Help Bring "The Gathering" to Life
My name is Joanne E. Moudy, and I need your help to publish the second book in my trilogy that God called me to write.
My Story
I've lived a life full of God, love, hard work, and many successes. Originally from Phoenix, I graduated from the University of Colorado with a Fine Arts degree, served nine years as a US Army officer, then became a Trauma RN after earning my nursing degree in 1995. I loved caring for patients who came through the ER doors.
But I've also faced some terribly tragic times. A surgical accident left me with severe nerve damage, making it impossible to raise my arms above shoulder level or perform many basic tasks. I was also born with a defective aortic valve that has required multiple heart surgeries. Despite constant pain and physical limitations, I refused to give up.
The Divine Call to Write
After my first valve replacement in 2011, I was bored and wondering what God intended me to do with my broken body. So I prayed the same prayer every day: "God, You gave me a strong physical body (which was stolen from me), and a brilliant, creative brain. What am I supposed to do with the remainder of my life?"
For months, there was no answer... until early one morning in winter 2013.
During a brief REM sleep, I was given a vision in a dream that seemed to go on for hours. It was the entire story of a world gone crazy—full of good, but also overwhelming evil attempting to bring about civilization's total collapse. I saw great hope in about two dozen people from around the world who band together to save humanity from destruction one last time. It's the saga of humanity's last stand.
I woke with incredible energy and a clear roadmap of this epic tale. When I described the dream to my husband, Ray, the visions became even clearer.
Ray asked, "So what are you going to do?"
My immediate response: "I'm gonna be really busy."
The Trilogy of The Tenth
For the next four months, I wrote "The Tenth" day after day. After professional editing and cover design, I published it on Amazon. Friends at online newspapers loved it so much they invited me to become a contributing columnist. This led to speaking at major conferences throughout the US about my research on worldwide religious persecution.
"The Tenth" was supposed to be standalone book, but by the end, I knew I had to keep going. This created "The Trilogy of The Tenth."
The second book, "The Gathering," is complete at over 440 pages but needs professional formatting and publishing. It was supposed to be published by 2017, but my heart problems returned, requiring three more lengthy surgeries and six hospitalizations in 2020. Then we discovered our home had hidden structural damage requiring four years of remediation and ongoing legal battles.
Why I Need Your Help
At 73, I desperately want to see "The Gathering" published. This joy would make many of my disabilities and medical problems seem far less depressing. I'm also about 1/3 through the final book, "The Rising."
It will cost approximately $40,000 to:
• Design the cover (I know exactly what I want)
• Properly format the 440+ page manuscript
• Publish on Amazon and other platforms
• Handle all the technical requirements for professional publication
I'm seriously hoping someone in the movie, entertainment, or publishing industry will read this and reach out. It's a long shot, but I have faith that God put me on this path for a reason.
Read the Opening Chapter
I've included a few opening chapters of "The Gathering" below so you can experience the story yourself. If you like what you read, please purchase "The Tenth" on Amazon (https://www.amazon.com/Tenth-Joanne-Moudy-ebook/dp/B00HI0XNP4/ref=sr_1_1?crid=6OG69AKHJANJ&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.NG0fXldlp2q4diRwgzYuHds9Oqk_hKckPGnS67Gv9gw.kZEYVdEdoia5_87fGeMc79pd8TB4LtYuOY6jJ3XkmFg&dib_tag=se&keywords=the+tenth+joanne+moudy&qid=1752279698&sprefix=the+tenth+joanne+moudy%2Caps%2C123&sr=8-1). The number of reviews doesn't reflect the several thousand copies I've sold privately at events around the country.
How You Can Help
Even a few dollars helps! Please also:
• Share this with everyone you know
• Use your social media to repost my link
• Leave an encouraging comment if you know me personally
I can't do this alone—I need a lot of help spreading the word!
Thank you for reading this and for any help you can provide. God Bless!
Joanne E. Moudy
August 30, 2025
Payson, AZ
Note: This platform doesn't allow PDF uploads, so I've included the opening chapters through copy and paste. Thank you for your patience with the format!
Note** The photos above are of me after one of the aortic valve replacements - literally fighting for my life - because my heart had stopped beating on its own. And the other was in 2021 when I was back in the fitness center, doing maneuvers I should never have been able to do. But I worked hard for 15 years (before, during & after cardiac surgeries) to get to that point.
THE GATHERING
By
Joanne E. Moudy
CHAPTER 1
“Okay you kids, we’re almost at school. It’s pouring out there so button up your jackets and make sure your hats are on.”
“Yes Mommy,” Arthur says.
“I hate it when it rains like this,” Kathleen says, looking out the window at the gloomy day. “We don’t get recess and playtime inside isn’t as fun.”
“I know, sweetie. But unfortunately, spring weather is sometimes like this.” I put the car into park and turn around to look at them in the backseat. “Your daddy and I have a meeting today with the principal, Mrs. Boxer. Any idea why she called us?”
Kathleen’s long brown, curly hair is partially covered by her yellow rain hat. “It’s my fault, Mommy.”
Arthur reaches out his small hand and takes hold of Kathleen’s. “It’ll be okay. I told you not to worry.”
“What’s your fault, Kathleen?”
“I forgot the really important rule.”
“Oh.” I turn back around and look down into my lap. All I ever wanted is for my two beautiful children to have a ‘normal’ life. Yet, the older they get, the less likely that seems.
After taking a small, deliberate breath, I turn around again and reach my arm up over the back of the seat. “What happened?”
“I was in line and a boy shoved me.”
“It was Justin, Mommy,” Arthur says. “The one who’s always mean to us.
“What else happened?”
Kathleen swallows hard and blinks her blue eyes a few times, fighting back tears. She puts her head down.
“I’m not mad Kathleen, I just need you to tell me.”
“He shoved me really hard and I almost fell down. Mrs. Boxer was walking by and saw it, but she didn’t say anything. Then, Justin shoved me again and I did fall. She saw that, too.”
“And?” I have a bad feeling I try to hide.
“I got mad and started crying and asking Mrs. Boxer why she never stopped Justin from being bad. Except . . . I didn’t use my talking voice.”
Telepathy. They have the gift and so do I. But there are different levels of telepathic thought. Some are benign and some are destructive.
“Were you pushing?”
“No. It’s still hard for me to push. I was just thinking.”
“Well, that’s not so bad,” I say, trying to reassure her. “Mrs. Boxer probably figures it was her own thoughts.” I see Arthur squirm a little in his seat. Ugh. “What did you do, Arthur?”
“When I heard Kathleen crying, I got out of line so I could stand next to her, to keep Justin away.”
“Is that all?”
“No.” Arthur’s deep blue eyes bore into mine. “I don’t like it when people are mean to us.”
I don’t either.
“So, I thought really hard . . . and I pushed it to him.”
“Oh.” This isn’t good. “How hard?”
“I yelled at him and I might’ve yelled at Mrs. Boxer, too.”
“What happened to Justin?”
“He threw up all over the floor and had to go to the nurse. And Mrs. Boxer had to sit down.”
“Ah.” I can’t really blame him. When kids are mean at school, it’s hard to tolerate. I have no patience for bullies.
“I’m sorry, Mommy. We try so hard to remember the rules.” Arthur looks over at Kathleen and squeezes her hand. “It’s okay, we’re in this together.”
“Use your talking voice Arthur. The more you practice, the better.” Telepathy is faster and easier, but I try to encourage my children to speak, precisely for this reason. “Anything else happen?”
“When Mrs. Boxer sat down, I could hear all her thoughts and see her feelings. She was really mad,” Arthur said.
“I bet.” I turn back around and shut the engine off. There’s nothing I can do about what already happened. “Okay kids, time for school.” I say, cheerfully. I open the door and go around to help them out of their booster seats. After I adjust Arthur’s backpack, I kneel to give them both hugs. “You are each very special. So special that we can’t tell anyone about what you can do.”
“Then why did Joseph teach us all these things?”
“Because some day, some place, you will need your powers to help Joseph with an important job. But until then, we have to keep everything a secret.”
“Are you mad?” Arthur asks.
“No . . . I’m not mad. Just a little sad that it happened.” I pull them both close. “Now listen. I know it’s hard, but today, no matter what happens, you must only talk with your real voices.” I kiss each one on their cheeks. “Got it?”
“Got it,” they both say in unison.
I watch as they run up the steps into the school building. Tears begin to well up in my eyes. Dang. There’s no way they can stay here. It’s imperative to the very existence of humanity that I protect them and keep what they are a secret.
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CHAPTER 2
The party of Nine silently moves through the misty morning, following Joseph as he leads them along the stone path laid out before him. With deep hoods covering their heads and faces, and their long, white robes billowing about their feet, the procession appears to glide forward as they make their way solemnly from the chasm back to the Cathedral. As usual, Lady Mary is behind the Nine. With each step forward, the stones behind her vanish, leaving no trace of where the group has been.
Lady Mary also walks in silence, but not because that is the custom. Rather, because she is deeply troubled. “Oh Father,” she silently speaks. “This crossing was as difficult as the several before it. Is there nothing you can do to stop the pain?” She steps forward with her head bowed, waiting for a response, yet none comes.
“Father, why must all of their humanity suffer for the sins of just a few?” With the very next step, Lady Mary feels an unusual chill from the mist and pulls her white hood further up over her head. She looks up and notices the mist has turned to a thick fog.
Something is not right.
Each of the Nine and Lady Mary notice the difference at once. Although they are returning to the Cathedral where the sun always shines brightly through blue skies and puffy clouds, today there is no warmth and almost no sun.
Suddenly the stone formation stops. Joseph pulls back his foot and sets it upon the single stone he is standing upon. The entire entourage stops behind him, waiting and watching.
“Lady Mary,” Joseph communicates telepathically. “What is happening?”
“I am not certain,” she responds. “I have no recollection of ever being suspended in the wilderness without a pathway to guide me.”
“What should I do?”
“Wait. Do not move. I will contact Lord Marcus.” She bows her head and sends a strong communication to her friend and mentor. “We are adrift. Lost. The Cathedral is not in sight and the fog is thickening.” She waits and listens for his reply.
“I am adrift also.” Lord Marcus’s response surprises her. “I suddenly appeared in the open, upon a single stone just formed. I am now suspended.”
“Can you communicate with the others?” She asks. “Perhaps they can advise us on how to proceed.”
“They are all in the same situation. Even Lord Solomon.”
“Where is Father?”
“Where, indeed,” Lord Marcus replies. “I recommend each of the Nine in your group support each other as they do at the chasm. That should increase their strength.”
“I agree,” says Joseph. With that, each of the remaining Nine behind him raise their arms and reach out to rest their hand on the shoulder of the one in front of them, forming a human chain. Although Joseph cannot turn around or look behind him, he immediately feels strengthened.
“Lord Marcus! Lord Solomon!” Lady Mary shouts telepathically. “We must all try to communicate with Father, at once!”
“Yes,” replies Lord Solomon. “A unified attempt.” He does not enjoy being suspended over the Chasm on a single stone and wonders how he arrived at this location.
Together the Nine Councilors and the Nine Guides focus their thoughts. Lord Solomon consolidates everyone into a single beam. He visualizes the neural-network of the entire universe, forming and reforming, joining and bifurcating, moving from the newest thoughts formed a split second before, toward the innermost circle where all thoughts begin. Lord Solomon can see it all and searches for the primary source – Father. Without Father, there would be no thoughts, no neural-network and no life. “Where are you, Father?”
Lord Solomon bows his hooded head more deeply and concentrates harder than he ever has. “Guide me, Father. Show me where you are.” Lord Solomon searches and looks, but even with his eons of training, he cannot locate the center of the universe. It is eluding him. “I cannot find Him,” he reports to the others.
Simultaneous gasps come from the other seventeen. Murmurs and whispers fly between the Councilors, even though they are undoubtedly miles, if not oceans, apart. “What do we do . . . How do we return to the Cathedral . . .? What will become of us . . .? What about the next Crossing?” and finally, “What about the souls that need to come through Mayim?”
“All is lost without Father. We are . . . lost.”
“YES. YOU ARE.”
The bold, strong voice of Father comes roaring at each of the Nine Councilors and thunders through each of the Nine Guides. There is no mistaking it. Father has captured the attention of all eighteen.
“IT IS TIME.”
Instantaneously, each of the nine Councilors vanish and reappear within the crystalline chapel, seated upon their crystalline thrones. Standing behind each Councilor is their appointed Guide. Lady Mary does not need to turn; she can sense Joseph’s intensity directly behind her.
“I have only been here once before, Lady Mary,” Joseph communicates, “and it was when I received my robes.”
“I know. That is the same for each of the Nine,” Lady Mary glances around the room, peering into the shadowed faces of the other Councilors, searching their eyes for answers. “Be patient, Joseph. Wait for Father.”
Lady Mary considers the chapel to be the most beautiful place she has ever been. Perfectly structured, the nine flying buttresses arch overhead, supporting the domed Sterling silver ceiling rising high above. The nine sets of crystalline windows reflect sunlight through faceted glass, creating multitudes of prismatic patterns of rainbow light; all of which converge into the diamond orb at the center of the room. The effect is gloriously pure and innocent. Yes, this has always been perfect, until today.
