting Euphonie to his world. But even as the prospect of safeguarding the ultimate ingénue presses in on him, he is charged with yet a weightier task: should Euphonie succumb to temptation in his world, he must block her return to paradise.

Euphonie’s struggle begins with her first gasp of the impure air of Carter’s world (our world). Carter, with fresh eyes, and his guest, with pure horror, see sin’s deep scars all around them. Even hearing God’s redemption story is torment for Euphonie, who is repulsed by the human cruelty.

Euphonie’s beauty draws attention from all who see her. Carter is determined to shield her from the ubiquitous evil of his world, yet loses his focus when a young woman from his past attempts suicide and implicates him as the father of her unborn child. When Euphonie is separated from her would-be protector, she quickly finds the seedier side of Lima. She meets a kindred spirit who offers her a powdery white solution to her creativity block.

Euphonie is ambushed by malevolent beings who have followed her from her home realm in an attempt to catalyze the fall of her world. The fiends succeed in inciting a violent encounter. Euphonie is deeply impacted, yet experiences epiphany through it. As she expresses her new understanding for this world’s need for a Savior, her would-be murderer is transformed. This unlikely convert then brings Euphonie to what she had sought so desperately in this world--the presence of God. She senses God’s Spirit in a weathered old man who runs a dilapidated shelter for homeless men and drug abusers.

Carter collapses in relief when he finds Euphonie well, her lyrical gift re-ignited. But as the moment approaches when Euphonie must return to Gomor, Carter discovers she’s carrying cocaine.

First 30 Pages

Prologue

The tempter paced back and forth in the court of the most High. After a time, he whined, “In both worlds, you have me tethered. Edenites have all but forgotten that they may choose. Look at their lavish, pampered lives! They’re more puppets than people.

“And in—what is it your people call it—the fallen world, your son has—”

Lucifer paused, noticing the bristling among the guards. He carefully chose new words. “Certainly, I have the attention of many there, but if those faithful to you knew what they had missed, they would tear out their hearts in despair.” He shot a sideways glance toward the throne, then hissed, “They’d curse you.”

“What do you propose?” came the voice from the throne.

“Let them see each other. Expose those automatons to the joys of choice and see what happens. And let the faithful few on the other plane see what they’ve missed.”

“You may take one from each world. From the garden world, take Euphonie; and from fallen earth, take . . .

Chapter 1

Carter Friese woke with a headache. He often did on those thick, warm mornings that foreshadow afternoon thunderstorms. But neither pain nor rain could dampen his spirit. Today was the first day of the new school year at Lima Bible College. Carter knew that his career choice wouldn’t make him rich, but it certainly made him happy. At 31, Carter never thought of himself as old. In fact, being surrounded by young, enthusiastic students rejuvenated him.

Steam and praise tunes roiled from the shower stall. After three choruses, Carter dried off and attempted to de-fog his mirror with the damp towel. He donned khakis, pulled on a red shirt and combed through his curly brown hair…an effort gleaning no net effect. He grabbed his travel mug and strode to the door of his two-bedroom home. A mournful sound met him as he exited.

“Sorry, Shagg…we’ll play this evening,” Carter said to the golden retriever that pawed at the door.

Zipping into the parking lot in his blue Mustang, Carter easily passed for a student. In fact, it was his first-day tradition to sit in the lecture hall among the freshmen, to get to know the new crop. This year would be no exception.

Carter chose a seat near a cluster of students near the center of the hall. He listened intently as they discussed such freshmen formalities as where they were from and in which dorm they lived. He waited for a break in the conversation, then leaned in.

“What have you heard about Professor Friese? Is he tough?”

“My brother had him last year. He’s says he’s really funny,” said one of the guys.

“I hear he’s hot,” said one of the girls.

Carter stifled a grin.

A buzzer signaled it was time for class to begin, but as no instructor appeared, the conversation resumed.

“Hot,’” Carter queried, “like, an interesting lecturer, or a great looking slab of beef?”

“Prime rib,” she said playfully.

Carter rose and gave her a wink. He stepped over the theater-style seat in front of him, made his way to the front of the hall where he leapt up the two steps to the platform and introduced himself. He shot a quick smile toward the girl, who now had her face buried in her hands.

Survey of the Old Testament had the potential for being what the students called a yawner, but not the way Carter taught it. He taught as if he knew Noah, Abraham, and King David personally. When teaching about Moses, he dressed in sandals and the loosely draped clothing of a desert dweller, and carried a staff. Weather permitting, he held his class outside where, with the help of a friend with a pyrotechnics background, he even simulated a burning bush. Should any sleep-deprived freshman be foolish enough to doze off in Carter’s class, he would surely be awakened to the crack of a staff against the side of his chair. One time Carter pelted a snoring student with manna (or Carter’s interpretation of manna). The young man awoke to a storm of rice cakes raining down on him.

This year’s new students seemed particularly eager, Carter thought as his last class filed out of the large hall. A few stayed behind to ask questions, but soon he was free to grab lunch at the student union. Carter ordered a burger and fries, filled his glass with soda, then looked for an open table. A waving arm caught his eye.

Carter saw his fellow instructors hailing him from a table at the far side of the cafeteria. He smiled, excited to connect with his colleagues after the summer break. Little did he know that a quiet time of ‘catching up’ was not what his peers had in mind.

Jeffrey Branch, LBC’s Director of Music, and Carter’s former college roommate, jumped onto his chair, raised his hands and faced the packed union. Carter stopped, suspiciously eyeing his cohort.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” JB began, employing all of his considerable flair for drama. “Students and employees of Lima Bible College: I present to you, the reigning king of popularity at this prestigious institution of higher learning. Voted most-interesting-instructor for three years in a row by the student population, voted most-respected staff member by his peers for the 2nd straight year, and, by unofficial and secret (but by no means untrue) ballot, voted the most eligible bachelor on campus—the illustrious, Dr. Carter Friese!”

Applause echoed through the room, followed by whistles and a handful of shouts. Carter smiled and put his hand up, as if to stifle the accolades. JB’s voice thundered over the cheers.

“But,” he resumed. “But, lest any of you lovely ladies risk broken heart, make note that he is a self-proclaimed ‘bachelor ‘til the rapture.’”

Laughter erupted, but was just as quickly stifled as four students stood, drew horns to their mouths and began playing Trumpet Voluntaire.

Momentarily stunned, but refusing to be outdone, Carter straightened his posture, pulled a French fry from its carton and lifted it regally, as if it were a scepter. He began a stately march through rows of tables, turning from side to side offering a royal wave or nod to adoring ‘subjects.’ As he approached the table where his colleagues were seating, they began to scramble to clear him a space, move a chair from another table and otherwise feign allegiance. JB stepped down off the chair and fell into a sweeping full-body bow. His female co-workers employed paper napkins to brush off his chair and to place on the floor for him to step on.

Carter, staying in character jumped onto his chair and faced his adoring audience. “Brothers and sisters of Lima Bible,” he began with pomp.

Suddenly, Carter was touched by the sincerity of sentiment he could see on faces. He was nearly overwhelmed with joy and realized he would only be able to muster a few words. He fell into his normal, warm, personal delivery: “God bless you all. Welcome back to campus.” Before the applause died down, he sat and looked at JB, then the others.

“What a bunch of crackers!” he scolded, but his face gave away the love he held for each of them.

“It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person,” said Jan Spicer. Jan, Lima’s Dean of Women, had been a friend since her first week at the college when she’d been accosted in the administration parking lot by a recently paroled rapist. Carter had been on his way to the campus library when he’d heard her scream. He’d run toward them, yelling “Stop!” Thankfully, the man fled. Carter honestly believed Jan had given him too much credit. He had no idea what he would have done if the man hadn’t run away. He’d simply acted on instinct.

“I echo the sentiment,” came the soporific voice of Laurie Grace. The counselor had long admired Carter’s off-the-clock efforts and knack for getting the college’s most challenging students pointed in the right direction.

Dr. Cecil Farther interjected, “Carter, I want to introduce you to Daniel Young,” Cecil gestured to the new face at the table. Carter stood and shook the hand of the young man across from him.

“Daniel graduated from Immanuel’s south campus in May. He’ll be helping me in Media Ministries.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Dr. Friese,” Daniel smiled.

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Dan. And please call me Carter. But, we do have fun here. In fact, this much fun may have been illegal where you’re from,” he winked at the ever stoic Cecil.

“But seriously—this is the greatest group of folks to work with. I know you’ll like it here.”

The lunch break was over long before the comrades could exchange stories from the summer’s most noteworthy events. Carter offered to show Daniel the east side of campus. It would give them a chance to get acquainted, Carter thought. Carter offered a colorful tour that included the important campus landmarks, trivia about famous alums and, of course, an exhaustive list of the best pranks perpetrated by students of each dorm. As they parted ways, Carter queried,

“You like toasted marshmallows?”

“Yea, I guess,” Daniel looked surprised at the question. “I haven’t had one since I went camping as a kid. Why?”

“Because you’re working with one. Cecil comes on tough, but don’t be intimidated. He may set you straight from time to time—but he’s always got your best in mind. He’ll be loyal to the end.”

“I guess you can tell I’m nervous,” Daniel looked at Carter as if he’d seen right into him. “Thanks—I needed to hear that.”

Carter gave Daniel directions to the administration building, then made a quick stop at his office for books and messages. He paused for a moment to thank God for his blessings.

“It’s great to work here,” he thought. “It’s great to have friends and respect. Could life be any better?” Carter couldn’t imagine how.

Carter was checking his email messages when a firm knock on his doorframe jolted his focus. “It’s open,” he said, spinning his chair to view his visitor—Dean DeMone. His attire, as always, was well-pressed Midwestern conservative. His shoes were polished and his thin hair lay flat against his head.

“How was your summer, Dr. Friese?”

“Dean! Hey, my summer flew by. How about you?”

“There’s no real break in administration. Just fewer interruptions. Carter, I hate to ask a favor so early in the semester—but you’re the guy I need.”

“Say the word.”

“Thanks. I need you to come with me to an alumni fundraiser. You probably hate those things…I know I do. But Marion is the event planner, so I’m trapped. We need a speaker who will keep the audience awake and give a good impression of the caliber of our staff.”

“I’m honored you’d think of me.”

“Are you kidding? You’re the best. The event is slated for early October, so we’ve got a little time. Can you meet with me next week to iron out the details?”

“No problem.”

“Thanks, Carter. I’ll have Allie give you a call.” The ever-efficient dean disappeared as unceremoniously as he’d arrived.

Carter grabbed his teaching notes on David. The shepherd boy hand picked by God to be king would be his first subject for this new semester. He planned to review his papers that evening, though he hardly needed notes to teach on this subject. David was his all-time favorite Bible character…perhaps because they shared many things in common. David was well loved by his people. And, David’s passions were music and women. Music brought out the best in Carter. Worshipful lyrics set to upbeat melodies captivated his heart and brought him into a reverent, God-focused state of mind.

While music brought him to his spiritual zenith, Carter’s interactions with women often took him deep into the trenches of spiritual battle. He often spent long hours counseling students and was particularly known for his ability to encourage young ladies out of bad relationships, depression and eating disorders. Perhaps because he was an older brother of three sisters…or maybe because he was young and attractive himself, he was able to build the girls’ self confidence to where they would break with harmful ties and habits. He then plugged them in to the school’s healthy community.

Both charm and warmth emanated effortlessly from Carter. Only the busy-ness of his selfless submersion into the student culture could offer any feasible explanation to why he was still a bachelor.

‘Bachelor ‘til the rapture,’ Carter smiled at his friends’ outrageous remark. But Carter had to admit, as a bachelor, each single woman he met was a pleasant possibility.

Carter pulled a folder from his desk drawer and scanned his class rosters. His eyes stopped mid-way down the list for his theatre class: Amber Bradley.

~~

The sound of screeching tires jolted Carter’s attention from his tv screen. He looked up and squinted. The DVD display read 12:14 am—he’d fallen asleep mid-movie. He thought he heard shouting. He walked to his front window, but Shagg ran to the kitchen. Carter quickly changed direction when Shagg’s continuous barking couldn’t drown out the desperate pounding on Carter’s back door. He flipped on the outside light. A woman looked frantically toward the street, then yelled, “It’s me—Amber. Please, let me in!”

Carter opened the door. She pushed inside, holding one arm with the other.

“Amber, what’s wrong?”

“He’s after me!”

“Who? Justin? Robert?” Carter strained to remember which bad boy Amber had dated most recently. She shook her head, catching her breath.

“I don’t see them any more.”

“Good. So who’s after you?

“You don’t know him. Ryan—he’s going to kill me.”

“What?” Carter guided her to a chair at the table in his small eat-in kitchen. Let me get you some coffee.

Shagg came up beside her and nudged her arm.

Amber screamed.

Carter spun around to see Amber’s face twisted in agony.

“Let me see that.”

She sat up straight. The slender brunette was wearing shorts and a short-sleeved top. An unnatural bulge told Carter that her left shoulder was out of its socket. In the warm light of his kitchen, he could see her eye was swollen as well.

“He did this to you? We need to go to the hospital.”

“No!”

“Amber, you need treatment.”

“They’ll make me file a report. He’ll kill me. I know he will.”

Carter stared at the slender freshmen. She was even beautiful with a black eye.

He’d met her the summer before. He was struck by her beauty then, even though her head was wrapped in wide gauze strips at the time. She’d slipped and cracked her head while drunk at a pool party. One of his students brought her by his house to pray with him. She had expressed frustration with her bad choices and an interest in giving her life to Christ. Shortly after that she enrolled at Lima Bible. Unfortunately, she continued to be attracted to men who pulled her back into the party scene.

Amber watched as Carter picked up his phone from the counter and punched in one number. She shook her head and started crying. “No, don’t call anyone.”

Carter dropped to one knee and took her right hand. He spoke slowly and calmly.

“Amber, you are safe here. I’m calling a friend. He’s a doctor.”

Carter had just settled Amber onto the living room sofa when the front door opened.

“That was fast.”

“We were on our way home from the Cinema 8,” came a woman’s voice, though her form was eclipsed behind her husband.

“Stacy,” Carter spoke. “Thanks for coming.”

The tall, stoic man approached Amber, who kept her eyes on Carter.

“Amber, this is Dr. Bradley James. He works in the emergency department at Lima Hospital…and this is his wife, Stacy. They’re close friends of mine.”

Stacy gasped when she saw Amber, the round shape of her bone protruding from just beneath her left collar bone.

“Stacy, help me get some ice. You know Brad, he thinks ice cures everything.”

The two non-medical helpers hurried into the kitchen.

“Carter, is that normal for her?” Stacy whispered as she filled a plastic bag with ice from Carter’s freezer.

“Stace, that’s not normal for anyone. Her boyfriend beat her up. My guess is, he grabbed her as she was trying to get away and pulled her arm out of its socket.”

Stacy brushed her auburn bangs off her forehead. Her eyes welled up. “Oh, Carter—here,” she handed him the bag. “I’m going to stay in here and pray for her.”

Carter grabbed a towel to cover the ice bag, then returned to the living room. Brad had pulled up a chair across from Amber, who was intermittently nodding and grimacing.

“Are you ready?”

“I’m scared.”

“Amber, you’ll have instant relief when we get your bone back where it should be. Now, keep your left arm bent at the elbow, then, take your left wrist in your right hand. Hold your left fist just under your chin,” Brad demonstrated as he spoke. Amber complied, wide eyed and trembling.

“Good. Now relax the left arm. I know it’s hard, but try.”

Brad knelt beside Amber. He put one hand on her shoulder blade, then used the other to gentle, but firmly guide the bone back to its proper spot.

“Oh!”

“Better?” Brad asked.

“Yes! Oh, thank you,” Amber rocked gently, holding her arms in front of her.

“Carter, I’ll take that ice now; and get a small bag for her eye.”

Stacy came in with tea and a blanket. Brad handed Amber four ibuprofen. The three friends sat with her, sharing stories and small talk until she was comfortable enough to join in.

Stacy reached out, “Amber, I know you don’t want to go to the authorities. But please pray about it. This man might hurt someone else.”

“Can we take you to your dorm?” Brad offered.

“I live in an apartment with a friend—but she’s out of town this weekend. I’m afraid to go there.” Amber whispered, “He’ll be looking for me!”

“Do you want to stay with us this weekend?” Stacy offered.

“Oh, I couldn’t. You’ve done so much already.”

“We just want you to be safe. Do you have somewhere to go?”

“I can go to my mom’s house. She’s an hour from here.”

Brad piped in, “You shouldn’t drive that far tonight.”

“I can drive her,” Carter assured.

Stacy hugged Amber and promised to keep praying for her. Brad checked her swollen eye one last time, then started out the door.

Carter followed the couple to the driveway.

“You two are awesome! Thank you.”

“Carter,” Brad started, with a tone of authority.

Carter nodded, “I’m with you, bro; she can’t stay here.”

Brad nodded.

Carter returned to the house. Amber was out. Carter rough-housed with Shagg, intentionally trying to wake his guest. After many rounds of ‘fetch’ without so much as a flicker of Amber’s eyelashes, Carter gave up. He covered her with a blanket and went to his room.

Amber slept until early afternoon on the next day. When she awoke and saw how swollen her eye was, she refused to go to her mom’s home, fearing she’d force her to drop out of school and come home.

By Saturday evening, she’d found a girlfriend to stay with. But Carter recalled her remark, “This is a nice place. I feel safe here.”

~~

Amber was the exception to Carter’s otherwise stellar rescue ministry. Carter knew that he had violated campus policy…but what could he do? She was in no shape to talk to the authorities. Sometimes rules are made to be broken, he reasoned. That wasn’t really the part that stole his peace, though. He was sickened to see Amber drive off with Ryan on the last day of classes last May, less than two weeks after she had stayed with him. Nonetheless, Carter was encouraged to see her back at school. He had hopes for better things for Amber this year.

Carter’s phone vibrated. He read the text, then grabbed the gym bag tucked under his desk and started toward the college rec-plex. As he trotted down the long hallway, a silver-topped head peeked out of an office door.

“Ah, Carter! I thought you’d forgotten our appointment.”

Carter looked surprised for a split second, then recovered.

“Forget you, Doc? How could I?”

Carter followed the man into the office, past the gold and black engraved sign, ‘Dr. Theodore Wiesner’. Carter tossed his gym bag casually behind the door and sat in the chair across from his professional mentor. College policy dictated monthly meetings with one’s mentor, but due to the general busy-ness of campus life, they rarely visited more than once a semester.

