Take Back the Morning

by Evan Howard

5-star praise for Take Back The Morning:

Entertaining and Insightful!
“…I found myself caught up in the fast-paced story and then thinking about the deeper meaning of love, deceit, forgiveness, and power in everyday life…”

an excerpt from

Take Back The Morning

by Evan Howard

Copyright © 2014 by Evan Howard and published here with his permission

1

The Graveyard Shift

April 2, 1996

New York City

1:37 A.M.

The dreaded moment struck without warning.

It unfolded in slow motion as if in a dream. For forty-three-year-old Franklin Scott, the dream was a nightmare. Everything went silent, as it always had whenever the nightmare had disturbed his sleep during his twelve years as a subway motorman. This time the terror was real. The E train approached the well-lit World Trade Center stop as a man fell from the platform. Franklin grabbed the brake handle and slammed it forward. No! Dear God, please, no!

The man landed on the tracks. Franklin’s heart leaped into his throat. For an instant, he observed the scene rather than experienced it. In less than a week, he would be wed. His glamorous bride, Katherine—with whom he’d shared several glasses of chardonnay before the graveyard shift—would meet him at the altar. He imagined kissing her and taking her arm before they faced the minister to recite their vows. He needed this job to support the marriage; he had to stop his four-hundred-ton train.

Help, God. Please help me! The sudden jolt from the brakes threw him against the windshield, twisting his wrist as he fought to keep hold of the handle. The train screeched beneath him. Sparks rained across the tracks. He clenched his jaw so tightly he nearly dislocated it. Passengers screamed. Loudspeakers buzzed. He feared the train would jackknife and careen off the tracks. Instead it shuddered as it hit the man.

The train ground to a stop.

This can’t be happening. The words echoed in Franklin’s mind. He righted himself and radioed the command center with the 12-9 code for “man under.” He requested that the electricity to the third rail be shut off, that police and paramedics be rushed to the scene.

Ordinarily he would wait in the cab, but if the man died and Franklin failed a Breathalyzer test, he would go to jail. He couldn’t stop shaking, and his heart felt as if it would rupture in his chest. He didn’t know if he could save the man, but he had to try.

He made an announcement over the PA system to calm the few passengers on board. As soon as he received confirmation that the electricity was off, he climbed down onto the tracks with a flashlight.

He shined the beam under the first car, assaulted by the smell of grease and oil. Nothing.

He rushed to the second car and continued to search. Nothing.

Blood as red as the fire raging in his mind streaked the tracks in front of the third car. Halfway down, he found the motionless body of an athletic man lying on his stomach between the tracks. His head was gashed and bleeding, his white skin a contrast to Franklin’s dark African-American complexion. Both of the man’s arms and one of his legs appeared dislocated or broken and had been contorted in freakish directions. His navy blue blazer and gray wool slacks were disheveled and ripped.

The mangled body filled Franklin with terror and revulsion. He thought again of his upcoming wedding. Katherine was his passion, an unexpected gift after his disastrous first marriage. They’d survived a seven-year battle with his ex-wife for custody of his young son and daughter. The wedding was supposed to celebrate their long-awaited joy. Would it even happen now?

Franklin steeled himself against the panic in his stomach and climbed under the car. He knelt next to the man in the narrow, cube-like space. The stench of urine made him cough, scaring off a family of rats. The darkness molested him. His ragged breaths were his only defense against the tightening noose of claustrophobia. He fought dizziness and nausea as he groped for the man’s wrist. There was no pulse.

He coughed out an anguished sob and released the wrist, his eyes a blur of tears. When he turned to leave, an object glinted in his flashlight’s beam. Franklin dried his eyes on the shoulders of his MTA uniform then picked up the object. It was a badge. It had the head and wings of an eagle on top and a five-pointed star at the center. The lettering read U.S. Secret Service, and at the bottom were the words Special Agent.

The blood drained from his cheeks. Who was this man? How had he ended up crushed by a train? Franklin’s chances of a happy future slipped away along with his dream of a joyful wedding and an exotic honeymoon. He was powerless to stop it. The glare of the beam against the badge stung his watery eyes. He cupped the badge in a sweaty palm and turned away.

“Scott? Franklin Scott?”

“Where are you, Scott?”

The shouts came from two voices, one husky and the other higher pitched, that echoed through the dark tunnel. Franklin crawled out from under the car. Two flashlight beams bounced toward him followed by at least a dozen more.

“Over here!” he called. “Beside the third car.”

He trudged toward two NYPD cops. A contingent of paramedics carrying a stretcher, a body board, and first aid equipment caught up. They were soon joined by uniformed patrol officers from the MTA and plainclothes detectives in suits and overcoats.

The paramedics climbed under the train and confirmed that the man was dead. After the scene had been photographed, they loaded the body onto a stretcher and headed out of the tunnel. The transit authority officers relieved Franklin of duty, and a substitute motorman boarded the train. A cop and a detective led Franklin through a door in the tunnel wall, up some dirty cement stairs, and onto the E train’s island platform.

“I’m Detective Joel Wilson.” The man in plain clothes stuck out a hand. He was balding, clean-shaven, and, like Franklin, of medium build. “We’re going to need a statement from you.”

Franklin returned the firm handshake. The taller, dark-haired cop introduced himself as Sergeant Fernandez. He recorded Franklin’s name and other essentials on a form attached to a clipboard. “Okay, now tell us exactly what happened,” he said.

Franklin stepped to the far end of the platform where it met the tiled wall. He motioned with both hands. “My train was approaching when a body fell from right here.”

“How far away was your car?”

“About a hundred feet.”

Fernandez wrote on the clipboard. “What did you do?”

“Applied the brakes immediately.”

“It was too late?”

“Yes.” Franklin’s throat tightened, but he forced himself to describe how he’d taken all the necessary safety precautions and had tried to help the man.

“Okay, that covers the basics.” Fernandez eyed Wilson. “Do you have further questions?”

Wilson nodded. “Could you tell if the man fell or jumped?”

Franklin thought back to what he’d seen. He was tempted to say the man had jumped because then he wouldn’t be blamed. Many of the ninety-odd subway deaths that happened each year were suicides, and the motormen weren’t held responsible. But he couldn’t be sure. “It happened so fast. I really can’t say which it was.”

“When you got out of your cab, did you see anyone on the platform?”