But today there is no sun and thus, there are no colorful beams and no perfect white light emanating from the diamond orb. No, today the chapel seems dull and lifeless.
No one speaks and every hood is pulled up and over each head, falling forward as deeply as possible to hide the individual faces of the Councilors and Guides. Even Lord Solomon seems to be trying to disappear deep into his own shadows. Though his aging hands rest upon the rounded ends of his carved crystalline high-back chair, he remains respectfully silent. There is no doubt; the pristine nature of the chapel has changed.
Suddenly new pulsating beams of light burst through the windows, coming from every direction, surrounding and filling the inner sanctum. And with each pulse, come His words.
“I . . . HAVE . . . ASSEMBLED . . . YOU,” thunders Father’s voice.
Whether it’s the brilliantly pure beams carrying the words, or the words themselves, Joseph and the others are startled. Forgetting himself for just a moment, Joseph pushes back his deep hood and looks up at the ceiling above, marveling at the twinkling lights swirling all around and through them. "I wonder if such an event has never happened before?"
As Joseph’s scans the wonderment within the room, his gaze falls upon Lord Solomon, who is glaring at Joseph from across the circle. Quickly coming to his senses, Joseph pulls his hood up over his face to hide his imperfections before the Light.
Shaking slightly from the shock, Joseph thinks back through the eons of time he has been part of the Nine. Although Father communicates with Joseph and the others telepathically, this is definitely the first time Father has spoken aloud to him.
“IT . . . IS . . . TIME . . . TO . . . MAKE . . . MY . . . PLAN . . . KNOWN . . . TO . . . YOU.”
The sound of His voice emanates from every angle of the chapel. It rises in waves from the Sterling floor and radiates downward from the beams overhead. The ethereal sound condenses in a vertical plane around the eighteen beings, and as it does, it blocks every other thought.
Joseph feels the sound overtake his mind and being until there is nothing left of himself. Barely opening his eyes, he looks down at the floor and stares in wonderment while all the golden threads connecting the nine thrones light up simultaneously, as though they’ve been sparked alive with fire. As he listens, the words become more rhythmic.
“AS WITH ALL OF MY UNIVERSE, I . . . CREATED EACH OF YOU FOR A SPECIFIC PURPOSE. YOUR COMPLEX CREATION TOOK BUT A SINGLE THOUGHT.”
Joseph watches the light beams intently as he listens to Father’s words. “Ahhh!” Suddenly he is filled with understanding. “Father’s words are the light, and the light is Father.” With each of Father’s words comes new sensations, flooding Joseph with unexpected emotions he is almost incapable of assimilating. As he peers around the room into the shadowed faces of the Councilors and Guides, he can’t help but assume each of the other eighteen are feeling the same shock and surprise, apprehension and confusion, and comfort and wonder, as he.
“ONCE AGAIN AN OVERWHELMING EVIL APPROACHES THE WORLD KNOWN AS ‘EARTH’ AND THREATENS TO EXTINGUISH THEIR HUMANITY. TWICE BEFORE, THIS EVIL OVERTOOK THEIR VERY ESSENCE AND TWICE BEFORE I CHOSE TO SAVE THEM FROM EXTINCTION.”
The room is literally on fire with Father’s words and Joseph can barely breathe from the surreal experience. For all of Joseph’s powers, he realizes how insignificant he is in the presence of Father, who has transcending authority in all matters.
Another thought penetrates Joseph’s mind. “Why not just eliminate the evil? Why allow it?”
“FROM THE BEGINNING . . . I HAVE ALLOWED EVIL TO EXIST. IT WAS MY DECISION. EVIL IS A NECESSARY CHALLENGE TO THE HUMAN SOUL. EACH ONE MUST CONSIDER THE PATH OF MY LIGHT VERSUS EVIL’S DARKNESS…..AND MAKE THEIR OWN DETERMINATION.”
“Yes, I have seen their free will,” Joseph thinks.
“EACH TIME HUMANITY LINGERED ON THE BRINK OF EXTINCTION, IT WAS MY PLAN. AS WITH MY HOLY TRINITY, EVIL ALSO EXISTS IN THREES. THUS, THIS WILL BE EVIL’S THIRD RISING AND THE FINAL TIME HUMANITY WILL BE ALLOWED TO SUCCUMB. AFTER THE NEXT AWAKENING, I WILL CALL EVERY REMAINING SOUL TO THE CHASM, AS PROPHESIZED BY THEIR ANCIENTS. MANY WILL CROSS SUCCESSFULLY, BUT MANY WILL PERISH, OF THEIR OWN CHOOSING.”
“But what is the point?”
“TO START AGAIN. A NEW BEGINNING.”
Joseph realizes Father is answering him directly, even though He’s speaking to everyone.
“I ALLOWED THE DARKNESS TO COME THROUGH MAYIM AND I ALLOWED JOSEPH TO NOTICE IT. I ALSO ALLOWED JOSEPH TO PENETRATE MY HOLY WATERS AND BECOME FAMILIAR WITH THE EARTH REALM AND A HUMAN DAUGHTER KNOWN AS ELIZABETH.”
“But Father,” Joseph thinks before he has time to stop. “I thought you were unhappy with my intrusions into their realm.”
“I WANTED JOSEPH TO WATCH OVER AND GUIDE HER. ELIZABETH, JACKSON, SAMANTHA, AND THE CHILDREN ARE VITAL ELEMENTS OF MY PLAN.”
Just as suddenly as Father’s words began, they now end. Joseph and the others wait and listen for more, but silence ensues and the pulsating light beams fade. Everyone remains still, almost afraid to move. The overcast day continues to block the natural sunlight and the interior of the chapel is once again gloomy.
Unable to take the suspense any longer, Joseph finally blurts out, “Why would Father leave and not tell us what we are to do?”
“Silence!” admonishes Lord Solomon. “Do not be insolent in the presence of the Father or the diamond orb.”
Joseph bows his head, lost in thought. What is Father’s plan? What part am I supposed to play? What about all the passages and crossings I am responsible for? His mind is moving at the speed of light, jumping from question to question. An astounding realization hits him. For the first time ever - his mind is not at rest. He is not at peace. “Oh Father, what have you done to me?”
The words come thundering back at him. “I HAVE MADE YOU LESS HEAVENLY AND MORE HUMAN.”
“But why? What is my purpose now?”
“TO JOIN WITH ELIZABETH AND THE OTHERS WHO ARE GATHERING. YOU WILL NEED TO COEXIST WITH THEM UNTIL IT IS TIME TO FIGHT THE INEVITABLE BATTLE AGAINST THE DARKNESS. BUT THAT BATTLE IS NOT TODAY. TODAY YOU MUST HELP THEM PREPARE FOR A LONG, COLD, WINTER.”
“A winter?”
“YES. TO SURVIVE, THEY MUST RETREAT AND SEPARATE FROM THE WORLD. ONCE SEPARATION BEGINS, THEIR BODIES WILL REQUIRE ALL YOUR POWERS TO SUSTAIN THEM UNTIL THE WINTER PASSES. WHEN THE COLD IS NEARLY OVER, IT WILL BE TIME FOR BATTLE.”
Joseph’s mind is bouncing from thought to thought like a honeybee flitting between rows of wildflowers. “Father, please! I beg of you. Quiet my mind! I cannot focus!”
“NOW YOU UNDERSTAND HOW ELIZABETH’S MIND FUNCTIONS.”
“But I have already taught her and the children how to focus. This is excruciating!” Joseph knees weaken and he begins to crumble under the mental strain.
“THAT IS SUFFICIENT.”
Suddenly Joseph’s mind returns to the calm of his quiet, single-purposed thoughts. He reaches up to hold the side of his head. “Ugh! What agony.”
“A VITAL PART OF YOUR ROLE IS TO TEACH EVERY MEMBER OF THE GATHERING TO COMMUNICATE TELEPATHICALLY. YOU CANNOT DO IT IF YOU DO NOT FULLY UNDERSTAND HOW THEY THINK. NOW YOU KNOW.”
As his mind clears, Joseph feels his strength return and pulls himself upright again, resuming his position behind Lady Mary’s chair. “How will I find the others?”
“KEEP YOUR MIND FOCUSED ON ME. I WILL SEND THEM ALL TO YOU AND DIRECT YOUR STEPS WHENEVER NECESSARY.”
“What about my passages and crossings?”
“KEEP YOUR MIND FOCUSED ON ME, JOSEPH. ALL THE REST WILL BECOME CLEAR.”
“Yes, Father.”
“YOU WILL NEVER BE ALONE AND I WILL SEND LADY MARY TO ASSIST YOU WHENEVER NECESSARY.”
“I understand.”
“AND JOSEPH . . .”
“Yes, Father?”
“NEVER . . . DOUBT MY AUTHORITY . . . AGAIN.”
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CHAPTER 3
A remote area between Tucson and Sierra Vista, Arizona
“Hey, Babe . . . I’m home,” George says from the hallway. His dog, Lucky is panting at his side. “Sorry it took so long.” As he heads for the kitchen, Lucky runs the opposite direction, back out through the front screen door. The heavy-gauge, security screen swings back, bouncing on its frame. “Lucky! Get back in here. I’m beat.” Pushing the mesh door open, George trudges out to the porch.
Ignoring his master, Lucky runs across the driveway and paces back and forth in front of the shop’s roll-up door, nose to the ground. “No Lucky, I’m not going in there now. I know you smell your food, but there’s a bag in the laundry room.” Lucky doesn’t acknowledge George. Instead he keeps sniffing, moving to the smaller door of the shop, located five feet from the roll-up door. He whines and paws at the ground in front of it.
“It’s locked Lucky and I don’t have the key. Let’s go.” George points to the ground at his own feet. “Come!” The Australian Shepherd stops sniffing, looks briefly at George, and then resumes vigorously pawing at the smaller entry door. “Lucky! Come!”
Reluctantly leaving the shop door, the dog exhales a deep sigh, cantors to the porch, and follows George down the hallway.
“Anyway, Babe . . . turns out the fence had to be mended all the way down to the bottom of the lower forty. Looks like trespassers have been driving through our property again. May have even been doing it today. Makes me so mad! Pretty sure we lost some cattle . . .”
Silence.
“Babe?” George drops his gloves on the ranch-house kitchen table while Lucky paces around the room, sniffing at the air. He begins whining again.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you boy, but I’m too tired for this . . . Lucky! Sit.” The dog obeys. “Down!” Again, the shepherd heeds the command, collapsing on the floor in front of the sink. “Good boy.” George bends down and rubs his dirt-covered fur. “Long day today. Thanks for keeping me company out there. Let me find Marcie and then I’ll give you a bath.” Going room to room, he calls out. “Babe! Hey, Babe . . . where are you?”
Silence.
His voice gets louder. “Marcie?” Maybe she’s not back from town. Pushing open the back door, he takes a quick look on the back porch and scans around the swimming pool. “Marcie?” Not finding her, he reverses direction back through the center hallway and out the front screen door. Lucky is right on his heels.
Striding to the detached garage, he swings open the side door. Horizontal rays from the late afternoon sun cast long shadows on the interior. Lucky starts to enter, but George snags his collar and holds him in position. “No, we’re not going into the garage.” Even without flipping on the light, there is more than enough illumination to see that her station wagon is parked in its usual spot on the near side of the two-part garage. He feels the top of the hood. It’s room temperature.
“Marcie?”
Silence.
“She’s not in here.” Lucky starts to growl while pulling away from George’s grasp of the collar. “No! You need to settle down, boy.” He pulls the dog back outside and lets the garage door swing shut behind him. “Let’s go Lucky.” Together they retrace their steps to the porch, through the screen door and down the hallway to the kitchen. “She’s probly upstairs.” George kicks off his dusty boots then stops at the refrigerator long enough to grab a cold beer. He twists open the cap. “Man, do I need this or what?” He lifts the beer towards Lucky. “Cheers.”
At the top of the landing, he pauses, listening for any familiar sounds.
Silence.
“Babe? Are you here?” Maybe she’s in the sewing room. Clicking the latch, he opens the door.
Empty.
The brightly decorated craft-room is ablaze with late afternoon light, making the yellow paint and coordinated wallpaper seem eerily illuminated. Moving to the window, he looks down on the garage roofline and circular driveway below. Seems quiet out there.
Going room to room, he looks in the guest bedroom and bath, as well as the master bedroom. “Babe!” Yelling now, he pushes open the remaining door leading to the master bath. “Babe! Where the heck are you?”
Nothing.
Turning slowly, he observes that everything is organized and tidy, just like normal. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and sees his slightly shaggy, sandy colored hair and dusty face. “Lucky, you’re not the only one who needs a shower.” And man, do I need a haircut.
He starts to reach for a washcloth but stops and scans the room again. The bathroom’s not just tidy . . . it’s spotless. Pristine. From the depths of his soul, deep in his gut, uneasiness begins gnawing at him. He turns his head slightly, trying to hear any sound he might have missed.
Lucky appears at his side, momentarily breaking his concentration.
