Eve of Redemption by Tom Mohan

Cover design, interior book design, and eBook design

by Blue Harvest Creative www.blueharvestcreative.com

EVE OF REDEMPTION Copyright Š 2016, 2017 Tom Mohan All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Open Window an imprint of BHC Press Library of Congress Control Number: 2016906449 ISBN-13: 978-1-946006-73-8 ISBN-10: 1-946006-73-4 Visit the author at: www.tommohan.com & www.bhcpress.com

acknowledgments This book could not have been written without the love and support of: My Mom, who passed down to me the love of books My wife and daughters, Nancy, Sara and Katie, who put up with me throughout the process Kelly Farr and Kelly Dyson, who dared to read the early versions and give me honest feedback and advice Quill Pen Editorial for cleaning up my mess BHC Press for making it beautiful And, of course, my Blue Monkey tribe who inspired and encouraged me when the task seemed impossible Thanks to all of you!

prologue

NOVEMBER 11, 1965

C

aleb Burke’s heart pounded as he stared down at his bloodied hands. His heaving breath and the pulse pounding in his ears nearly drowned out the sound of the crickets that sang their praise to the night. Other than that, all was silent.

He pulled his dazed eyes from the gore and looked around.

Silhouettes of naked trees surrounded him, silent witnesses to this night’s cruelty. Something snapped in the darkness behind him, causing his labored heart to strain beyond what seemed possible. The cold ground numbed his flesh as the night’s events numbed his mind. He could smell the damp leaves that carpeted the forest floor, smell the sour odor of his own perspiration. What have I done?

Caleb’s eyes were drawn back to the still shape lying a few feet away. She didn’t have to die. This night could have been special. He had told her that. He had told her how beautiful she was and how special this night could be for them. She 7

TOM MOHAN had agreed to come out, after all. Why should he have thought she’d refuse? How could everything have gone so wrong?

Another crack—this time to his right—caused Caleb to twist his head so fast his neck popped. A shadow moved through the trees. He held his breath and listened.

Silence. Even the crickets had gone quiet, as though in silent mourning of the young girl whose blood seeped into the ground.

Caleb shivered in the cold night air. Where’s the car? He turned his head, wide eyes searching, but could see little. If anything, it seemed to have grown even darker, all but the nearest trees invisible. He sagged, his chin resting on his chest, and tried to get his brain to work. An item on the ground beside his foot caught his attention. The cooling blood felt sticky on his hand as he opened stiff fingers to reach for the object. It was cold to the touch, metal—a tire iron. He had kept one beneath the driver’s seat of his car ever since that idiot jock Chris Hutchins had come after him for hitting on his girlfriend. Hutchins was lucky Caleb hadn’t had the iron within reach that night, or things would have turned out a whole lot differently.

The memory of that midsummer evening faded as Caleb’s fingers stroked the tire iron. He’d used it tonight, but not on Chris Hutchins. He looked again at Jackie’s broken form, thankful that the darkness hid most of the evidence of the pent-up violence that had exploded from within him. Why had she slapped him? It wasn’t like he didn’t care for her. He did.

He’d told her that over and over. She shouldn’t have led him on if she wasn’t going to go all the way. The little tease should have just stayed home and not even bothered him. It was her own fault she was out here now—not his.

She had brought this on herself.

Caleb shivered uncontrollably. He dropped the tire iron and wrapped his arms around his body, fighting to hold in the escaping heat. What now? Too many people had seen Jackie and him together. Her best friend, Heather, knew she had gotten 8

EVE OF REDEMPTION into his car. He had to get back, find his car, and get out of here. No one could prove anything. They might not even find her body out here in the middle of nowhere. Even as these thoughts jostled together in his sluggish mind, Caleb knew his life was over. Who was he kidding, anyway? Jackie’s uncle was the county sheriff. The temperature dropped at least twenty degrees. Caleb’s head snapped up as a wave of dread washed over him. Shock from what he had done? No, this was something else, something worse.

He wasn’t alone.