Franklin hesitated as he tried to remember. He’d been so focused on reaching the man he’d paid no attention to the platform. But the implications of the question sent his mind reeling. He didn’t worry that there might have been witnesses but rather that the man might have been pushed. A murder would require a more complicated investigation than an accident or suicide … especially the murder of a federal agent. Franklin couldn’t be sure that the man hadn’t been pushed, but the possibility of becoming entangled in an FBI investigation terrified him. He needed to sound sure.

“No,” he said with conviction. “The platform was empty. It often is at this hour.”

“You’re absolutely sure?” Wilson narrowed his eyes as his gravelly voice modulated from intense to demanding.

Franklin tightened his grip on the badge until its edges dug into his skin. The man’s body hadn’t been completely vertical as it could have been if he’d jumped. Instead he’d leaned forward, perhaps even tried to keep himself upright, which could have been the case whether he’d fallen or been pushed.

Franklin gnawed his lip as he struggled with whether to show Wilson and Fernandez the badge. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and upper lip. Which course of action would be most likely to keep him out of trouble? They were going to find out who that guy was anyway, he reasoned. He might as well give them the badge. “I found this next to his body on the tracks.”

Wilson examined the badge before showing it to Fernandez. “The Secret Service has an outpost in Seven World Trade Center. My guess is that this agent worked there. The suicide of a Secret Service agent would be a big story and bring shame to the entire organization. But the murder of an agent would be a federal crime. It could even be part of a larger plot against the President of the United States or other government officials.”

He gave Franklin a withering glare. “Think hard. Are you sure no one else was on the platform?”

Franklin let the question simmer. He glanced at the white beams running across the ceiling and the gray steel pillars along the edge of the platform. One of the pillars held a sign that read World Trade Center, but the letters appeared blurry. He thought again of the chardonnay and knew he couldn’t allow himself to take a Breathalyzer test. The horror of the accident looped through his mind—the shadowy movement of the man’s body, the bucking of the train, the splattered blood and pulverized bones. He just wanted this situation to go away.

“Yes,” he said sharply. “I’m sure the platform was deserted.”

Even as he spoke, he knew he wasn’t sure and never could be.
2

A Haunted Man

Wednesday, April 30, 2003

8:06 A.M.

Justin Connelly’s turmoil over whether to turn himself in churned faster than the waves on Block Island Sound. He clung to his seat under threatening skies as the twenty-four-foot sloop cut through the choppy seas off Newport, Rhode Island. He’d learned from his father never to trust the ocean, but he had confidence in sturdy, clear-eyed Ken Spalding, the New England sailing veteran at the helm. He also trusted Ken’s girlfriend, Sharon Jenkins, an attractive, thirty-six-year-old brunette who’d crewed Serendipity on many previous outings.

But his adrenaline had been surging ever since they’d climbed on board. It happened whenever he was around good people. They activated his impulse to go to the police because he longed to be like these people, and he feared he couldn’t be good again…unless he cleared his conscience.

Ken eyed him and steered toward Block Island ten miles away. “You must be bad luck. The weather was great until you got on board.”

“As I recall, it was your idea to bring me along.”

Sharon took a sip of her Sam Adams. “I’m surprised you asked him in the first place. He didn’t have ancestors on the Mayflower. We New Englanders usually don’t speak to such people, let alone invite them sailing.”

She laughed, but her searching gaze sliced into Justin. He nervously fingered the keyring in the pocket of his jeans. The polo shirt, light jacket, and topsiders wore well on his frame, which was a bit taller than medium height and toned from regular visits to the gym. His fair complexion and sandy hair reflected his Irish heritage, but his large brown eyes appeared more Middle Eastern. Whenever people asked which ancestor he had to thank for such a distinctive trait, he pleaded ignorance then joked that the inheritance was fitting: the black sheep of the family had the darkest eyes.

Now, with Sharon’s gaze seeming to probe for secrets he could never share, he found no humor in his flippant replies. The gusting wind chafed his face, so he decided to add a layer of sunscreen. When he withdrew the small plastic tube from his pocket, his keys fell onto the deck. The antique wooden pendant he carried on the ring caught Sharon’s eye.

“Cool,” she said. “Does it have some significance?”

“Yeah, it helps me keep track of my keys.” He scooped up the reddish-brown pendant. “It brings me luck, like a rabbit’s foot. I guess you could say I’m superstitious.”

He stuffed the keys back into his pocket, determined not to show his anxiety about the four-inch-long oval engraved with peculiar images. He carried the pendant everywhere but at all costs avoided talking about how he’d come by it.

Sharon gave him a wry smile. “Don’t you trust the captain and his first mate?”

Justin shook his head and applied the sunscreen. “I need all the luck I can get.”

“That’s what you’ll say when baseball season heats up.” Ken motioned for everyone to duck as he came about. “I usually don’t let Yankee fans on my boat, but I made an exception for you. I wanted to give you a taste of real sailing, not the boring imitation you learned in New Jersey.”

Justin cringed inside and his pulse quickened. He stuffed the sunscreen into his pocket, determined not to continue this line of conversation; it could only end in acrimony. Worse, it would force him to say too much about his past. What he’d done was wrong, and he couldn’t talk about it…ever, to anyone. Even if he explained the extenuating circumstances, no one would empathize with him. Except maybe God. And ever since Justin’s life had become an uninterrupted nightmare, God seemed totally absent…if he existed at all.

“Believe me,” Justin said, hoping to sound convincing, “storms on the Jersey shore can get pretty fierce. And I’ve weathered quite a few. I sailed a lot through college, but I haven’t been on a boat in several years. That’s why I was looking forward to this outing.”

The smell of salt reminded him of his youth. He’d never been in trouble and hated his deception, but he didn’t have a choice. No one would forgive his treacheries. Going to the police would land him in prison. He couldn’t turn himself in, yet he yearned to be delivered from his burden of guilt. Loneliness and fear were the cost of remaining free.

Eager to turn the conversation away from himself, he pointed at the iron-gray water. “The swells are really kicking up.”

Ken handed Sharon the tiller then went below. When he returned, he held three yellow rain slickers and as many inflatable life vests. After donning a slicker and a vest, he retook the tiller and tossed the others to Justin and Sharon.

Justin adjusted his vest just as a wave hit the boat, dousing everyone. The cold water matched the temperature of his heart. He’d told Ken and Sharon his well-rehearsed story: that he’d grown up in New Jersey, lived most recently in Albany, and relocated to Providence to be close to the ocean and start his own accounting business.