“Hey boy. Any idea where mom is?” Lucky whines again and then, completely out of character, raises up and puts his front paws on the bathroom counter, sniffing upwards. “Get down, boy! Off!” The shepherd obeys and then moves toward the towels hanging on the brass rod. He sniffs and then sneezes, shaking his head.
George follows, looking at them closely. Apparently fresh from the dryer, they still feel warm. Well, if she just did laundry, she’s got to be around. He takes his hand away and rubs his chin. The faint odor of bleach hits his nostrils. Picking up the end of the bath towel, he takes a strong whiff. Bleach. “What the hell? No wonder you sneezed, Lucky.”
Knowing his wife’s allergy to bleach, his gut does an immediate back flip. Stepping away, he scans the room again, taking a closer look at the tub, sink and toilet. Everything is ultra-white and ultra clean. Not a hair, not a fiber . . . anywhere. Bending down low, he leans over the edge of the soaker tub and sniffs the drain. There is no mistaking it. The pungent odor of disinfectant bleach is unmistakably present.
One of two logical possibilities formulate in his mind. One, his wife hired a new cleaning crew and forgot to mention it to him, which doesn’t really fit. Their once-a-year spring-cleaning happened three months ago, and their monthly cleaning lady doesn’t do laundry. Add to that the fact that his wife doesn’t even keep bleach in the house, the first option quickly gives way to the second. Something happened to Marcie and someone cleaned up afterwards. But what happened and who cleaned up?
Removing his cell phone from the zippered front left pocket of his vest, he speed-dials Marcie’s cell number. The call goes straight to voice mail. George takes a deep breath and swallows hard. He dials a second time. Again, it goes straight to voice mail.
“This isn’t good, Lucky. Something’s happened.” Moving back into the bedroom, he pulls open the walk-in closet door and flips on the light. Thrusting aside the hanging clothes, he exposes the wall safe and dials the combination. He retrieves his sidearm, shoves the paddle holster into position on his belt, and then grabs two extra magazines. Since the rifle he carries in the truck is better protection when he’s out on the ranch, he hasn’t fired the Colt 1911, .45 caliber in two weeks. But twenty-five years as a member of Delta Force working with SOC, Special Operations Command, and the CIA, more than make up for his current lack of practice. “Okay, Lucky, let’s start searching. For real.”
Moving methodically through the master bedroom, George opens all the dresser drawers and cabinets. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he stands next to the bed. Placing the pillows on the adjacent window seat, he carefully pulls back the quilt, then the blanket and finally the sheets. Everything is spotless. Looking closely, he searches for a hair or wrinkle, but can’t find any evidence of life. We just slept here twelve hours ago. Something should be here. Today’s Tuesday and she only does sheets on Friday. Why is there nothing? Frustrated by the lack of answers, he sits down on the window seat and looks around. Slowly holding a pillow up to his face, he recognizes the odor again. Bleach.
George’s heart starts racing and his mind kicks into ultra-high gear. She would never wash our sheets with bleach. Putting her head on a bleached pillowcase would bring on an asthma attack. The reality that something is terribly wrong begins to creep into his psyche, filling his mind with unimaginable thoughts. He struggles to keep the worry away and hold on to reality. Finish this room and then move on. Figure this out.
The only place he hasn’t looked is under the bed. Taking a deep breath, he bends down and peers into the one-foot distance between the bed and floor.
Nothing. Not even her slippers. Absolutely nothing.
He’s just rising when he notices the freshly made pattern of crisscrosses on the carpet under the bed. She never vacuums under the bed! Feeling the pattern with his hand, he moves his palm back and forth hoping he might feel something, anything. But his search yields nothing.
He goes room to room, flipping on every light in the house, checking every closet, every nook and every cranny. Starting where his search began, he ends up back in the kitchen. He picks up the phone and dials a neighbor.
“Hey, this is George. Yeah, I’m fine, but I can’t find Marcie. Did you talk with her today? . . . Okay, no problem . . . Any idea where she might have gone? Okay, I’ll call her next. Thanks.” He dials another neighbor.
“Hey, Sheila. Sorry to bother you at dinner, but I just got home and can’t find Marcie. You wouldn’t happen to know where she is, would you?”
“No. But I’m glad you called, George. I’d love to see all your new stuff!”
“What stuff? What are you talking about?”
“Oh, well, I just assumed you were doing a huge redecorating thing or something. I mean, there were a lot of vehicles going up our road to your house today. A lot.”
“Really?” George sits down and props the phone on his shoulder while he pulls his boots on and laces them up.
“Yeah, I thought you guys were painting or something. First a white sedan went by and then a white delivery van and then three more smaller vans. I went for a long walk down the road . . . you know how nosey I am,” she laughs. “Anyway, during my walk, I got close enough to see they were all in your driveway turn-around.”
“What time was that?”
“Oh, let’s see. They started arriving when I was having coffee on the porch, so must’ve been before nine. But I didn’t go for my walk until closer to two. My route takes about an hour, so I probably got home around three. And then about an hour later, they all drove by, leaving the area in a line, like a caravan. Mostly, I noticed because of the dust they kicked up. I hate it when vehicles drive fast on the dirt road.”
“Yeah . . . me too. Anything else?”
“Well, since they all left, I assumed whatever they were doing at your place was done. I kinda wanted to see your new furniture or drapes or whatever, so I tried calling Marcie to see if I could come over. But she didn’t answer.”
“I don’t think we had any deliveries scheduled for today. Last thing she told me this morning was that she might go into town for some groceries.”
“Oh, well, maybe she did. Maybe she’s in town.”
“No, her car’s in the garage.”
“Well, that’s weird. You want Bob to come over and help you look around?”
“No thanks. I’m sure it’s some kind of mix-up. Thanks anyway.”
“Sure George.”
“By the way. Uh, not to sound suspicious or anything, but you didn’t happen to see anyone from the vehicles, did you?”
“Well, the road’s about five-hundred feet from your house, so I didn’t get too close. But I did see a couple men on your porch. One was on a ladder and the other was doing something near the door. And they were dressed in white coveralls, like painters.”
“We definitely didn’t have any painting scheduled for today. What about license plates?”
“License plates? Hum, no . . . sorry.”
“That’s okay. It was a long-shot.”
“Wait. I did see signs on the doors of the vans. They all said ‘Life-Scape Interiors’. Kind of a pale green with blue lettering.”
“Never heard of ‘em.”
“Me neither. And I even looked on-line.”
“Well Sheila, thanks a lot. You’ve been really helpful. I’ll let you know when I find her.”
“No problem. You sure you don’t want Bob to come over? We’re gonna go into town to catch a movie in a bit, but if you want, we can cancel. You got me kinda creeped out now.”
“Tell you what, if I can’t figure this out by dark, I’ll call you back.”
“That only gives you about thirty minutes.”
“I know. I’ll be in touch, one way or the other.”
George hangs up but makes one last call. “Hey Deb, how ya doing . . . oh really? Hey, listen, not to interrupt, but is Marcie there?”
“No. And you know, George? She was supposed to pick me up today, around one. We were going into town to hit Costco. They have a special on those vitamins I take. But she never showed up.”
“That’s not like her.”
“No, it’s not like my daughter at all. I tried calling all afternoon, but she never answered.”
“Hum.” George’s eyes scan the room around him.
“George, what’s going on?”
“I actually don’t know. I’ve been mending fences on the south forty all day and just got home a little while ago. She’s not here and when I tried her cell, it went straight to voice mail. I tried the neighbors, but they haven’t talked to her either. And her car’s in the garage.”
“Now you’ve got me worried.”
“Yeah, Deb. Me too.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“Start searching. I’m running out of daylight, so I gotta go. If I can’t find her, I’ll call some folks. I still have a few friends in the Agency.”
“Oh God, George. What could have happened?”
“I don’t know, and I’m trying to not worry. I promise, I’ll call you back in a bit.”
Walking past the open front door, he kicks the security screen with his foot, leaping off the wide, covered porch. Hastily striding the four steps to his truck, George unlocks the gun rack behind the bench seat, and withdraws his Bushmaster M4 assault rifle. After pulling back on the charging handle and slamming a round into the chamber, he grabs two more thirty-round magazines. Already loaded with 5.56mm rounds from the box, he stuffs them deep into the left pocket of his vest.
Moving the bench-seat forward, he retrieves his ‘bug-out-bag’ from the floor behind it and throws it on the floor in the front. From one compartment George pulls out his ‘Surefire’ flashlight and survival knife, transferring them to his vest pockets. From another compartment, he retrieves his long-blade, hunting knife. Then he removes his vest, slips the sheath straps over his shoulders and puts the vest back on. The butt end of the knife handle is just barely exposed at the edge of the vest neckline, making it easy to retrieve with his right hand. He shoves another sheathed knife down into the top of his right boot.
“Come on Lucky, let’s go for a walk.” He whistles to his faithful dog. “Start sniffing boy, we gotta find Mom.”
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
“We lost the subject, Sir. He must be outside.”
“Has he gone back into the garage yet?”
“No, Sir.”
“What was that he said about having friends in the agency?”
“Not sure, Sir. I have someone checking. The only criteria for choosing the subject were isolation and our ability to inflict extreme emotional distress without interference.”
“So, he was selected without knowing anything about his background?”
“Selection was made by others, Sir. But I believe you are correct.”
“Damn it! All we need is for this to not go as planned. Get me his history.”
“Yes, Sir. Working on it, Sir.”
“Well, work faster. We need to administer the drug at the peak level of the subject’s stress.”
“Yes, Sir. I know how important this is.”
“You have agents inside the house . . . what the hell are they doing?”
“Waiting in the attic, as ordered.”
“Tell ‘em to stop scratching their asses and lock the subject out. I want him dead center in the middle of the trap. Push him to the shop!”
“Yes, Sir.”
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Methodically scanning the circular driveway, George searches the hard-packed gravel for fresh tire marks. Sheila is right. Although very hard to discern, there is no mistaking the evidence that several other vehicles have been parked here today. Noticing a few black spots, George bends down to feel the oil. “Huh, at least one had a small leak.”
Lucky is once more in front of the roll-up shop door, pacing back and forth. With his nose to the ground, he starts whining again and paws vigorously at the dirt in front of the door closure. Ignoring his dog’s preoccupation with the shop, George commands him again. “Lucky, come! Heel!” Lucky whimpers but obeys both calls.
Widening his movements, George strides outward in a rotating pattern, moving back and forth through one side yard, then another, finally ending up behind the house. Finding nothing, he steps up onto the back porch, and pulls a small set of binoculars from his right vest pocket. Focusing closer at first, he slowly scans right, then left, looking for whatever it is that is eluding him. “Where are you, Marcie? Come on, babe, give me a clue.” Lucky begins growling at the back door, then barks.
Click.
Hearing the sound, George instantly pulls the Colt out of the holster as he turns around. He can’t see anything, but definitely heard something. He moves three steps to the back door and pushes down on the latch, which doesn’t budge. “That’s weird, Lucky, I just opened it a few minutes ago.” Looking through the panes of glass into the ever-darkening room, he sees his keys on the kitchen table. “Guess I’ll go back around to the front.”
George takes giant strides around the side of the ranch house and quickly reaches the front. He jumps up the three steps to the covered porch. That’s when he notices the scene has changed slightly. The solid front door he left open only minutes before, is now tightly closed. I just walked out of here, less than five minutes ago. I left that door wide open, like it was when I got home. Pulling open the outer screen door, he pushes down on the door latch. Locked, just like the back door.
Someone’s inside my home! Releasing his foot from the edge of the screen door, he lets it swing shut with a bang. Trying to calm himself, he speaks quietly to his shepherd. “Lucky, I need your help, boy.” He rubs the dog’s dusty ears. “Whadaya sense, huh? What’s going on?” As if in response, Lucky sniffs around the porch and paces to the west end, nearest the garage, pausing just before reaching the railing. As George watches Lucky’s movements, the Malibu lights flick on in response to the setting sun, illuminating the porch and edge of the circular driveway. From the corner of his eye, he catches a momentary reflection of light from somewhere near the west end of the overhead porch beams. Remembering what Sheila had said on the phone about two guys doing something on the porch, George strides to the end, looking for the source of the reflected light. He searches the rafters, and stares up, directly into the eye of a miniature, surveillance camera. Well, I’ll be damned.
The hair on the back of his neck stands straight out, prickling his skin, while tiny drops of sweat creep down each temple. Fear. Panic. Stark terror. Once upon a time, he knew them all well. Push it aside George. Focus!
Try as he might, he cannot control his thoughts. Flashing back, it is thirty years earlier and he’s once again in the midst of his Prisoner-of-War training. Anyone accepted into the Special Forces had to endure agonizing months of immeasurable mental and physical stress. Pass, you went on; fail, you were out. From water-boarding, to sensory deprivation in the black box, to near starvation in the woods during escape and evasion training afterwards, he’d learned to focus his mind, trust his gut and survive. Combined with everything else, it was the training that changed the shape of his future and how he viewed the world. Right now, the flood of memories is bringing the black box into view— and once again—it feels as if the hangman is tightening the noose around his neck.