The older man greeted Carter by grabbing his shoulders and looking him squarely in the eyes. Something about Teddy’s glasses always amused Carter. It seemed like they were more reflective than translucent, making it hard to see the professor’s eyes, but easy to see if he himself had a hair out of place.

Teddy sat at his desk. He gestured for Carter to sit across from him. Carter loved Teddy’s office. It was stuffed from ceiling to floor with well-loved books written by the giants of the Christian faith, and photos and trinkets from mission trips, primarily to Asian nations. Carter picked up a wood carving of an elephant and fingered it gently.

“This new?”

“Yes. A Bangladeshi brother carved that. Would you like it?”

Carter looked up, “I couldn’t! Knowing you, Teddy, this has a special story that goes with it.”

“Ah, you know me well,” he smiled, “And, you are right. It has meaning. The brothers and sisters there experience daily discrimination because they claim the name of Christ. I bought several to give away—to help me…and perhaps you,” Teddy smiled, “remember to pray for these brothers.” Carter examined the well crafted elephant.

“That one is yours.”

“Thanks, Teddy,” said Carter, thoughtfully. He slipped the memento into his pocket.

“Carter! My favorite! How was your summer?”

Carter swiveled his chair to see Marion DeMone’s bouffant head squeeze through the opening in Teddy’s door. While her husband was the academic dean of Lima Bible, everyone knew Marion as the matriarch of campus. Her position was partly inherited, since her grandfather, a traveling preacher from the tent revival era, founded the college in his later years. It was also partly earned, as her bigger-than-life personality seemed to be everywhere at once. At any meeting, luncheon or event of any ilk with ties to the college, Marion’s big hair, big jewelry and big voice were at least as prominent as the campus logo.

Without pause for response, Marion continued, “Teddy, have you told Carter about the survey?”

“I was just about to—”

“I was not the least bit surprised. Carter, you just keep up the good work! I’ve got to run!”

The pouffy do vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Teddy returned to his folder.

“Well, as Marion alluded, you’ve done it again, Carter. Last spring’s student surveys declare that you are the most interesting instructor on campus.”

“A couple of our colleagues may have let that slip at lunch,” Carter admitted.

Dr. Wiesner pushed away from his desk and leaned back in his chair. He studied Carter for a moment, as if his very thoughts were printed onto his face.

“Son, you’ve got us all in your fan club. Your students and your colleagues. You’re an exceptional teacher, passionate about God’s word and interested in your students’ lives. You have tremendous influence on a great many people.” Dr. Wiesner stood and walked over to a small coffeemaker at the back of his office. He gestured toward the carafe.

“No thanks.” Carter watched as Dr. Wiesner poured a cup and slowly stepped back to his desk.

“I detect a ‘but,’” said Carter with a warm smile.

A lengthy silence made Carter take a deep breath.

“Carter, while I was praying this morning—how can I say this? God brought you to mind.”

Carter tensed a bit and re-distributed his weight in his chair. If anyone he knew had a clear line to God, Teddy did.

“I suspect you are on the cusp of a spiritual journey.”

Carter sat thoughtfully. He was relieved that he didn’t receive a rebuke, yet could not ignore the ‘deer-in-the-headlights’ expression that Teddy emoted whenever he referenced his talks with God.

“You know me, Teddy—I love to travel,” he slipped on his sunglasses as his moment of introspection melted into an impish grin. “Especially if there’s a Mediterranean climate involved.”

Dr. Wiesner chuckled, and shook his head, and held out a piece of notebook paper folded tightly into a small square. Carter took it and started to unfold it.

“Not now,” Dr. Wiesner said, waving a weathered hand. “Read it later.”

“Travel advisory?”

“It’s your destination.”

Carter always felt the ring of truth in Teddy’s advice. Today, it made him uncomfortable, so he changed the subject.

“How are you doing, Teddy? Where is God taking you these days?”

A fire ignited from behind the thick lenses. Teddy’s voice became tense with excitement.

“You know, Carter, I’ve fallen in love with one of these modern translations! I didn’t see it coming, but—well, just let me read to you—see how the text comes alive.”

Teddy grabbed a new, but already broken in Bible from his desk and quickly fingered through to the desired passage.

“Yes, yes—listen to how Romans 7 reads in this:

‘I don't understand myself at all, for I really want to do what is right, but I don't do it. Instead, I do the very thing I hate. I know perfectly well that what I am doing is wrong, and my bad conscience shows that I agree that the law is good. But I can't help myself, because it is sin inside me that makes me do these evil things.

‘ I know I am rotten through and through so far as my old sinful nature is concerned. No matter which way I turn, I can't make myself do right. I want to, but I can't. When I want to do good, I don't. And when I try not to do wrong, I do it anyway. But if I am doing what I don't want to do, I am not really the one doing it; the sin within me is doing it.

‘It seems to be a fact of life that when I want to do what is right, I inevitably do what is wrong. I love God's law with all my heart. But there is another law at work within me that is at war with my mind. This law wins the fight and makes me a slave to the sin that is still within me. Oh, what a miserable person I am! Who will free me from this life that is dominated by sin?’”[1]

As Teddy took a breath, as if to build up to the grand finale, he looked up to see Carter glancing at his watch. Teddy cleared his throat.

“Well, as you see, it elucidates the core struggle of the soul.” He looked reverently at the page, then closed the book and set it down.

“Don’t be late for your game,” he said, nodding toward the gym bag.

Chapter 2

It was a queer feeling. In her eighty-three short years, Euphonie had never experienced a creative drought of this sort. Even as a young child, she had spun out songs—both music and lyrics—as easily as she now spun the gold recording orb in her hand. Her mother always smiled as she told of her first song—the one in angel tongue. Of course she couldn’t write in the language of the heavens any longer, nor even translate her own childhood masterpiece. That was normal. Everyone lost the ability to speak the heavenly language, usually a few years after birth. But no one ever lost their gift. Why had she?

It had been ten months…Euphonie remembered the exact date. She had decided to write a special song for Perose’s birthday. Something fun and sweet, like her new friend. She penned a few thoughts, then crumpled the paper. She pulled out her guitar and played a few chords. Was it out of tune? No, but something was off. More accurately, something was missing.

That was just the beginning. At the planning meeting for the Summer Praise Concert, she had been asked to create a piece for the opening worship event. Euphonie knew that being asked was a great honor for a person her age. Normally, she would simply choose one facet about her beloved God to meditate on, and the words and music would flow out of her. But each time she tried to write a lyric, she found that her words were mere echoes of praises others had offered. She had nothing new to add.

At first, friends and family offered their support and suggestions: “Go to the oceans or the mountains for inspiration;” “visit the floral forests;” or “swim in the heated pools at Malki.” Other writers spoke of focus and discipline. They didn’t know she lay awake at night with pen at her nightstand and a prayer on her lips. After a time, no one knew what to make of her dilemma. It was clear that she was causing a growing concern in the community when she was granted counsel from the elders.

The elders had seen only a few occurrences of what they called “frustrated talent” from over the centuries. Their belief was that it had something to do with temptation. Euphonie wondered at their diagnosis. Was she being tempted?

“I am like all of the others,” Euphonie thought of her upbringing. She remembered her spiritual defense classes. She had always taken the lessons seriously, so as to avoid being lured toward the toxic Kogae. “Don’t go to the tree alone—don’t focus on its beauty, don’t ponder what its fruit might taste like.” She couldn’t remember anything out of the ordinary. She didn’t think about the tree’s fruit. Why should she? There are so many other trees bearing delicious food.

Still, Euphonie knew to stay busy. She knew the manner of inspiration. Ideas shoot like falling stars, rarely seen full on, but often perceived with one’s peripheral vision. She knew to wait patiently for the spark of insight to draw near, then to playfully look away. But even her wellspring of creative savvy couldn’t irrigate her gift back to life. She was dry. She was sand and dust, and the occasional cactus of an idea that ended up more prickly than profitable. So she spent her days helping her brothers in their gardens, helping Sharhmin in the nursery, even helping her erudite roommate with her dark studies. But these were not the activities she was created for. Euphonie felt the pleasure of God when she wrote passionate lyrics about His love and goodness. She felt the embrace of her Creator when she set them to music and watched them come to life. Hadn’t He said to her, “Sing me a new song”?

She longed for a fresh piece to offer God. Perhaps if she knew Him better…knew something different about Him that others had yet to discover—then songs would ring out from her spirit and she could share a new message of praise. This was her focus, her obsession. Was that not a good thing? Is God not the ultimate Creator? Slowly Euphonie’s patience turned to confusion…her confusion to heaviness of heart. After a tearful, sleepless night, she called out, “I am yours, Father. Why can I no longer create? I feel so far away from You.”

She sobbed.

A thought broke through the heaviness of her soul. She latched on to its shining hope and made it her plea: “You are infinite, Father! I am young and know so little about You. Show me something new about You.”

Then, in the stillness of the first light, God spoke to her. His gentle words were simple and direct: “Greet our guest.”

Chapter 3

Brad was balancing the blue ball deftly on the side of his racket when Carter opened the door to the court.

“Glad you could make it.” Brad looked up at Carter, then quickly returned his focus to the precariously placed sphere. “Why do you look like the cat that swallowed the canary?”

“Who, me? No reason,” Carter smiled. “I have a good life.”

“What’s up?”

“Just a silly popularity contest,” he admitted.

Brad shook his head.

“Again? God treats you like an only child, Carter. Change of topic—what ever happened to the girl with the dislocated shoulder—Amber, something.”

Carter shrugged. “I didn’t see her—but she’s enrolled. Hopefully, she’ll take up with better guys this year…or give them up all together.”

“Careful. That one has it bad for you.”

“No way, Doc. I’m just the knight in shining armor.”

“Are you saying she does nothing for you?”

Carter mused. “She’s easy on the eyes, I admit. But I’m definitely not her type.” His voice echoed off the walls of the court making it louder than normal and slightly distorted.

“By the way, Stacy thinks she’s found your soul mate. Cathy—something. She works in the library. Maybe you should check her out.” Brad smiled at his own joke. Carter laced his court shoes.

“I guess it’s true.”

“What?”

“When friends get married, they won’t rest ‘til they get all their friends hooked up too.”

Brad shrugged, dribbling the ball off his racket.

“Stace offered to fix a little dinner and have you both over—you know, play some dumb word game, or watch a movie or something.”

“I presume you’re referring to Cathy Bales?”

“That sounds right.”

“We’ve already been on a date, of sorts.”

“And?” Brad asked, bouncing the ball off one side of his racket strings, then flipping the racket over before the ball landed on the strings again.

“I guess I didn’t really get to know her very well.”

“Don’t you go to the same church.”

“Yes, but I usually sit stage left, with the students. She sits in the smoking section.”

“The what?”

“She brings homeless people to church with her and they create a—you know—a different atmosphere. Hey, we going to play--or what?” asked Carter, snatching the blue ball from Brad.

“Serve it.”

Brad adjusted his safety goggles.

Carter served the ball hard. Brad responded with a low shot that slammed from the front wall to the side. Carter dove for it, hit the ball, but landed on his arm, sliding head first into the side wall. Carter groaned.

“You okay?” Brad asked, offering him a hand to get up.