When Sharon had commented that his athletic build and brown-eyed good looks made him a desirable bachelor, he hadn’t protested. Most of what she believed about him was a lie, beginning with the name she and Ken knew him by—Rainer Ferguson, his Rhode Island alias.

Sharon straightened her slicker beneath her life vest and pointed back at the Point Judith Lighthouse. “It’s always rougher on the open ocean, but don’t worry. We’ve sailed to Block Island many times and never had a problem.”

A gust of spray lashed his face. He hoped she was right, but the experiences of his youth told him differently. The ocean could lull overconfident sailors into complacency then attack with sudden, raging fury, especially on the moody Atlantic.

Sharon rolled her empty Sam Adams bottle between her hands. “I’ve been meaning to tell you about my friend Diane. She went through a divorce a couple years ago and hasn’t found the right guy yet. Would you be interested in taking her out?”

He felt as if a drawstring had tightened around his stomach. From the time Ken and Sharon had befriended him at the Eastside Athletic Club in Providence, he feared they would try to get too close. He’d told them very little about himself and kept their conversations focused on mutual interests such as their love of the ocean and working out. When Ken had invited him to sail from Newport to Block Island, Justin had accepted only reluctantly, out of loneliness and a desire not to appear rude. Now Sharon was treading on the minefield of his relationships with women. He needed to discourage her.

“Honestly,” he said, “I’ve never had much luck with blind dates.”

She put her empty bottle in the cooler as it started to rain. “How ’bout if I introduce you two in a less threatening way?”

His stomach tightened further, and he knew the angry sea wasn’t causing the queasiness. Talking about women reminded him of his wife. Nostalgia gripped his chest as he remembered Tori and the life he’d known before all the trouble had started. If only he could have that life back …

His heart felt numb, as if it had stopped beating out of sheer exhaustion. Images of fun times with Tori flooded his mind followed by their last year of anguish.

“The four of us could go out to dinner,” Ken said. “Or we could just get together for coffee.”

Justin swallowed. He recommitted himself to keeping his real name, along with his past transgressions, secret. If Ken and Sharon knew why he’d moved to Rhode Island or the story behind the pendant, he doubted they would invite him sailing again, let alone arrange a blind date. Determined not to raise their suspicions, he said, “Tell me about your friend.”

Sharon closed the cooler and smiled. “She’s a bit shorter than you and has dark eyes and nice features. She teaches third grade and loves clam bakes, Rhode Island beaches, and the Red Sox.”

As attractive as the woman sounded, the thought of dating her or anyone else sent shivers through him. Coming to Providence had been his opportunity to start over as a bachelor. Women had created upheaval in the past and were a major reason for his despair. The prospect of dating again was terrifying, but he couldn’t let his true feelings slip.

“She sounds fun. Except she’s a Red Sox fan and I was born in Yankee pinstripes. She’d never want to go out with me.” He fingered his hood and hoped the darkening sky and thickening rain would save him from discussing the matter further.

“We’re getting wet,” he told Ken, “and I don’t like the looks of those waves.”

Ken warned him and Sharon to duck again then came about. “We should be okay. Remember, this is America’s Cup territory. You’ve got to be ready for a little adventure.”

When the Point Judith Lighthouse was no longer visible behind them, a thunderclap and several lightning flashes confirmed Justin’s fear: adventure had turned to danger. The angry sky unleashed a torrential downpour, and the wind gusted viciously and churned up eight-foot waves. Serendipity leaned and swayed as she climbed each crest before slamming down the other side. The three of them were soon drenched. The howling wind made it hard for them to communicate.

“This is more adventure than I bargained for!” His voice went hoarse as he yelled.

Sharon wiped a dripping strand of hair from her eyes. “Shouldn’t we turn back?”

Ken used his body to hold the tiller straight and cupped his hands to his mouth. “It’s too dangerous to come about. Besides, if we run—” A torrent of rain cut him off. He wiped at his face and yelled louder. “We’ll be in the storm longer and could get rolled from behind. We need to take down the sails and ride it out.”

The sloop heeled dangerously as Justin crept toward the bow. He helped Sharon untie the halyard that secured the jib and fought to keep his balance above the raging, frothy sea. The wind clawed and bit at him with the singular goal of sweeping him overboard. But they finally won the battle to lower the jib and crawled back toward the mast.

Although secured by the mainsheet, the boom shook and swung on a three-foot path, as much as the sheet would allow. It threatened to knock out anyone who crossed its path. Sharon yanked on the sheet to secure the boom just as a ten-foot wave washed over the boat. Justin clung to the mast with one hand and grabbed her with the other. A massive wall of water pummeled them. Only through the full exertion of his strength was he able to keep them from being swept overboard. He wiped water out of his eyes and let down the mainsail as Sharon steadied the boom.

“Hold on while we lie ahull!” Ken fought to stabilize the boat. He started the outboard engine and began to steer Serendipity parallel to the waves. Another wave washed over the boat, and water cascaded across the deck.

Terror paralyzed Justin. For the second time in his life, he thought he was going to die. The white heat of shame seared his cheeks as he remembered the first time. His mind flashed images of the people he’d hurt. Never again, he told himself.

“Call in a mayday!” Ken’s booming order sent him careening toward the hatch.

“Where’s the radio?”

“On the shelf toward the bow, on the port side.”

Justin shoved the hatch open against the vicious wind. He lurched down the stairs, ducked into the cramped cabin, and groped in the dark. His fingers ran over blankets, seat cushions, life vests, and buoys. The sloop pitched viciously and slammed him against the sink on the starboard side. He bit his tongue and tasted blood.

Another wave smashed his head against the fiberglass shelves on the port side. He began to lose consciousness and collapsed onto the deck. The water that had seeped in kept him from passing out. An intense longing swept over him in the wet and dark and cold, a sensation more powerful than anything he’d ever felt. He longed for harbor…Newport, Block Island, Point Judith, it didn’t matter which.

Even more, he longed for the harbor of a woman’s arms, the woman he doubted he would ever see again—his wife, Tori. But she was farther from him than ever. Far away and forever gone. An image of her lovely face appeared in his mind. He lifted his head. Then he saw a faint red dot of light on the shelf toward the bow.

The radio.