Push it aside George. Focus! He analyzes the situation head on. Since someone’s locked the doors, that means someone’s obviously inside the house, and the cameras mean someone’s watching. This feels like a trap, but what’s the purpose of trapping me outside? And what the hell has happened to Marcie? Oh God, Marcie, where are you?
Momentarily pausing his analysis, he prays. Please God, please protect her. She’s never hurt a soul in all her life.
Refocusing on the situation, he remembers the basic premise of survival. Do the unexpected. Always. Think outside the box. Well George, it’s time to see what you’re made of. Time to take control of this situation.
Standing up on a rattan porch chair, George reaches up and yanks the camera from the rafter. Looking directly into the camera he flips it a bird. “I have no idea who you are, but I will find you.” Scanning every beam, he finally finds a second camera at the east end of the porch. Retrieving the second one, he jumps off the porch and submerges both into the bottom of the three-tiered water fountain, covering them up with a heavy flat rock. Two eyes down, how many more to go? Now where are the little microphones?
While Lucky paces alongside, George reaches underneath the top board of the railing, feeling along the entire distance. He moves his fingers in and out around each post. Nada, but I’m sure they’ve got ears on me. It’s dark now and he realizes the listening bugs could be in anything from a potted plant to the underside of the steps. He also knows he doesn’t have enough light to do a thorough search. His senses are sharpening. Two can play this game.
“Hey Lucky,” George hollers loudly to his dog. “Let’s go look in the shop.” He steps off the porch and moves quickly toward the roll-up door, but sharply detours at the last moment to the far side of his truck, now shrouded in darkness. Bending down on his haunches, he scoots onto his back to scan the underside of his truck. Briefly using his flashlight, he finds no obvious devices. Next, he quietly checks the door handle. It’s not locked. At least my truck’s not rigged. Assuming they rigged the house, what’s the point? And who’s surveilling me? I’ve been out of circulation for over five years.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
“What’s he doing?”
“I have no idea, Sir.”
“Did your research find anything out?”
“Only that he served as a grunt in the Army for ten years. After that he moved to Arizona and bought the ranch. Nothing out of the ordinary. He’s a boring rancher.”
“Bullshit! He had enough sense to get his rifle, then found the two cameras on the front porch and ditched ‘em. There’s got to be more to this guy. Dig deeper!”
“Yes sir! We’re on it.”
“And tell those idiot agents you have in the house to start doing their jobs. I want this stuff tested!”
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
George reaches underneath the wheel-well and retrieves a small magnetic box from its hidden location, then slides open the top, pulls out the extra set of keys, and stuffs them deep into his pants pocket. Then, in absolute silence, he slowly opens the truck door, preparing to use it as a shield. He grabs Lucky’s collar and loops the tie-down lead from the front seatbelt through it, to hold the dog in place. “That’s a good boy,” he whispers, urging the dog up into the front seat. Lucky whimpers and paws at George.
With his rifle resting between the hinges, he makes ready and takes aim towards the double-wide garage door and the shop door. In one swift movement, he reaches up and punches both openers, watching carefully as each side rolls up and open. Instantly, both sets of lights come on, illuminating the entire area. And that’s when he sees her.
His wife. Oh damn!
Marcie is seated on an old wooden stool, hands behind her back, her feet close together as though bound by wire. Some type of black gag—probably a rubber stopper— is stuffed into her mouth and she’s struggling to breathe through her nose. Her plaid shirt is bloodied and drenched in sweat, and terror fills her beautiful green eyes. A thick woven cord is looped through a pulley in the ceiling; one end circling around Marcie’s beautiful swan-like neck and the other draping out to the side, over the table-saw. George can’t see where it terminates.
Instantly, George stands up from his protected position, but Marcie tightens the space between her eyes, and shakes her head vigorously in the negative. She makes a long, muffled scream with her throat, then looks up at each side of the shop roll-up door opening as though signaling him not to advance.
George ignores her warning and starts to lunge out from his hiding place, but Marcie shakes her head again, this time even more vigorously. Then she kicks her feet out several times, apparently trying to scoot away from George. Tilting her head toward the table saw where the other end of the rope disappears, she jerks it several times indicating the area of the shop George can’t see. Then shakes her head again in the negative. George’s brain scrambles at the speed of light. I don’t give a damn what she’s trying to tell me, I’ve got to save her!
“Bullshit, I’m coming.” He aims the rifle at the shop door opening and stands up halfway. Marcie makes a second muffled scream into her gag while shaking her head vigorously side to side. Meanwhile, Lucky is barking loudly, pawing at the seat, and trying to get off. “Lucky, shut the hell up!” George commands, trying to assess the situation.
Suddenly the smaller entry door opens inward a few inches and as it does, the loose slack in the rope is tightened. Marcie is instantly jerked from the stool and flung upwards toward the rafters.
Within a split-second George fires a reactionary shot severing the rope, but Marcie is already dead. Her beautiful neck is broken, and she drops to the floor like a rag doll. The door of the shop closes again and the knob clicks shut.
“Aaahhh!” George screams out. “Aaahhh Marcie! Oh, God damn it!” George looks at the ground and pounds his head with his fist. “What the hell?” he screams again. “No! No!” Nausea erupts up in his stomach and he can’t breathe. “W. . . h . . .y?” He stretches the word out as he screams and begins to hyperventilate. “Shit . . . fr . . . gin’ . . . damn . . . it.” He forces a breath between each syllable.
Time seems to stand still while he swallows the revolting spittle in his mouth. Slowly, he breathes in and out, in and out. Lucky is barking violently but now the sound seems low and exaggerated, like an old vinyl record played at half speed. George reaches up to release him from the dog harness and then stops because he sees the shop door opening again. He pushes his nausea back down into his gut and brings his senses into focus.
“Lucky, quiet!” Thankfully, the dog stops barking. “Lucky, down!” The dog lies down on the seat, whimpering only slightly.
Subconsciously, the years of combat training take over George’s mind, and muscle memory kicks into full gear. Coupled with the immense rage, George welcomes it all. Come on out, you son-of-a-b**ch. He redirects the rifle a few inches to the north. I so wanna kill you!
The door moves inward a foot and a face peers out from the darkness.
One round through the eyes oughta do it. Like a crouching tiger, George waits behind the shield of the open truck door, using the rage within him to steady his hands. He takes aim, squinting his opposite eye to force away the sweat and tears.
The smaller, entry door pulls back, and a figure slowly emerges from the depths of the interior darkness. His hands are in the air. “No. Por favor, no,” he says loudly. He takes one step sideways to clear the threshold.
George takes in the obvious. A man, mid-forties. Probably Hispanic. So, you’re the son-of-a-b**ch! Based upon his dirty, rumpled clothing and three-day-old beard, he’s most likely an illegal. Probably crossing the desert from the Mexico border. Damn! I hate killing. George takes a shallow breath and glances back at his wife’s dead body on the floor. Screw it. You’re dead. He narrows his vision into the scope.
With his hands still in the air, the man tentatively takes two steps toward the truck. George gently squeezes the trigger, but before he can complete the shot, the man stumbles in front of him, tripping over his own feet. The man’s shoelaces are untied. George eases his finger back slightly, taking a second look. Although the man’s clothing is dirty and crumpled, it’s obvious he’s wearing a good-quality, three-piece, pin-striped suit and his shoes are leather. Not a typical indigent. Businessman? Suddenly the man leans up, bends forward, and vomits all over the gravel driveway.
George steadies his rage while his mind flies down the evidence in front of him. Marcie was captured and hung, but not by this guy. A conundrum fights for space in his mind. He desperately wants revenge, but this doesn’t feel right. There’s no way an illegal Hispanic could wander across the desert carrying electronic devices and then install the hidden cameras. According to Sheila, there were multiple vehicles here today. If a group of people came and did all this, why’d they leave this guy behind?
The man completes his vomiting, wipes spittle from his mouth, and then looks at his hands, turning each one over slowly, as though seeing them for the first time. He shakes his head, then opens and closes his eyes several times. Confusion? The man retches one last time and then stands up, straightening his suit jacket. He runs a finger between his neck and his shirt collar, adjusting the fit. The man has dignity.
Taking a few more steps, he walks further out of the shadows toward the middle of the driveway. Since the floodlights aren’t on, George reaches across the seat and flips on the truck’s headlights, blessedly aimed directly at the shop opening and the man.
The sudden illumination causes the man to stop his progress again and shield his eyes from the bright lights with his forearm. But he pulls his arm quickly away, as though repulsed by a smell. Shaking his head, the man turns to look behind him and then back out toward the truck. Like a deer caught in headlights, the man seems dazed, dizzy or maybe drugged. Drugged?
Speaking to the man in perfect Spanish, George asks, “Who are you?”
In his native Mexican tongue, the man responds. “Uh. Uh . . . I don’t know.” He stumbles again. Lucky starts to bark again and strains against the tie-down lead, trying to get off the seat.
“Stop! Don’t come any farther.” The man obeys George’s command and halts. George redirects his attention to Lucky. “Lucky, down!” Lucky stops and lays down on the seat, his barks diminishing to whimpering. “Good boy.” George rubs his dog’s ear with his free hand and speaks to the man. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m . . . not . . . sure. I . . . don’t know. I think . . . I just woke up.”
“Do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
“How did you get here?”
The man looks down and then side-to-side at the surrounding darkness. “I don’t know.” His English is clear, almost no accent.
“Are you an illegal?”
Answering in the negative, the man shakes his head side to side. “Uh, I don’t think so.” Looking down at the ground he shuffles his feet. “I think I’m a . . . I’m a . . . a bio . . . biochemist.” He looks up in recognition. “Yes, I’m a biochemist. Last thing I remember was working in my lab. Then . . . nothing.” He looks out into the headlights. “Where am I?”
“Just south of Tucson, in Arizona.”
“What? How?” The man’s voice strengthens as confidence in his memory returns. “What’s going on?”
“Not exactly sure. Where’s your lab?”
“At the University of Mexico, in Mexico City. I’m the head of . . . Chairman of . . . of the biochemistry department. There’s no way I got on a plane to come here.” The man puts his head down and shakes it again. “Oh God. My wife! My daughters! Where are they?”
Although George’s eyes remain focused on the man, he notices a tiny movement through the backlit sheer curtains of the upstairs front bedroom. Someone’s watching from the sewing room. “I don’t know. That’s my wife . . . my dead wife . . . behind you.”
“I’m sorry. It’s revolting. There was a blinking light and then the cord snapped taut. I didn’t do it.”
“No. I don’t think you did.” Please God, let me be right about this. George lowers his voice. “Someone is watching us from upstairs and you’re in plain view. Have you ever belly-crawled?”
“Uh, yes . . . when I was a kid.”
“You think you can do it now?”
“Not too fast, but I think I can make it. I’m pretty sure I’ve been heavily drugged, but it’s starting to wear off.”
“Yeah. I think you’ve been drugged, too.” The man starts to get down. “No wait! I’m gonna count to three and then turn off the truck lights. You’ll be in the shadows then.”
“Okay.”
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
“One, two, three.” George reaches over and switches off the headlights. “Go!”
The man drops down and starts crawling on his hands and knees toward George and the darkness. “Come on, you can make it!” Finally, the man is within ten feet of the front of the truck when a shot rings out from the upstairs window. Narrowly missing the man, the bullet hits the ground just beyond the top of his head. A small cloud of dust and gravel pop up from the driveway.
“Stop, don’t move.” George removes the rifle from the support of the hinge, redirecting his aim to the upstairs window. Peering through the ACOG scope, he patiently waits until the silhouette comes back into view. Moving ever so slightly, he places the illuminated crosshairs on the man’s head, then exhales slowly while gently squeezing the trigger. Instantly the window shatters and the person on the other side flies back from the impact. Right through your sorry ass head. “Okay, now move!” George feels the release of his rage and takes a much-needed breath of air.
The man makes it to the truck and crouches behind the door next to George. “I’m George. What’s your name?”
“Dr. Valencia . . . Tobias. Tobi for short.”
“Hey Tobi. Your English is good. Where’d you train?”
“Harvard.”
“No kidding. Huh. Well . . . Tobi, we got a little problem here. Any idea why you’re involved?”
“No, none.” He shakes his head. “I’m just a biochemist. At the university I teach, do research, and write papers on what I find. Recently I’ve been working on new developments in neurochemistry. But nothing else. Mostly, it’s a really a boring life.”
“Sounds like science.”
“Yeah. The only bright spot is my family: my beautiful wife and two daughters. There’s nothing else.”
“Well someone doesn’t like you or me, and right now I’m just trying to figure out why.”
“Sorry about your wife. That’s horrible.”
“Yeah. It is.” George swallows hard, still tasting the spittle in his dry mouth. “But if I focus on that, we may not survive. She’s already with God, so there’s not much else to be done for her here.” Reaching into his vest pocket, he clicks his phone into the ‘Off’ position. I don’t need any phone calls right now. “Have you ever fired a weapon?”
“Only when I was a kid. I don’t like guns.”
“Got it. Ever done any self-defense?”
“A little. I box at the gym.”
“Well, that could come in handy.”
“You think there’s more of them?”
“Yup. I’m sure of it. I found two cameras on the porch. High-tech stuff. There’s bound to be more.”
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
“Command. This is Snakepit.”
