Book #1 – If I Should Die
Chapter One
The last time I saw
Mom, I was three. I turn thirteen
today. It will be just Dad and me again.
We won't have a party. He'll buy a cake and I'll try to blow out the
candles, and he'll laugh with a smile big enough to cover mom's absence, but
I'll still miss her. Dad says we're a
team, like two mules on a plow. He says
we don't need anyone else. I can't tell
my dad how I feel, so I just listen. I
suppose he thinks I agree, but I don't.
Truth is, I wish mom were here...
It was a night to make
strong men weak, and godless men fear.
The wind shrieked through the trees, cracking dry limbs and driving
loose chunks of bark into the ground.
The rain had turned to ice, then to snow, pelting the windshields of
cars slip-sliding their way home. The
faint of heart stayed behind, refusing to leave the pub. They stared at the world through blustery
windows fringed with ice, hiding behind vodka martinis, glad to be inside. "Have one for the road, just to keep
warm," they said, but they tipped back one after the other. The sober and the courageous plowed on
through, braving the messy night.
Everyone thought they'd seen winter's last stand, but like the monster
you can't seem to killChe was back!
******
The old man swept
frost from his eyes. He shook his head
to remove a matted layer of snow, but a clump caught his collar and trickled
cold and wet down his back. Burrrrrrrrrr. He reached
around to pull the fabric away from his skin.
Darkness had come too soon. He
needed to be able to see. He tried
tightening his lapels around his neck but after a few seconds his fingers
froze. He let go. His thin windbreaker billowed out of control,
flapping like a sail caught in a squall.
"It's no use," he muttered, shoving his raw, useless hands
back into his pockets. His toes felt
numb but he had to keep moving. He
hadn't figured on walking this far.
They'd thought a bus would take him to the front door. No one anticipated the famous William Best
living in a rural community.
The wind whipping
across the lake stung his face. Must be down near twenty degrees. He put one foot forward, then the other, mechanically
pushing his cold, wet tennis shoes along the icy pavement. No relief.
He was caught in a swirling vortex, blinded by the white. Sooooo
c...c...cold! He blew a breath of
steamy air over his hands to try and thaw his fingers. Who would have thought he'd run into a
blizzard this late in April? He should
be back in his apartment drinking warm cocoa and watching television. Nuts!
Somebody has to do it. They
had to make someone listen. He tried
again to pull his collar up against the cruel wind but his fingers were too
stiff. He hadn't figured on
******
Bill waved to his
editor, his hand moseying up in the air to signal his leaving. He tucked his wool scarf snugly around his
neck and buttoned his coat. Through the
glass door he could see his taxi waiting at the curb, white smoke puffing from
the exhaust against the bitter, driving snow.
The meter was running. He scooped
his hat off the rack, plopped it on his head, and turned the brim down, wishing
it was a Stetson. The fedora kept his
head warm, but did nothing for his image.
He pushed the door open against the wind and stinging ice. A sudden gust ripped the door from his hand
and slammed it closed behind him. The
squall tore at his coat and scarf. He
clamped his hat firmly to his head and trudged to the curb. The snow was already deep enough to drift
over the tops of his shiny wingtips. He
felt a sting as ice-water seeped around his ankles into his socks.
"Vely, vely bad night, no?"
came the salutation from inside the cab.
The driver turned and regarded his passenger over his shoulder. His beard was wrapped up over his head and
tucked underneath his turban. "Whell do you go?"
Bill gave the driver
his address and settled into the stifling warmth of the cab's interior. He was anxious to get home. Tonight's the night, he thought. Only two more days and we're outta here. He
couldn’t help thinking he should have saddled up years ago. You can’t expect a beaver to make a
home on a concrete dam. He glanced out
the window letting the swirling snow stiffen his resolve. There'd be no turning back now. He eased into thoughts about his daughter's
birthdayCcake and candles and
the surprise of her life. He
couldn't wait to see the look on her face.