Carter put out his hand, but as a message to “wait.” He slowly stood and shook himself, as if to dislodge the pain from his arm and head. “Your point,” he conceded.

~~~

“Stop shoving!” Methos screeched. A cacophony of claws scratched against the slate floor where a mob of red and yellow eyes jammed close together to peer through the portal into the material realm. Tormentors, seductresses, night voices, viruses, fiends and flatterers gathered into the zone that Methos had grown to think of as his. It wasn’t an important role, just a solitary assignment opposing Gomor, but it was his. He had never been respected among the dark spirits. That was fine with him. But now, this reunion of bullies and belittlers were shoving onto his turf with equipment with which he was not familiar. The tormentors lugged in large monitors and amplifiers. They filled every inch of flat surface in Methos’ work area with a device of some sort. They scratched everything they touched with their barbed hooks. Meanwhile, the fiends sloshed their trail of slime behind their tails until entire floor was coated in a slick, phlegmy shine.

Normally temptresses would not even notice him at all. Today, they were asking him what chewy delights he had on hand. Methos was mystified as to what had drawn this horde to his corner of the realm. He tried to listen in on some snitches to learn the source of this ruckus.

“This is it! We’re going to take down these God-lovin—”

“Shut up! He’s here!”

Claws and hooves stilled. Yellow smoked billowed up as a regal, robed figure swept into the room. The flatterers circled around the newcomer, bowing and pawing at the bottom of his robe. Methos was certain this was a regional authority, though he’d only seen a creature of this rank once before. His face and hands were all that emerged from his flowing robe…His spectral features were angular and phosphorescent. His fingers flicked rapidly, relaying instructions that the tormentors tacitly understood and instantly implemented. At his left side was a large black salamander-like creature whose wide head with protruding eyes rested against the thigh of the Regent. A jewel-studded collar looked out of place, thought Methos, against the creature’s muculent skin.

“I am Regent Villnar. I come directly from the Prince of the Air. He himself negotiated this strategic situation.” Methos stared at the dignitary standing in his own home.

Whispers arose at the proclamation.

“This is our opportunity to affect the two great realms for our kingdom. We shall spare no resource to bring about the downfall of this race. You have each been summoned here to bring your unique influence. Watch the record.

The dignitary pulled a book from the fold of his robe. He opened it. Immediately, the portal blackened, then re-lit. Methos watched as a young boy entered a church building.

“This can’t be good,” snarled a night voice.

“Silence, fool,” said the Regent. “We do much of our best work in their religious communities. Here he is! Watch him. Make note of every move—every word.”

“Who is he, Master?”

“They call him Carter,” he snarled. “We shall call him maggot meat.”

The room roared its raucous approval.

~~

Carter normally felt invigorated after a fast-paced game of racquetball, but on his drive home his head began to ache, as it had that morning. Maybe he’d hit the wall harder than he’d thought. Or maybe the stifling humidity was causing his malaise. By the time he pulled into his driveway, rain was pouring from the thick, black clouds. He stubbornly decided to brave the torrents to get his mail. He raced from the car to the box, which was empty. Carter’s throbbing headache and the prematurely black sky made the trek up his own front lawn seem foreign and treacherous. With one hand shielding rain from his eyes, he started quickly up the lawn, then lost his footing on the slick grass. He fell flat on his back. Through closed eyelids, Carter sensed a flash of light. He braced for the impending clap of thunder, but heard nothing.

A split second later—pain. The pounding rain had inexplicably ceased, but Carter’s only conscious thought was of a new sensation, an enormous weight that threatened to crush his chest. He was pinned to the earth. He attempted to lift his head. It wasn’t as dark as it had been a moment earlier. But the shadowy light only increased his horror. His first thought was that a downed tree limb was pressing into his chest. He gasped for air.

“Don’t panic,” he thought to himself. “Just breathe.”

He forced himself to take shallow breaths. Carter grabbed the object with both hands and lifted with all his might. It didn’t budge. He could now see that the object was jagged and sharp, but it hadn’t punctured into him. He moved his legs to see if he could gain leverage for another attempt to dislodge the thing. He bent his knees and grabbed the projectile, repositioning his hands to avoid what seemed to be thorns jutting out from the object. This time when Carter lifted, it budged. He stopped to rest, assured he would dislodge himself with the next attempt. Just as he re-secured his grip, the limb jolted upward on its own. The motion was so unexpected that Carter didn’t release his grip until the momentum had pulled him upward and off the ground. When he did let loose, he fell to his knees. Shaken, Carter peered into the shadowy light to see who had freed him. Peering back was a large black face with two rows of red eyes.

Chapter 4

Carter scrambled backward. The creature scrambled backward, mirroring Carter’s movement. Now with fresh perspective, Carter saw that he’d not been pinned by a tree limb, but by the leg of a giant spider. The arachnid was larger than Carter’s retriever, and only slightly smaller than a horse. Its black body was covered with fine hair, its legs lined in back with a row of spiny projections. The rows of eyes stayed fixed on him, while its front left leg twitched, unnerving Carter. Then he noticed something far more terrifying that its huge legs. Pinchers. The spider continuously moved its hideous, spiked mandibles out and in. Carter shuddered involuntarily.

Clicking sounds came from the behind the beast. Carter felt around for a stick or rock to defend himself. Nothing. Then a thought—could he get to his car? Or, better yet, into the house? Although he couldn’t take his eyes off the monstrosity before him, he began to perceive another terrifying reality: he was no longer in his front yard.

In one instant, everything had changed. He opened his eyes to a sea of grass. The pain in his head subsided. His clothes, skin, and the grass were dry, although all three had been soaked a mere second before.

The spider lifted a leg. Carter stiffened. It turned and scuttled backward. The clicking resumed…but it was not coming from the giant arachnid. It grew more frequent and rhythmical. Carter heard someone approaching from behind the beast.

“Watch out!” he shouted.

His warning was part for the approacher’s sake, part in fear that the spider would startle and he would end up underfoot again.

The clicks continued as a woman came into view. The creature’s legs spun into motion as it turned to face the newcomer. Carter sat mute as she approached the beast, unflapped. She stretched out her hand. Eerily, the beast lifted one leg and stretched it toward her. She touched it with one hand, then clicked her fingers again. As if on cue, the spider turned and scuttled away.

The woman turned to him.

“Are you well?” she asked, and immediately put her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide in surprise. “Can you … can you understand me?” She uttered her syllables as if each sound were foreign.

“I’m fine…I think. What was that? Who are you?”

As quickly as Carter had uttered his query, his mind registered that it was not this girl who had suddenly landed on his front lawn, but he who had arrived—where?

“I am Euphonie,” she said, placing her hand near her throat. She shot a quick smile toward the sky.

“I was expecting you.”

He followed her gaze upward to a cloudless azure sky. A cool, fresh breeze revived him. Even the air had changed. He looked around. Not a familiar landmark in sight.

“Where are we?” asked Carter, with a growing queasiness in his stomach. He was sitting on a green lawn on a gentle berm. Behind him was a nearly transparent structure of fine, sparkling geometric patterns of amazing intricacy. Curiosity lured him to examine the gossamer gazebo. The delicate material was woven into panels and supported by crystal rods. It was clear, like glass, but as the early evening sun hit the walls, it created a prismatic dance of color across the water-beaded webbing.

“You are in Gomor, the Western City of Art.”

It was breathtaking. Carter had to force himself to stop gazing at the mesmerizing display around him. The colors were dazzling. The light was different. Clearer. Cleaner.

“How did I get here from Lima?” he stuttered, returning attention to the woman.

“I do not know ‘Lima.’”

Carter had a lucid thought. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. No signal. Not a single bar.

“Well, Toto, we’re really not in Lima anymore. What are we doing here?”

Euphonie tilted her head slightly, then continued with an air of reverence.

“I come here,” she gestured in a sweeping motion, “for inspiration. The colors dance with the setting sun…and make me think…” Her words trailed off, her eyes drifted upward and then, an ethereal hum lifted from her lips, notes rising and falling with the waves of sparkling light that moved from wall to wall. Carter was entranced. Her voice was in harmony with the color, the symmetry, the perfect beauty of this place.

“Lightning!” his shout abruptly ending her song.

“I must have been struck by lightning! This is heaven!”

Carter gasped, gazing at the surreal beauty that surrounded him. Then he looked at her. The late afternoon sun backlit her and gave her an aural glow.

“Are you an angel?”

Euphonie appeared surprised at the question. She shook her head.

The Sending

• Title: The Sending

• Genre: Speculative Suspense

• Wordcount: 81,000

Premise: The Garden of Eden holds a 4,000 year old secret. One believer must risk his faith to find it.

Blurb

HE FOUND THE WAY TO LIVE FOREVER.

NOW HE MUST DIE TO SHARE IT.

When Mark Grant’s only son gets kidnapped from the church nursery, his world is thrown into a darkness unlike any he could ever imagine.

Grants’s life is radically altered when he discovers that in order to see his son again, he must find the Garden of Eden.

Uncovering bizarre links between his son’s kidnapping and an ancient group of believers, Mark is forced to make decisions that compromise his morals and confront the broken soul he’s hidden from for the past twenty years.

Synopsis

“HEAVEN BLED RAIN. AND THE WATER HEALED…”

The Sending begins with these words and takes the reader back to a stormy day in 1861, where thirty-three year old Travis Bedford works as a station master on the Pony Express. A horse appears with no rider or mochila. Travis goes in search of them and finds the leather saddle bag. Inside is a Bible and package addressed to a man in San Francisco. Travis takes the mysterious package to California and finds the owner, who explains that the package contains a map and location of the Garden of Eden. A stranger appears demanding the map and attacks the owner. Travis escapes with the map before the stranger can catch him.

The Sending moves to the present day San Francisco, California where thirty-three year old Mark Grant is married and has one son named Samuel. The Grant’s marriage is one argument away from over. That argument comes on a Sunday morning as the couple get ready for church. Mark needs to get away and takes Samuel to church. His wife Aubrey stays home. Mark drops Sam off at the church nursery. When he goes to pick him up after the service, Sam is missing. The church workers tell Mark that Aubrey picked up Sam. Mark races home to find an empty house.

A man named Konrad Lynch calls and tells Mark that he has Samuel. He explains that Mark must find a map that will lead to the Garden of Eden and more specifically to the tree of life. He tells Mark to contact his old school teacher who is a renowned Old Testament historian. Mark goes to his room and grabs a pocket-size stone cross that was a birthday present from Samuel. He keeps it with him the entire novel.

Mark races to the prep school he attended as a young boy. There he meets the church pastor, John Roberts. A wicked storm moves in, lightning flashes and blinds Mark. As he struggles to reorient himself, Mark has very tangible experiences. The interactions are visions that he is allowed to have of the Unseen. One of the angels Mark meets in the spirit realm reminds him that the way he’s trying to get Sam back is the same thing God went through when he sent (title tie-in) Jesus to die on the cross. Jesus was kidnapped by death and gloriously returned on the third day!

First 30 Pages

I am sending you out

like sheep among wolves.

Therefore be as shrewd as snakes

and as innocent as doves.

JESUS OF NAZARETH

PROLOGUE

Cold Springs Station

Nevada Territory

March 23, 1861

HEAVEN BLED RAIN. AND THE WATER HEALED…

Thirty-three year old Travis Bedford waited. He sipped his coffee and cherished the warmth of the tin cup. The night storm had been unforgiving and turned the small stone structure into an icebox. Travis tried to think about his morning duties, but his brain had become like the stone walls of the station house. Cold. He let the coffee cool, soaking as much heat from the cup into his weathered hands as he could.

A heavy morning sun painted the Nevada sky in mixed layers of amber and tangerine. The sagebrush wilderness called to Travis’s soul. Travis put the empty cup on the hearth and grabbed his coat. The first rider would be arriving soon and he needed to be ready. When he heard the rider’s horn, Travis would walk the fresh bronco from the

corral to the front of the station house. The horn was silent. Minutes passed and still no

rider. In the year that Travis had been part of the Express, no mail had ever been reported lost. He waited a while longer and decided to investigate. Travis would ride the trail back east only so far as to have time to return for the next rider.

Travis mounted the bronco and headed out; laughing at how quickly life can change. The desert world that surrounded him, once a symbol of freedom, now disrupted by the absent rider caused Travis to see the big sky as a falling pane of glass. He wanted to be long gone by the time it smashed against the sagebrush and sand. Travis had heard of the dangers of riding the trail—outlaws, the Washoe, weather—but never did he stare at it up close. As his horse galloped farther away from Cold Springs, Travis sensed that something serious had happened. His instinct told him that it was time to turn back.

He saw the mochila about twenty feet off the trail, on the ground covered by sagebrush. The absence of rider and horse meant there had been an ambush. The rider most likely dumped the mochila as he tried to outrun his attackers. Travis dismounted, grabbed the leather knapsack and noticed that the three cantinas were still locked and that the rider’s issued Bible was in the fourth pocket. It wasn’t uncommon for people who had made their fortunes in the ’49 Gold Rush to share some of their money with their families. Riders leaving Sacramento heading east were the ones that would typically be running the money. The westward mail would not be as inviting. Travis fitted the leather pouch over his saddle and scanned the new day horizon for the missing rider. The landscape was barren. Literally. Travis made a mental note to have the next rider carry the disheartening news to Middlegate Station. Travis returned to Cold Springs, he tied the horse up and carried the mochila inside the station house. He draped the sack over stone hearth and wished he had a knife to try and cut open the cantinas. He did not have a key. That was an honor that Hank Rawly at Middlegate held. That way he could transfer the post to the next man. Travis removed the Bible that had been stamped in gold letters:

Presented by Russell, Majors & Waddell – 1858

and put in underneath his pillow. The next rider would have his own copy thanks to Mr. Majors who had seen that ever rider have one. When Travis had gotten injured and was reassigned to Cold Springs, his Bible stayed with his replacement. It wasn’t that important to him at the time. Travis said his prayers, but the Bible was too intimidating. Too many words.

Travis added another log to the fire and stoked the embers. Even though the sun had risen to the top of the heavens, the frigid air refused to leave. Fear sank into Travis’s thoughts. No riders had shown. When the second scheduled rider failed to arrive, Travis thought he had his days of the week confused. To honor the Sabbath, the operations rested on Sunday. Two days ago.

A horn blast cut through the air and Travis’s worry. He shook his head to loosen the concern that had begun to harden around his reasoning. Travis walked outside with a newborn resolve that a fellow employee would be able to help Travis figure out what had happened to the morning riders. Travis retrieved the same horse he had used earlier to scout the trail and led him out to wait for the relay. When the new rider approached, Travis noticed that the man’s physical appearance was far too big compared to men who met the weight limit to ride. Travis had a gun, two in fact, but both the Colt and the rifle were inside the station.

The newcomer brought his horse to a halt, but remained in the saddle.

“Where is it?”

The mochila.

“Where is what?” Travis needed a few seconds to figure out a way to keep the bandit from going inside the station.

The rider pulled out revolver and aimed it at Travis’s head. “You know, if you value your life, you’ll tell me where the mochila is.”

Travis didn’t want to die. He couldn’t begin to imagine what was in the sack that would warrant this. He also needed to honor the men who had lost their lives or been captured that morning by not giving in.

“It’s inside. By the fireplace.” The rider dismounted, keeping his gun aimed at Travis.

“Go. I’ll be right behind you.”

Travis had left his own gun on the floor just inside the door. He led the man inside and pointed at the leather sack. Travis stepped back, putting himself between his gun and the fireplace. The man positioned himself so that he could keep an eye on Travis and took a ring of keys from his trench coat pocket. He set out to unlock the three cantinas. When he was finished, the bandit looked up and regarded Travis with a glare that belied the stranger’s intent.

“Where is it?” The outlaw wasn’t aware that the riders each carried a Bible or he would have known to ask for it specifically.

“What are you looking for?”

“A letter addressed to Thomas Neal, San Francisco.”

“I don’t even have keys. You know more than I do,” Travis said. “What was in this empty pouch?” The man held up the mochila and pointed to the pocket where the Bible had been. “That’s the way I found it,” Travis lied. “I need you to keep your eyes open for that letter. If you’re a prayin’ man, you better get on your knees and thank your maker because you get to live to see one more day. I’ll return by morning.”

Travis watched until the man was swallowed up by the horizon. He stepped over to his bed and grabbed the Bible. It was time that he got serious about reading it. Travis saw the envelope tucked in between the pages of Genesis. He held it up and saw that it was the letter for Thomas Neal in San Francisco. There were no other markings on the envelope except for the St. Joseph frank. Travis cringed. He wanted to open the letter and discover what was so important that the outlaw would choose to go through so much trouble. But that would go against the Oath he had taken upon signing on with the Pony Express. He had sworn to conduct himself in an ethical manner and opening someone else’s mail was the worst act of invasion an Express employee could commit. He would get the letter to Thomas Neal, but first he had to commit the crime.

* * *

Travis reached San Francisco and found a room in a hotel on Montgomery Street, near the park at Portsmouth Square. Compared to his tiny stone shack back in Cold Springs, San Francisco was an empire. People from all over the world had flooded to the bay city to make their fortunes. What Travis saw didn’t match up with the glamorous image his brain created when he thought of the Gold Rush. A haze, made from condensed vice, covered the streets where prostitutes waited, con men thieved, and penniless dreamers who didn’t find what they had come here for, drank. Thousands of seekers with nothing to claim as their own but empty pockets and thirsty souls.

Slipping away on the Antelope bought Travis a ten-hour cushion between himself and his pursuers. That would give him enough time to find Thomas Neal and deliver the Bible.

Travis skipped lunch and found the Market Street address. He climbed the stairs to the second floor apartment that matched the address on the envelope. Travis knocked and was greeted by an elderly man with wiry hair and a hyperactive beard that would make president Buchanan have heart failure.

“Mr. Neal?”

“That’s right.”

Travis introduced himself and then held out the Bible that he had hauled from

Nevada. The old man just stared at Travis for a few seconds. Travis didn’t know what to do so he asked if they could talk for a minute.

“Mr. Bedford. I’m eight-nine and so close to dying that I can see heaven on a cloudy day. Yes, come in. A visit with you and the Bible will be a beautiful thing.”

Thomas Neal held the door and motioned for Travis to enter. The apartment was modest and orderly. A writing desk was laden with piles of writing paper, a bottle of ink and a steel-nib pen. Travis asked what the man was working on.

“Glad you asked,” Thomas said. He shuffled over to the desk and selected a few sheets from two of the piles. “I’ve spent my entire life praying for this day and, dear gussie, here it is.” Thomas pulled the writing chair out for Travis. “Sit.”

Travis sat and listened to Thomas’s deep voice narrate a movie-like chain of events leading up to the present day and the meaning of the envelope’s contents.

“After Adam and Eve ate the apple, they were sent out of Eden. God put an angel with a flaming sword to keep them and future generations from reaching the tree.” Neal put the opened letter on top of one of the piles so Travis could see it. Just another letter from one family member to another.

Travis was vaguely aware of the Genesis account.