Click
“Snakepit . . . Command. What the hell just happened?”
Click
“One agent down.”
“How the hell did that happen?”
“Our target is now a threat. One shot fired. Agent down. You never told us this guy would be armed.”
“Obviously, there was a breakdown in our intel.”
“Screw you,” he says under his breath. “Well, this guy’s good. Really good.”
“Where’s the doc?” Command asks.
“Not sure. Can’t you see the front?”
“Negative. We lost visual.”
Damn.
“What’s the order?”
“Standby.”
Click
“Command wants to know if you can get the situation under control?”
“Unsure. Where’s my backup.”
“Standby.” Pause. “As per Op-Plan, backup’s fifteen minutes out.”
“No way. This fire-fight will be over by then.”
“Negative, Snakepit. Command wants the test to proceed per plan. Get the two subjects back onto the stage. We’re losing time.”
Bullshit. I’m gonna get this asshole.
“Snake-pit! Did you copy that?”
Damn. “I’ll call you back when it’s over.” To hell with this shit. I’m gonna get him.
“Snakepit! We didn’t copy. Say again.”
“I’m done!” The agent removes his headset and throws it to the ground, smashing it with his boot.
<><><><><><><><><><><>
“Here’s the plan . . .”
“You have one?” Tobi breaks in.
“Not really.” George wipes his eyes with the back of his arm. He would prefer a warm washcloth to the dust-covered work-shirt, but that life is over. “I’m making this up as I go. Mostly, I wanna get these bastards.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Tobi removes his suit jacket and tosses it onto the floor of the truck. “Any ideas?”
George thinks hard for a minute. “We get in the truck and drive away.”
Tobi starts to speak but George cuts him off. “I don’t have time to explain. Just get in.” George climbs across Lucky and gets into the driver’s seat while Tobi climbs in afterwards and quietly closes the door. “Duck down and stay down.”
Ducking in the same manner, George starts the truck, switches on the headlights, and then pulls through the circular driveway. Heading out at a normal speed, he listens for the sound of gunshots, but doesn’t hear anything. Eventually he sits up and heads down the dirt road toward town.
About a quarter of a mile down the road, George switches off the headlights. “That oughta be enough.” He drives another five hundred feet and then cuts the engine. Without using the brakes, he lets it roll to a stop off the road. Just to be sure, he reaches underneath the dashboard and disconnects the fuse for the interior lights. Then he opens the door. “You stay here with my dog. I’m going back to finish the job.”
“What do I do if they come?”
“Shoot to kill.” George reaches into his bug-out bag and pulls out a small handgun. “This is a Walther PK .380.” He flips off the safety. “Just point and shoot.”
“I hate guns.” Tobi puts his hand on the grip. “But yeah, I got it.”
“Good. Just don’t shoot me when I come back.” He starts to walk off and then looks back. “Whatever you do, don’t turn on any light, including a lighter or phone.”
“Got it. Good luck,” Tobi says as George disappears into the darkness. There is almost no moon tonight and within seconds, George is gone. Tobi moves over into the driver’s seat and locks the doors. “He’ll be back, boy,” he says to Lucky. “He’ll be back.”
Crouching and moving stealthily through the darkness, George makes his way back toward his house, using the irrigation ditch as his cover. The lights are on and it’s easy to keep on target. He forces his breathing to keep pace with his gait; it’s the only way he can contain his burning rage.
Within a few brief moments, he’s back at the drive, but detours behind the woodshed to the rear of the workshop and garage. Making his body as flat as possible, he shoulders his way along the perimeter of the exterior, until he comes around to the garage side-door. From this vantage point, he can see the circular drive and the entire front of the two-story house.
This used to be my home. He shakes his head, trying to keep his mind off the horror of what’s less than twenty feet from him. I will get my revenge. A noise from the front door pulls George from his thoughts. The screen door opens.
“Well this is just friggin’ great,” Snake-pit says under his breath. He lets the door slam shut behind him.
Russian accent. Thanks to the backlight from the front door, there is no mistaking the beefed-up, M4, with a suppressor in the man’s hand. He also has a night-vision device. Those’ll come in handy. His silhouette is only visible for a second, but it’s enough time to reveal a figure of medium height and stocky build. The man stays in the shadows and does a visual sweep of the driveway, allowing the barrel of the rifle to follow along with his eyes. He repeats the process a second time, but George is too well hidden to be detected.
Initially the man seems vigilant, but then appears to relax his guard. He takes a few steps forward and rests against the front porch post.
First mistake.
In this position, the garage lights cast sideways illumination and George can see he’s wearing desert camouflage fatigues, boots, and a light-colored knit cap rolled up on top of his medium length hair. He looks Nordic. The man has night-vision goggles, but they are resting on top of the cap. His web-belt is loaded with pouches presumably holding extra magazines, a knife, and other gear.
The man lights a cigarette.
Second Mistake.
“Idiots. What a stupid bunch of idiots.” He glances at his wrist. “Eleven minutes to go.” The man looks around as though weighing his options. Beyond the illumination of the house and garage lights, it’s pitch-black outside. George watches as the man pulls a cell phone from his breast pocket and hits a number with his thumb.
Third mistake.
“Peter won’t be home tonight.” Snakepit speaks in perfect Russian.
“Command’s coming.” Pause. “Look, I’m sorry, he’s gone.” Pause. “Damn it! He was also my brother . . . just shut up! We never got that far . . . couldn’t test it.” Pause. “No, I won’t make it out either. They’re all crazy, all of them.” He looks down and shakes his head. “We never should have gotten involved.” He takes a drag from the cigarette. “Move to the safe-house . . . all of you. Do it now.”
Three strikes. You’re out. George raises his right hand to feel for the knife handle sticking up behind his shoulder. In one swift movement, he extracts the blade, throws it forward and plants the knifepoint dead center in the man’s left chest. The man slides down the porch post and slumps over on his right side, exhaling his last breath.
George waits and watches, ensuring that no one else emerges from the house. Then, like a cat, he moves toward the man. After retrieving his knife, he wipes the blood on the dead man’s pants, and then re-sheathes it. Then he removes the man’s watch. It’s on a countdown showing nine minutes and twenty-eight seconds. It’ll have to be enough time. George puts it on his wrist, then rips the phone from the man’s fingers, clicks it off and stows it in his pocket. Sorry asshole, I need all your stuff. He removes the night-vision goggles, as well as the man’s web-belt and weapons, and lays them off to the side. After a cursory search for a wallet or ID reveals nothing, George pushes the man’s sleeves up and checks for tattoos or other identifying marks on his forearms and neck but can’t find anything. With his own phone, he takes two quick photos of the man and re-stows it.
George slings the web-belt and rifle over his shoulder, then grabs the man’s boots and pulls him off the front porch, feeling the weight of his body as he drags it bumping down the three steps and over the rock-lined path. The whacking sound the man’s head makes as it hits the steps and solid ground, seems somehow fitting. He pulls the body out of sight and into the darkness behind the garage, placing the man’s gear about twenty feet beyond. Second man down, how many more are coming? The only way to find out is to go back into the house.
Still clinging to the shadows as much as possible, George makes his way back to the front door and quietly opens it. Thanks goodness I oiled this last week. Holding his Colt in a ready position, he methodically clears each room. As expected, he finds nothing downstairs. When he gets to the upstairs landing, he sees the attic ladder pulled down from the ceiling. That’s why Lucky was freaked. The bastards were hiding right above our heads. After checking the rooms at the back of the house, he enters the sewing room and sees the man he’d shot just a few minutes earlier. Dead. He’s wearing the same clothing and carrying the same gear as the other man. Brothers, huh? Yeah, I can see the resemblance.
Crossing to him, George removes the man’s headset and slips it onto his own head. He listens to static while he removes the man’s weapons and gear. Again, he does a quick check for identification. This time he finds a small photo in the man’s breast pocket. It’s a picture of a young woman standing beside a little boy about the age of four. So, you had a brother and a family. Flipping it over, he notes a woman’s name and the recent date. He takes two quick photos of the dead man, then stows the phone and photo in his vest pocket.
“Snakepit! Do you copy?” The headset squawks. “This is Command. ETA is just under eight minutes.”
George clicks the button but muffles the small mic with his free hand. “Command. Snakepit. Ya, ya.” George imitates a Russian accent.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Busy. What the hell do you think I’ve been doing?”
“What happened? We thought we heard an engine, like a vehicle or something.”
“A tractor went by.”
“Did you get the subjects back into the shop?”
“Kind of.”
“What the hell does that mean? And where’s the doc?
“Neutralized.”
“At least you did that right. You sure he’s dead?”
Interesting. “Completely.”
“Boss is pissed. Doesn’t think the chemical dispersed.”
“Yeah, not sure.”
“We’re sure it never tripped. If it had, we’d have known it.”
“I’ll go check. Snakepit out.” He releases the mic button but can still hear the voice on the other end cursing at him for ending the communication. He shoulders the rifle and then grabs the dead body, hoisting it up over his shoulder. He carries it downstairs, out the front door and around to the back where he dumps it on top of the first dead body. He drops the gear on the other pile.
I need stuff. Climbing three steps at a time, George returns to the upstairs, master bedroom closet. After reopening the wall-safe, he withdraws a thick, black travel pouch and slips it into his inside vest pocket. From the corner of the closet he pulls out his packed duffle bag and throws it over his shoulder. Taking one last look around the room, his eyes fall on the wedding photo atop the dresser. It’s been twenty years, but Marcie was just as beautiful this morning as she was on that day. Damn. He crosses to the dresser and removes the photo from the frame. Behind it is the one and only picture of the baby boy they lost in childbirth. Double damn. Killing’s not enough. He kisses both mementos, folds them up and slips them into his hip pocket. The rage is building again. Whoever you are that did this, I will get you . . . every last one of you.
He heads downstairs and momentarily stops at the desk to grab a small file of papers which he shoves into the top of the duffle. That’s it. George quickly strides to the rear of the garage again and drops the bag next to the small pile of accumulating weapons. As he bolts past the two dead bodies, he glances down at them again. Why? There is no answer. All he hears is the roar of rage. And right now, that roar is his friend as it fuels the adrenaline flowing through every fiber of his being. I’ve gotta survive. And, I’ve gotta get rid of everything.
Coming back around to the circular drive, he runs across to the open woodshed and grabs two five-gallon jugs of diesel fuel and a one gallon can of gasoline, which he always keeps for the ranch. Retracing his steps across the drive, he begins emptying the diesel out onto the porch and along the inside entryway. In the kitchen, he throws open the back door and dumps more out onto the back porch, making sure the spread is thorough enough. Back in the kitchen, he splatters gasoline on the curtains and rug, then does the same thing in the laundry room where the gas water heater stands. As he retreats, he passes by the gas cooking stove, dumps diesel on the top, drops the three containers and switches on the back burner. In a full run, he bolts out the front door.
Why God! Why? He wants to drop to his knees and scream at the top of his lungs, but time is too precious, and it would do no good.
Marcie is already dead. Turing briefly, he sees the flames in the kitchen, rapidly licking up the walls. Damn. This was our home. Our sanctuary.
Sweat pours from his temples and revolting nausea threatens to turn into retching. Just when he’s certain he’ll vomit he barely catches the sound of an approaching helicopter . . . or possibly two. No time to puke. Running toward the back of the garage, he strains his ears. Hughes five-hundred . . . two of them. Their distinctive sound always reminds him of a pissed off bumblebee. Maximum payload is five people each, including the pilot, but more likely only four if they they’re carrying gear. That means six shooters total. Shit. I hate six-to-one odds. George knows he may have a small advantage with a silencer initially, but he also knows it won’t last for long.
He retrieves one of the dead man’s M4 and extra magazines, as well as the night-vision goggles. The knowledge that every round has to count is pounding in his brain. Push it aside. I need to know what’s in the shop first. He enters the garage through the side door, reaches up and unscrews the light-bulb above the door, then disconnects the automatic timer from the decorative garage and shop entry lights. The driveway darkens.
Bending down, he grabs hold of the dog blanket from Lucky’s spare kennel and throws it on top of the chest-style freezer next to the door. Then he lays the suppressed rifle on top of the blanket. The sounds from the helicopter engines are getting closer. He grabs the back corner of the heavy chest and heaves it out about two feet, creating a small hiding area between it and the wall. That oughta do it.
Moving around the front of Marcie’s parked station-wagon, he reaches for the knob on the connecting door. Slowly turning it, he barely pushes it open, listening for any unusual sounds. Nothing. Easing the opening a little wider, he peers inside through the slit, trying to avoid looking at the horror splayed out all over the shop. Nausea threatens to return but the rage keeps it at bay. The two helicopters are getting closer.
Pulling the door open a bit further, he stands back and looks along the walls and ceiling. There you are. On opposite sides of the roll-up door, two small, metallic canisters are suspended in brackets mounted on the ceiling. Gas? Whatever they contain, their sealed tops are aimed directly at the entrance. Now, what sets you off? George briefly uses his flashlight and scans from the canisters to the floor. The thin wire is barely visible, but it’s there, nevertheless. Easy to disable. Nah, there has to be more. These guys are too high-tech. With the flashlight in his pocket, he puts the goggles on and searches for the invisible. There you are. IR. Infrared. Two methods of deployment. How desperate are these guys?