He stood, careened across the slippery deck, and ran a hand over the instruments on the shelf. Where were the receiver and the on switch? He had to find them fast and locate channel sixteen, the one used for emergencies. They were running out of time.

His fingers stumbled onto a coiled cord. He followed it up to the mike, switched on the receiver, found channel sixteen, and yelled, “Mayday! Mayday! We’re three miles south of Point Judith and taking on water. Mayday! Mayday!”
3

A Fight for Survival

Waves thrashed Serendipity’s hull, rain pelted her deck, booms of thunder reverberated through her frame. The dank, salty air in the cabin carried the stench of death. Justin’s head throbbed from having hit the shelves. His ears ached from the changes in air pressure. His legs shook from the strain of holding himself upright.

He dropped the microphone and considered staying below. Staggering guilt and debilitating shame had stalked him ever since he’d run away. Going down with the ship would be an honorable way to die.

Before he could embrace the idea, a chill colder than the water penetrated his spine, making him stiffen. The thought of his life coming to such a dismal end wracked his heart with regret. He couldn’t let it happen. Not as long as he could still think and breathe. Not as long as Ken and Sharon needed his help.

The rampaging sloop threw him toward the bow. Fighting to keep his balance, he reached beside the receiver and grabbed the brick-shaped Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon. He activated the EPIRB to signal the location of the boat then staggered toward the stairs.

Sharon yelled something that was drowned out by the clang of the rigging, the screech of the wind, the roar of the surf. Her intensity reminded him of how Tori had yelled at him on their last morning together. Now he realized he’d deserved her rage. He’d never known a more intelligent, fun, caring, or gorgeous woman.

Nor had he ever experienced greater oneness than they’d shared in the early years of their marriage. A gust of yearning more powerful than the shrieking wind blew through him. If only he’d appreciated the treasure he’d had in her, he would have guarded their love more vigilantly.

He dragged himself up the stairs then battled through the hatch and closed it behind him, buffeted by wind and spray. The rain, driven horizontally, stung his face. Lightning flashed from cloud to cloud and struck the water in the distance. The cooler broke loose and flew overboard. Sharon clung to the lifeline that ringed the boat and vomited into the sea. Justin turned away and swallowed to keep from doing the same.

His eyes found Ken’s. “How can I help?”

Ken motioned for him to sit down. “Stay low, Rainer. Keep your weight balanced against Sharon’s.”

One eight-foot wave after another crashed over the sloop. Ken strained at the handle of the outboard motor to keep the boat from pitching out of control. Justin had doubted whether lying ahull—taking the sails down and propelling Serendipity parallel to the waves—would work given the storm’s severity. He also doubted that challenging the mountainous waves head-on or trying to outrun the weather would have worked either.

Just then the sloop stopped. A wave hit the bow and spun it to starboard. Another hit the stern and spun it back to port. Ken gave the engine full throttle.

No response.

He yanked on the starter cord.

He yanked again.

A sputter of smoke.

Justin offered to help, but Ken waved him away and yanked several more times. The engine remained dead. He swore and pounded a fist on the throttle.

With no engine pushing the boat forward, it was at the mercy of the churning currents, the relentless wind, the towering waves. Serendipity pitched wildly first in one direction then the other.

Justin prayed that the Coast Guard had heard his distress call. The thought was still in his mind when a wave larger than any he’d ever seen, at least twelve feet tall, broke and crashed against Serendipity’s port side.

He had no time to think or move. He braced himself against the wave but could do nothing to lessen its crushing impact. His body somersaulted backward into the sea.

He went down and down, propelled by the power of the wave and the weight of his slicker and wet clothes and shoes. Water swirled in his nose. Pressure built in his ears. He felt smothered, lightheaded. Submerged in inky darkness, he fought the temptation to panic. He slipped off his topsiders and pulled the cord that inflated his life vest.

The buoyancy pulled him upward. Desperate for air, he kicked and stroked. He broke the surface, drew a breath, and got a mouthful of water from a surging wave. He spit and coughed, searching for Ken and Sharon. The capsized sloop bobbed on its side, its hull half submerged. Ken swam toward it. Since Justin had closed the hatch, he was confident the boat wouldn’t sink and followed Ken’s lead.

Then he saw Sharon. She was motionless with her face in the water. A wave between him and the boat crested and broke over her. He swam through another breaking wave, grabbed her hair from behind, and lifted her face out of the water. She was bleeding from a gash on her forehead. She appeared pale and wasn’t breathing. He placed one hand on her stomach while supporting her back with the other and pushed.

She vomited seawater and remained motionless. He kicked to elevate himself and rehearsed the skills he’d learned while working as a lifeguard. He breathed into her mouth. She vomited again. He kept kicking and administered as much mouth-to-mouth resuscitation as he could manage. His legs and arms felt as if they were filled with concrete. Still she didn’t breathe. Terror stabbed at his heart. “Please breathe. I won’t let you die!”

Only the howling wind heard his lament. He kept giving her mouth-to-mouth on the trough side of each wave, fighting to keep her afloat. Her body was limp. He couldn’t let her die. He gulped the salty air and breathed into her lungs. Finally her arms moved. She belched and wretched and opened her eyes.

“Oh God … oh God …” Her eyes went wide when she recognized him. “What happened? Please help me. Please…”

“I will. I promise. You’ll be all right.” He wrapped an arm around her chest and scissor-kicked toward Serendipity with his head half in the water. The sloop drifted aimlessly two boat-lengths away. The waves clawed at him, and the wind whipped water into his eyes and mouth, but finally he reached the bobbing hull.

Ken had climbed onto the keel and was splayed across the hull gripping the edge of the deck. Justin grabbed the keel, which was still partially submerged. He held the keel and kicked to push Sharon up as Ken hoisted her from above. His legs cramped. His arms were leaden. Sharon let out a gasp as he shoved her onto the hull.

“You’ve got to stay with the boat!” he yelled above the screeching wind. “It’s your only hope.”

She nodded weakly and struggled to hold on. Just as Ken maneuvered her onto the hull, Justin heard a squawking, whirling noise. He glimpsed the lights of a Coast Guard helicopter. A wave hit him from behind and smacked his head against the keel. A murky haze descended. He opened his mouth and water poured into his lungs.

He began to sink. His head ached as if it had been crushed in a vice. The last sound he heard was the whirring cacophony of helicopter rotors above the shrieking wind. He strained to kick, but cramps gnarled his legs. He felt himself sinking deeper and blacking out.