Thomas continued. “The reason God gave them for not being allowed back into the garden was so they wouldn’t eat off the Tree of Life and live forever.” Passion turned his eyes into pools of eternity.

     “Who sent you this?” Travis thought he had been dreaming. He had risked his career and life for an old man’s fantasy. “My brother. He’s a missionary in Turkey.” Thomas Neal paused. “You were expecting something else?” Truth. Travis wanted to honor the Oath. Wish. That the letter he carted halfway across the country had included directions to a wagonload of gold. He answered with the truth. “I’m just grateful I got to deliver your letter.”

“Young man, the good Lord has honored your obedience,” Thomas said. “This town is loaded with young people your age that came to find buried treasure. Trying to get your hands on what you think will bring true happiness leaves a man empty handed.” Thomas put the papers back on top of the desk and made his way over to the stove. He opened the grate where wood went. Instead of a log, he pulled out a Bible. Thomas stepped back, closed the grate and turned to face Travis. “I want you to take this with you. The good Lord wants us to read his word.” None of this made any sense. Travis had outrun a band of killers intent on taking the letter only to be handed a Bible from a delusional eighty-nine year old man. “That letter is a map. That Bible I gave you has my notes that will help you make sense of the map and figure out what to do once you find Eden.” Old Man Neal pointed over to the letter that Travis had faithfully delivered. “Get where?” Travis felt like he had missed some huge secret.

“The Garden of Eden.”

The old man was nuts. Travis had risked his life for a basket case. “You’re joking.”

“You’re thirty-three, right?”

Travis stopped breathing. He hadn’t told the man his age. “How do know how old I am?”

“Just promise me you’ll find the Garden of Eden before the devil does.” The urgency had painted his words and expression into a mental storm. “The enemy’s army is strong. He will do whatever it takes to stop us.”

“How’d you know my age?”

“Because that’s how old Jesus was when the Sending began. And now, here you are, ready to be sent.”

Travis turned to leave. This was ridiculous. The Sending? A knock stopped Travis. The old man begged him to wait. Travis pulled the bedroom door almost closed. He peeked through the tiny crack and watched Neal shuffle across the living room and answer the front door. Two police officers were on the other side. At least it wasn’t the bandits.

“Are you Tom Neal,” the taller of the two officers asked.

The old man nodded.

“We’re sorry to bother you, but we need to ask you a few questions.”

“Ask away.”

One of the two cops walked passed Neal into the apartment.

Travis gently eased the bedroom door closed. Travis went to the window. A gunshot cracked. Travis froze. He crawled into the tiny closet and prayed. He could hear the two men walk into the bedroom. Travis was seconds away from being discovered.

Minutes passed. Travis prayed. He heard the bedroom door slam. The men were in the living room. Travis stood and left the closet and waited silently until he heard the living room door shut. He went to the window and saw the two officers walk across the dusty street. Travis ran to the living room. Tom Neal lay face down on the wood floor. A pool of blood encircled his face, a dark red frame around a picture of dying dreams.

The police officers were gone. Travis dropped the Bible and knelt beside Tom Neal. “Hold on. I’ll get help.”

The old man shook his head. His chest heaved for precious air. “Go…find…”

Travis didn’t want to watch the man die. He might be a lunatic, but he deserved a chance. “I’ll be right back.”

“…the Garden…”

“You’re going to live,” Travis said. “Breathe!”

“before…the devil…does.” As the last word past from the old man’s lips, his spirit did the same.

Travis watched the man’s chest fall. It never rose again. Go find the Garden before the devil does.

Travis grabbed the man’s shirt, shook his limp body. “Come on! Wake up!”

The Bible that the old man had given him, lay open on the floor, a portion of the Scripture was circled in ink.

Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen.

Travis grabbed the Bible, stood, and went back to the writing desk. He took the letter and folded it. He noticed that the envelope was missing. Travis wanted to use it to reach the man’s brother. The killers dressed as cops took care of that option. Travis put the letter in the Bible and prayed for guidance. He told Tom Neal goodbye and that he’d see him in heaven. Travis stepped outside and noticed the two policemen walk toward him. They picked up the pace and yelled for him to stop. Travis Bedford ran.

Chapter 1

Mark Grant clenched his fists.

“I refuse to argue, Mark.”

He was ready to punch a hole in the wall. “You’re being ridiculous, Bree. We are going to talk about this. Right now.”

“For goodness sake, all I said was you shouldn’t get so upset with Sam.” Aubrey stared at her husband with eyes that looked possessed. “Grow up.”

“Oh, but when you do it, it’s okay,” Mark said. “I get it now. I’m the bad guy. Cool.”

“You yelled at him because he wrote on your desk calendar. He’s three, Mark.” Aubrey took a deep breath. “I can’t believe how selfish you are. At church today, why don’t you ask God to turn you into a real man?”

I can’t believe we’re arguing on my birthday.

Samuel came bounding into the living room with a toy train in one hand and a

stuffed hippo in the other, so Mark bit his tongue.

“Get your shoes, buddy.”

Aubrey headed for their bedroom. “Go without me. I’m not in the mood.” She slammed the door.

Samuel clomped out of the office in Mark’s running shoes. The sight of him in the size 12 Nikes chiseled away the tension. Mark rubbed his son’s spiky blond hair and grabbed Sam’s Crocs. He kissed Sam, making him giggle.

“Luh you, Daddy.”

“I love you too, buddy, and I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

Twenty minutes later, Mark plastered on his life’s-great smile and walked Samuel to the church nursery. Then he sat through the worship service like a zombie, stewing over his wife’s behavior. He hoped coming to church would help. The preacher talked about the importance of making peace and not harboring anger. Perfect. Guilty as charged.

At the end of the service, Mark shook some hands of friends, all of whom asked where Aubrey was. “She’s sick,” he said.

Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Tell her we’re praying for her.

Mark went to retrieve Sam, but couldn’t see him. Probably hiding.

Mark leaned on the bottom half of the Dutch door. A young lady wearing a childcare badge smiled at him. He didn’t recognize her. “Sam went home thirty minutes ago,” she said.

Mark’s gut tightened. Did she even know what child belonged to which parent?

“Your wife picked him up.”

“My wife’s home sick.” Liar.

A new parent stepped up behind Mark.

The volunteer gave Mark a tired look and glanced past him to the next parent in line. “Here’s her security tag, sir.” The helper pointed to a clipboard that was used to collect the stickers.

Mark saw a parent tag and a child tag, both with SAM GRANT printed along with the date and security number. There had to be a mistake.

* * *

The edges of Mark’s vision blurred. The lady and everything in the nursery room lost clarity. The only thing in focus was the clipboard with the two tags that had been printed for Sam and himself.

The volunteer started to help the parent behind Mark, but he showed the worker the security tag he had received out of the computer before the service. “Here’s the one I got when I dropped him off.”

The lady picked up a boy with a Cookie Monster shirt and carried him to the parent behind Mark.

Mark yanked his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the house. After five rings, Aubrey’s voicemail answered. Mark left a message.

Don’t overreact. Aubrey’s always reminding you how you have knack for blowing things out of proportion.

He dialed Aubrey’s cell and did the same. A church security guard approached. Mark realized what a fool he’d look like if Aubrey really did have Sam. But he was willing to look like the village idiot a hundred times over if it meant his son was safe.

“Excuse me,” the guard said. Mark ignored him and opened the door to Samuel’s class. He wasn’t about to waste time with some rent-a-cop.

Will you listen to yourself? Aubrey checked Samuel out. Did you ever stop to think that your precious wife might want to surprise you on your thirtieth birthday and she needed Sam to make it work?

“Sir, you can’t come in here,” the woman said.

“Where’s my son?”

The security guard grabbed Mark by the arm and called for backup.

“They lost my boy!”

“Sir, I need you to come with me.”

“Let go of me! They lost my son!”

“Sir, calm down. We’ll find your boy.”

A uniformed police officer and three more church security arrived.

Mark yelled his son’s name. He pleaded with the officer to do something. His anger turned to humiliation as the guards and police officer escorted Mark from Sam’s class.

In the security office, Mark apologized for his behavior and left Sam’s description with the guards. They promised to pull the video and confirm that Aubrey did pick up Samuel. Mark asked how Sam could have been picked up if Mark was the one with the “Parent” security tag. The guard said his wife must have given the nursery volunteer a sticker printed from home using labels from any office supply store.

Mark Grant trudged out to the parking lot, redialing both the house and Aubrey’s cell. Aubrey wouldn’t have taken Sam without telling Mark, birthday surprise or not.

Mark broke the speed limit except when he got stuck behind an eighteen-wheeler.

Come on. Come on!

Finally, an opening came and Mark slammed the pedal to the floor, flew around the truck and sped away.

By the time he reached the house, Mark had spoken more prayers out loud than he could remember. Aubrey’s car was gone.

Dude, calm down. It’s probably in the garage.

Mark unlocked the front door, only to find his Nikes on the hardwood floor.

“Hello?” He felt like he had broken into a stranger’s home, but he also half expected a crowd of people crammed behind the couches ready to jump out yelling “Surprise!”

“Aubrey!” Mark checked every room of the house. That left the garage. “Dear Jesus, let her car be in there.” But Aubrey’s car was gone. A piece of paper had been taped to the inside of the garage door.

Mark,

I need time. I can’t take the stress anymore. I’ll call you when I’m ready to talk. Tell Sam I love him. -A.

Chapter 2

Mark fell to his knees. He punched the garage floor until his knuckles bled. Darkness swallowed him, and he wept bitterly. Mark was overwhelmed with the thought that this was somehow his fault. He hadn’t been really involved at church in years. He’d been wrapped up in his work at the expense of his family. That’s why this was happening. Mark was surely being punished for turning his back on God. Aubrey had preached time and again that Mark needed to start putting God first.

His cell phone rang. The display showed Aubrey’s number. “Aubrey! Sam’s gone! Aubrey, you there?”

“Hello, Mr. Grant. My name is Konrad Lynch. I have your son.”

“Put him on!” Mark strained to hear anything that would give him a clue to Sam’s whereabouts. All he heard was a garbled conversation.

“Whoa. I’m going to tell you what to do. If you comply, then you’ll get to talk to your son.”

Mark wanted to call the police but he couldn’t hang up. The call was the only link to his child and he wouldn’t break it. Needles of fear and pain stuck Mark in his heart. The garage floor trembled beneath his feet like he had been standing on a trampoline instead of concrete. This happened in movies and imaginations, not in Mark Grant’s real world. But he knew better. It was real and it was happening.

“Where is my son?”

“Samuel is fine. We’re spending quality—”

“Put him on!” His words reverberated in Mark’s brain like a rubber ball. They were sucked up in the silence on the other end of the line. Put my boy on, please. I just want to hear my boy. All I want is to tell him Daddy loves you.

“Mr. Grant, one more order from you and your son starts getting hurt. Got it?”

Mark played along. His brain was scrambling to find his son and still keep him safe. For Sam’s sake he said, “Got it.”

“That’s better. Go to your bookcase and open your copy of The Shining. I’ll stay on the line.”

Mark was already headed to his office. He had held back the flames long enough for his brain to trigger his legs to action. He grabbed the house phone on the way and dialed 911. Mark wouldn’t tip the caller off by talking to the dispatcher, but he would leave the line open so they could send a police car to the house.

Inside the Stephen King novel was a sealed envelope that had Mark’s name written on the front where the delivery address would normally be. Mark tore open the envelope and pulled out the contents: four newspaper clippings and a tri-folded piece of notebook paper. Mark scanned the articles and saw that all four were about the murders of four different men, all thirty-three, who each lived in different cities across the United States. The authorities were trying to find information on a group called the Brotherhood of Cain. Mark unfolded the paper. Three lines, in a hurried scrawl, contained the hope of getting Samuel back.

The Tree of Life is the locked door.

Pastor Murphy has the key.

You have 7 days.

Mark swallowed. His tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. “I read it.”

“Does it make sense now, Mark?”

The tree of life was first mentioned in the Old Testament book of Genesis. Pastor Murphy was one of Mark’s elementary school teachers at Trinity Prep and a noted Bible scholar. The names in the articles were boys that Mark went to school with. Mark never knew a Konrad. “Who are you?”

“You have six days, twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes.”

“Put my son on.” No response.

“Don’t you touch my boy!” Mark wished he could reach through the phone and choke the life out of the maniac.

The caller hung up.

* * *

Konrad Lynch sat in the comfort of his Pathfinder Armada across Powell Street from the Grant house. He kept the air conditioner cranked high to battle the California summer heat. Konrad needed to be in a constant state of motion. Kinetic energy. The hunt meant he had to move, but at that moment he had to be stronger than his desires. Konrad had desired to kill Mark Grant, but the information he possessed couldn’t be discovered if his brain was unplugged and his heart stopped.

His secret was the essence of life, more meaningful than a million dark secrets.

It was the knowledge of beating death at its own game. Curing cancer. Konrad knew that no human really wanted to die. Once he learned where Travis Bedford’s Bible was, then he would have the awesome power to control men’s destinies. He would be able to harvest eternal life. Konrad Lynch would become god.

The dutiful husband had no idea he was being watched. The beautiful irony was that he didn’t even believe that God or the Garden of Eden existed. Every since their baby girl Hope came into the world too early—twenty-eight weeks—and passed away three days later, Mark Grant walked through life a bitter and broken man. A perfect pawn. Konrad laughed when he learned that Mark took his son to church just to get out of the house. Serves the guy right to lose his son. A little wake up call.

Three years of patient and silent Sunday observation. Of being nothing more than a strange face in a congregation of more than two thousand. Of watching the beautiful Grant family interact with their friends and fellow believers. Of wanting to go over and introduce himself and rain on their pompous parade. Right here, right now. Show them what kind of man he really was.

Practicing self-restraint, he knew in time all of these desires would be fulfilled.

Konrad turned up the radio volume. The singer’s voice was warm and mellifluous. Angry.

He watched for a few minutes and saw the police cruiser. He felt his blood boil, as it had every day for the past one thousand ninety-five days; the day he had first come back to this forsaken town. He was ready to explode.

Instead, Konrad left the SUV and walked outside where the sun shined brilliant and high. He looked straight up into the eyes of heaven and smiled, relieved that he had not given into temptation. The waiting was finally over. Three years. A short time really, given all that he had to gain.

Chapter 3

This had to be a dream. Mark dialed Aubrey’s cell and got the voicemail again. He left another message and then called her father. No answer. He usually went out to eat after church. Mark started dialing his father-in-law’s cell when he heard a car door shut. He peeked through the blinds and saw a police officer that resembled a human tank amble up the path. For a second, Mark entertained the idea of running out the back door, jumping the fence and coming back after the cop left. He didn’t want to waste time answering questions. The police would drag their feet and take too long to find his son. Then reason kicked in. The police would help bring Samuel back. That was their job.

The officer opted for knocking instead of the doorbell. It sounded like a bowling ball being rammed against the wood. Mark took another deep breath and opened the door.

“Everything okay?” The officer’s tag identified him as Ramirez. He had brown skin that was pulled tight over strong muscles and black hair that was cut short.

Mark told the man about Samuel. He recited the events at church and how the volunteer said Aubrey picked up Samuel, and the phone call, and the note.

“Mind if I look around?”

“Go ahead.”

While he waited, Mark tried Aubrey’s cell. No answer. He tried her dad again. No answer.

“Do you know the bedroom window is broken?”

Mark shook his head. “I just got back from church and went to the garage. That’s when I called 911.”

The cop nodded with a smirk in place of a smile. “How come you didn’t talk to the dispatcher?”

There it was. The Question. As if on cue Mark’s phone rang. He answered, grateful for the distraction. “Hello.”

“Hi Mark.” Konrad here. “Pretend it’s the church calling you back. Say okay.”

“Okay.”

While Mark took the call, Ramirez continued his journey through the house.

Mark got an idea that would help settle this whole thing. He had to know if the caller really had Samuel. “Have Sam tell you who his favorite baseball team is. Hold the phone out so I can hear it.”

The officer returned and stood between Mark and the front door.

“Please.” Mark could play the game. “Please ask Sam about his baseball team.”

“You know, Mark, I like the way you said please. Hold on.” Mark heard a lady’s voice, but couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“METHS!”

Mets. Samuel. Precious son. He sounded happy. Mark wanted to yell Sam’s name, but didn’t want to bring harm. The caller hung up.

Mark made a silent vow to save his son. No matter what.

Then Ramirez was back. Mark thought about handing his cell phone to the cop, but hesitated. The phone was his only link to Sam.

“You were about to tell me why you didn’t talk to the dispatcher.”

“I knew you would come whether I talked or not. Our son dialed 911 by accident a few months ago and the police came. After I dialed, I found this note from my wife. That’s when it hit me that Sam was really gone.”

Officer Ramirez interviewed Mark for an hour. Mark felt more like a suspect than a victim. This wasn’t real. Couldn’t be.

“You don’t have any idea why someone would break into your house while you were at church. Okay, let’s put that one on hold for a minute. Do you have any ideas why your wife would decide to leave you on the same day? I’ve been doing this for twenty years Mr. Grant and certain patterns rise to the surface. I’d say your wife had something to do with your son’s disappearance.”

Mark couldn’t bring himself to believe that Aubrey had anything even remotely related to Sam’s abduction. The fact that she wanted time away made some sense. Their marriage hadn’t been easy. A lot of arguments and misunderstandings. Through it all, they put their faith first. It helped keep all the pieces of love glued together—pieces that had been undone by all the arguing. Until Hope died. Bleeding on the brain. Where’s God in that? “She was sick.” Of arguing. “I went to church and left her right there on the couch.”

Ramirez left Mark in the empty house around two. Crime scene techs dusted for prints and tried collecting trace evidence that could lead to a positive identification of Sam’s abductor. He told Mark that there was a possibility that the FBI would be getting the case, but to be certain Aubrey had something to do with Sam’s disappearance.

Mark couldn’t bring himself to believe that was the truth. The church said Aubrey picked Sam up.  When the caller held the phone up, Sam sounded happy, as if Aubrey was prompting him about the baseball question. Then the note Mark found taped to the garage door.  The one about Aubrey needing a break; some time away.

Mark knelt down on the wood floor by the front door and tried to pray. He begged God for help, but in his heart felt alone and helpless. A hypocrite. Like God didn’t really exist. Like He had never really been there at all. How could God allow this? Wasn’t it bad enough that they lost their little girl? In Mark’s heart, he had attended church because Aubrey wanted Sam to be raised in a Christian home. Mark always had an empty place in his spirit that the church couldn’t quite fill. He had gone on a men’s retreat and gotten involved in a Bible study here and there, but every time Mark walked away unfulfilled. First, Baby Hope. Alive for three days and then died in his arms. Never had a chance. Now this. What kind of God gives a family a problem-free pregnancy, only to see the child born jaundiced and sick? What kind of God lets a three-year-old boy get taken by some psycho freak?

Mark kept quiet about the newspaper articles. All four victims were Mark’s old friends from elementary school. He couldn’t think what they had to do with Murphy.  He couldn’t believe they were dead.

Dark clouds filled the sky. Lightning cut the heavens in brilliant white electric branches. Thunder rocked in its wake. He locked the front door and ran to his car. He couldn’t sit around and wait for the police to drag their feet. Mark had to go and find his son. It had been twenty-four years since he’d been back to Trinity. It felt like ages. Murphy was a young man when Mark attended. Mark remembered Murphy was fresh out of seminary when Mark was in seventh grade.  Mark hoped he was still there.  Mark would talk to him about the caller and try to find a connection. Anything to get Sam back.