George has just enough time to pull a roll of black landscaping wire from the pegboard behind him. Down on his haunches, he unspools it and stretches enough out to reach the tripwire. With the wire’s end, he makes a large loop to hook around the tripwire and as delicately as possible, creates a closed loop using several double twists. The tripwire is now the thread running through the eye of George’s makeshift needle. All the while he stays clear of the IR beams and listens to the roar of the house fire and the ever-approaching aircraft.
Still on his haunches, he reverses his duck-walk, unspooling more wire as he backs up. Once he’s through the connecting door, he pulls it almost closed, then unspools another twelve feet to position himself in the shadows. He crouches down between the freezer and the exterior wall.
Kneeling, he puts the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, rests the barrel on the blanket atop the chest, and wraps his hand around the grip and sight. After tilting the goggles from his eyes back up over his head, he looks through the night-vision scope and adjusts the depth. It’s almost perfect, the only illumination is from the Malibu lights lining the driveway and the haunting flames from his burning house. I should be able to stay hidden for at least a few moments. A lot depends on how good they are.
Although the temperature is dropping and the night will be clear and cold, sweat rolls off his forehead in sheets, stinging his eyes and momentarily blurring his vision. Shit! He blinks reflexively, then wipes off as much as he can with his shirt sleeve. His heart is pounding like the drums of a warpath.
Seconds later, the landing light of each helicopter sweeps across the circular drive. Come on down you sons-a-b**ches. Come to papa. The first helicopter touches down on the far side and three men jump out, running to a defensive position near the woodshed. The aircraft lifts off, turning its light away from the men, heading back into the darkness.
Clad in black, swat-team style clothing with knit head covers, George can tell the men are armed to the hilt, but no individual features are visible.
The second helicopter touches down near the same spot and another three men jump out, much like the first group. Immediately the aircraft pulls up, turns and departs. All six targets are within George’s vision. He watches for a sign. There it is. One man signals the others with his hand. You’re the one I want first. The three men to his right begin to advance toward the shop, while the two on his left start to sweep to his left. The leader is just slightly in the rear.
George lines up the crosshairs on the night scope and gently squeezes the trigger. With the suppressor, the bullet’s exit barely makes a sound. It’s not a pop; more like a cough. Instantly, the leader is down. With the noise from the house fire and the retreating helicopters, none of the men in front of the leader seem to notice. Perfect.
George takes aim to the rear man on the left and repeats his precision shot. Cough! The man falls backwards, letting out a small groan. The man in front of him turns and sees the two down. Before he can utter one word of warning, George has targeted his head and pulled the trigger. I got you, too; asshole.
Three down, three to go. The remaining men approach the garage but turn and see their three comrades down. They start yelling at each other but it’s in a language George doesn’t understand. One man holds his hands up like he’s arguing and then runs over to inspect the leader. I got you. George takes aim a fourth time and pulls the trigger. Cough!
Four down.
The final two run for cover in the woodshed and disappear behind a large stack of firewood. George switches to the night-vision goggles and puts the headset back down over his ear. Come on, gimme a clue. But the radio is silent. Damn, I hate this shit. Think.
Suddenly, an idea pops into is head. He moves out from behind the safety of the freezer chest and crouches over to the shop door. Barely pushing it open again, he reaches around to the shelf on the wall and turns on the radio. It immediately starts blaring out an old tune from the sixties. A shot rings out and a bullet whizzes past George’s forearm, but he withdraws his hand in the nick of time. Even though the flash was brief, he’s seen it. At least one of the men is still in the woodshed.
Retreating into the garage, he repositions himself behind the freezer chest again. He pushes the goggles up on top of his head and peers through the night vision scope. I gotcha. Gently squeezing the trigger, he fires a round into one of the straps holding the end of the wood stack in place. It slices in half and the stack leans over at an angle.
George repeats the process, aiming for the second strap. As the shot hits, the six-foot-tall stack of heavy firewood tumbles sideways, slamming down into the small storage space next to it. George is already taking aim when the lone, dark-clad figure lurches out of the way. As the bullet hits the figure’s head, the man falls backward onto the disorganized pile of wood. Five down, one to go.
From the doorway behind George comes a barely audible sound. A step.
Damn! someone’s behind me.
Before George can even blink, two gloved hands reach over the top of his head and pull a thin cord tight around his neck. Reflexively he grabs for the garrote, but before he can get his fingers between it and his neck, it cuts through the first layer of skin and puts horrific pressure on his airway.
The assailant slams his knee into George’s back, wedging his chest into the solid freezer. George is pinned forward, while his head is being yanked back. He gasps for breath and fights to stay focused.
The assailant growls angrily in a foreign language. Russian? The language begins to blur. Marcie. Oh Marcie. George’s mind starts to slide as the cord strangulates him. He struggles again for a breath, but none comes. I see you, Marcie. A wispy image of his beautiful wife weaves back and forth in front of him. She reaches out her hand toward George, but she points to the floor by his side.
“Pull the wire, babe. Pull the wire.” Her sweet-sounding voice resonates in his head. “Let go of the cord around your neck and pull the wire.” The vision sways again and she points a second time to the line beside George.
Suddenly he remembers the landscaping wire he’d run from the tripwire in the shop to this spot in the garage. Trusting Marcie’s voice, he makes one last gasp for air, releases the hold on the line around his neck, reaches down beside his knees, and pulls at the air next to him. Unsure if he makes contact with the wire, he slumps to his side, losing consciousness.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
“Marcie.”
“Yes?” She looks up through a light mist and sees a youthful figure in a white robe with a deep hood over his head.
“I am Joseph.” He pushes back his hood so that she can see the glow coming from his face. “I am the Sixth of the Nine and I can help you through.”
“You’re beautiful. Like an angel.” Marcie reaches up her hand to touch Joseph’s face. She is unable to touch him though because her hand is but an illusion, like the wisp of smoke from a smoldering fire. “I’m worried about George.”
“I know.” Joseph reaches out his open hand and consolidates Marcie’s essence into a momentary image. “George has his own path to follow and he will be along when the time is right.”
“Should I wait for him?”
“No.” Joseph waves his hand to the right of Marcie. “Father is expecting you.”
“Father?” She looks to her right and sees a new beam of light just beginning to form. “Oh, my! Is it morning already?”
“In fact, it is the first dawn of your new life.” Joseph waves his hand in the direction of the light and opens his palm. Marcie’s consolidated image begins to wisp again. “I will take care of George.”
“Thank you.” She begins to fade toward the light. Just before she is gone, she turns back. “Please tell him how much I love him.”
“He already knows.” Joseph releases her image and she fades away into the light.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
“George, George! Wake up.” Someone is slapping his face.
“Wha . . . what?” George’s voice sounds raspy and it’s hard to talk. He swats at the annoying hand. “What’re ya doin’? Leave me alone.”
“No, I’ve got to get you up.” The hand puts something cold on his neck. “Here, this should help the swelling.”
George feels the hard, cold concrete underneath his head as his vision comes back into focus. “What is this?”
“A pack of peas from your freezer.” Tobi kneels next to George. “The guy tried to strangle you, but you survived. Think you can get up?”
“Maybe.” He reaches up his hand. “Here, give me a pull.” Tobi assists him into a sitting position, giving George a moment to collect his thoughts. He can hear the house collapsing in the fiery blaze less than one hundred feet from the garage. It all comes back to him. “What happened to the guy?”
“He’s bonkers in the next room.” Tobi points to the shop area. “Drugged and bonkers.”
“Who drugged him?”
“They had canisters suspended from the ceiling. Something tripped them and he must’ve gone to look.” Tobi shakes his head. “Incredible.”
“What?” George is getting back to himself and starts looking around in surveillance mode again. “What’s incredible?”
“The drug.” Tobi takes a deep breath. “It’s basically a pharmaceutical lobotomy. For months, I’ve been sifting through a bunch of new hush, hush research and I didn’t like what I was finding. I got suspicious, made a few calls to colleagues I trust and boom – I ended up here. I had a really bad feeling; but had no idea how serious the problem really was.”
“Why’s it so bad?”
“From what I could tell from the chemical analysis on paper, it’s designed to render the mind malleable to whatever suggestion is put in front of the person.”
“Like a hallucinogenic?”
“No. Worse.” Tobi puts his hand out to get George off the floor. “I got a feeling these guys will be back. And your house is about to implode and may catch this building on fire. We need to go.”
“Yeah, I agree.” George stands and cranks his neck side to side. The bleeding is moderate and the bruising will be very bad tomorrow, but at least his vocal cords are intact and his neck feels better than expected. “Where’s the guy?”
“Through there.” Tobi points to the shop. “But he’s harmless now. If my calculations were correct, he’ll be harmless for days, maybe even weeks.”
“Whadaya mean, harmless?” George takes a few steps toward the door to the shop, but Tobi grabs hold of his arm.
“Don’t go in there. I don’t know what the half-life is of the drug or how rapidly it disperses.”
“Ah.” George stops. “Okay, got it, but I’m still gonna kill him.”
“You do what you have to do. But make it quick – we need to leave. If they found me, they must have an incredible network. And sadly, I’m sure my wife and kids are as dead as your wife.” He looks down and wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Then he retreats out of the garage and moves to the darkness behind the exterior wall.
George pulls out his Colt 1911 and holds it in a ready position. “Hey buddy!” He yells. “Come on over!”
The inner door to the shop opens and a figure clad in black assault gear stands in the threshold in full view. “Hey!” He holds up a hand and smiles.
Lobotomy, my ass. This is chemical brainwashing. George takes aim, pulls the trigger and puts a round through the man’s head. He falls backward onto the floor of the shop. “That’s for Marcie.” He starts to walk over toward the man to retrieve the combat gear but remembers what Tobi had said.
“Tobi?” George looks around.
“Yeah, I’m out here gathering stuff up. We need to go.”
George joins him behind the wall and looks at all the gear. “I need to destroy this building and the woodshed. The less they find, the better.”
“Agree. You have any more fuel?”
“Yeah. It’s in the well pump house, on the far side of the pool area.” He points south behind the back yard. “I’ll go get it.” He starts to turn. “Can you carry this stuff away from here?”
“Yup. I’ll drag it out toward the road. You start the fire.”
George looks back at Tobi. “By the way, where’s my truck and Lucky?”
“Back down the road where you left them. After the helicopters took off, I waited about two minutes, then crept back here. Didn’t know if you were dead or alive, but figured it was worth a check.”
“Thanks.”
“At least now we know what we’re dealing with.”
“Maybe.” George breaks into a run, circling wide around the side of the flaming house and fetches the one remaining can of gasoline. When he returns, he first splashes the liquid onto the two dead men stacked in the outside darkness, then moves inside and splashes more out onto the floor of the garage. Finally, he slings more toward the drugged dead man. As George retreats out the side door into the cold darkness, he ignites a lone match and tosses it down onto the gas. This single catalyst is all that’s required to start the fire. With the heat radiating from the main house, it won’t be long until the entire estate is decimated.
Making his way around the end of the shop, George dumps the remaining fuel on the wood shed, making sure he gets a little of it on the other dead bodies. The more unrecognizable, the better. One last match and the final building is ignited. Tobi is waiting for him at the ditch, his arms laden down with assault equipment.
George turns and takes one last look at what used to be his home.
“Come on, let’s go,” Tobi says.
“Yeah.” George loops the multiple rifle straps over his shoulders and stuffs as much other gear as he can into his pockets. The rest he and Tobi carry. “I gotta bad feeling we’re gonna need every bit of this.”
“Me too, my friend. Me too.”
They hike back along the ditch in silence, listening to the roaring fire. Since the property is twenty miles from town and the only close neighbors went into town for a movie, it’s unlikely anyone will notice the blaze until it’s out.
When they near the truck, Lucky starts barking again. “It’s okay boy, I’m back.” George lifts the seat forward and stows everything flat behind the bench, then throws a blanket over the top of all the gear. Tobi climbs in from the passenger side.
“Where do we go from here?”
“First stop is a storage locker in town. We need to get rid of this truck.”
“You have another vehicle?” Tobi rests his elbow on the armrest and leans his head on his hand.
“Well, technically it’s not mine. It was Marcie’s dads. A nineteen sixty-six Dodge Charger we were restoring. She’s a beauty and was all done except for the licensing. But her dad had a heart attack and passed away two years ago, and it’s just been sitting in storage ever since. Marcie couldn’t bring herself to sell it and every time we came in to look at it, she’d start crying. So, I’d just come by once a month to start it up and run it for a few minutes.”
“So, we’ll just switch vehicles?” Tobi lets out a huge exhale. “Sorry, I don’t know what they gave me, but I’m exhausted.”
“Yeah, me too. But I’m wired up now.” George grips both hands on the steering wheel and focuses on the very dark, dirt road in front of him. Aside from the headlights, the only illumination is from the sliver of a moon and stars overhead. “You’ve got at least thirty minutes, take a nap.”