No more light.

No more strength.

Must have air … now! … Can’t wait any longer …

His lungs spasmed and inhaled more water. Help me, God! Please help me! Please …

He tried to scream but couldn’t. He was drowning…too long without air…too pummeled by the waves to save himself.

A massive steel door opened in front of him. Suction pulled his spiritual essence out of his convulsing body. He didn’t want to leave. He fought the relentless force but soon grew exhausted. A deafening whoosh pierced his ears as his soul left his lifeless body and flew through the door.

Terror ripped through his gut. Where am I? What’s happening to me? He thrashed and kicked but couldn’t stop flying. He remained aware but inhabited a new spiritual body, translucent in essence. Darkness enveloped him. He lost all sense of where he was until he splashed into a frigid, raging river. Foaming rapids swept him along in powerful currents. He stole frantic breaths as he bobbed and swirled downstream. “Help me! Please, anyone…help!”
4

An Unsuspecting Wife

Staten Island, New York

Wednesday, April 30, 2003

10:07 A.M.

Tori Connelly should have known better than to discuss men with her mother. On a brisk, overcast morning she had taken her one-year-old son, Justin Jr., and her mom on an invigorating walk along the tidal flats in Great Kills Park. Back at the car, when Tori couldn’t escape, her mother asked, “How serious are you about Paul Spardello?”

“I’ve been seeing a lot of him. Let’s just leave it at that.” She started the Chevy Impala, eager to stop at the bank then get ready for work.

Her mother ran a brush through her shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair. “I’m just trying to be supportive.”

Tori yanked the wheel as she merged into the light traffic on Buffalo Avenue. “You need to give Paul and me time to decide what’s best for us.”

She checked her rearview mirror and noticed a lime green motorcycle following closely. Her breath caught in her throat. She told herself to calm down, that the driver in the black modular helmet was just in a hurry.

“You didn’t answer my question,” her mother said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Tori noticed her mom’s furrowed brow. From childhood on, people had told her she was her mother’s mirror image—wide-set chocolaty eyes, a pleasing but slightly angular nose, full lips, and a bright smile. Nowadays her mother looked more stern than attractive. Tori pressed on the accelerator and gained speed as a light rain began to fall. “He asked me to marry him.”

“I hope you said yes.”

“I said I needed time to think about it.”

“Whatever for?” Her mother’s exasperation rang through every word.

“His divorce isn’t final yet. I can’t make any decisions until that happens. Besides, Sadie can be a handful. I’m not sure I’m ready for the whole stepmom routine.”

Tori checked the rearview mirror again. The motorcycle was gone. She drove through the intersection of Nelson Avenue and Amboy Road at a steady speed.

“It’s not just that …” Her neck stiffened, but she forced herself to go on. “Sometimes the relationship feels … I don’t know, painful. I catch myself wishing he hadn’t been Justin’s best friend. Being reminded of Justin makes me sad.”

“I would think Paul could understand those feelings better than anyone.”

The rain had turned to drizzle. A memory of Justin’s tousle-haired good looks and seductive smile gnawed at her. A hollowed-out ache staggered her heart, as it always did when she thought of him. Their four-year marriage seemed like a blur—a fairy-tale romance that had fizzled into mutual despair in the last year as he’d grown critical, irritable, withdrawn. She adjusted the rearview mirror so she could see the baby in the backseat then looked away when her eyes misted.

“Wouldn’t Justin want you to be happy?” Her mother tossed the brush into her purse and snapped the top shut. “Who would he rather have you marry, anyway?”

“Like I said, it can be a double-edged sword.”

“You’ll never find a better man. I worry about you and the baby being alone. The stories you cover can be dangerous.”

“Give me credit for going back to work, for starting to date again. Coming this far with Paul feels like a real accomplishment.”

“Then say yes. There aren’t many men like him. If you let him get away, you’ll regret it the rest of your life.”

Tori met her searching eyes. “I love Paul, I really do. But the relationship is different from my marriage. I had so much passion for Justin. With Paul, I feel admiration and respect.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. Passion fades.”

Her mother’s practical bent was exasperating. Relationships were complicated. They often defied logic. “If Justin had died in some other way, maybe it would be easier to get over him. As it is, he still has a big piece of my heart.”

Her mother looked out the window. Finally she said, “I just don’t want you to miss an opportunity you may never get again.”

She had a point. Tori loved Paul, just not with the overwhelming, weak-at-the-knees feeling Justin had evoked. Perhaps common interests and shared goals would make a better foundation for marriage. It was all too much to think about.

The rain had stopped. She avoided eye contact with her mom and switched on the radio. A male newscaster said, “There was high drama on the stormy seas off Rhode Island this morning. A man by the name of Rainer Ferguson saved his friend’s life during a sailing accident and is now in a coma after nearly drowning. Authorities have been unable to locate Mr. Ferguson’s next of kin, but his friends say he has New Jersey roots.”

Interesting story, Tori thought. Maybe she’d ask her editor at TheNewYorkHerald if she could investigate it further. The story made her think of the times Justin had taken her sailing off Staten Island. She’d loved the sun and the surf and picnicking with him at the tiller, his hair windblown, his face tan. The first time they’d made love on the boat came back to her … the smell of sunscreen, the lap of the waves against the hull, the glimmer of the stars out the cabin window. The mystical aura of the night had turned their sighs into music, their kisses into fine wine. Her heart yearned for that kind of romance again.

She glanced into the rearview mirror and saw the motorcycle.

Her spine went rigid.

She slowed in the hope that the broad-shouldered driver would grow frustrated and pass them. But when she braked, so did he.

“Don’t turn around, Mama. I think we’re being followed.”

“How do you know?”

“The same motorcycle was behind us after we left the park. The driver turned off, so I thought nothing of it. Now he’s back.”

The baby started to cry as her mother’s face grew pale. They were only half a mile from the Patriot Savings Bank on Richmond Avenue. She decided to keep driving. If the sleek motorcycle was still tailing them when they arrived at the bank, she would continue on to the police station.

As she approached the building, she slowed again. This time the driver swerved and sped past. She couldn’t see his face because the helmet’s shield was tinted, but she caught a glimpse of the insignia on the motorcycle—Kawasaki ZX-12R.