Mark knocked on the office door. A woman who looked to be no more than four breaths away from the grave answered.  Her hair was white with a purple tint and she wore a black and white maid’s outfit. 

“May I help you?” Her face rattled as she spoke, like she was trying to shake something loose from her mouth.

“I’m looking for Pastor Murphy.”  

The old lady opened her eyes wide, as if Mark told her she had just won the lottery and her days of cleaning other people’s bathrooms were finally over. 

“Boy, brother Murphy hasn’t been here for over ten years.”

An old Honda Civic pulled into the rectory parking lot.  Mark was temporarily distracted. He asked the lady where Murphy had gone.  She didn’t know.  Mark asked if anyone else might.  

“Sorry.”  The lady started closing the door. Mark put his hand out to stop her.

“I’m sorry. It’s very important. I need to speak with pastor Murphy.”

A man wearing blue jeans and a navy t-shirt got out of the Civic. He had an article of clothing that resembled a sports jersey under his left arm and a small black book under his right.

“Can’t help. Ask Pastor John if he knows about Murphy.” The old lady pointed to the man who had just gotten out of the old car. Mark didn’t recall a teacher by that name when he was a student at Prep.

Mark didn’t waste time thanking the maid. Before she had closed the office door on him, Mark ran and caught up with the newcomer. “Pastor Roberts?”

“John.” The priest switched the jersey to the arm already holding the book and extended a hand to greet Mark. “John Roberts at your service.” The man smiled. He obviously didn’t mind being accosted by strangers.

Mark shook his hand and immediately felt like he had made ten times more progress with the kind pastor than he had with the crotchety maid.

“Follow me. I’m running late.” 

Roberts headed for the church but kept his smile.

Mark introduced himself and followed him down a cobblestone path, through a butterfly garden and down to the church. “Do you know pastor Murphy?”

Roberts stopped at the church door. He turned to face Mark. “Of course. I took his place.”

A bolt of lightening flashed over the church, illuminating the parking lot.

Mark felt like a minor victory had been won. Unlike the unhappy maid, Mark felt like the man in front of him would help get Sam back.  Thunder rocked Mark’s eardrums.

Roberts pulled open one of the heavy wooden doors and motioned for Mark to go into the narthex. “Come on. It looks like God’s getting ready to flood the earth a second time.”

A second bolt of electric light flashed between Mark and the pastor, so close that Mark could feel the intense heat wash over his skin. Mark’s eyes slammed shut and he swore the light was so bright he could see right through his lids. He could hear the pastor yelling for him to hurry and get into the church, but Mark couldn’t see. When he opened his eyes, the entire world had been washed in white.

Minutes passed before Mark regained his sight. He followed the pastor through the church past the altar to a back room that looked like it had originally been used for storage, but had now been converted into an office. There was a metal desk with an office chair covered in black leather. One wall was lined with floor to ceiling bookcases.  Authors included C.S. Lewis, Ted Dekker and Stephen Lawhead.  A small refrigerator was tucked into a far corner and a floor lamp was turned on, casting a warm, dim glow over the quaint setting. Two chairs and a small coffee table had been strategically positioned so that Roberts could have intimate chats with his guests.

“My associate pastor turned forty today. The church families are throwing a surprise party for him tonight. He loves the New Orleans Hornets.” Roberts held up the jersey that had a large 3 on one side and a cartoon hornet on the other. “Chris Paul.”

Mark got right to the point. “I need your help.” Mark summarized the horrible series of the morning’s events. He also explained how he’d gone to school at Trinity. He sat in one of the leather chairs next to the coffee table and watched the priest grab a Cherry Coke out of the refrigerator.

“Want one?”

Mark shook his head. I want my boy back, not your stupid soda!

Roberts popped the top on the soda and took a long pull of the syrupy mixture. He grabbed the Bible and opened it to a page that was marked by a neon yellow sticky note. “I’m so sorry to hear about your son. I will keep him in my prayers.”

Mark’s mind was in a tailspin, but the secluded space of the pastor’s tiny office brought a sliver of peace, and that was better than the alternative. “Where did Murphy go?”

“I have no idea.”

Chapter 4

“Murphy was asked to leave. The church didn’t have enough to press charges, but people were spreading rumors that he was stealing money from the collection plates.  They said someone had caught him taking money from each service and hiding it.”

“What does that have to do with me and my family,” Mark asked.

“Didn’t you say something about you had gone to school with the four men that were mentioned in the newspaper articles?”

Mark nodded.

“Did you and those men have any special connection with Brian?”

“Brian?”

“I’m sorry. Pastor Murphy. Brian Murphy.”

“He taught all five of us Math.”

Roberts processed the information. He stood and retrieved a second Cherry Coke from the refrigerator. “Any after school clubs, chess, anything like that?”

Mark remembered that all five boys were on the school’s football team. He shared this and waited for the man to respond. When he did, it wasn’t what Mark expected.

“Did you ever see brother Murphy take money from the offering plate?”

Mark was surprised at the question. As much as he could remember, Pastor Murphy was the kindest person on the planet. “Never.”

“If you want my opinion, I think Murphy was framed. When Brian started here, he told me that he’d heard about children in the area being abused by teachers.”

Mark knew of the situation from local and national newspapers. The numbers were tragic and staggering. Churches had paid over two billion dollars in court settlements and counseling fees.

“Brain never told me what was going on, but my theory is that he was sickened by what was happening. He said that instead of punishing the offending clergy, the bishops would move them to different parishes and suppress reports that claimed abuse. My guess is that Murphy took the law into his own hands and started taking money from the weekly collections. That would give him the chance to turn around and give the money to the victims that really needed it.”

Roberts paused. Mark noticed a picture on the bookcase that he hadn’t seen when he first came in earlier. It showed a younger version of the man he was talking to and the unmistakable red hair that belonged to Pastor Murphy.  Roberts commented on the photo.

“That was taken one day before I took his place here at Trinity. Brian had taken me on a tour of the grounds including the school and church. We had lunch on the roof.  I thought it was bizarre, but Murphy didn’t march to the same drummer as everyone else. That’s where that picture was taken. Brian brought me to the edge of the roof that overlooked the school playground.”

Mark’s cell phone rang. The screen said Private Caller. “Hello.”

“Greetings Mark. It’s your son’s current guardian. I hope you’re on your way to figuring out the puzzle.  I have someone hear who wants to say hi.”  

Mark heard static. “Hi Daddy.”

“SAM! Oh baby, Daddy loves you!”  The caller hung up, breaking the line between father and son.

The pastor offered a comforting hand, placed on Mark’s shoulder. Mark tried hitting star-69 but the call was blocked.

The phone rang again and this time it was The Cross.  Mark didn’t want to answer. He needed his son and wife returned and the only link to a plan was Roberts.  The pastor nodded for Mark to answer.

Tillie Jones had given the reigns of The Cross to her grandson, who in turn gave them to Mark and Aubrey. One pact they had made during their honeymoon planning session was to always be there for the needy.  They never wanted to become tempted to let someone else handle a mother or child in need.

One of the volunteers called to tell Mark about a lady who had just arrived at the shelter with her three year old son. Same age as Sam.

The volunteer said the woman asked for Mark.  

“Did she give you a name?”

“Dana Okoro.”

Mark had never heard of the woman before.

“She said you were her only chance for a better life. Her live in boyfriend was beating her and their son. She looks awful.”

None of the clients had ever asked for Mark personally.  Mark felt that staying with Roberts was his best chance of finding Sam. He told him about the second call. Mark felt that in some unexplainable way, telling the pastor everything he knew helped release some of the pressure of pain. God, why couldn’t you save my boy? Why Hope? Why this?

Chase the Shadows

• Title: Chase the Shadows

• Genre: Supernatural Thriller

• Wordcount: 93,000

Premise: A monster from hell... A champion from God... And one man caught between them. There is nowhere left to run.

Blurb

Ian Richardson fears he has lost his brother forever in a car wreck, but after remaining dead for almost four minutes, paramedics revive Thomas. His story is too horrifying to imagine: he visited hell…and something has followed to take him back. Suddenly Ian finds himself immersed in a world of terrors real and imagined in the very shadows around him. The life of his brother and those he loves depend upon his protection from a demoniac. But how can he fight something he cannot believe in?

Ian must face the most terrifying enemy of all…

…one that cannot die.

Synopsis

Thomas Richardson gets into an automobile accident on his way home. En route to the hospital, he dies in the ambulance and remains clinically dead for almost four minutes. Paramedics revive him and he remains unconscious until the next morning in the hospital, when he wakes up screaming about having been to hell and back—and now he believes he’s been followed by a demon.

Thomas’s brother Ian, a private investigator, stays with him at the hospital in an attempt to keep him calm. Ian contacts his best friend, Levi Bishop, a devout Christian pastor who works with Ian on occasional cases. To Ian, his brother’s “delusional rantings” qualify this as something Levi would know more about.

While at the hospital, a patient is murdered on the same floor as Thomas’s room. Ian eventually tracks the killer to the hospital roof, where he is astonished to find the brutal and savage killing was committed by an old woman. When Ian confronts her, he finds himself staring into the eyes of something inhuman. She attempts to kill him, but he is rescued by timely intervention from Levi. The woman throws herself from the roof to avoid capture. Levi tells Ian later he believes the woman was demon-possessed.

After seeing the murderer die, Ian reconsiders Thomas’s paranoia—especially after he finds that a mix up in hospital records had Thomas listed as being in that same room the murder occurred in. Ian begins to experience ominous forebodings at the hospital, and is attacked with crippling waves of fear—though he has no idea what he should be afraid of. To him, the murderer is dead. But nothing calms his feelings that something is coming and he has to get Thomas away. A strange encounter with a minister named Daniel in the hospital chapel and a disconcerting inner voice in the night only confirms his suspicion. Wanting to help, Levi tries to offer comfort, but Ian’s agnostic viewpoint makes it hard to help.

As soon as Thomas is able to walk, Ian wants to get him out of the hospital and find a place to hide him. As they are leaving the hospital, they are attacked by a huge man intent on killing Thomas. Despite Ian’s best efforts, the man seems impervious to harm and impossible to stop. But the most terrifying thing to Ian is the look in the man’s eyes: it’s the same look he saw in the old woman on the roof of the hospital. Thomas and he escape, but there can be no doubt now that someone truly is after Thomas for whatever reason.

Ian must find a way to protect his brother and to keep those he loves alive. The only hope is to keep running.

But the demon is tracking their every step.

And he is gaining on them…

First 30 Pages

Prologue

I never believed in the devil until the day I watched it rip Silas Griffin apart.

Silas was a cruel man, absolutely ruthless in his dealings with people. No one liked Silas, and it was no secret around town that any number of people would love to see him dead.

And then one day in 1937, they got their wish.

Silas was having problems with his automobile. He stood on the street in the middle of town cursing it as loud as possible, ignoring the women and children around. I’d been there that day and had watched his face turn a bright red and deepen with every second. Then Silas fell silent and winced, grabbing his chest. With muttered curses, he pitched forward onto the dirt.

Fortunately for him, the doctor had not yet left for his house calls and was nearby. He raced to Silas and began to work on him, trying to save his life. I ran to him too, but only because I’d never seen a dead man before, and it was something every fifteen-year-old should see at least once in their life.

By a miracle and prayer—though I had no idea who’d be praying for a man like Silas—the old man lived. He was bedridden for several days, and he was eventually able to return to town.

But he was never the same.

He could no longer be alone, so he hired me to work on his farm with him. There wasn’t enough work there for me, but I didn’t complain. Easy work, three large meals a day and I was even given a nice room in the main house, near the fireplace and kitchen. Every night after our chores were done, I would sit by the fire with Silas and we would talk.

If Silas had been paranoid before, suddenly he was a thousand times worse. His eyes never stopped moving; constantly searching as if afraid someone was trying to sneak up on him. He would complain of hearing voices in the night.

I chalked it up to the old man losing his mind with age.

Until the night I saw the eyes.

We’d been by the fire for a while. Silas didn’t like to go to sleep, so we stayed up late most nights until finally falling asleep in exhaustion. The old man would never tell me what scared him so much, but it got worse in the dark. As I was talking about my day, I heard Silas gasp. I looked up and saw the old man’s eyes open wide with terror, his boney hands gripping his shirt. He was staring past my shoulder, out the window and into the night. I turned to see what was going on and felt the blood freeze in my veins.

At first, I thought I was seeing a reflection of the fire…but after a moment I knew it wasn’t true. There in the night about four feet away from the window was a pair of glowing red eyes. It couldn’t be an animal because they stood a good six or seven feet off the ground and this wasn’t bear country. And another thing about them shook me: they didn’t move. Most animals and humans shift a little when they breathe, but these eyes were rock steady, never blinking.

Silas began to wail behind me. It was a scream filled with every ounce of terror a man could store up in his being and save for one moment. I heard him struggle to his feet, but I couldn’t tear my gaze from the glowing eyes staring at us from outside. I was only a boy—and not a brave one by any means—so my first instinct wasn’t to grab a rifle and run outside after the intruder. Instead, I sat there, mesmerized by the crimson stare.

A door slammed behind me. The sudden sound snapped me out of the daze I was in and I turned to see the door to Silas’s room closed. When I looked back outside, the eyes were gone.

My legs were weak as I forced myself to stand, but I knew I couldn’t stay there. I could hear Silas weeping in his room, actually begging for mercy to whatever gods he was praying to. I stumbled to his door and tried the knob. It was locked.

“Sir? It’s me…will you please let me in?” The last thing on earth I wanted was to be alone at that moment.

I heard Silas say something but the exact words were lost to me. Then his weeping stopped as we both heard the same horrible sound.

Scratching.

Something big was scratching on the roof.

That was enough for me. I grabbed the rifle Silas had proudly displayed over his fireplace mantle. With a quick check, I found it loaded and ready to fire. I pointed it toward the ceiling and tried to track the movements of whatever was outside. Silas had gone silent so quick it rattled me. I could still hear tiny gasps and whimpers behind his door but for the most part he was trying to keep quiet.

I stood still in the center of the room, rifle pointed to heaven and waited for the noise to continue.

It did.

But now the scratching was coming from the walls…all around us.

It was as if the thing was circling the house with lightning speed. Nothing I had ever seen could move that fast. It was impossible to find a place to draw a bead on. It was never still. Things darted past the windows leaving furrows in the glass. It sounded like we were in the middle of a tornado.

The scratching intensified until the whole cabin seemed alive at once, shrieking a death knell. The screams of the damned resounded through the house like thunder while the flame in the fireplace danced madly to some unseen windstorm. The walls shook like the earth wanted to buck us off its back, but the ground beneath my feet was rock steady. Pictures fell from the walls and I heard glass breaking in the kitchen. The house was old and I doubted it would last much longer.

As suddenly as the madness had started, it stopped. The whole house grew still and quiet. I stood in the middle of the room, my chest pounding. The silence was almost worse than the horrible noises I’d heard. At least then I knew where the thing was. Now it was hidden in the darkness somewhere.

Then I heard Silas scream.

He was crying out, begging for mercy. I heard his door knob rattle and that drew my attention. He was trying to get out.

Something slammed against the door with such force it almost cracked it. The noises Silas was making now could never be described as human. I could hear what sounded like leather tearing as something wet splattered against the door. I could see dark liquid oozing over the threshold.

I grabbed the knob and twisted. It didn’t move, but the door had been weakened by whatever had hit it, so I decided to try breaking it in. I was stocky and well-muscled, and I figured my weight would take it down with enough of a running start. I took a few steps back and ran into it with all I had. As the door gave way I fell into the room amidst splinters, landing in the crimson liquid that covered the floor.

What I saw next has never left me, no matter how much I’ve drank or prayed for it to.

There was something in the room standing over Silas and holding him by the throat. It was as if the darkness had come alive and taken on a shape so it could kill him. The old man’s head flopped to the side in its grasp and his dead eyes stared unseeing into mine. I could tell the life had gone from him. Silas was dead, his insides spilling onto the floor as the thing dug into him, rending his flesh like paper.

When it looked at me, I could see those red eyes staring into my soul. As it lowered Silas, I clambered to my feet and ran. I ran out the door of that cabin into the woods and didn’t stop until I’d reached my dad’s house. He found me the next morning hiding under the porch, babbling incoherently about demons and ghosts.

I’m writing this now as a testament to the truth of what I saw. I’ve never had a good night’s sleep in the sixty years since that horrible night. I hope this explains to my family why I’ve always acted the way I have when the sun goes down, and why I’ve purposefully kept myself from being alone. I know I seemed strange to you at times, but there has been a reason for it. I never told any of you in person because I knew how you’d react. You’d think I was some delusional old man who’d lost his mind.

Say what you will, I know what I saw that night. And I know something else—something far worse that I’ve never told another living soul.

That night…when that thing turned to face me while holding Silas’s eviscerated corpse in its grasp…when its eyes locked onto mine…it marked me. It marked me and I’ve felt it watching me ever since. Twice in the past week I’ve seen its eyes looking out at me from other people, as if it were residing in them and biding its time for my defenses to drop. I’ve come to the dread realization that despite my best efforts, it’s finally found me.

And soon, I know it will come for me.

Final entry of the journal of Matthew Richardson, July, 1987.

CHAPTER 1

Thomas Richardson was falling.

Wind billowed around him as he fell. He was surrounded by a darkness that choked him in a vicious embrace. It was a physical oppression, like being wrapped in a straitjacket that was tightening with every second.

He heard a scream. It was an unearthly shriek unlike anything he had ever heard; a single voice, sounding as if someone were being filleted alive. Maybe it was an animal enduring torture unknown by any human before this time.

More voices joined in. A chorus of terror. Thousands now, it seemed. Fear began to eat away at the edges of his mind.

A tiny pinprick appeared in the darkness below him. Illumination shining through like a lonely star in a blanket of night.

Then he felt the heat.

It wasn’t a star at all. It was flame.

And he was falling toward it.

The point of light enlarged. The temperature rose. The shrieks of agony grew to a roar.

The flames were near enough below him now that he could see it for what it was: a vast burning lake. An ocean of fire.

He could make out details now. Individual points of shadows that coalesced into forms: human and otherwise. Figures thrashed in the burning liquid. Hands reached out to him, imploring him to rescue them.

And the heat…

It was alive, hotter than anything he’d ever imagined. A furnace fueled by a supernova.

Tendrils of flame leapt at him, as if impatient to receive him into the fiery embrace.

And throughout it all, there were creatures; hideous, evil monsters spewing grunts that could have been laughter. They seemed to enjoy everything around them. Here and there a pack of them would descend on one of the screaming souls and rip it to shreds. They would feast on the inner parts of it before lumbering away, leaving the rest. Within seconds, the pieces would reform and the soul would start to scream again, but with greater agony than before.