He was as sure of this as of anything in his life. Though the woods remained ghostly silent, something lurked out there. ‘’W-Who’s there?’’ Caleb stuttered. A cold breeze rustled the leaves on the forest floor, carrying with it a musky animal scent. Not just animal—something more. Smoke? Caleb felt himself slipping into panic. The fear that clawed its way through him refused to be denied.

Caleb.

The word carried on the breeze—and like the breeze, it was little more than a whisper.

Caleb.

Caleb fought his way to his knees, muscles stiff from cold and fear. His head pivoted in all directions. Around him the darkness had grown so complete he could not have seen his hand before his face if he had tried. His loss of vision put his other senses on full alert, amplifying the silence, the cold, the smell—stronger, closer. A horrible thought erupted in his mind. He tried to force it away, to make it change to something else— anything else—but it had taken up residence like a squatter refusing to be chased off.

He was being stalked.

Caleb, what do you desire?

The question came from all around him.

Tell me, Caleb.

9

TOM MOHAN What did he desire? To be warm? To be home in bed, none of this having happened? Yeah, that was what he really wanted—home and cozy in bed.

It’s not that easy, Caleb. You murdered a girl.

Caleb cursed as he tried to keep his body from shivering itself to pieces. Of course it wasn’t that easy. It never was.

I did not say impossible.

His mind was playing tricks on him. He wanted to laugh, but his face had grown numb, and that animal scent was even stronger than before. Even if the voice was in his head, something else was out here with him.

Warm, Caleb thought. I want to be warm. The moment the thought crossed his mind, the breeze died off, and the night grew still. The air around him still felt freezing, but the lack of wind seemed to raise the temperature a degree or two.

What caused it to stop? His fear rose to a whole new level. His eyes strained to pierce the blackness that held him in its cold embrace. Still on his knees, Caleb turned himself in a full circle, the toes of his boots thumping the ground behind him.

Caleb’s eyes ceased their desperate darting and locked onto something in the shadows. It was so dim as to be barely noticeable, but he recognized it as a light. He stared, his mind too numb to think, as the light grew larger, closer, until he felt the blessed warmth that radiated from it. The source of the light remained invisible, but the heat it offered was enough for Caleb to burst into tears of joy. Never before in his life had he been so grateful for something as simple as light and warmth.

You like that, do you? ‘’Yes,’’ he whispered.

It is nothing. I can do more. So much more. ‘’Who…who are you?’’ Caleb’s shivering had lessened considerably. The light stopped ten feet or so from where he knelt, hovering a few feet off the ground just above his eye level. He wanted it to come even closer, to bring some of that glorious heat nearer.

10

EVE OF REDEMPTION I am your savior.

Caleb considered this. ‘’My…savior? Like Jesus? They call him a savior in church, but I don’t pay much attention.’’ He knew he was rambling. His jaw ached from the tremors that had taken control of it. But, he was able to talk, so things were getting better. At least he hoped they were.

No, not Jesus. Something better. Much better. Your churches teach things they cannot possibly understand. I can lead you to the truth.

Truth? Caleb thought. Whatever. ‘’I’ll follow you anywhere, as long as it’s warm.’’

The light did grow warmer. Warmer, brighter, and bigger.

It swelled until he stared up into it. Deep within the gloriously warm light, a shape took form—man-like, but larger, more majestic. Caleb could not tear his eyes away. It was the most beautiful being he could ever have imagined. He realized the acrid animal scent had grown much stronger, but the beauty that stood before him erased all else from his mind. For the first time he could remember, Caleb felt he belonged, that this incredible being actually cared about him. ‘’I love you.’’ Caleb had not been aware of this thought until the words spilled from his mouth.

Follow me. ‘’Anywhere,’’ Caleb whispered. ‘’Anywhere.’’

The being, his savior, began drifting away into the trees.