“I might.” Tobi closes his eyes for a moment and then sits back up. “So where do we go from here? Who do we tell?”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” George grips the wheel just a bit tighter. “I’ve got a friend, a good friend in the Seattle area. I think I can trust him.”
“Huh. No kidding.”
“No kidding, what?”
“When I was at Harvard, I became good friends with a brilliant man who is currently at the University of Washington. I’d been trying to contact him about this research I was investigating.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. He’d be a great ally if we can find him.”
“You think he was aware of what you found out?”
“I don’t know. But now that I think about it, it was strange that he didn’t return my calls. He’s usually quite responsive.”
“Well, it looks like we’ll swap vehicles, hide this truck in storage, then steal some plates off another car and head west on Interstate-Ten then go north on I-Five. I’m good for at least four or five hours of driving tonight. If we push hard, we should be in Washington State in two days.”
“I don’t have a wallet or ID or anything.”
George releases his grip on the steering wheel and pats the padded travel pouch tucked inside his vest. “Not to worry Tobi, I got it covered.”
Tobi looks over at him past Lucky, who’s now asleep on the bench. “Are you some kind of secret agent or something?”
“Not secret, just ‘or something’. Now get some sleep.” George drives off into the darkness lost in thought. He knows killing those men isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough. There’s ten more miles of dirt road to go before he reaches the highway. Peering into the blackness, he prays. God, please don’t let the rest of my life be as dark as this road.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
CHAPTER 4
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Morgan,” Mrs. Boxer says. “Thanks for coming in.”
“No problem,” Jackson says, sounding upbeat as usual. “We always like to know what’s going on with our kids. It’s just unusual to get a call from you.”
“Well, being the principal, I do get involved sometimes.” She smiles and points to the two brown leather chairs in front of her large mahogany desk. “Please have a seat. Their teacher, Miss Troy, will be along in a few minutes.”
I smile and step sideways toward the farthest chair. My stomach has been in a vice ever since I said goodbye to Kathleen and Arthur six hours ago, and the screws are tightening another half twist. This isn’t going to be a good meeting. I want Joseph to appear and miraculously fix everything. But instead, the wrenching pain worsens.
Once we’re seated, Jackson and I face across Mrs. Boxer’s desk, but I look beyond the room, beyond the here and now. The blinds on the two double-pane windows are open and I can see out into the empty, rain-soaked playground. This depressing day looks just like my heart feels. I rub my sweaty hands on my pant legs.
Mrs. Boxer seems nice enough, although her short-cropped, brilliant, red hair must be dyed because her lighter brown eyebrows don’t exactly match. She moves around to the opposite side of her desk and sits in the oversized, leather office chair. The door to the side of Jackson squeaks as it opens.
“Ah, here’s Miss Troy,” Mrs. Boxer says. “Come on in, my dear.”
“Hi all, sorry I’m late.”
Jackson stands to shake her hand. “No worries. We just got here ourselves.”
“Oh good. I feel better,” she says, a little breathless. “I hate to keep parents waiting.”
Our two children, Arthur and Kathleen, adore their first-grade teacher and so do we. We specifically asked for Miss Troy last May, at the end of the kindergarten year because she’s young, energetic, and full of creative ideas about early education. Jackson and I appreciate the simplicity in her style and mannerisms.
“Looks like you’ve had a busy day,” I say. “Any fun stuff?”
“Oh yeah! I try to make everything fun!” She smiles, showing a flawless set of pearly white teeth. “We did math today, with finger-paint.” She points to the stains on her pants. “Ha! Can you tell?” A natural beauty, her turned-up nose, long lashes and big blue eyes seem to need no enhancements whatsoever. Today the pastel pink color on her high cheek bones is accented by several smudges of green finger paint, presumably the same paint smeared on her navy corduroy slacks.
“I can’t wait to see what they bring home. Our walls are totally covered in papers and art!”
“Oh good. It’s nice to know the parents appreciate their hard work.”
“I hate to interrupt,” Mrs. Boxer says, glancing at her watch. “But I have another meeting in thirty minutes. We need to talk with you about Kathleen and Arthur.”
Jackson flashes me a curious look then looks at the principal. “What about them?”
“Well.” She adjusts her position in her seat. “It seems we have an unusual problem.”
“Oh really?” Here it comes. I sit back in my chair, cross my legs, and rest my arms on the wooden armrests, faking a casual attitude. “And what might that be?” I look straight at Mrs. Boxer, but I can see Jackson from the corner of my eye.
“Well, I don’t exactly know how to put this . . . and I have no way to quantify my evaluation . . . but it seems they can communicate without speaking.”
“What?” At least she’s honest.
“I think you heard me.” Mrs. Boxer looks down at the notes on her desk. “Please understand how difficult this is for me . . . for all of us. It’s quite awkward because it’s almost like we’re dealing in the paranormal.”
“Paranormal?” Jackson asks. “They are twins you know. Twins often have a close connection to each other.”
Good try babe, but it’s not enough. Dang. I so wanted my children to be raised with some modicum of normalcy.
“Mrs. Boxer, I don’t think it’s ‘paranormal’ so much as just special,” Miss Troy says. She pushes a strand of bobbed, blond hair behind her ear, but it’s too short to stay put and belligerently falls back across her eye.
“On no, the abilities of Kathleen and Arthur go way beyond ‘special’,” Mrs. Boxers says. “Just yesterday Kathleen was crying because a little boy shoved her.”
“She was crying?” Jackson asks. “Was she hurt?”
“No.”
“How do you know?” Jackson asks. “Did you see it happen?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Boxer adjusts her position in her chair. “But, you know, I try not to get involved in every little squabble.”
“Forgive me for contradicting you, Mrs. Boxer, but according to my children, it was a bit more than a little squabble,” I say.
“Why wasn’t I told about this?” Jackson asks, glancing at me.
“I just found out this morning, Darling, and haven’t had an opportunity to tell you. Sorry.” I squeeze his hand. “Apparently, it was Justin, the bully who’s always picking on Kathleen. She said he really hurt her this time.”
“Mrs. Boxer, this is unacceptable!” Jackson says.
“Well, perhaps he did get a bit rough,” she says. “Anyway, Arthur butted up in line and screamed at Justin and then at me.”
“My son screamed at you?” Jackson asks. “If that’s the case —.”
“Wait, Jackson,” I interrupt. “It’s possible he was just defending her. Miss Troy, did you hear this commotion?” I look around Jackson to watch the teacher’s body language.
“Uh, no, actually.” She shifts in her seat and leans on her elbow. “I was opening the classroom door and the line was pretty quiet, except for Kathleen’s sobbing.”
“So, when did the screaming occur?” I ask.
“I’m not sure, I didn’t hear it,” Miss Troy says.
“It occurred right there while they were in line,” Mrs. Boxer says, defiantly. “Arthur screamed so loudly that Justin got sick and vomited all over the floor. And I developed a terrible headache from the incident.”
“Wait,” I say. “You’re attributing Justin’s nausea and your headache to Arthur’s supposed screaming? Sorry, but as a nurse, that’s completely illogical.”
“I’m a little lost,” Jackson says. “You say Arthur was screaming, yet Miss Troy says she didn’t hear anything.”
“I know it sounds odd.” Mrs. Boxer looks up and folds her hands. “Look, here’s the thing. The reason Miss Troy didn’t hear Arthur, nor did anyone else, I might add, is because he never spoke. It was all communicated mentally, without actually speaking.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Jackson says.
“I agree with my husband,” I say. “This is absurd.”
“Yes. I figured you would say that. To me it seems bizarre to even be talking about such a possibility.” She squares her shoulders. “But the point is, I’ve been noticing things like this for a while.”
“Are you sure it isn’t just something you’re imagining?” I ask the question, but already know the answer. I know what she fears.
“Actually,” Miss Troy leans forward in her chair. “Mrs. Boxer is right. I’ve noticed it too. What’s strange is that it doesn’t bother me. I actually think it’s kind of cool.”
“I don’t think that’s the way I’d put it.” Mrs. Boxer says.
“Well, maybe ‘cool’ isn’t the right word.” Miss Troy looks down at her hands. “However you say it, it’s like they can read each other’s thoughts. And . . . and maybe they can read mine.”
“That’s preposterous!” I say. “No one can read minds.”
“I used to believe that too. But just yesterday, I had a five-minute conversation with them . . . and I never opened my mouth.”
“Well, maybe it’s you who can read minds.” I laugh and toss my long brown hair to one side. I’m so sorry! I hate to be hard on you, but I’ve got to nip this in the bud.
She looks sideway at me. “I don’t think so.”
“The problem is,” Mrs. Boxer interjects, “that it’s not just Miss Troy and me, several other members of our staff have become aware of our speechless conversations with Arthur and Kathleen.”
I hate to do it, but I need to find out. I open my thoughts to the universal neural network and search for the path to Mrs. Boxer’s mind. Come on, where is it? I rapidly scan thousands of pathways until I feel myself getting close. Ah, there it is. I identify the link. Now, let’s see what you’re really thinking.
Fear, anger, jealousy, hatred; I can sense it all. The strength of her emotions surprises me. That’s it, Mrs. Boxer. Let it all out. Let me hear what else is in your heart. I probe a bit deeper.
Your kids are a menace. They’re evil. If anyone should have that power, it’s me, not some snotty nosed brats.
I sever the connection. Now I search the network again, but this time I’m looking for Miss Troy. Sorry, but I need to find out.
Joy, innocence, love, and . . . frustration; the emotions flood through loud and clear. They’re so precious. I sensed their gifts and tried to keep their secrets hidden. I just couldn’t. If only I could reach them.
I sever that connection as well. No sense risking the exposure. I’ve learned enough about each woman.
“So, Mrs. Boxer,” I say, “your mind seems to be made up about our children. Where do we go from here?”
“I believe your children and their unique problems do not belong in our school. I’ve already started the paperwork to have them removed.”
“What?” Jackson stands, spreading his hands out to his side. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve made the decision,” Mrs. Boxer says. “They don’t fit in. Whatever they are, is a risk to the health and welfare of the other students . . . and faculty. If I’m right and I drag a counselor into this, things could get worse for them.”
“Let me ask you a question, Mrs. Boxer.” I pause briefly to couch my words. Jackson returns to his seat. “What is it that you fear?”
“I don’t fear anything! They just simply don’t belong here.”
She’s lying. She’s afraid, terrified in fact. But she’s also right, they don’t belong here. It’s never going to work. We’ve got to get them out and I’ve got to repair the damage. The question is . . . how? I need to know how far she’s gone.
“So, what’s in your paperwork, Mrs. Boxer?” I ask.
“Evaluations and reports.”
“Anything else?”
“Mostly it’s documentation for the superintendent.”
Not good. “What happens if we just pull our children out of school and teach them at home?”
“Well, that’s one solution.” Mrs. Boxer looks from me and Jackson to Miss Troy. “On the other hand, I believe the authorities need to be informed. Possibly even Children’s Protective Services.”
“What?” Jackson jumps to his feet again. “You think we’re abusing our children? I’m a minister, for goodness sake!” He is visibly shaken.
“Minister or not, something is going on and I believe it warrants an investigation.”
“Oh, Mrs. Boxer,” Miss Troy says. “We talked about this. You know perfectly well these children aren’t being abused! I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing.”
“I know how you feel Miss Troy, but I didn’t really ask for your opinion.” Mrs. Boxer narrows her eyes and seems to visibly harden. A cold steel appearance takes over her face. “The decision is mine and I’ve made it.” She closes the file. “Kathleen and Arthur are not welcome in this school and I will alert the authorities in the morning after my meeting with the superintendent.”
I’ve heard enough. We can stay here and argue, or I can end this. “Jackson.” I reach over and touch his hand, urging him back to his seat. “I think it would be best if we all just forget about today. What do you think?”
“What do you mean, ‘forget about it’?” Mrs. Boxer asks. “I have no intention of forgetting about this. As a matter of fact, I intend to get to the bottom of their behavior.”
“Mrs. Boxer, perhaps you should reconsider.” Miss Troy leans forward as though pleading. “I mean after all, if they leave the school, there’s no real harm done. They’re only children.”
Interesting. She’s a lot more solid than I initially gave her credit for.
“Absolutely not.” Mrs. Boxer stands. “Now, I’ve said my peace and there’s nothing to reconsider. Your children are in the library waiting for you and I have another meeting.”
Ugh! I want to scream at this woman. Maybe I should just lobotomize your brain and be done with you.
Suddenly, from the corner of my eye I see Joseph standing off to the side. Wearing his usual garb of long white robes, he peers out from under the deep hood. “No Elizabeth. You must not erase her memories. That is not why I taught you how to communicate telepathically.”
“But she wants to hurt my children.”
“There are others coming who will want to do far worse.”
The way he says that sends a cold shiver up my spine. “So, what should I do?”
“Remove your children from this place. Protect them at all cost. I will take care of her.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Yes.”
“Oh Joseph.” I feel like bursting into tears. All I wanted was for my kids to have a normal childhood. “There’s no way Jackson and I can do this alone.”
“I am bringing others to you who will give much needed assistance. Miss Troy is one of those people.” He lifts his head enough for me to see his piercing blue eyes and radiantly angelic face. “Trust Miss Troy, she can help. The rest will arrive soon.”