Her mother turned to calm the baby and let out an audible sigh. “If you’re being followed, it’s probably because of some investigation you’re involved in. What is it this time?”

“You know I can’t discuss it.”

“If you’re going to put me in danger, I deserve to know.”

Tori settled back into her seat. “Let’s not overreact. I’m being selective about my assignments. Reporting is a calling. I have to do it.”

She parked in the long rectangular lot behind the bank and turned off the engine. She grabbed her leather purse, threw the strap over a shoulder, and hurried alongside the building toward the front entrance. The ATM was in the foyer. Through the glass doors that led into the lobby, she noticed a brawny, redheaded security guard keeping watch inside. She endorsed her check, sealed it into an envelope, and made her deposit as other customers came and went.

Everything appeared normal with the usual bustle and rising energy of a spring morning in Staten Island. It was still windy and overcast. She hurried out the door, eager to get home and change before catching the ferry to Manhattan. She rounded the corner and rummaged in her purse. When she found the car keys, she looked up, and her knees went weak.

The lime green motorcycle was parked on the street.

Before she could move, the driver came around the back of the bank still wearing his helmet. He lunged and snatched her purse. A flash of terror numbed her arms and legs. The purse and the keys flew out of her hands, but the strap caught her wrist. She latched on and pulled against the man’s strength.

“Give me the pendant!” He swore in a guttural voice.

“What are you talking about?”

She fought him, determined to keep her purse. It contained her most cherished keepsake, the engraved locket Justin had given her on their first wedding anniversary. She tightened her grip, but the man shoved her. Her arm hit the pavement, and a jolt of pain shot through it. He yanked the purse loose and dashed for the Kawasaki. The roar of the engine pierced her ears and was followed by the squeal of tires. She grew disoriented and struggled to stand. By the time she did, the man had sped away.

“Are you all right?” The brawny security guard sprinted from the front of the bank.

She picked up her keys and inhaled to steady her voice. “I’m okay, but my purse is gone.”

“I saw the guy flee. I’m calling 911.” The guard withdrew a cell phone from the pocket of his slacks.

Her mother came running. “What happened?”

“The driver of the motorcycle snatched my purse.” Tori gasped as emotion gathered in her throat over the lost locket.

Her mother hugged her. “Who is this guy? Why would he pick you?”

“I wish I knew.”

Tori felt as if the ground were buckling beneath her. She pulled away, bent over, sucked in air. She dredged her memory for any investigation she’d conducted that involved a pendant. Nothing surfaced. The assailant’s demand had been bizarre. She hadn’t written about a pendant, didn’t even own one that was worth anything except in sentimental value. A siren wailed in the distance. Not since the day Justin had died had she felt so vulnerable.

“May I use your phone?” she asked the guard.

Her mother squeezed her arm. “Who are you calling?”

“Paul.”

Tori punched in his number.
5

Where Am I?

Justin felt ready to vomit and couldn’t grasp what was happening. He fought the rapids, writhing and flaying. “Oh God, oh God, save me!” He gulped breaths between cries. His chest spasmed with terror. “Someone please help me!” The roaring, churning rapids drowned him out. He vaguely remembered slamming his head on the keel of the sailboat, swallowing too much water, being pulled through a massive door.

His body was different now. His head still throbbed, and he felt the frigid coldness of the river that swept him along, but his flesh and bones had been transformed into a mysterious translucent substance. Isthissomekindofdream?WhenwillIwakeup?HowcanIgetbackhome? His confusion dizzied him. He didn’t know where he was, how he’d gotten there, how much longer he could survive. Exhausted, he surrendered to the current. It forced him down and sent him somersaulting beneath the rapids as if he were a ragdoll.

He swallowed water and began to choke. He was suffocating … trying to breathe … growing increasingly claustrophobic. He was sure he was drowning, but instead of dying, he descended deeper and deeper into panic. The descent continued into what felt like madness, utter insanity. Just as his soul began to implode into itself, an eruption from below catapulted him up. He broke the surface retching and vomiting.

The current slowed enough for him to gasp for breath. He coughed and spit as he managed to swim to shore and climb out. He collapsed on the sandy bank and fought to catch his breath in the searing cold. Panic wrenched his gut as his eyes failed to adjust to the thick darkness. He felt as if he were blind. A tide of loneliness more desperate than any he’d ever known washed through him—loneliness for friendship, for love.

For Tori.

The feeling was like the gnawing, grinding alienation he’d known during moments of despair, but its intensity kept increasing, as if his heart were drifting farther and farther from human contact.

All his memories of love and relationship vanished. He longed to weep but couldn’t. WhydoIfeelsounbearablysad?Whydoesthesadnesskeepgettingworse? The longing and confusion filled his chest with mounting pressure. His heart felt as if it had been crushed. The ache spread and intensified as the darkness mauled him. The anguish made him shriek in terror. He shrieked and shrieked until his ears hurt and his throat grew hoarse, but no one heard.

The air had grown so cold it felt torrid. The hot coldness burned through him like a chemical fire. He gagged on the rancid, sulfur-like stench. Desperate for relief, he ran down a grassy ridge and along a dirt path until he came to a cavern wider and longer than the sea.

His mouth went dry and his eyes stung. Multitudes of translucent bodies like his were trapped inside the cavern. Their weeping and shrieking pierced his ears. As they tried to crawl out, they fought each other, but the cliffs were too steep and high. No one could escape.

WhereamI?Whoarethesebeings?HowcanIgetoutofthisplace? The questions assaulted him like rapid gunfire. Paralyzing dread settled in as he pondered the unthinkable: could this be hell? He stepped back from the rim, horrified by the scene while also mesmerized by it.

He wanted to follow the river upstream back to Serendipity, but an enormous birdlike creature with six feathered wings blocked his way. The creature was radiant. Light shone through its body, giving it an ethereal aura.

“You cannot go back that way,” the creature said in a deep, resonant voice.

Justin stepped to the right as terror drove him forward. “You can’t stop me.”

The creature extended a wing and knocked him down. “I already have.”

He got up and tried to shove the creature aside. “Who are you?”

“I am a messenger sent to you from the Holy One who speaks on the sacred mountain. It lies on the forbidden side beyond the dark forest at the northern boundary of this place. Only those who trust in him and his message gain their freedom.”

“I don’t care about any sacred mountain. I just want out of this place.”