And he was falling toward it.

One of the demonic creatures looked up and saw him. Its bloodied fangs split the horrible face in what Thomas could only imagine was a smile. A long, leathery tongue slid out and tasted the acrid air around it. It had marked him, claimed him. It maneuvered across the sea to be directly below him. Thomas knew it would have him before he hit the flames.

Then his falling stopped.

For a moment he seemed to hang there, watching, listening, and studying the fate awaiting him. He had never felt so helpless in his life. Why was he here? What was this place? Would it be his doom to dangle here for eternity?

Then, incredibly, he began to move upward. The heat began to dissipate and the horrible scene began to recede.

The demon stood enraged, waving huge arms and screaming. It sprang up after him. A deep, guttural yell flew from its dripping fangs.

“You…are…MINE!”

The last things Thomas saw was the monster coming toward him…

…and the light that whispered his name.

***

“What’s it like to be dead?” Brynn Coulter whispered to the still form on the bed, though she knew he couldn’t hear her.

The man lying on the bed was in bad shape. His head was bandaged, his left arm in a cast and his right ankle bound tightly. He was bruised and had several cuts, some of which required stitches. He’d been brought in the night before after his car ran off the highway and found a sudden stop with a tree. He was lucky to be alive now.

Brynn tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear and checked the patient’s IV drip. He hadn’t awakened since the accident, and there was some worry of possible brain damage. According to his chart, he’d died on the way to the hospital and been clinically dead for almost four minutes before the paramedics could revive him.

As she checked him again, she noticed movement behind his eyelids. REM sleep? She watched as his head began to jerk a little and his lips parted. His eyebrows moved, and she imagined he had to be in the middle of a nightmare. She touched his arm.

The man’s eyes opened.

He screamed, “God help me!”

Crying out with one long wail like a banshee, he began to thrash about. Brynn saw at once she was in trouble. Her trim figure was no match for the wild man on the bed. She hit the nurse call button and tried to calm him down.

“Sir, please be still. You’ve been in an accident and—”

“He’s coming for me! God help me!” His eyes locked on hers. They were bulging and dilated with a maniacal look in them. “I got away and he doesn’t like it! You’ve got to help me!” His right hand gripped her arm like a vice.

Brynn winced with the pain. “Let go of me!”

“He’s coming. He’ll never rest until I’m back again.” The man’s voice was lower now, and an almost serene look came on his face. “I can never escape.”

He released her arm and looked away. Brynn rubbed the spot where he’d held on so tight and studied him. The way his demeanor had changed so quickly scared her. He looked defeated, resigned to some horrible fate. She briefly considered the possibility he might be manic depressive.

The door opened and two other nurses came rushing in. The man on the bed didn’t even notice.

He whispered, “He’s coming for me. I’m going to die.” Brynn watched a single tear trickle from his eye down the side of his face.

“Sir? You’re all right. You’ve been in a bad accident, but you’re going to be fine. You need to rest.”

He still did not look at her or acknowledge her presence now. It was like the rest of the room had drifted into some incorporeal state. He murmured something and sniffed.

Brynn checked his chart. “Has anyone contacted his next of kin?”

One of the other nurses said, “I don’t know. No one’s been to see him though.”

“Then I think it’s time we tried again, just in case.” Flipping through the pages, she said, “How hard can it be to find this guy Ian?”

At the mention of the name, the man’s eyes focused again. “Ian,” he said, almost reverently. “Ian will protect me.”

Brynn said, “Protect you? You’re perfectly safe here, sir.”

The man choked out a pitiful laugh. “I’m not safe here, or anywhere else. You can’t help me.” He eyes stopped moving around the room, concentrating on one spot on the wall. “But Ian can protect me.”

“From what…” Brynn said, checking the chart again, “…Mister Richardson?”

“The demon.”

All three of the nurses exchanged quick glances. Brynn said, “Three cc’s of Verced.” The nurse nodded and slipped from the room. Brynn turned back to the delirious patient, “Try to relax, Thomas. You’ve been through a lot, but you’re going to be fine.”

Thomas shook his head. “No, I’m a dead man. The demon’s coming.”

The nurse returned with a syringe. Brynn injected it into Thomas’s I.V. “What demon?”

“It followed me from hell.” Thomas swallowed, his eyes finding hers again. “It’s coming to take me back.”

***

Jack glanced around again as he got out of his car. He knew he was just being paranoid, but that didn’t mean they weren’t watching. He’d kept an eye on the rear view mirror during the entire drive down. His wife, Ann, was getting suspicious, he knew.

The faded Traveler’s Inn sign popped in a strong breeze overhead. Jack looked for Sharon’s room number. It was Tuesday—“Sharon’s Day”—and his favorite day of the week. He glanced at his left hand to make sure he’d removed the ring.

To his left, a disheveled man shambled along. The man was mumbling to himself, his hands fidgeting nervously. Then the dirty man saw Jack and stumbled toward him.

Jack closed his car door and tried to act like he didn’t see the tramp, but the dirty man intercepted him before he could get inside.

“Hey man,” the vagrant’s words were slurred, “You got any money? Gimme a dollar, man.”

Jack dug into his pocket and withdrew his money clip. He didn’t want a scene right now, and he was sure the vagrant would start yelling if he tried to walk away. “Here,” he said, pulling off a ten-dollar bill, “go buy yourself another drink.”

The man took the money and held it stretched out between his fingers. His bloodshot eyes tried to focus, blinked several times as his head bobbed. Finally what he held in his hands dawned on him.

“Hey, thanks, man.” He stepped forward, patting Jack’s coat with a dirty hand. “You’re all right, mister.”

Jack recoiled at the vagrant’s touch, but the tramp didn’t seem to notice. Mumbling again, the man staggered away.

He saw the curtain of room 122 move. Sharon was staring out at him with a questioning look. He shrugged. With a final glance around to see if anyone else had seen the exchange, Jack started to enter the hotel room.

Then he noticed the vagrant again.

The dirty man was watching him. When Jack looked at him, the man tried to cut his eyes away and mutter something, but Jack had seen enough. The man wasn’t drunk. He also probably wasn’t homeless.

Jack moved.

He advanced on the bum, but the man didn’t run. Instead, he turned and started shuffling away.

“Hey!” Jack called to him, but the man ignored him. In four steps, Jack closed the distance between them, grabbed the man’s shoulder and spun him around.

The tramp’s bleary eyes looked up at him in shock. “What you doin’, man? You want your money back or somethin’?”

Jack grabbed the man’s shirt and pulled him closer. “Who are you, punk? Huh? What are you really doing here?”

“What you talkin’ about, man? I ain’t done nothin’ to you. I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” The bum’s putrid breath almost made Jack gag.

“Why were you watching me? Did my wife send you?”

“Your wife? I wasn’t watching you, man. I was watching that other guy.”

“What other guy?”

The vagrant pointed past Jack. “The one takin’ pictures.”

Jack looked over his shoulder and saw a man standing by a street sign on the corner. As soon as their eyes locked, the man tried to appear nonchalant and look away—but Jack knew he’d been watching. He released the tramp and started running toward the watcher. The man’s eyes grew big as he turned to scurry away, dropping a small silver box in the process. As Jack drew nearer to it, he recognized it as a thin digital camera.

The watcher dove into the cab of a nearby pickup truck and drove off with tires squealing. Jack grabbed a fist-sized piece of broken sidewalk and threw it at the receding vehicle. It landed in the truck’s bed with a loud bang. The truck disappeared around a corner street, the rock still rattling in it. He turned and walked back to the camera. He shook his head and cursed as he crushed it beneath his foot.

Jack thought about what he’d seen. Ann had found out about the hotel. Now he and Sharon would have to find another little spot to hide in. He turned back and walked to the door where Sharon stood waiting.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Nothing. We’ll have to meet someplace else from now on though. Looks like this one’s become common knowledge.”

Sharon looked up and down the street. “You want to leave now?”

“Nah, I don’t think that guy would dare come back today. We’re safe.”

“Then come on in, baby,” she said with a lascivious grin.

Jack glanced over his shoulder one final time and noticed the vagrant across the street, still weaving unsteadily on his feet. Jack gave him a quick wave and walked into the room.

***

The vagrant took two more pictures with his tiny digital camera before putting it back into his pocket.

“Well, that should be enough to get a good settlement,” he said to no one. “Oh, and by the way, Jack, that guy was sent by your wife…I was sent by Sharon’s husband.”

As the dirty man turned the corner, he straightened. His shuffling gait was gone, replaced with long, purposeful strides. He popped a Listerine strip into his mouth to kill the disgusting taste of sardines he’d eaten minutes before while waiting on Jack. A blue Mustang was parked across the street, and Ian Richardson had its keys in his hand before he reached it.

“Hey, Richardson!”

The vagrant turned to find the source of the voice behind him. It was the watcher with the pickup truck. The man stood next to the truck now, his right hand hidden behind the open door.

“You think you are so slick, don’t you? Playin’ dress up and sneakin’ around. You’re not a private investigator…you’re a schizophrenic.”

“Hi, Parker. How’s business?”

Parker Cole stepped forward, his athletic frame moving easily and confidently. Ian hated his cocky manner, but it was the same for every former high school jock he’d ever met. Twenty years after their last touchdown and they still thought the uniform fit. His close-cropped black hair was already showing signs of things to come with a thin spot toward the back of his head.

Bald by thirty-five, fat and divorced by forty.

As Parker’s hand cleared the car door, sunlight glinted off the barrel of the Glock 17L in his hand. “Business was fine until you blew my cover back there, Ian. There was a nice fee in this one, and I kind of figure you owe me for it…and for my camera.”

Parker aimed the gun at a spot between Ian’s eyes. Ian didn’t blink.

Grinning, Parker said, “Now here’s the way I see it. I want that camera you had, and the photos you just took. We can do this easy, or I can enjoy myself a little while first. Whichever way you want it to go is fine with me.”

Ian shrugged. “Sure, no big deal. I’ll just stand out there for a few minutes and get some shots of them as they leave.” He pulled a small camera from his pocket and tossed it to the man with the gun.

Parker’s eyes instinctively moved to track the camera’s descent.

It was exactly what Ian had wanted.

Ian’s hand shot forward and grabbed the gun at the base of the barrel, pushing it upward and away from him. Twisting his wrist, he turned the gun into Parker’s grip, and the big man wasn’t ready. The Glock slipped from his grasp. His eyes grew wide as he found himself staring into the barrel of his own gun. The camera clattered to the ground next to him, forgotten.

Ian whistled. “Now this isn’t a good place to find yourself. Not any fun looking at the pointy end of a bullet, is it?”

Parker slowly brought up his hands.

Ian stared incredulously at him. “Now what in the world are you doing that for? You think this is a stick up or something? Good grief, man—you’re the one who pulled the stupid gun out in the first place!”

“What are you going to do?”

Ian glanced at the gun. “Well, I think I’ll see how much I can get for it on eBay.” He pointed it up, and with one deft motion ejected the magazine. It dropped into his outstretched hand as he slid it into his pocket. He ran his fingertip over the extractor. It was flush against the slide. The smooth surface told him the chamber was empty. He slipped the Glock into the back waistband of his jeans. “Shouldn’t mess with guns; you might hurt yourself. Now go home…I’m not in the mood to play anymore.”

Parker’s eyes narrowed, as if debating a different course of action from the one suggested.

Ian sighed. “Please don’t do it, Parker. Just take the camera and go.”

Ignoring the request, Parker stepped forward and swung a hard right at him. Ian slapped the hand aside while his forearm shot up and caught Parker squarely in the face. Cole’s head bounced back as the cartilage in his nose cracked. He stumbled for a moment before falling to his knees. Rather than press the attack, Ian stepped back, allowing the man every chance to leave with only his dignity wounded.

The blow had apparently been enough to humble him. Parker glanced down at the camera. Reaching over, he scooped it up and then scurried back into his truck. Seconds later, tires screeching again, he was gone.

Ian yelled after him, “That kind of driving is murder on your tires, you know!”

Ian slid behind the wheel of his Mustang. He pulled a second camera from his coat and set it on the passenger seat. It was the real camera. Parker would have a surprise when he tried to find film in the other one.

He started to drive off when he noticed his cell phone on the seat next to him. One missed call from the office. He hit the speed dial for it and waited until a sultry female voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Hey Linda, it’s Ian. You called?”

Linda’s tone changed instantly. “Ian, I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all afternoon.”

“Yeah, well, I was working on Mark Deason’s case. You can tell him I got some great pictures of his wife and Jack Martin. Jack even waved to the camera while they were walking in the room together. I don’t think Deason’s wife stands a chance of getting much out of the settlement now.”

“Never mind that, Ian. You need to get home and change.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s your brother. There’s been an accident.”

CHAPTER 2

Brynn opened the door to room 524 and stepped inside, expecting to find Thomas Richardson either asleep or babbling incoherently. Since earlier that evening when he’d first awakened, it had been an adventure keeping him calm. Now she saw he was sleeping peacefully. The room was lit only by a small fluorescent light behind his bed that allowed the nurses to check the patients while still keeping the room dark enough for them to sleep. She quietly crossed to his bedside and did a quick check of his IV drip and the small water pitcher next to his bed.

“Will he be all right?”

The voice made Brynn gasp and jump. She whirled around to the darkness and saw a figure seated in the only chair in the room—one that was just outside the small pool of illumination the fluorescent light gave off. “What in the world are you doing scaring people like that?” she said, fighting to keep her annoyance from showing.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” The figure stood and walked into the light. Brynn was immediately struck by the man’s looks. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, a little over six feet tall, and in good shape. His sandy brown hair was slightly rumpled, giving him a “bed head” appearance that was so popular nowadays…except she didn’t think he’d done it for that reason. It looked like he’d just jumped out of a shower and run straight here.

“You must be Ian.”

The man nodded. “Are you the one who called my office?”

“Yes, almost three hours ago.” She hated the accusatory tone she’d taken, but it had slipped out. The man’s deep brown eyes looked pained already, and she hadn’t helped matters.

“Sorry about that. I was…on a job and didn’t have my cell phone with me.” Looking down at the slumbering figure on the bed, he asked, “How is he?”

Brynn tore her gaze from Ian’s sad face and glanced toward Thomas. “He’s doing surprisingly well in the circumstances. The police estimated he was doing over eighty miles an hour when he shot off the road. His car grazed a tree and flipped several times before stopping. By the time the paramedics got to him, it was almost too late.”

She looked back up at him. There was such pain in his eyes. “He…he died on the trip here. In the ambulance, he was clinically dead for over four minutes. They managed to bring him back, but he didn’t regain consciousness until a few hours ago. I was here when it happened. He woke up screaming and then he wanted you. He mentioned your name and seemed calm, but a few minutes later he became frantic again about something being after him…wanting to drag him to hell or something like that.”

Ian’s gaze stayed locked on his brother. “And so you called me.”

“Yes. I looked you up in the phone book. A woman answered and when I told her what had happened, she said she’d get the message to you immediately.”

“My listed number is my business number. You talked to my secretary. She tried to call me, but I wasn’t near my phone. I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. I would have come right away if I’d known.” He hesitated for a moment. “Will there be any permanent damage?”

Brynn knew what he was asking. The problem was that Thomas’s reaction when he’d awakened gave her reason to doubt his sanity now. “We won’t have any way of knowing right now. He gets…excited now when he’s awake, so we’ve had to keep him sedated. Of course, now that you’re here that may fix that problem. He was pretty adamant about you being able to protect him.”

Ian smiled down at Thomas. “He’s my little brother. I’ve always protected him from everything. Guess there’s some things you don’t grow out of.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Would it be possible to get an aspirin?”

“Sure.” Brynn walked into the hall and returned a few seconds later with two aspirin and a small paper cup of water. When she entered the room again, she saw that Ian had pulled his chair next to the bed and was sitting with his eyes closed. “Ian?”

He looked up and took the offered items. “Thanks. Been a long day and it’s turning into a long night.” After swallowing the pills and emptying the glass of water, he gestured toward her name tag. “Interesting name.”

“It’s like ‘grin’ but with a ‘b’ instead of a ‘g’.”

“Irish?”

“British. Do you—”

Suddenly Thomas’s eyes flew open and his hand shot out, grabbing Ian’s arm. He pulled himself up on the bed and let out a loud wail of terror.

“He’s coming! God protect me…he’s coming!”

Ian struggled to wrestle his arm free. “Thomas! Let go! It’s all right, I’m here.”

Thomas didn’t seem to notice anyone else in the room. He seemed instead to be staring in horror at the wall across the room. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Please don’t let him take me…please.”

“Nobody’s going to touch you while I’m around, I promise. Just relax. Lie down.”

Brynn hit the nurse call button by the bed and tried to help Ian calm his brother. Within seconds a voice spoke from the speaker by the bed. “Yes?”

“I need help in here. The patient’s awake and distraught.”

There was no answer, but she hadn’t expected one. This was a time for action. Moments later, another nurse burst through the door with a syringe.

Thomas seemed to finally focus as his eyes found Ian. “You’re here.”

Ian had stopped trying to get Thomas’s arm off him and was smiling. “Yeah, bro, I’m here. Now just calm down a little, and we can talk.”

“I got away, Ian. I was falling, and the fire was so hot, and then…I got away.”

Brynn watched as the nurse injected the contents of the syringe into Thomas’s arm. The man seemed to hardly notice. His eyes were locked on Ian, but now his breathing was obviously slowing.

“It’s real.”

“What’s real?”

“Hell. It’s real. Remember what our Sunday School teacher used to warn us about when we were little? And how you’d laugh about it when we got home and make jokes? I’ve been there. It’s everything she described…but so much worse.” Thomas lay back now, the drugs apparently taking effect.

Ian tried to comfort him. “Just rest. We’ll talk about it later.”

“I know you think I’m crazy like Grandpa, but I’m not. It’s real.” Thomas still held tightly to Ian’s arm. His hold relaxed slightly, but Ian still couldn’t get away. Brynn checked his pulse and then nodded to the nurse who had entered. With an acknowledging nod, the nurse turned and left.

“Don’t leave, ok?” Thomas sounded like a frightened child more than a man. “Please just stay here.”

Brynn could see the concern on Ian’s face. It appeared he wasn’t used to seeing his brother like this.

“Ok, no problem. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll just sit right back down here next to you, and if you need anything, I’ll be here. Now you just try to rest and we’ll talk again in a little while.” Ian patted his brother’s hand.

Thomas closed his eyes then. “Thanks for coming. I knew you’d come to the rescue. You always did.” Then he seemed to grin a little. His breathing became normal, and Brynn could tell he’d fallen asleep.

Ian looked over at her. “Are you all right?”

Brynn smiled. “Yes. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Was he like that the last time he was awake?”

“Yes. Whatever trauma he experienced in the accident, he’s chosen to manifest it as a hell fantasy of some sort. The next time he comes to we’re going to have to try to let him go as long as possible without sedation. He needs to start to face whatever’s scaring him.”

Ian said, “What in the world did he see?”

“Probably nothing. We see this from time to time in near-death experiences. People who are brought up to believe in a hell invariably see it. Aside from the fire and screams, nobody ever seems to see the same things. That’s why it’s accepted for what it is: the human brain attempting to interpret a traumatic situation in a recognizable way.”

Ian chuckled. “No offense, but you sound pretty knowledgeable for a nurse. You must have seen this often.”