The image of Joseph fades and when it is all but gone, Mrs. Boxer sits, then looks down and holds her head in her hands. After a full minute, she peers up and squints her eyes, then shakes her head.
“Mrs. Boxer?” I’m not certain what Joseph has done to her. “Are you all right?”
“Uh. Yes, except for a sudden headache. And for the life of me, I can’t actually remember why you’re here.”
“We came in to discuss our children,” Jackson says. He throws me a sideways glance.
“Oh. Well, they seem to be doing fine. Quite bright – both of them. Right Miss Troy?”
Miss Troy tilts her head to one side and raises an eyebrow. “Why yes . . . they are.”
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Boxer says. “And I hate to cut this short. But my headache seems to be getting worse. Can we do this another day?”
“Absolutely. Elizabeth and I need to get the kids home anyway.” Jackson stands and reaches out to shake Mrs. Boxer’s hand, but she doesn’t rise. She’s still holding her head.
“Do you want us to call a doctor?” I ask.
“Uh, no. I get these sometimes. Migraines. I’ll be fine. It just makes it hard to think. Oh, here’s the paperwork on your children. You might want it.” She pushes the manila folder toward me on the desk and puts her head back in her hands.
I’m watching her intently. Joseph, what did you do? Her skin color is turning pale and I see small beads of perspiration forming on her temples. I stick the folder in my bag and stand as though ready to leave but continue watching her.
“Okay.” Jackson turns to open the door. “We hope you feel better.”
“Miss Troy, can I speak to you in the hallway for a moment?” I ask.
“Sure.” She leans toward me, puts her hand up to hide her words, and whispers. “I can’t believe she gave you the folder.” In a normal voice she says, “She looks sick to me. You don’t suppose she’s having a stroke or something, do you?”
Maybe. “I’m not sure.” I move to the door and speak to the office secretary. “Can you please call nine-one-one? I think Mrs. Boxer’s ill.” I watch as the secretary dials the phone and then look back at Mrs. Boxer. She’s still holding her head and starting to moan. Joseph, please don’t hurt her. Just make her forget. “I imagine it’s just fatigue. Probably has a terrible schedule.”
“I hope that’s all it is,” Jackson says. I know he’s watching me for a clue about what happened, but I have no way to tell him. Seven years ago, when Joseph taught me to communicate telepathically, I made a pact with Jackson that his mind was off-limits. It’s a promise I’ve never broken, and I don’t intend to start today. Bummer.
“Hey, Jackson, would you mind getting the kids home while I stick around and wait for the ambulance?”
“Sure. No problem. I’ll take them home and start dinner. See you on the Hill.”
“Thanks, Babe.” The ‘Hill’ is our code name for my cabin up above Township Line Road. Abutting the Olympic National Park, the twelve-acre property is our stateside private sanctuary in the mountains. My first husband, Mac, and I built it all by ourselves. After Mac was tragically killed by a drunk driver, I continued to live there alone, mostly as a hermit. Originally, it was just a simple fourteen hundred square foot A-frame cabin. But after Jackson and I married, we followed Mac’s plans and added the bedroom wing for our growing family.
With the kids in school, it makes a lot more sense to stay on the Hill during the week and only fly to our Canadian home on the weekends. We nicknamed Jackson’s Canadian home, the ‘Cove’ because it’s situated in a protected little cove at the southernmost tip of Vancouver Island. With Jackson’s DeHaviland Beaver floatplane, we can travel back and forth from Port Angeles, Washington to the Cove, without much effort.
When I first visited his property, eight years earlier, I believed it to be the loveliest location and home imaginable. Designed and built almost exclusively by Jackson and his cousin, Roger, it could easily have made the cover of any designer magazine. Eight years. Wow. Two summers ago, we cleared a small area adjacent to the main house and added a bunk-style guest house to take care of our many overnight visitors. It can comfortably accommodate up to ten guests and more, if we resort to fold-out cots and sleeping bags. I love both of our homes and all that happens in them.
I can barely hear the sirens approaching and pull myself from my thoughts. “Go now, Jackson, before the kids start to wonder what’s happening. No sense having them worry.” I’m already communicating with our children. “Yes, those are sirens you hear. Close your books and put your stuff in your backpacks. Daddy’s coming to get you. I’ll see you at home.”
“Okay. Bye babe.” Jackson gives me a quick kiss on my cheek. “Take care, Miss Troy.” He leaves the administrative office and heads down the long hallway towards the library.
“You guys seem really happy.” Miss Troy lowers her voice. “I’m sorry Mrs. Boxer threatened to get CPS involved.” She glances toward my bag. “I’d burn that file if I were you.”
“I plan to. And yes, Jackson and I are very happy.” I move back into Mrs. Boxer’s office. She’s still holding her head. Her moaning has taken on more of a guttural utterance and I don’t like the sound. I look back at the secretary. “I need you to go to the entrance and direct the paramedics. Tell them to bring their gear, a gurney, and oxygen.”
I focus back to the principal. “Mrs. Boxer? Can you hear me?” She doesn’t speak or look up, but she does nod her head up and down. “Would you like to lay down?” Since she’s got at least sixty pounds on me, I’m not sure I can manage lifting her alone, but I can definitely get her to the ground. Again, she doesn’t speak or look up. This time she nods her head in the negative. “We can help you to the couch.”
The sirens have stopped, and I can hear the gurney rolling down the hallway. Miss Troy moves out of the doorway to allow the medics to enter. I introduce myself to the medics and then give them pertinent details of Mrs. Boxer’s sudden change in behavior and her complaints of a worsening migraine. Neither medic seems to pay attention to my analysis.
“Look, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I’m a registered nurse with a master’s degree in clinical nursing. I’m also the assistant manager of the emergency department at Bayside Medical Center. I’ve worked trauma for over nineteen years, so don’t blow me off.”
The first medic looks up at me. “Oh sorry. I wasn’t listening.”
I repeat myself. “She needs oh-two, an IV with normal saline, and stroke precautions.” I’m already using my cell phone to alert the local community hospital.
As the medics pull Mrs. Boxer up and out of her seat, it forces her head back and for the first time I see her face. She’s having a seizure! “She’s having a grand mal seizure.” The medics lay her on the floor. “Do you carry Valium or Dilantin in the rig?” I ask.
“Yeah, we carry IV Valium. But I need a doctor’s order.”
"Then get on the horn and call.” The medic looks at me, hesitating. “Do it!” I say.
Ten minutes later Mrs. Boxer is strapped to the gurney, with an IV inserted in her arm, an oxygen cannula in her nose and a five-lead cardiac monitor attached to her chest. Thanks to the Valium, her body is more relaxed now and the epileptic seizure is over, but I’m still concerned. Even though her eyes are half open and she seems to recognize familiar faces, she hasn’t spoken a coherent word since she put her head down after Joseph’s image faded. Ugh, Joseph. What did you do to her? Joseph’s powers are almost limitless in our world and I’ve come to realize that sometimes he doesn’t know his own strength.
“I’ll follow you to the hospital, if you don’t mind. I’d like to make sure she’s okay.”
The lead medic shrugs his shoulders. “Whatever you want.” Holding the IV solution in the air, he pushes the gurney down the hallway to the exit. Miss Troy and I follow behind.
“I’m so glad you were here, Mrs. Morgan.” Miss Troy crosses her arms, holding her own slender shoulders. “I hate to think what could’ve happened.” She stops and puts a hand on my arm. “I am so sorry about your kids. I wish she’d have handled it differently.”
“Yeah, me too.” I think about what Joseph said about trusting Miss Troy. How do I possibly bring her into our confidence? I don’t even know where to begin.
“Do you mind if I tag along to the hospital. I don’t mean to be a bother, but I’m worried. Her husband is dead you know. And I don’t think she has many friends. She may not have anybody to help her.”
Perfect! “I’m glad to have the company. If you don’t mind riding in an older truck, I’d be happy to drive.”
We stop at her classroom while she picks up her personal stuff. It’s Friday and the cleaning staff is already finished. I poke my head in and see all the freshly painted numbers on the walls. “Oh, how marvelous! This is like a youth Van Gogh retreat! I love all this abstract stuff!”
“Oh thanks. It’s the best way to teach.” She gives me a little wink. “The kids don’t even know they’re learning new stuff. I just sneak it in when they aren’t looking.” After collecting a few extra items, she clicks off the lights and locks the door. She takes a deep breath and touches her forehead to the marbled glass insert in the door. “I hate to admit this, but teaching in public schools isn’t what I thought it would be.”
“Why, what’s wrong?” This is the first time I notice she looks sad.
“I shouldn’t complain, but it’s the new curriculum being pushed by the crazy, elected people.”
“I’ve read about it.” We exit through the glass doors at the front entrance.
“Ugh. It’s terrible. And it brings every child down to the lowest common denominator, driving individual achievements into the toilet. That’s what really bothered Mrs. Boxer. Your kids didn’t fit the mold.”
I turn my head to look at her as I push open the glass door at the main entrance. “Why?”
“Because they’re so bright. They’re ahead in every subject and I wanted to push them. But she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake. I wish you’d called us. We’d have come to your rescue.”
“Not to worry. I’ve been pushing them ahead anyway. I’m not about to let good minds sit idle.” We reach the truck and I move my work stuff off the passenger’s seat and throw it into the back. She climbs in. “Also, the curriculum teaches a skewed history of the United States and our constitution sound irrelevant. It’s . . . not right. And it pretends there's no God.”
“That much I know.” I start the truck. “But since Jackson’s a minister, the kids learn about God at home, every day.”
“I wish all the parents had that approach.”
I drive out of the parking lot in silence, lost in thought. Rain is hammering the windshield and the wipers are struggling to keep up. It’s only three o’clock but the gloom is overtaking the day. Time to find out if she’s willing. “We’ve been thinking about home schooling.”
“That’s an option.” She sighs again. “I’ll sure miss your kids.”
“Miss Troy.”
“Yeah?” I can see her from the corner of my eye.
“How would you like to work for us? Privately.”
“Privately? I don’t think I understand. In what capacity?”
“As our private tutor. Our private, home-schooling teacher.”
“Oh.” Her voice drops a notch. “I’d hate to lose my pay and benefits ‘n stuff.”
“What if we could match your pay and benefits? And what if we could get a few other parents to join in? What if you had five or six, or maybe ten kids total? Granted, they might not all be the same age. But the parents would all agree on the curriculum.”
“Wow. That’s an interesting idea. Where would the classroom be?”
“I haven’t gotten that far. But I’m working on it.” I pull the truck into the hospital parking lot. “Let’s go check on Mrs. Boxer.”
Miss Troy puts her hand on my arm. “Wait. I have to ask you something.”
I nod my head. “Okay . . . ask.”
“Don’t be mad at me, but I have to know.”
“Okay . . .” I’m already aware of what’s coming.
“Can your kids read minds?” She looks down at her hands. “Please be honest. I need to know.”
I look past her through the window to the inner waters of the Strait of Juan De Fuca. The low cloud cover makes the icy waters look even colder than normal. Feeling a sudden chill, I take a deep breath and consider various denials.
She looks up at me again and I detect a deep yearning in her eyes. “Please, please be honest.”
Joseph said to trust her. I hope you know what you’re doing, Joseph. “Yeah. They can.”
“Yes! I knew it!” She sits back and hits her knees with her fists. “I just knew it. That is so cool!”
“Glad you think so. It’s been an adjustment for us.”
She turns to look at me again and cocks her head to one side. “You know, for some reason . . . I don’t think that’s true.” She tilts her head with short blond hair to the other side. “Nope, not true. I think . . .” she points her finger at me, “. . . you can read minds too.”
I just stare at her, not sure how to proceed. No one’s ever suspected or confronted me like this. Ever since Joseph taught me how to visualize the neural network and find neural pathways, I’ve been able to hide my abilities. Am I getting careless?
“No, I just guessed.”
Wow. Now I’m really surprised. I haven’t connected with her or pushed a thought out.
“My mom always said I had a sixth sense about what people are thinking. I tend to believe it’s just easier for me to guess people’s feelings. Either way, that’s why I think it’s so cool your kids can communicate with me without speaking. It sort of validates my senses.” She pushes the rogue strand of blond hair back again. “You probably think I’m nuts.”
“No, I don’t.” I grab my bag. “Look, let’s go check on Mrs. Boxer and make sure she’s okay. Then, why don’t you come up to our house and have dinner with us. I’ll call Jackson and have him set an extra place. I know he’d like to talk with you about this.”
“Oh, I don’t want to impose.” She tightens her grip on her shoulder-bag.
“Well, if you’re gonna work for us, you’d better come see the place and find out what you’re really getting into.” I give her a wink. “Besides, aside from the mind-reading, we’re really quite harmless.”
She seems to consider my words for a moment, then climbs out and closes the passenger door. “Yeah, maybe I better.”
I lock the truck and we walk silently into the local emergency department.
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I HAVE TO STOP HERE BECAUSE OF THE GOFUNDME RULES.
Sorry to leave you hanging!! - but please help me get this published so that you can read the rest of the book within a few months!!
Thank you again for your help in this venture!!
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