Beyond and above the river, he could see the ocean and the storm off Block Island. A Coast Guard diver entered the water and lifted Justin’s lifeless body into a rescue basket. The basket rose into the fuselage as the helicopter flew toward the mainland.

The creature held his shoulders. “I know you want to go back. Everyone who comes here does.”

Justin struggled to break free. “Where am I?”

“This is the cavern of eternal—”

A cry from inside the cavern drowned out the messenger’s voice. “Food … food … please!”

Another cry shriller than the last arose. “First bring me water! I’m thirsty.”

Justin stopped struggling. “Can’t anyone bring them food or water?”

“Plenty of both are available,” the messenger said as it relaxed its wings, “but the souls are starving and thirsty because they refuse to share. They also suffer from the unbearable loneliness you feel. Even surrounded by other souls, they’re incapable of love. They care only about themselves, which makes their loneliness torturous and inescapable. Do you recognize anyone?”

Justin stared at the multitudes. “How can I? They have no faces.”

The creature pointed at a group huddled on a wide ledge halfway up the cavern wall. Their charred bodies broiled in flames as dozens of naked women danced around them. “Do you see that group on the ledge?”

“Yes.”

“They were the hijackers of September 11th, 2001. They murdered their victims with fire and now suffer the consequences. The glamorous women are the seventy-two virgins for whom they lusted. The men’s burning desire will never be satisfied. Their fate could be yours if you don’t learn from your misdeeds and make amends.”

Justin broke away and climbed onto the dirt path that led to the river. “I’ve seen enough. I have to get out of this place.”

“You can’t. Your hurtful actions along with your ignorance have condemned you to be here. The only way out is to receive forgiveness and a second chance from the Holy One. Only you can decide if you are ready to seek him.”

Above the roar of the rapids, Justin heard what sounded like the yelping of dogs. “What’s that?”

“The three-headed dogs lead the demons of death. The dogs follow the scent of lust, greed, vengeance, guilt … of all destructive thoughts. The only way to escape is to think about purity, truth, beauty, love, or other noble qualities. Focus on the ways you helped people during your time on earth. If you fail, the demons of death will cast you into the cavern of despair. Those souls have rejected the love of the Holy One. Your only hope is to let his love transform you.”

The yelping grew closer. “Please just let me go home.”

“I am not allowed to do that. Only the Holy One can set the captives free.”

“What must I do?” Justin left the path and ran into the dark forest that lay beside it.

The creature kept pace with him. “The forbidden side lies beyond this forest. You must pass through the forest and come to the gate that leads to the sacred mountain. The keeper of the gate will determine whether you are worthy to enter.”

“How can I be worthy?”

“The deepest desire of your heart must be to love and be loved by the Holy One.” The creature stopped him with a wing. “Go due north and do not stop until you reach the gate. Your pendant holds the secret to your survival. In the past, you doubted its power, but you were wrong. The power can be used for tremendous good or horrific evil.”

Justin shoved his hand into his pocket and fingered the engravings. Candace had believed that the pendant possessed special powers, but he’d always mocked the idea. He saw the pendant as nothing more than her good luck charm—one that he’d kept to remind him of his terrible indiscretions and his commitment to build a new life. He hadn’t tried to use the pendant’s powers because to him the idea that it had any was ludicrous. “Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“If you don’t believe it, you’ll be at the mercy of the dogs. The demons want the pendant so they can enslave and torture the souls here. As long as you point it at them while thinking noble thoughts, they cower in its presence. If they catch you, the pendant is your only hope of escaping. Do you promise to follow these instructions?”

“As you said, I have no other choice.”

Justin fled into the dark forest as the yelping grew louder. He imagined dozens of long, salivating tongues and nail-sharp teeth yearning to seize him and drag him back to the cavern of despair.

He wove through thickets of towering pines and cedars. The underbrush rustled and popped beneath his bare feet. The thighs and calves of his mysterious translucent body burned, his lungs pled for air, his heart begged for rest.

When he heard rushing water, he headed toward the sound. If he waded through the river, he could throw the dogs off his scent and possibly outrun them. The yelping was no more than a quarter mile behind him as he reached the river. He waded up to his waist in the icy water and began to swim. The current was swift, but he kicked and stroked until he reached the opposite bank fifty yards away. Climbing up, he caught his breath then kept running north. Gratitude for the opportunity to reach the mountain filled his thoughts. He no longer heard the dogs.

After a mile of hard running, he approached a wide bend in the river where the water grew peaceful. He paused to rest and stared at the glassy surface. To his surprise, he saw not only his own reflection but that of a exquisitely sculpted feminine face. He turned and nearly stumbled into a voluptuous woman. She had full rosy lips, long white hair, and eyes the color of sapphires. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I am the woman who inhabits men’s dreams. Come, swim with me.”

She took off her long white dress. Justin stood slack-jawed as she dove naked into the river. A powerful surge of desire swept through him weakening his knees. His first impulse was to dive in after her, but before he could move, he remembered the messenger’s warning. Lustful thoughts would draw the dogs. He focused his attention on the sacred mountain.

“I have to go.”

After a few steps, he almost collided with a tall, rawboned man who ran out of the forest. The naked man stood on the bank gazing at the woman. “I’ve been following you. May I join you?”

The woman waved for him to come closer. He dove in. Justin quickened his pace, and when he approached the tree line, he glanced back. The man embraced the woman, but when his lips met hers, his body melted and disappeared into a mist. Astonished, Justin went back.

“What happened to him?”

The woman smiled and swam toward the riverbank. “I’m a Spirit woman assigned to see which men are more possessed by lust than by yearning for the Holy One. That man has been transported to the cavern of eternal despair.”

A tremor of relief passed through him as he realized how close he’d come to destruction. He headed north at a steady pace as the air grew now frigid, now sizzling hot. The sacred mountain was several miles away. He studied its majestic slopes and pondered his desire to see and hear the Holy One.

He barely noticed a pile of leaves in his path. As he barged through, his foot hit something solid like a tree trunk. He tripped and landed hard on the ground. Pain radiated up his leg.

A deep voice said, “Watch where you’re going, you clumsy fool!”

A hunchbacked man with broad shoulders and a round, pockmarked face charged him. Justin sprang to his feet and braced to fight the gnarled, hulking creature.

“Hold on! I didn’t see you lying there.”

“That’s ’cause you weren’t watching, you miserable wretch.”