"Yes-sir-ee, Billy Bob, tonight's the
night!"
*******
The old man's feet
slipped out from beneath him. His bones
were too old and brittle to take such a fall.
He picked himself up. His hand was
too frozen to feel the gravel stuck to his palm. All around him bits of ice flailed his
exposed skin. He was caught in a raging
fury; the wind pummeled his face. He
could no longer see the lights on the south shoreCtoo much blinding white. He wanted to take a short cut across the
frozen lake, but that was foolishness.
He had to stick to the road. It
might take longer, but at least the wind was partially blocked by the
trees. On the lake he would be out in
the open, unprotected. He'd freeze to
death for sure. He had to keep moving,
one foot after the other. His feet were
completely numb, like they'd fallen asleep inside his tennis shoesCtennis shoes??? He chided himself for grabbing a windbreakerCno fool like an old
fool. Just stick to the road, follow the
shoreline. That's what the man said. You'll come to the house sooner or later,
can't be more than a few miles. He
was determined to make it, even if it took all night.
******
The
downtown core of neon and fluorescent towers slid by the glass in rippled
patterns of swirling white. It was an
awkward hour when workers scrambled for their cars, holding their coats in
close, slipping on the ice. Bill could
see their misery, but he no longer felt it.
His refuge was warm, an envelope of protection against the chaos
outside. The cab's interior was calm, a
quiet broken only by the flapping of the windshield wipers and the static of
the cab's two way radio. Bill tipped his
hat forward and pushed back into the seat.
He wondered how his daughter would react to her gift.
Big and bold as all
outdoors, yet I can hold it in the palm of my hand, he mused. The big surprise! I can't wait to see her face. He'd promised before but the timing hadn't
been right. She won't be expecting
it. That's the best part. He wanted to rush in and whoop it out the
minute he got through the door. He had
to get a rope around his excitement.
This had to be special. It was
her thirteenth birthday. She was no
longer a child, not that she ever really was, but now it was official. She was a teenager. He smiled inwardly, feeling his coat pocket
to assure himself it was still there.
His fingers tapped his lapel. He
could hardly believe he'd done it. He
wasn't big on radical change.
They were out of the
city and almost home, when Bill snapped out of his reverie. Is the van ready? He'd told the mechanic to leave it parked out
front; he should see it as soon as they pulled in. He never did like taking cabs, he lived too
far out of town, but the van needed a complete going over before the trip.
At a bend in the road
the cab hit a patch of ice and began to slide.
The windows were caked with snow but the wipers continued to thump,
thump, thump, back and forth clearing the way. Suddenly, a figure loomed large in the
headlightsCa man, a swirl of
cotton white hair, shielding his face with his hands. The cab swerved, sliding, bumping the manCchhrumpppCwith its right rear
fender as it spun to the left. The man's
legs were in the air, then he was on his back.
Bill twisted in his seat to see out the rear window. The cab continued spinning like a saucer till
it butted the curb and came to an abrupt stop.
Bill was out of the car in an instant, his feet losing traction as they
met the ice. He fell to one knee, but he
pushed himself up and kept going. His
gloved hand brushed his wet pant leg as he limped toward the man lying in the
street. He knelt down and attempted to
cradle the man's snowy head in his hands.
Is he dead? How do you feel
for a pulse? The eyes opened for a
moment, blue as winter, then closed. The
man's hand came up, reaching inside his light nylon coat to withdraw an
envelope. His lips were blue, and his
teeth were chattering.
"G...g...get...this tooootaaa..."
but as Bill took the envelope the hand went limp and fell away. The wind died, and for a moment all was
quiet. Bill leaned in to check the man's
chest for a heartbeat but instead he heard a long throaty exhale, like wind
whistling through a hollow pipe. The air
in front of the man's mouth frosted in an eerie shroud of white. Bill stared at the document in his hand. Even in the dim streetlight he could make out
the name. It was addressed to Mr.