Caleb scrambled to his numb feet and stumbled after it, chasing this spectral entity that he knew he could not live without. Once, he tripped over something and fell, his chin crashing to the frozen ground, but he barely registered the damage to his body, so great was his need to follow his savior. The specter finally stopped. Caleb watched, mesmerized, as the air before it shimmered like ripples in a pond. The savior reached out and pushed his hand into the waves, and the air around it parted like an exit from reality. Caleb felt a hot breeze spill out of the hole and wash over him. The air smelled of burning 11

TOM MOHAN flesh, along with a putrid odor that spoke of death. Something else radiated from that hole as well, something that caused him to hold his ground.

Power.

He could feel it. A power like nothing he could have imagined. Caleb wanted that power, craved it.

You feel it, yes? ‘’Yes.’’ You want it. Need it. ‘’Yes.’’ Follow me. ‘’Who are you?’’

You may call me Agibus, and I will show you such wonders as your human mind could never imagine.

Caleb smiled. That sounded good. Something in the back of his mind told him this was not right, but he ignored it. For the first time in his life, he had found his place. ‘’I can imagine quite a bit.’’

I know your heart, Caleb. I know your dreams…your fantasies.

You can have whatever you want. Follow me.

Caleb stepped closer to the opening, drawn by its alluring promises. He heard what he thought at first to be a hissing sound, but as he drew nearer, the hissing became the whispers of what must have been many voices. The whispers were harsh, filled with malice, but they didn’t worry him. His savior would protect him. ‘’Lead on, Agibus. Show me your wonders,’’ Caleb said as he followed his savior to whatever fate awaited him.

JULY 4, 1999 THE INDEPENDENCE DAY parade had been over for less than an hour. Most of the town of Pressfield was still hang12

EVE OF REDEMPTION ing out on the town square when Sean Burke murdered his family. Pressfield was not a large town, even by the standards of rural Missouri, and the annual parade and the games that followed it were the biggest events in town all year. That the Fourth of July fell on a Sunday this year was a bonus—the farmers and laborers that comprised a good portion of the population were already dressed in their Sunday best, a rare event that would make for great pictures in the next day’s newspaper. They would not remain dressed this way the whole day, of course. Now that the parade was over, most of them would rush home to change into more casual attire before coming back to watch the kids chase the greased pig while the adults ate barbecue. Sean and his family, however, did not return. Nor did the parade pictures make the front page of Monday’s paper.

Normally, Sean would have been milling about with the town citizens, many of whom he considered to be his flock.

Though he was only one of four pastors in town, Pressfield was nothing if not godly, he felt the entire population to be his responsibility. Not that the other pastors were negligent. Sean would never criticize a fellow man of God, but he truly loved everyone he came into contact with. His round face bore a constant smile as genuine as the invitation to his home for dinner that was offered to all he came in contact with. “One day we shall dine in heaven with God himself,” he often said.

He had resisted the voices for months. At first he had simply denied they were there, as would any sane man. He rationalized that stress from his responsibilities had left him tired and imagining things. After a week, he began to wonder.

The voices told him things that he would never think himself.

Horrible things. Nasty things. The more they talked, the harder he tried to shut them out, but they refused to leave. Day and night they spewed their filth. He finally came to the conclusion that they were demonic. Nothing else could be this vile.

He prayed without ceasing, as the Holy Book taught, knowing that his loving Father would protect him from the forces of 13

TOM MOHAN evil that tried to turn him from his sacred path. But God was silent. On the short drive home, the voices returned, this time crying for blood. Sean’s head felt ready to explode as he pulled up to the curb and rushed his wife and kids into the house.

He could tell they were scared by his behavior, but he found himself unable to care. His breath came in ragged gasps as he closed and locked the front door.

“Sean, what is it? What’s wrong?” his wife Carrie’s fearful voice questioned him as he hurried to pull the ground-floor blinds closed.

Sean wanted to fight the voices, to order them out of his head, but he was so tired of fighting. They were driving him mad, and he knew he would do anything to shut them up. And not just them. He found himself searching for anything to get that nagging wife to shut her trap.

Distorted shadows filled his memory after that. A muffled sound of crying brought Sean back to awareness. He found himself on his knees, unaware of what had happened or how long he had been there. In his hands he held Johnny’s baseball bat, a maple wood Louisville Slugger that he and Carrie had bought their son last month for his ninth birthday. The bat was covered in something he could not make out at first, but the voices told him what it was.