“No, not really. I’ve seen this from time to time, but death is sort of a hobby of mine, you might say. I’ve studied a lot of what other people have said. We had a similar case a few years back, and it’s what got me interested in the afterlife.”

“Well, fake or not it seems real enough to him. I have no idea what he saw, but I plan to be here as soon as he wakes up again. What did you pump into him that last time?”

“Just a mild sedative. He already had enough medication in him to keep him asleep for several more hours. I have no idea how he woke up when he did. I’d say he’ll wake up tomorrow morning sometime. Why don’t you get some rest?”

Ian settled back in his chair. “Sounds good. Thanks for your help.”

Brynn watched as he closed his eyes. She fought the urge to sit beside him and stroke his hair, to try and help him fall asleep. Something about him seemed as vulnerable as a little boy trying to act grown up when he didn’t feel it.

As quietly as possible, she backed out of the room and closed the door.

***

“Remember, God is in control. Goodnight, Sister Simmons.”

“Goodnight, Pastor.”

Levi Bishop hung up the phone with a chuckle. Felicia Simmons had outdone herself that time. She’d called him with “urgent prayer requests” in the past, and it hadn’t seemed strange until she mentioned she’d just seen another member’s husband going into her neighbor’s house. From that point on, Levi had been gently fighting to control the spontaneous gossip session Felicia had wanted it to become.

Levi had discovered early on in his ministry that a pastor’s life wasn’t glamorous. As his congregation had grown, his personal time had diminished. And though his church wasn’t huge by most standards, there were enough needy people in it to keep him busy. Everyone thought their thirty-minute call was just a drop in the bucket of a pastor’s day—never realizing eight other members had the same thought on the same day and therefore had sucked four or five hours out of an already-full afternoon.

Now it was late. Still smiling, he stood and walked into his weight room, ducking his head slightly as he did so. At six foot five and two-hundred and seventy-five pounds, he was an intimidating sight. His nightly weight training had made his huge frame almost completely muscle.

The weight room was a guest bedroom he’d transformed into his own personal fortress of solitude. He walked to an old weight bench sitting in the center of the room with several free weights and barbells scattered throughout.

He set up his beginning weight and settled onto the bench for his first bench press of the night. He was careful with how much he pushed himself since he lifted without a spotter. He couldn’t afford to have anything go wrong.

Levi lifted the bar and in a long-practiced motion brought the weight down to his chest. He inhaled as he lifted, exhaled as he dropped. Within a few minutes, he was at his best and working to push himself a little further. Sweat beaded on his ebony skin with each set. Just as he’d settled into the routine, the phone rang. Careful not to lose his concentration, he set the bar back up and rose slowly. Normally he’d let the answering machine get it, but this late at night a phone call usually meant bad news. One of his flock needed him.

He crossed the room and lifted the receiver just as the answering machine kicked in. He could hear it beep in his ear as he spoke. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

Again, no answer, but he could hear breathing on the other end of the line.

“Are you hurt? Can you answer me?”

After a few more seconds of silence, he chuckled. “Ok, I tell you what: when you feel like talking to me, you call back. If I wanted to hear heavy breathing, I’d go outside and jog a few miles.”

As he began to move the phone from his ear, he heard a female voice say, “Is this Franklin Bishop?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

The voice seemed to hesitate for a moment, then, “Did you ever find out who killed your children?”

Levi’s breath caught in his throat. He gripped the phone tighter and fought for control. “Who is this?”

“I asked you a question. Did you ever find out who killed your children?”

“Look, this isn’t funny at all. I’m a man of God, but I’m still just a man. Whoever you are, you’d better drop this now before—”

“I know.”

Levi’s legs grew weak beneath him. He stumbled to his couch and collapsed into it. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. “You…you know what?”

“I know who killed them. But the question is: do you even care? What have you done to avenge them?”

“Now wait just a minute, I—”

“What kind of man just lets a murderer go free?”

Levi’s mouth felt dry. In the back of his mind, something was nagging him about the voice. It was familiar. But an answer to her question escaped him.

She spoke again, but now her voice was filled with anger. She seemed to be throwing the words at him. “What have you done for your children, Bishop? What kind of man have you become?”

There was a click. The conversation was over, but he still kept the receiver to his ear, as if willing the woman to return. When he finally spoke, the word was an almost reverent whisper.

“Michelle?”

***

Ian listened as the door to Thomas’s room closed, then opened his eyes and studied his brother. Thomas had always been the level-headed one of the pair, but now he was spouting stories of hellfire and brimstone. This wasn’t like him. Now he sounded more like…

Ian pulled his cell phone out and hit the first number in his speed-dial list. If there was anyone Ian knew who was equipped to handle this sort of thing, it was Bishop.

The phone rang several times before a shaky voice answered, “Michelle?”

For a second, Ian thought he had the wrong number. “Levi?”

“Ian? I—I’m sorry…thought you were someone else.”

“Apparently. Are you ok?”

“Yeah. I’m…fine. What’d you need?”

“Any chance you could meet me tomorrow? I need to talk to you about something.” There was a hesitation. “Levi, are you all right?”

“Yeah, sorry. Tomorrow…when and where?”

“How about the cafeteria at Medical Center East? As early as you want to make it.”

Bishop’s voice instantly became more alert. “The hospital? What’s going on? Are you in the hospital again?”

“I’m fine. My brother’s been in an accident though. They’ve got him stabilized, but he keeps screaming stories about hell and demons. You’d know more about that stuff than I do.”

“I can come right now if you need me to.”

“No, that’s all right. I need some rest and he does to.”

“I’ll be there at eight then.”

“Thanks.” Ian started to hang up.

“Ian?”

“Yeah?”

“Sorry to hear about your brother.”

“Thanks.”

Ian slid the cell phone back into his pocket and glanced at the still form on the bed. Thomas’s skin glistened in the dim lighting of the room. Ian checked the monitor by Thomas’s bedside, but he didn’t appear to have a fever. His heart rate was elevated, especially for someone who was supposed to be in such a deep sleep. Whatever the nurse had given him, it wasn’t calming him too much.

Ian settled back into the chair. There was nothing more he could do now. The best he could hope for was a halfway-decent night’s rest. As he closed his eyes to dream, he heard a small cry come from the bed.

The nightmares were still there for Thomas.

***

Light.

It had forgotten what that was like. It took a moment to adjust to the change. After a few seconds, it began its search. There were few limitations to this form, but its work in the physical realm was reduced greatly. It could do things—horrible, terrifying things—in this shape, but that would not serve its purpose now.

It needed a host.

It flew down the streets of the city, sensing more than seeing the hearts of those it passed. It knew the ones that would be open to it—or defenseless from it if it chose them. Inside the apartments overhead it could feel hearts filled with adultery, lust, greed, hatred, envy, and many other delicious things. It hesitated, tempted to go up and feed for a while. It had been so long since any true emotions beyond pain and fear had been open to its choosing. Perhaps a few moments would be…

But then it remembered its purpose here. Time was of the essence. Few ever returned from its realm, and inevitably when they did, they had questions. The souls who escaped him always came back seeking answers. The lies that had been carefully cultivated in their lives as truth suddenly became empty. The myths of eternal happiness based on works or character fell through, and those who thought themselves “good enough” wanted to know why they hadn’t been. What had they seen? And equally inevitable was the fact that the enemy would have an agent ready to talk to them. There was usually always at least one in every life, someone they could talk to in times like this.

That meant it had to work fast. It was here to reclaim a soul—a soul it had rightful ownership to. How that soul had escaped would be something to consider later. For now, it was interested only in reclaiming it. Ignoring the pull of emotions from those around, it continued its search for a host.

Ten minutes later, it had one.

Mortal flesh was so fragile, even in the most powerful of the creatures. It was amazing how they’d survived this long when even a simple fall from the right height could kill them.

It glanced at its host’s hands. They were powerful—for flesh. This form was cunning and could be made strong. The man would never suspect death until it had come for him.

It already knew where to find Richardson. All it needed was the chance to reach him.

And this time it would personally throw his soul into the flames.

Altar

• Title: Altar

• Genre: Supernatural Thriller

• Wordcount: 95,000

Premise: Will Zack Tucker risk eternal damnation to rescue the one he loves from Hell’s Altar?

Blurb

Zack Tucker was too late. Too late to prevent the disappearance of his mother, too late to stop the suicide of his classmate and too late to thwart the abduction of his girlfriend. Has time run out for him to halt mankind’s destruction by Echthros, the Ruler of Darkness? Zack must defeat his nemesis, Milton Drago, the school bully turned mutant, rescue Jamie Watkins, and impede Echthros from over-running the earth. Can he accomplish this with only the help of his best friend, John and their co-workers when they discover the gates of hell in the building’s basement?

Synopsis

Zack Tucker, an introverted high school senior was content to arrive at graduation with no hitches or conflicts. Milton Drago on the other hand was set on raising as much hell as possible during his academic finale. When Zack stumbles across Milton in the commission of a late-night crime, he finds himself outnumbered by Milton and the other members of “The Triune”. As Zack tries to escape, Milton and his cohorts are bent on leaving their permanent mark when they are intercepted by a stranger from the shadows. After they flee, Zack tries to thank the man but he disappears as quickly as he appeared.

John Welte, Zack’s best friend, confidante and wise-cracking sidekick is never without a quip but always without a girlfriend. John is content with skating his way to graduation on the backs of straight A’s.

Jamie Watkins, a girl new to town crosses paths with Zack at the movies where they strike up a friendship that later blossoms into romance.

When one of the Triune unexpectedly commits suicide, the high school is rocked by emotion and questions as Milton blames Zack and launches an attack which includes an attempted murder. Once again, the stranger steps in.

Zack discovers that the intervening stranger is an eccentric entrepreneur, Mick Beer, who along with his brother, Nate, offers Zack and John a position at their company, Gideon Manufacturing, producing nostalgic weapons. Zack and John soon realize that Gideon is a façade for a clan of ancient warriors preventing anyone from entering the concealed entrance to the gates of Hell under the building’s foundation.

When Milton is seduced and succumbed by Angie, an agent of the Netherworld, he begins to mutate into a powerful instrument of darkness, bent on long-overdue revenge against Zack. This culminates in Milton and Angie abducting Jamie and dragging her into the bowels of the earth in an attempt to lure Zack into pursuit and ultimately, destruction.

Zack, John and the forces of Gideon are deployed to rescue Jamie and engage Milton who has now joined the clan of Echthros, Ruler of the Netherworld.

Zack finds himself facing the greatest challenge of his young life, to thwart the evil that is threatening to overrun mankind and retrieve his true love from the Altar of Hell. Kill or be killed, that will become his only option.

First 30 Pages

Prologue

If something walks upright, does that mean it was once human?

“You like the new edge?” Nathaniel Abbeer asked.

“On my blade?” Michael asked.

“Yeah,” Nathaniel whirled and lopped off a creature’s arm. The beast shrieked and flailed against Nathaniel’s chest catching its claws in his body armor. Nathaniel punched its snout sending it reeling to the ground.

Michael Abbeer swung his sword and the head rolled into the dirt kicking up bloody jets after it. “I do,” he said. “Back to back.”

Nathaniel stepped behind Michael as several other creatures surrounded them in a circular dance, snarling and snapping at the two men.

“The new alloy seems to be quite strong,” Michael thrust through the midsection of one of the beasts; rabid dog-like mutants prancing on hind legs and swinging their make-shift weapons.

“It’s the tempering that brings out its strength,” Nathaniel stepped forward wielding two swords like a windmill and carved another creature into hairy chunks. He returned to his position behind Michael.

Nathaniel glanced to a family a few yards away, sheltered by an outcropping of stalagmites. “It’s going to be fine.” A father, mother, baby in arms and a small boy and girl were huddled together in terror. “We’re going to get you out of here safely.”

Michael and Nathaniel continued their death dance leaving the mutants in piles of bloody fur.

“Did you oil the blades?” Michael asked.

“Dipped like always,” Nathaniel thrust into the eye socket of a creature that had not completed the mutation, more human than beast. “Do you think I’d forget the oil when we were coming here to fight?”

“No, just checking, little brother.” Michael sliced through a midsection exposing the entrails as the creature hit his knees and fell face first into the dirt. “No wonder the cuts are so clean.”

“Secret’s in the oil,” Nathaniel swung again and another head hit the cave floor. “I do what I can.”

“What do you say we end this thing and get them out of here?” Michael motioned toward the family. “We’ll leave Mel to clean up the rest of their forces.”

“I’m all about that.”

Michael and Nathaniel Abbeer unleashed a torrent of slices and blows that sent the remaining creatures of the Netherworld lying in pieces all over the ground.

“These new blades will do fine,” Michael said.

“I thought you’d like ‘em,” Nathaniel looked at the carnage around them.

“Calver!” Michael called.

A wiry man with a handle-bar mustache ran up to them. “Yes, boss.”

“Take these people to the surface.”

“Will do.” Calver gathered the family and with several other soldiers he ushered the people away.

“Fall back!” Michael called to his men. “Head for the gates! We’re done here!”

He and Nathaniel made their way along the huge cavern sprinkled with bands of warriors still engaging the creatures.

“Mel,” Michael said as they passed a short bald man with an inordinate amount of nose hair. “You and your men take care of the rest of this mess and meet us on the surface.”

“10-4, boss,” Mel puffed through his nose.

Michael and Nathaniel walked on, leaving the thrum of the battle behind them as they made their way down large rock corridors.

“The house of Haylel will rise again.” Nathaniel said.

“Not for several generations.”

“But you know it will happen again.”

“Of course it will happen again,” Michael replied. “But that will give us time to find him.”

“If he exists—”

“He exists,” Michael said.

“Hope you’re right.”

“I usually am.”

Nathaniel looked at his sword. “You know, we should manufacture these things.”

Chapter 1

Zack Tucker walked along the dark street on autopilot until breaking glass interrupted his thoughts of the girl.

He slowed.

Murmured laughter.

Snickers.

Hushed words.

Three teenage boys darted from behind a hedge row. The first two missed but the third struck Zack solidly; he hit the sidewalk seconds after his bucket of movie popcorn.

The third stopped. “Well lookie what we got here.”

Zack looked up and shook his head.

“I can’t believe it.” The third boy swore. “The poor excuse for a human being. The big boy that momma had a hard time pushin’ out, right, Zacko Packo?”

Zack stood and picked up the empty popcorn container and turned to walk away. A rock hit him in the small of his back and made him recoil like a stray dog.

“Hey! What the —” Zack spun, fist clinched. Bile churned up his throat and his stomach wanted to heave.

“Yeah lardo, don’t turn your back on me. I’m talkin’ to you.” The boy’s voice was calm and deliberate. “Guess I rocked your world, huh, fat boy?”

The other two boys laughed.

Zack stared into Milton Drago’s shadowed face and traced every feature from memory: Frigid, black eyes void of decency; embedded beneath overgrown dark eyebrows. His straight nose started at a hate furrowed brow and ended above a pouty, rose colored mouth, better suited on a woman. Milton’s square jaw was perpetually clinched but when he showed them, his teeth were perfect and white.

Except for the rage that twisted his features, most would say that Milton Drago was a ruggedly handsome, outdoorsy seventeen years old.

“Cut it out Milton, that was a long time ago,” Zack massaged where the rock hit.

“Oh, my bad,” Milton held up his hands in surrender. “Didn’t realize the timeline between eighth grade and our graduation was so long ago, Zacko Facko—”

“Shut up, Milton—” Zack said.

“Besides, you and me know that you never really get over being FA-AT” Milton pushed the word out from his gut. “That fat little freak is still waiting to squeeze out from under your extra large belt. That voice is still messin’ with ya, right? ‘I’m a fatty, he’s a fatty, wouldn’t ya like to be a fatty too?’” Milton smiled.

Zack glanced behind him and stepped back.

“Gonna take off, heavy duty?” Milton asked. “Won’t make it far—”

“What do you want, Milton?” Zack took another step back.

“Nothin’ from you, fat ass.” Milton stepped closer and brushed back his greasy black hair. “What’d you see?”

Kurt Clayton and Kevin Bauer stepped from the shadows to flank Milton. The Triune was complete.

“What are you talkin’ about?” Zack asked.

“I -asked -you -what -you -saw,” Milton gritted his teeth like an impatient English teacher.

“Nothin’.”

“Nothin’? Not only are you fat, you’re a fat liar too. A fat freakin’ liar.” Milton’s eyes widened. “Hey, freak, what’re you doin’ around here anyway?”

“A movie,” Zack excused himself.

“That porn flick? Zack, does your mother know?”

Kurt and Kevin laughed.

“Shut up, it wasn’t…” Zack muttered.

“Oh, no?” Milton shrugged. “No, I guess not. Hey, what’s the deal anyway?” Milton smiled. “Didn’t want to drive down into Denver to get your rocks off? There’s only kiddie movies playin’ here.”

“It’s close…” Zack explained.

“Oh, right, right, I forgot.” Milton stepped forward, Zack stepped back. “You and daddy have a place just down the street. Can’t waddle too far from home right?”

Zack stared at Milton for a moment. “The fat stuff’s gettin’ old Milton.”

“Is it?” Milton’s eyes widened.

“Yeah, it is,” Zack glanced behind him again.

A grin spread across Milton’s face. “You wanna try and run? Go ahead, make a break for it.” Milton waved. “Maybe daddy’ll be standing there with open arms ready to give you a big sloppy kiss.” Milton paused. “Or maybe, your sweet little mommy?”

Zack clinched his jaw.

Milton turned away from him. “Go ahead, freak. I’ll let you pass.”

Zack took another step back; his eyes darted from Milton to Kurt to Kevin.

“Come on man, let’s get out of here,” Kurt put his hand on Milton’s shoulder and glanced around the street. “Someone’s gonna see us.”

“Shut up, Clayton.” Milton knocked his hand away. “Nobody saw us do the house, you got your new laptop out of the deal so shut the freak up. Nobody’s watchin’”Except tubby crap here.” Milton threw a thumb over his shoulder toward Zack.

He turned and faced Zack again. “So, how long you been watchin’ us?”

Zack took a step back. “I was just walking by—.”

“You heard breaking glass though, right?” Milton asked.

Zack took another step back. “I—”

“See, I knew it.” Milton stepped closer. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“No, I didn’t see—”

“Didn’t see what?” Milton looked at him. “Now. Tucker.” Milton took another step and slipped his arm around Zack’s shoulder. “Don’t try to lie your way out of this—”

“I’m not lying.” Zack’s voice cracked and he stepped away. “Why you hasslin’ me?”

Milton slapped him in the chest. “What, are you gonna cry now?”

“No, I, uh—”

“That’s right. I uh. I uh.” Milton mocked and patted Zack’s stomach.

Zack knocked Milton’s hand away and shoved him backward into Kurt. Both tumbled into the hedge row. Milton fired off a volley of curses and Zack scrambled down the sidewalk toward home.

His legs pumped up and down like lead pistons and sweat poured from under his dark hair. But the hounds closed in on the rabbit easily. The collision forced Zack to his knees on the concrete sidewalk and the momentum drove him facedown into a hedge of rose bushes lining a rock wall.

Zack screamed. The impact drove thorns into his arms and face. A broken rose stem impaled his hand and his head hit the wall, skinning his cheek.

“What a piece of crap!” Milton’s voice loomed over him. “You can’t even run. You freakin’ pig!”

Zack tried to right himself, unsuccessfully flailing his bloody arms.

“What’s the matter can’t stand up? Here, see if this helps.” Milton kicked him in the groin and the laughter increased.

Zack coughed while excruciating pain exploded over his entire body. He tried in vain to free his hands to protect himself but all he could do was close his eyes. “Please…”

Zack thrashed like a fly in a web but tightened himself for the next phase of abuse.

“What the…” Kevin said.

Zack waited, no kicks, no fists. He slid his hand into the dirt and got a knee under him. He pushed and wiggled until he finally rolled onto the sidewalk and stamped it with bloody palm prints.