William Best. It was addressed to him.
Book #2 – Above The Stars
Chapter One
The sun looks like the yolk of an egg sizzling sunny
side up on the white hot pan of the sky.
This is the sun of
PosadaCa time-forgotten
village nestled deep in the mountains of
Lonnie stands at the
cliff's jagged edge observing the town's ebb and flow. This is his place, the one plot of land on
the whole of planet earth uniquely designed for him. He likes to think the heavens opened and
dropped him here, in the present, erasing the enigma of his past. He is part of Posada, the soil his flesh, the
rock his bone, and the vines his sinew and muscle. His soul and the soul of the village are
inseparably intertwined.
He breathes deeply,
not to relax, but to squeeze air from the thick humidity, the curious habit of
a white man. He wears the muslin of a
village peasant, dripping with sweat, but his sandy blond hair and blue eyes stand
out in stark contrast to the indigenous people around him. Lonnie's own skin is tan as leather, but it
will never be as brown as the natives.
God has blessed the Indians with a special covering that shields them
from the burning sun. Lonnie breathes
the heavy air, like molasses in his lungs, and scratches under his beard where
moisture is causing an itch. The heat
and humidity are unbearable, but he loves the heat.
More, he loves the
consistency, the predictability, the security of knowing that as surely as the
sun rises, one breath will lead to the next and his life, every facet of it,
will continue unchanged. Today is like
yesterday. Tomorrow will be the same. The sun beats down on the hot cobblestones of
the town's only road, just as it has for centuries, just as it will for
centuries to come.
The natives don't seem
to notice how isolated they are from the rest of the worldCPosada is a village of
four thousand souls and one telephoneCnor do they seem to
notice the intensity of the beauty that surrounds them. They go about their business, growing and
harvesting coffee beans for the local plantation, while their half-naked
children run around chasing chickens, playing catch me if you can. And this, too, Lonnie loves.
A narrow lane divides
the village into equal halves, except in the center where the road widens into
a broad circular plaza with a fountain, known as the market. A man moves slowly across the plaza, taking
languid, patient strides. He wears the
vestments of a Franciscan monk. His
brown robe is girded about his waist with a short piece of braided hemp. He is tall and lean, and were it not for his
clerical garb, he would blend with the Indian population unnoticed. Lonnie raises his hand in greeting, jumps
down from his rocky perch, and runs to join his friend, his sandals flapping
against the hard-packed earth, lifting clouds of dust.
"Ola, Padre," he says.
They turn and wander through the market together, skirting the baked
adobe huts, watching the brown backs of the children at play.
Father
"Thank you,
Father. By the way, I was speaking with
the foreman this morning. He thinks we're
about a month away from moving in."
The father smiles, his
white teeth bright against his swarthy complexion. "We must declare a holiday," he
ventures. "We must have a fiesta. People from all over will come to see the
opening. You will be the guest of honor,
Seņor Lonnie."
"I'll be here, I
promise you that, but I won't be the guest of honor. This is a work of God."
Out across the open
circular plaza, the two men see the hospital nearing completion. Bare-chested men in
Two churches preside
over opposite ends of the plaza. St. Christopher's
is a large, white adobe structure, with porticoes and arches and walkways made
of brick. Inside, an altar of gold leaf
is surrounded by paintings depicting Christ's birth, death, and ascension into
heaven. The sanctuary glows in the soft,
playful light of seventy candles that continually burn with the prayers of the
saintsCa sweet smelling savor
unto God. The building could be a
hundred years old but, under fresh coats of whitewash, looks as good as the day
it was built. It is a Catholic cathedral
and is under the administration of Father Paulo
Lonnie's own church, a
boxlike structure made of cinder blocks painted white, is modest by comparison,
but sufficient to meet the needs of the small Protestant community. The building's peaked roof supports a crude
wooden cross. Lonnie used his own money
to build the church. He'd used his own
money to build the orphanage and the homeless shelter too. And he's funding the hospital project. But it's a cooperative effort; the Sisters of
Mercy have volunteered to provide the nursing staff. The money is the easy part. Lonnie often wonders why God has blessed him
with such great wealth, when money is something he cares so little about.