Blood.

Sean turned his head to where his wife’s body lay on the linoleum kitchen floor. She faced away from him, the bloody dent in the back of her head clearly visible. Protruding from beneath her, as though growing out of her back, was a small foot covered in a tiny black dress shoe. Sean gulped, knowing Carrie had died trying to protect her little girl, knowing just as well that she had been unsuccessful. From somewhere within, Sean felt a deep regret that managed to push itself through the voices and darkness that all but consumed him. He was glad he did not remember killing his wife and daughter. He hoped they had died painlessly. A sob welled up in his throat.

14

EVE OF REDEMPTION A sudden movement from the corner of his eye startled him. Without thought, he whipped the Slugger around and struck something solid, yet giving. The cry that followed told him he had injured whoever had been so unfortunate as to be on the receiving end.

Home run!

Sean pulled himself to his feet and turned toward the agonized screams that filled the small kitchen. Johnny lay a few feet from him, writhing in pain and clutching his hip, which was bent at an odd angle. He stepped toward the boy, raising the bat, ignoring the pleading eyes that gazed up at him.

No, not this one.

Sean stopped, head cocked as he listened to the voices.

Not this one. This one is ours.

Pounding on the front door jerked Sean’s attention to the living room. Voices shouted, not inside his head but outside the house. More pounding, and then a crash. Sean stomped out of the kitchen in time to see local cop Les Ryan storm through the broken front door. Les had his gun drawn, though the frightened look on the young cop’s face belied any confidence the weapon might have provided. His eyes darted to Sean, questioning at first.

Kill. Kill. Kill.

Sean was not aware of the words tumbling from his lips as he tightened his grip on the bat.

Kill. Kill. Kill.

The voices howled their murderous command. Sean felt a primal growl well up in him. He raised the bat above his head and charged.

Kill. Kill. Kill!

He felt a surge of power that screamed for release, saw the hammer of the gun move, the flash from the barrel‌

15

part

1

one

APRIL 1, 2032

J

ohn Burke gazed through the dirty pawnshop window. Dim security lights illuminated the display case where death awaited him in the form of a pistol. He had never truly contemplated his own death. Even now, he didn’t really think about dying—only the peace it would bring him. A ragged awning did little to protect him from the heavy drizzle. Cold raindrops ran like tears down his cheeks. A neon sign across the street flashed BUDWEISER in red and white letters that illuminated his reflection on the smudged glass of the shop. He could hear the steady whine of electric cars in the street behind him as normal people carried on with their normal lives.

A sudden gust of wind snapped the aged awning taut.

The breeze reeked with the stench of garbage and stale alcohol.

It carried something else as well, something nearly hidden in the stink. He turned his face into the wind and inhaled deeply.

19

TOM MOHAN He was certain it was the perfume Laura used to wear. The thought of her brought a stab of pain to his heart.

Burke reached a shaking hand into his jacket and pulled a picture from an inside pocket. Smiling faces in happier times.

His wife, Laura, their daughter, Sara, and himself. All of them with that goofy look that said all was well with the world. He closed his eyes and let the scent of Laura’s perfume wash over him until it became too real, too close. He forced his eyes open, and there she stood like a ghost reflected in the dirty window.

With each flash of neon light his reflection appeared next to hers, as though they stood together in the dark store. She looked just as she had when he last saw her—long, chestnut hair in a ponytail, wearing a sleeveless white summer blouse and the jeans she practically lived in when not at work.

He stood frozen in place as another ghost swirled beside that of his wife. This one was smaller, but as the image materialized it became clear that she was a miniature of the older woman. Her daughter.

His daughter.

Burke stood in the rain, staring at the specters only he could see. Both images looked up at him with identical accusatory looks. You did this to us, their eyes said. This is your fault! His conscience, his dreams, and now the apparitions before him had made that very clear. He accepted his guilt.