Through a crimson film, he squinted and watched the Triune run down the street. Milton, Kurt and Kevin appeared under the street light for an instant and then disappeared around the corner. Zack wiped the blood from his face with the heel of his hand and then onto his jeans. A few seconds later, car doors slammed, an engine turned over and tires squealed.

He drew an arm across his bloody forehead and scanned the dark street.

A man walked away from him.

“Hey!” Zack shouted.

The man continued to walk.

Zack yelled again. “Hey, sir? Could you help me?”

No response.

Zack blinked. The man’s dark, shoulder length hair glistened in the moonlight and his ankle length duster flapped in the breeze like a renegade cowboy from the big screen.

“Well, thanks anyway…”

Zack closed his eyes. He heard the tap, tap, tap of the man’s boots on the sidewalk and then silence. He opened his eyes. He was gone.

Zack put his head between his knees and slowed his breathing. He tugged at his torn shirt and saw his bloody knee caps that protruded through ripped pants. Zack rolled onto one knee, winced with pain, and hoisted himself up

Fall leaves rustled around his feet and Zack shook his head.

Where’s a cop when you need one?

In retrospect, the blonde at the movies was the best part of the evening.

Chapter 2

The next morning, Zack reached his locker before the period bell sounded. He glanced at the large, black rimmed clock above the World History door.

Eight more minutes.

He sipped water from the fountain and looked down the hallway, no Triune.

“What are you doing out here?”

Zack whirled and notebook pages fluttered to the floor.

“Man, don’t ever do that.” Zack said.

“What?” John Welte bent to pick up the pages.

“Scare me like that,” Zack let out a long breath.

“Sorry man, I just had to get a snack and take a leak,” John shuffled through the pages. “You were supposed to turn this in last week.” He handed Zack a notebook paper. John’s brown eyes twinkled under wire framed glasses that had only one lens. “Man, what happened to you?”

Zack watched John take inventory of his purple eye and the scratches on his face.

“Me?” Zack diverted the question by tapping on John’s glasses. “What about this?”

“Popped out again,” John squinted, looked up and down and then rolled his head like he had a neck ache. “It’s not bad once you get used to it.” John ran a hand through his auburn hair and then shook it out like a dog.

“So?” He eyed Zack’s cheek again with one eye closed.

Zack fired his rehearsed answer. “I slipped and fell in the bushes on the way home from the movies last night.”

John opened both eyes and handed the rest of the papers back to Zack. “Yeah, looks like you slipped a couple of times; again.” John scrutinized the bandages on his hands. “Have any help?” He paused to scratch behind one of his oversized ears. “Slippin’ , I mean?”

Zack looked at him. “What are you doing in study hall anyway?”

“Had to help Mickey Martin again,” John said.

“Geometry?” Zack asked.

“Course.”

“What this time?”

“He has to figure the square footage of the Pentagon,” John said.

“So? He couldn’t do it by himself?”

“Well…” John hiked his pants over his sunken stomach. “I am sitting next to Staci Bransen while I help ole Mickey Mouse. Dude, she smells good.”

“Ah, the fair Staci,” Zack grinned. “And why is she in there?”

“Oh she’s working on some graduation thing with one of those cute little freshmen chicks, also a lovely smeller.” John shrugged. “Who knows? Us seniors don’t need excuses to be where we are. We Rock!” John thrust a fist in the air and then glanced around.

“Have you…seen Milton or Kurt yet today?” Zack scanned a notebook page.

“No, why would I? It’s not noon yet and to my knowledge, this isn’t a liquor store.” John reached into his pocket, rooted around, pulled out a handful of Boston Baked Beans and popped them in his mouth.

“Just wonderin’,” Zack shrugged, turning the page over. “How ‘bout Kevin?”

“He’ll be along,” John said. “Daddy wouldn’t want little Kevy’s grades to drop.”

John threw a few more beans into his mouth. “Hey, did I tell you? The yearbook committee voted those three most likely to serve time together”? He chomped and sputtered flecks of candy toward Zack.

“Hey man, watch it,” Zack brushed his pants. “How long you been waitin’ to use that one?”

John munched like a cow. “A while.” He popped another handful in. “What’s your point?”

A nice looking girl passed them. “Hey Zack.” She said and then nodded toward John. “Monkey.”

Zack smiled. “Hey, Amber.”

“Coming from you Amber,” John said. “I’ll receive that as a compliment.” He turned back toward Zack. “Who started that whole, monkey thing anyway?” John finally swallowed. “I really hate that.”

“It was that one girl,” Zack said. “In eighth grade, what was her name?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I ask.”

“Well, it does fit your ears.”

“Shut up,” John said. “And to answer your first question, no, haven’t seen any of the Triune.” He opened his locker, took out a sandwich in plastic, unwrapped it and recoiled.

“Holy crap.” John hooked it into the trashcan across the hall. “Score!” He thrust a fist into the air.

Chapter 3

The third period bell rang and Zack sat in his usual seat by the corner window. John slumped next to him and wiped someone’s leftover cracker crumbs onto the floor.

A few seconds later Ralph Fryberg traipsed through the door in baggy pants and wrinkled wool sport coat, the sleeves ended in the middle of his hands. He plopped onto the top of his desk, one leg cocked at the knee and the other touching the floor. Mr. Fryberg shoved his meaty hand into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, he extracted a plastic bag and searched his pants. He produced a pocketknife, opened the bag, sliced off a chunk of Limburger cheese and slid it into his mouth.

A girl gagged in the front row and then swallowed hard.

Mr. Fryberg peered over dark-framed reading glasses that rested on the bulbous part of his nostrils.

“Now that I’ve cut the cheese and gotten your attention, we will begin.” Fryberg’s deep bass voice could have vibrated the windows.

“Who said: Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it?” Fryberg asked.

In unison, the entire class answered, “George Santayana.” Some of the students rolling their eyes and others nodding their heads in rhythm with the answer.

Mr. Fryberg scanned the room and stopped on Zack’s wounds.

Zack put a hand to the side of his mouth, “You should have seen the other guy.”

Mr. Fryberg smiled and continued.

“The Romans were disciplined and proud. The Caesars expanded their kingdoms to the ends of the known world and were the greatest army that had ever existed up to that time, surpassing even the Egyptians in might and power. . .”

Zack stared at the Russell Crowe poster at the front of the room, Gladiator. Russell stood with determination, his biceps bulged, forearms hard, and he clutched the sword in defiance of Caesar, the Coliseum and Milton Drago.

Mr. Fryberg’s voice brought Zack back from Nirvana. “What do you think you would have done in ancient Rome, had you have lived back then?”

Silence.

“How about you, Miss Romero?”

“Sir?”

“What occupation would you have held in ancient Rome?” Fryberg repeated the question, sliced off another hunk of Limburger and sucked it between his lips.

“Well, maybe an artisan?”

“Ah, yes, a craftsman,” He nodded and swallowed. “What type?”

“Uh, pottery maker maybe?” Romero shrugged.

“A noble profession indeed. People have to eat and drink, right?” He scanned the terrified faces again and then pointed a finger. “How about you Mr. Hinrady?”

Jake Hinrady continued to doodle on his notebook without looking up. “No doubt in my mind, Mr. F, an artist.”

“Indeed, the margins of your last essay bears witness.”

Several giggles escaped.

Mr. Fryberg sealed the plastic bag and stuffed the putrid cheese back in his pocket.

Fryberg turned his attention toward the corner window. “How about you Mr. Welte,” He paused. “Surely a maker of spectacles?”

John closed one eye and peered at him through the single, smudged lens. “Oh, I’m sure I would have been an accountant wielding an abacus instead of a sword.”

The class laughed, John stood, bowed and sat back down.

“Anyone else?” Mr. Fryberg smiled.

More dead air.

Zack raised his hand.

“Mr. Tucker.” Fryberg nodded.

“A gladiator sir.”

Zack heard snickers.

“Fat chance,” someone muttered.

“Do you think so, Mr. Burgess?” Mr. Fryberg zeroed in on the insult. “Did you want to expound on Mr. Tucker’s aspiration?”

“Uh, no sir,” Matt Burgess squirmed.

“Do you know anything about the gladiators, Mr. Burgess?”

“No sir.”

“How about you, Mr.Tucker?”

“Uh, yes, sir.” Zack sat straighter. “I know that they were usually slaves, forced to fight for their lives in the Coliseum and Circus Maximus. If they survived, there were great honors bestowed upon them, sometimes even their freedom.”

“Impressive, Mr. Tucker. You are aware that most of them didn’t reach the age of thirty?”

“Yes, sir.” Zack nodded.

“And you would still seek to be enslaved in the arenas of Rome, knowing that a down-turned thumb would mean execution?”

Zack glanced at the tile floor then met Mr. Fryberg’s eyes. “Yes, sir, I guess we all live and die in the arena of life.”

“Very true, but at this present time, no one is chasing you around the room trying to lop your head off with a sword.” Mr. Fryberg eyed Zack’s bruises. “Or are they?”

More giggles and Zack smiled.

The classroom door opened and Kevin Bauer entered.

Zack lowered his eyes and slid down a bit.

Mr. Fryberg pulled a pocket watch from his coat and held it up for all to see. “Well, Mr. Bauer, so nice of you to honor us with your presence 20 minutes into my lecture.”

“Sorry, sir, I…” Kevin sat down.

“We are referring to page 285. Please catch up.” Fryberg said.

Students around the room opened books and flipped pages.

“I assume that you did the reading that was assigned Mr. Bauer?”

“Well…I… was sort of busy last night,” Kevin glanced at Zack then back to Fryberg.

“Indeed,” Mr. Fryberg said. “Am I to assume, then, that you will catch up tonight?”

“Yes, sir,” Kevin nodded. “Most definitely.”

For the rest of class, Zack sat at the feet of a master while Mr. Fryberg poured out his knowledge of ancient Rome.

A half hour later, Zack heard Matt Burgess whisper. “Five, four, three, two, one,” and the bell sounded.

“Remember pages 300-350 for tomorrow.” Mr. Fryberg scooted off the desk. “Ms. Wilson, can I talk to you a moment?”

Kevin was the first one out the door.

“What’s the deal with him?” John grabbed his history book.

“Don’t know.” Zack shrugged.

“Are you sure you don’t?” John stared.

Zack shrugged again.

Chapter 4

Zack slammed his locker door. “Want to come over later and hang out for a while?” Zack glanced around.

“Sure.” John followed Zack’s gaze. “I don’t have anything else on the burner today. Who you looking for?”

“No one. Do you ever have anything on the burner?”

John squinted through the single lens. “What’s your point?”

“Will you fix those things.” Zack punched him on the shoulder.

“I kinda like ‘em this way,” John said. “Makes me unique—”

“It makes you weird.” Zack said.

John bugged his eyes at Zack. “Are you alright?” He slammed his locker.

“Fine,” Zack picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. “I’ll meet you by the trophy case at last bell.”

—

Zack looked through the glass case attached to the wall.

The Letterman Jackets received immortality on every shelf. Zack saw their smiles, accomplishment and confidence. He noted their raised index fingers in the photos indicating their place in line. The radiant beauties on their arms were no doubt destined for the homecoming court and promenaded their way to class, like Cleopatras riding on muscular bronzed slaves. Kevin Bauer’s photo stared at him from his perch on the swim team.

“Ready?”

Zack jumped.

“What’s up with you today?” John asked.

“Nothin’”

Zack and John walked out a set of double doors toward the parking lot.

“The female flocking,” John nodded toward a group of girls.

“Yeah,” Zack grinned.

Janice Markum’s jet black spiked hair didn’t waver as she approached. She took hold of Zack’s chin with a black leather glove that had all the fingers cut out and eyed the cuts and scrapes.

“So I hear the Triune got to you last night.” Her black rimmed eyes looked like they were drawn by a sketch artist with too much ink in his pen.

Zack couldn’t hold her gaze. “Uh, no, not really.” He glanced down at the upside down skull on the front of her black T-shirt. Janice touched his face and then took hold of his hands and turned them to look at the palms.

“Don’t know who got the worst of it.” Janice said. “But since Kevin’s the only one who showed up today.” She paused. “Hey, Geekster.” She took Zack’s chin and guided it back up so that he was looking at her.

“If you did jack ‘em.” Her pierced tongue gleamed in the sunlight. “Then rad!” She turned, rejoined her crew and they walked off campus.

Zack and John watched their black saggy jeans with safety pins, chains, and all things metal attached to them.

“What was all that about?” John asked.

“Nothin’ really.” Zack started walking again. “We takin’ your car?”

“Naw,” John said. “Out of gas. We’ll have to hoof it.”

Chapter 5

Zack and John rounded the corner by Delbert’s Market just as the door opened and hit Zack in the chest.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” The blonde covered her mouth and dropped her plastic bag.

Zack caught it.

“Sorry,” he handed it back. “I should’ve been watching—”

“Hey, how are you?” she asked.

“Uh, hello, again,” he said.

She looked at his face.

“Are you all right?” Her green eyes widened.

“Yes, fine. I, uh, had an encounter with a bush on the way home from the theater.”

“Last night?” She asked.

“Yeah.”

“Looks painful.”

She touched his face and Zack forgot the wounds.

“Seen any good movies lately?” She smiled.

“Uh, no not really. I mean not recently. Uhh, not since last night.” Zack winced.

John munched Boston Baked Beans and his head bounced back and forth, from face to face, like a line judge at a tennis match.

“This must be the Trekkie,” she nodded toward John.

“We prefer, Trekkers,” John said.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know it was—”

“You see,” John continued. “Trekkie, denotes that we are but a passing fad…” He waved a hand. “A groupie, attributing our philosophy in life to a few 1960’s actors who functioned amidst a set of cardboard consoles irrigated with Christmas lights.” John took out a handkerchief, honked, wiped his nose several directions, fingered a nostril and then stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Instead of adopting an entire lifestyle bent on taking us where no man, or woman in your case,” he nodded. “Has gone before.”

Zack and the blonde looked at John.

“Sorry,” Zack said. “He doesn’t get out much.”

“Hey,” John said.

She winked and smiled at Zack. “Thanks for your help last night.”

Zack managed a John Wayne impression. “Well, I’ll tell ya little missy, it t’was my pleasure.”

She giggled. “Well, nice to see you again. Hope you’re okay.” She threw him a, poor baby look. “I’m always on the run, obviously. Nice to meet you, Dr. Spock.”

“It’s Dr. McCoy or Mr. —”

“She gets it,” Zack hit John in the arm. “Nice to see you again, too…” Zack winced. “Now you’ve got me doing it.”

“What?”

He and John watched her walk toward her car and enjoyed every step.

“Man she smells good,” Zack said. “I—”

“Okay, Big Guy, spill.” John hit Zack in the arm. “And what’s with defiling my philosophy of life?”

“What?” Zack shrugged.

John held up a finger. “First, supposedly you got in a big fight and mopped the floor with Milton and Kurt; and now,” John held up a second finger. “You meet some knockout chick at the movies and I haven’t even heard about it? What gives, man?”

“Okay, okay, chill; it wasn’t that big of a deal.” Zack sighed. “What do you want to hear first, Milton or the blonde?”

“Tough decision,” John tapped his chin. “The doll baby of course! Who cares about that skank, Milton?”

They began to walk as Zack explained.

“Well I went to see Planet of the Apes—”

“With Wahlberg?” John asked.

“Heston.”

“The original, very good,” John nodded.

“So I’m sitting there with my popcorn, extra butter and Diet Pepsi, minding my own business—”

“Why do you do that?”

“What?” Zack asked.

“Get the popcorn with the extra butter and buy a diet soda?”

“I don’t like to waste my calories on a drink—”

“Fine. Continue,” John said.

“Anyway, the movie ended and I was sitting there watching the credits—”

“Like usual.” John nodded.

“And I gave myself a wedgie.”

“What?” John stopped on the sidewalk.

“I didn’t mean to, she was sitting there watching the credits too—”

“The Delbert’s Market girl?”

“Yeah, she likes the credits too. And when they were over she got up and came toward me—”

“So.”

“So, I froze, she’s a knockout. You saw her? I didn’t know what to do.”

“So you gave yourself a wedgie?”

“Not on purpose you idiot,” Zack punched John’s arm as they began to walk again. “I leaned forward and started to hike up my pants, and—”

“You grabbed your underwear instead?” John burst into laughter.

Zack shrugged. “Well, I was nervous.”

“I’ll say,” John tried to stifle his laughter. “I guess I could see it. You’re right, she is a knockout.”

“Fortunately her contact popped out.”

“Lens?”

“Yeah. When she got next to me.”

“Really? Next to you? Was she wearing the same cologne—”

“Yeah,” Zack shrugged. “I guess so. I helped her find her contact, that’s all.”

“Well, I will say you do have sharp eyes,” John nodded. “Like the time you found my contact at the Star Trek convention—”

“See, that’s what I told her, the Trekkie thing—”

“Trekker—”

“Whatever,” Zack said.

John closed the eye without the lens and then opened it again, craning his neck.

“I told her about the time we went and stood in line to get—”

“The Grace Lee Whitney autograph thingy—”

“Yeah,” Zack said.

“So you called me, Trekkie?”

“I’m sorry, but I told you I was nervous. You would be too.”

“We’re not talkin’ about me,” John paused and smiled. “She is gorgeous though and those eyes. . . Holy…”

“See. You should have seen what she had on, this short skirt and some high heels, not too high, but high enough, they made her legs look… well, never mind. ”

“Go on.”

“Naw,” Zack shook his head.

They walked a few more steps.

“Yeah, you’re right.” John took off his glasses and cleaned the lens. “So what’s her name?”

Zack didn’t answer.

“You’re kiddin’ right?” John replaced his glasses.

Zack shrugged.

“All of that, and you didn’t even ask her name? Dude.” John cocked his head.

“I was nervous.” Zack shrugged.

“You said that,” John smiled. “So whatever happened with the wedgie?”

“I pulled it out when she looked down at the floor to find her contact.”

“Smooth man,” John smiled. “Very smooth.”

“So after meeting her, I just walked down the street in a daze. That’s when Milton and the rest of the Triune jumped me.”

“The scum,” John said.

They walked a few more houses in silence.

“So, what’s with Milton anyway?” John finally asked.

“Simple,” Zack said. “He hit me and I hit the sidewalk, and then there was the guy.”

“What guy?”

Zack related the rest of the evening and left out no humiliating detail.

—

“The thing that bugs me,” John followed Zack onto his front porch. “Is why didn’t the guy say something?”

“Beats me.” Zack fished in his pocket for his keys, slid it into the lock and opened the door. “I’m just glad he was there.”

He let his back pack slip to the floor.

“Zack?”

“Yeah dad.”

Jeff Tucker walked out of the kitchen with a sandwich in a plastic bag.

“Hey, guys, what’s up?”

“You headin’ off to work already?” Zack noticed the open lunch pail on the hall chair.

“Hey Mr. Tucker,” John said.

“John,” Jeff nodded and then turned back to Zack. “Mark’s sick so I’m covering his shift.” Jeff tossed the sandwich into the lunch pail and latched it shut.

“That’s cool,” Zack said.

“Yeah, we can use the extra cash,” Jeff smiled. “Hold down the fort.”

He hugged Zack, kissed him on the cheek, and then punched John on the shoulder.

“I love you, son. See you in the morning.”

“Love you too, Dad. Have fun.”

“Hey somebody’s got to.” Jeff grabbed the lunch pail. “John.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jeff held up his hand with all five fingers spread apart. “Live long and prosper.” And he was out the door.

“Come on, ya wuss,” Zack grabbed John’s shirt sleeve and pulled him toward the kitchen.

“Oh, ya,” John rubbed his arm. “He kisses you and punches me!”

“I’m sure he’d kiss you if you wanted,” Zack grinned.

“He didn’t do the Vulcan hand thing right—”

“I know,” Zack said.

Chapter 6

The siren’s rhythmic wail thrummed in Kurt Clayton’s skull.

His lids opened and closed and his eyes rolled back in his head. The fire in his arm moved him in and out of consciousness. His belly ached and he lay in some sort of wet mass.

Kurt licked his dry, cracked lips. He searched for anything that resembled moisture. Someone lifted his lid, a bright light pierced his pupil, and he detected a faraway woman’s voice muddled and garbled. The scream of the siren droned on. He needed to muffle the sound by any means.

She slapped his face and his cheek burned. Kurt tried to move his arm to squelch the pain but it wouldn’t cooperate. His stomach was full of something but an empty ache sucked on it like a vacuum hose.

He moved his tongue, something was in his mouth. A straw? A tube? The regular beep and systematic hiss ticked him off. He didn’t know why. Kurt opened his eyes to bright lights and faces. He closed them again. The equipment shrieked and the ambulance jostled and his brain was about to explode.

Voices echoed, laughter intensified and color danced across his closed lids. He turned his head and spewed vomit onto the floor. Kurt saw the yellow mass on someone’s shoes but his eyes rolled back and then focused on the white walls and tubes that swayed to the rhythm of the ambulance. Disproportionate, brightly colored balls collided with one another, he panicked and the woman paramedic slapped him again. Why? Why did she hit him? They weren’t supposed to do that.

Her red lips opened and closed but no voice. He glanced around. She was the only one in the ambulance with him. Did they do that? He thought there were supposed to be two people…

His eardrums hammered him into a dream world. Kurt floated and then relaxed; the noises faded and he caught sight of the paramedic’s name tag for an instant before it blurred, “Angie.”

– END –

-----------------------

[1] New Living Translation

................
................

In order to avoid copyright disputes, this page is only a partial summary.

Google Online Preview   Download