Behind them the men
hear the rumble of an approaching vehicle.
They turn to see wheels sweeping up a cloud of grit from the
cobblestones. The Jeep squeals to a
stop. Lonnie recognizes the driver as a
courier from Pochutla, a city twenty miles down the
mountain. The man earns his living
making deliveries between the dozens of remote villages nestled in the
"Ola, Eduardo," Lonnie says, greeting the man.
"Ola, Seņor Lonnie, I have
something for you. Important, I
think. They pay me double extra to get
it here muy pronto." The man hands Lonnie an envelope. It is stamped with red letters reading:
"High PriorityCRush."
Lonnie feels the
prickly sweat at the back of his neck.
His heart begins to race, and his fingers to tremble. A premonition looms large, like an omen of
evil to come. The envelope is addressed
by hand, with a
Father
"I'm not
sure." Lonnie uses his fingernail
to lift the flap. In the humid weather,
the glue separates easily. He slips the
letter out and shakes it open. One quick
glance confirms his suspicions. It's
worse than he thought.
The message is short
and to the point. It reads:
"Lonnie, you must come home. Your
brother is dying. He wants you here. Please, let bygones be bygones. It's urgent you come homeCnow.@
The letter is signed:
Trudy Striker.
Book #3 – When Glory Rises
Prelude
The tiny man sneezed
as a car skirted the corner spinning road dust onto the lapels of his navy-blue
blazer. For a moment he was lost in a
cloud of floating grime. He flapped his
rolled newspaper, clearing the air as dust settled on his round
spectacles. Pulling a handkerchief from
his pocket, he wiped his glasses, and held them in front of his squinting eyes,
but now the world was a blur. He fogged
the lenses with his breath and cleaned them again, rubbing harder this time.
The sun was a
scorcher. He could feel the heat
throbbing against his face, but the little man never broke sweat. It was something he prided himself on. If the phone booth smelled like a gym locker,
blame the lower hordes of humanity, not him.
He slid into the glass cubicle and popped the door shut. Prudent, not cheap, he reminded
himself as his finger swept the coin return for change. Nothing!
He took in a breath,
staring at the phone, blinking. He knew
he was right, but he had to convince Mr. Trask. He scanned the newspaper one last time: a
Vietnam Vet with a Purple Heart. Perfect! People love heroes.
Speaking at...where is it? ThereCWoodgrove Baptist. Couldn't
ask for more. Kid's a walking photo of
James Dean. And his nameCLuke AngelCperfect! Absolutely perfect!
He retrieved the handset, found a dime swimming at
the bottom of his pocket, and reached up to feed the phone. The dial tone hummed. The sun was hitting the streaked glass making
the sky outside look like a smear of grey mustard. Conrad had to love it. It was money in a pocket waiting to be
picked. He took a deep breath and
dialed.
CELESTIAL VANTAGE
Outside the space/time
continuum
Reach out with
me. Feel the expanse of time. I would have you hold it in your hand were it
possible but that's too much to ask.
Time is transparent, hard even for celestial ones to fathom. To be outside time, that is bliss. Yet, as a vehicle to give events a frame,
time does serve its purpose. The notion
of time enables a story to have form, and therefore meaning, because within
time random bits of information can be positioned like pieces of a puzzle until
the vague and abstract become clear.
Permit an
introduction. I began as you, a fallen
one, though now transformed, a sinner turned saint, glorified, transfigured
from death unto life, elevated to the highest form of creation, through no
doing of my own, and given purpose beyond my deserving. I am light, a spirit without mass, yet I
touch and feel everything. In other
dimensions, beyond the confines of time and space, I've been given a new name. I use it here for your benefit. You may refer to me as MesapareCthe teller of tales.