Without releasing him from its dark stare, the figure of the child moved its hand until it pointed at the display case. Yes, she knew, too, that death was the answer, that justice was not fulfilled while he still walked the earth. The ghostly images of his family faded, leaving him again gazing at the display case and the peace it offered.

“No.” Burke gave the picture of his family one more look before slipping it back into his pocket. “Not yet. You’re out there somewhere, and I will find you.”

Tears mixed with raindrops as he limped into the night.

20

two

J

ohn Burke stumbled through thick darkness. He sensed things lurking all around—dangerous things, waiting to pounce. His daughter’s shrieking wails surrounded him. His wife’s anguished sobs faded in and out of the background. He struggled to pinpoint the direction of the cries—every time he thought he had, they moved. Hostile eyes bore into him from deep within the blackness.

Is this death? Did I finally do it?

A manifestation in the darkness brushed against his probing hand. He flinched and pulled away. Again he reached out, and again something deflected his hand. This time came the realization that the shrieks and sobs had subsided, replaced by the sounds of chirping birds.

As the dream faded, Burke felt the presence of someone else. He opened his eyes to see a dirty little face inches from his own. Through the dirt and grime he could tell he was looking at a girl no more than four or five years old. A matted mop of red curls framed her dirty face before dropping over tiny shoulders. At first she simply stared at him. Then, her face broke 21

TOM MOHAN into a huge smile like she was about to have her picture taken.

The girl extended her skinny arm toward him, and Burke’s gaze followed it to where it disappeared into his jacket. She giggled, spun around, and took off. As she pulled away, her hand slipped from his jacket and brushed against his own. A jolt of electricity shot up his arm, traveling through his shoulder and neck and erupting in his mind like a supernova. For a brief moment it was as if the universe opened up to him, all of its secrets peeled away to expose the very truth of all existence. Then the feeling was gone, leaving him awed yet somehow empty. He stared at the receding little girl in wonder.

As he watched her speed away, Burke took in his surroundings. He was sitting in the driver’s seat of his car, the door beside him open. He was certain it had been locked. How had the girl opened it without waking him? He ran a hand across his tired face and looked out the open door. Presidio Park stretched before him. In no mood to go home, he had driven to the park after leaving the pawnshop and fallen asleep. Pale light in the overcast sky told him he had slept through the night. Burke reached into his jacket where the girl’s hand had been. He had nothing to steal, nothing valuable. His heart jumped, and his hand probed deeper. He unzipped the jacket and searched all of his pockets, but the picture of his family was gone.

Burke pulled himself out of the car. The ground and bushes around him were wet from the morning drizzle.

“Hey, get back here,” he yelled into the empty park.

He took two steps, and sharp pain shot up his bad right hip. The tiny car was no place to sleep, and he was stiff from the hours spent there.

A giggle to his right pulled him in that direction. His stiff muscles loosened up as he moved, and in a few moments he felt almost normal. He remembered days long ago when he and Laura had brought Sara here to play. The park had still been maintained then. Cactus, aloe, and desert weeds now dominated the once-pristine landscape. The headless statue 22

EVE OF REDEMPTION of some forgotten soldier stood sentinel over the area. Beside the statue, a wall that had once boasted a mural of a Mormon battalion now shouted FOR A GOOD TIME CALL EVE in bright blue and red graffiti.

Burke caught a flash of red beyond the weed-choked memorial and saw the little girl sprinting across the open, her bare feet flying much faster than he would have thought possible. Dwarfed pine trees dotted the area that used to be the kids’ playground. The swings and other park amusements had long ago been removed due to the high cost of insurance.

He kept his eye on the girl until she disappeared beyond another dip in the park. As he neared the place where he had lost sight of her, the roof of the old restrooms came into view. The city had put some effort into keeping these. After all, if the homeless who gathered in the park had somewhere to relieve themselves, they would not do so in the surrounding neighborhoods, which were still somewhat affluent. Burke let momentum carry him down the hill to where a cracked asphalt path picked up near the restrooms. This relic of what used to be a popular walkway had long been ignored in favor of the dirt paths that led down into the overgrown canyon in the park’s center. Burke followed the one the girl had taken, slowing his downhill pace to avoid tumbling headfirst down the steep trail.