The hunchback threw a punch then followed with two more. One of the punches landed on Justin’s chest, knocking him down. He leaped up and assumed a boxer’s stance as a surge of anger welled up in his gut. “All right. If you want a fight, you’ve got one.”

The hunchback stepped back and laughed. “I knew you’d lose your temper and want revenge. Now you’ve signaled your location to the dogs. I won’t have to punish you for disturbing the peace of the forest. They’ll do it for me.”

“Who are you?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Justin Connelly. I’m trying to make it to the sacred mountain.”

“You can’t go there. It’s on the forbidden side. But there’s no chance of your gettin’ there anyway. The dogs’ll smell your vengeful thoughts and track you down like a wounded rabbit.” He let out a belly laugh. “What a fool!”

Justin took off running, cut back to the river, and followed it toward the mountain. He sloshed through the swampy shallows to throw the dogs off his scent. Meditating on his efforts to rescue Sharon Jenkins turned his thoughts away from his former life and his scathing guilt. He ran for more than two miles with the swampy odor clinging to him. When he caught a glimpse of what lay ahead, he stopped in stunned disbelief.
6

The Mystery Deepens

Manhattan, New York

Wednesday, April 30, 2003

12:16 P.M.

Tori headed for her editor’s glassed-in office. The clusters of desks and snarls of computer screens in the newsroom of TheNewYorkHerald made the auditorium-like space a challenging obstacle course. A shiver ran through her whenever she thought of having her purse snatched. Thankfully Paul had come through for her again when she’d needed comfort. He offered her stability and companionship, but the question of whether these were enough to sustain a marriage gnawed at her. The closer she got to her meeting with Grant Richards, the colder the shiver grew until it matched the air outside. She wished she’d worn something heavier than her double-knit gray slacks and black sweater.

The images flashing on the enormous flat-screen TV at the front of the room drew her attention. A fine-boned anchorwoman with long auburn hair reported a new Middle East peace initiative called the Roadmap. Tori kept going through the bustle of activity. She’d entered the newsroom hoping its familiar coffee smells and harried chatter would help her regain her equilibrium. Now that she was here, she needed something more. Only her boss could provide it.

She found his office empty and glanced around. Her gaze darted to a neatly coiffed sportscaster on the TV who was reading the baseball scores: the Red Sox had beaten the Yankees at Fenway. Then a slender man with the worst comb-over in Manhattan besides that of former mayor Rudy Giuliani emerged from another office. Grant Richards approached holding a rolled up newspaper.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked.

“Yes. Something has come up.”

She followed him into his cramped office and sat in the wooden chair across from his metal desk. He pointed the remote at the TV and lowered the volume. “I also have something to discuss with you, but go ahead.”

She drew a quick breath. “My purse was snatched this morning.”

“What!” He came around the desk, his thin face draped with concern. “Where?”

“In the parking lot of the Patriot Savings Bank a few blocks from my house.”

“Are you all right?”

“I am now, but it gave me quite a scare.”

He leaned against the desk and hugged the newspaper. “What happened?”

She told him about the guy on the motorcycle, about her attempt to save her purse.

“You fought him?” Grant sounded incredulous. “Not a good idea. Did you get his plate number?”

“Everything happened too fast.” The memory of the man slamming her down brought back the chills. She rubbed her arms. “All I could tell the police was the make of the motorcycle, and that the guy had the trim, muscular physique of an athlete.” She locked eyes with Grant. “But here’s what’s really strange. He was sure I had a pendant of some kind in my purse.”

“A pendant?” He sat on the edge of the desk. “What’s that about?”

“I’m mystified. That’s why I had to talk with you. I’d like some time to investigate the incident.”

“Why? You reported it to the police, didn’t you?”

She’d expected him to oppose the idea and had come prepared. “Yes, but the police have failed me in the past. Remember the threats I’ve gotten because of my articles? My laptop has been stolen from my car. My home was burglarized. The cops didn’t produce a single suspect in those cases.”

He examined the rolled-up newspaper through the square lenses of his thick-framed glasses. “You know the detectives are overwhelmed. They don’t have time to investigate small crimes thoroughly.”

She slapped the armrest. “That’s my point. I’m afraid they won’t even try to catch this guy, and he’ll come after me again when he doesn’t find the pendant in my purse.”

“Look, I know you’re concerned, and so am I but …” He slid around to the other side of the desk and unfurled the paper. “This is a good lead-in to an assignment I want to discuss with you. Even the Post is eating our lunch on the Iraq War. We’ve got to expand our coverage. I’m going to need your help.”

“I’ve been helping for more than a month, ever since the war started.” She stared at the coffee mug full of pens on his cluttered desk and thought of the endless hours she’d spent earning her journalism degree. She couldn’t afford to alienate her boss. Neither could she sleep at night if the attacker who thought she had some valuable pendant stayed at large. “What more do you want me to do?”

“We need some captivating human interest stories. People want to know about the soldiers from New York and New Jersey—what they’re facing in Iraq, how their families are coping. We also need more features about the fallen.”

She felt herself tense. Writing about tragic deaths had become excruciating for her since September 11th. Features about bereaved wives were especially painful. She found herself gripped by the longing to have Justin back, if only for a moment. She would gladly give her life to have him kiss and hold her one last time.

As always, Grant was obsessed with the paper. He would only agree to her request if she wrote more about the soldiers and their families. “I’m ready to take on any of those assignments. You can add to them an interesting story I heard on the radio this morning. A guy from New Jersey saved his friend from drowning in Rhode Island and ended up in a coma. All I ask is that you also let me see if I can find out anything about the purse snatcher.”

Grant whacked the newspaper with an open palm. “Don’t you realize what’s at stake here? Your job could be on the line … and mine too.”

She stood and gripped the edge of the desk. “I’m more concerned about my life.” She leaned forward to within inches of his reddening face. “I can do both. Trust me.”

He stepped back and grew reflective. “I’m concerned about you, I really am, but …”

She caught a glimpse of the TV in the newsroom as the camera zoomed in on a photograph of a man who looked eerily familiar. He reminded her of Justin. She turned and stared at the smaller TV behind her. “Quick, Grant. Turn up the volume.”

The anchorwoman said, “In an extraordinary development, the man in the photograph, known as Rainer Ferguson, was knocked unconscious while rescuing a woman during a sailing accident off the Rhode Island s