A covey of quail exploded up in front of him, their flapping wings crashing through the silence that had a moment ago been filled with only his rasping breath. Burke’s feet nearly went out from under him as he slid to a halt on a carpet of pine needles. He stood there for a moment and squinted into the shadows that half hid the canyon floor. Cold air oozed up from within, carrying with it the stench of sewage and who knew what else.

He was on the verge of turning back the way he had come, when he heard a familiar giggle to his left. Another trail, nearly hidden in dense scrub, led off the path he had been following. The moment he turned his attention from the depths of the 23

TOM MOHAN canyon and back to the little girl, the day seemed to brighten and grow warmer. He limped to the newly discovered trail and followed it as it led up to the rim of the canyon.

Burke’s breathing came in ragged gasps as he climbed the last few steps into the hazy sunlight at the top of the trail.

He found himself in a flat area that held two faded green concrete picnic tables. There was no sign of the girl. Dragging himself to one of the tables, he collapsed on the hard bench.

His breathing was coming back under control when he heard people talking behind him. The voices grew louder as they approached. Burke raised his head and turned to see a group of four people coming down a short flight of stone stairs. They looked to be teenagers, though it was hard to tell through the tattoos. The kid in the lead stopped when he saw Burke and held out one arm, halting his friends behind him. A sudden smile crossed the kid’s mouth, white teeth in the dark hues of ink that covered his face. Burke thought one of them might be a girl, but he wasn’t sure.

“Hey, look what we have here,” said the one who appeared to be the leader. “This day might not be so boring after all.”

Burke groaned as the group approached. They formed a rough circle around the table, the one who had spoken standing in front of him. He started to pull himself to his feet, but the kid shoved him back down on the hard bench.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Leave me alone.” He again tried to get his feet under him, but someone behind him reached over the table, grabbed the neck of his coat, and pulled him back down.

“My friend asked you a question,” a voice behind him said. “It would be bad manners not to answer. You do know what manners are, don’t you?”

Without warning, the kid in front of Burke spun in a full circle and kicked him in the side of the head. Before his brain could register what had happened, he was lying on the ground, fireworks exploding across his vision. The kick that followed 24

EVE OF REDEMPTION struck his ribs. The one after that connected with his stomach and drove the air from his lungs. He curled into the fetal position, one hand across his midsection while the other attempted to cover his head.

Strong hands grabbed both of his arms and pulled him to his knees. He looked up. Another fist. Burke lowered his head, and the punch connected with little more than his hair.

He sensed the next blow coming, and the martial arts training from his teen years took over. The hands holding his arms were more for support than restraint. Red-hot fury shot through him. He let his body sag backward. The punch passed above his head while his right foot shot out and connected squarely with his assailant’s crotch. Burke slid his right arm from his coat sleeve and jabbed an open palm into the chest of the kid holding his left arm. The blow caught the kid off-guard, and he fell back. Burke then drove his elbow into the gut of the teen who still held his jacket sleeve. Burke scrambled to get up, but was knocked back down as a foot connected with his bruised ribs. A shot to the back of his head landed him face down in the dirt once again. Then they were all over him.

Kicks and punches struck nearly every part of Burke’s body. A boot to his head left him limp and numb. With great effort, he managed to open one eye. Through blurred vision, he saw a small shadow not far from him. His gaze cleared just enough to catch a glimpse of a little girl with dirty bare feet wearing a sack as a dress. She had the face of an angel—an angel whose downcast eyes did not rise to meet his own. A single tear slipped down her cheek, and then she faded along with everything else.

25

about the author Tom Mohan grew up in rural Missouri, where he learned that reading was a great escape from the restless boredom he often felt. He loved anything scary, and latched on to the writings of Stephen King and Peter Straub. After joining the U.S. Navy in the early 80s, Tom discovered epic fantasy and read as much of it as he could get. Tom currently resides in San Diego.