The Occupied

by Craig Parshall

  Only then did I stop talking and begin to weep.

  60

  I stayed in Manitou after the incident at the foundry until the shooting investigation was complete. I needed to be there for Ashley, and not just as a witness to the events.

  As we met again for ice cream one evening four days after the incident at the foundry, she said, “I’m sorry I had to shoot. And I’m sorry it was your friend who died.”

  I told her that she did what she had to do, and she was brave in doing it. And I owed her my life.

  But I did ask her whether she saw anything unusual happening up on that catwalk that night. She told me she entered that area of the foundry just as Augie was screaming about something and pointing a gun at me. I decided not to share with her the supernatural cacophony that had preceded her arrival. Best to save it for another time.

  During those days, just waiting around in my old hometown, I realized that I had to break the bad news to Dan Hoover. I called him and had to tell him about Bobby’s killer. About Augie. I kept it to the bare facts. They were brutal and disturbing enough. Dan was deeply shaken, I could tell.

  So, when Dan called me a week later, after I had returned to the island, I was surprised to hear from him so soon. I was even more surprised at his invitation.

  “My band and I are going to be playing down in Norfolk, Virginia, next month. That’s close to you, isn’t it?”

  “Only a few hours away,” I said. “I can take the ferry to Hatteras and then drive up to hear you. Just tell me when and where.”

  “That’s not exactly what I’m thinking.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “How long would it take to brush up on your blues harp?”

  “How long would it take,” I shot back, “for you to restore your reputation after I destroy it in Norfolk?”

  He roared. “Come on, Trevor. Let’s do this thing. For old times’ sake.” Then he paused and added, “You know, and for our fallen comrades too.”

  Dan got me with that one. I reluctantly agreed. My magazine article was done; I had time to kill and the blues harp to relearn all over again. I told him that I’d do it. Dan said he’d pick a music set in the key of B, so I would need my E harmonica.

  As I hustled to brush up musical skills that were all but gone for good, Ashley and I exchanged a few e-mails. Sheriff Butch Jardinsky had been suspended pending an investigation into his conduct, and Detective Colin Jennings had been named the interim sheriff. When I asked Ashley why she wasn’t appointed instead of Jennings, she said, “Hey, I just received my second medal for heroism. I’m on easy street. Who would want all the paperwork and administrative headaches, and then have to run for sheriff every couple of years?”

  I couldn’t argue with that. One day, out of the blue, instead of an e-mail, Ashley’s name lit up on my iPhone. I picked up, eager to hear her voice.

  “To what do I owe this call?”

  “Two things, Mr. Black.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “I told you I had a hunch about your high school sweetheart,” Ashley said brightly. “A hunch, along with some good detective work.”

  I struggled to place the reference.

  “You told me about Marilyn Parlow, and I checked up on the details.”

  I stopped breathing. What was she getting at?

  Ashley paused a moment, then dropped a bombshell. “No abortion,” she reported matter-of-factly, telling me that, instead, there had been a live birth. “Your baby daughter was adopted as an infant into a good family.”

  I couldn’t respond. Not at first. The world was spinning.

  “Are you still there?” she asked.

  I stammered, “This is . . . Oh my heavens, this is fantastic. Unbelievable.”

  Then the rest. “When she turned eighteen,” Ashley explained, “she went out on her own. Sort of disappeared for a while. Oh, and your daughter’s name—I almost forgot. It’s Heather.”

  Just then a crashing reversal of fortunes. The world, and everything in it, suddenly turned to night. An overwhelming sense of foreboding. “Ashley,” I shouted, “I have a terrible feeling about this.”

  “Hey, Trevor, I bring you great news, and you’re going all upset and funky on me?”

  “You don’t understand. She was named Heather, you say. But there was this case I was involved with in New York. A nineteen-year-old named Heather. Street kid. Hooked on drugs. Doing prostitution. A horrible death.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” she shot back. “Put on the brakes.”

  “How? First you tell me that I have a daughter. The best news I have had for such a long time. The next minute I’m wondering whether she’s a murder victim.”

  “Trevor, slow down. First of all, your daughter is in her twenties, not nineteen. Second, I’m here to tell you that she is alive and well. She’s currently living in Florida.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure.”

  I walked away from the edge of disaster. The sky shone blue again.

  Ashley continued. “At this point I just need to know one thing from you.”

  “The answer is yes. Yes. If she’s willing to see me, yes, please tell her I want to meet her.”

  “A mind reader too,” Ashley laughed. “A man of many talents.”

  “Speaking of my many talents . . .” When I told her about the Norfolk gig with Dan Hoover, she went ballistic, laughing and asking me for all the details.

  “I’ll be in touch, Trevor.”

  But before we hung up, I asked, “So, Ashley, tell me, what about us?”

  Silence. So long, I wondered whether the connection had been severed. But eventually she responded. “No matter how this turns out, Trevor, just remember: we will always have Manitou. Not Paris, I know, but there you have it.”

  I laughed at her retooling of the line from Casablanca. But after I hung up, I stopped laughing. Didn’t Bogart end up splitting with Ingrid Bergman in the end?

  The jazz and blues concert in Norfolk was in a small warehouse on Tazewell Street that had been converted into a restaurant and music hall called Live Stream Café. I was glad to sit out the first two sets. When Dan beckoned me up to the stage for the last one, I picked my way through the sea of tables in the dimly lit restaurant, with my key-of-E blues harp clutched in my sweaty fist.

  The place was sold out, and there were even standees lined up against the wall by the entrance.

  We did a variation on several Paul Butterfield Blues Band classics. I had been cramming eight hours a day for the two weeks leading up to the gig, trying to pick it up again, and Dan had e-mailed me a music file with his renditions from one of his albums so I could practice. Still, as we played, I felt like a kite flyer matched up with jet pilots. Dan and his guys were generous and ended up following me rather than vice versa just to make things easy. We ended the official set with our version of Butterfield’s “One More Heartache,” and Dan and I shared the vocals. Dan’s guitar riff was musical brilliance.

  But then, as an encore, Dan gave in to a number I had discovered and that we had practiced earlier that day. An African piece of gospel jazz called “Satan Fall Down,” by blind musician Lasana Kanneh and his group IJenNeh.

  Our rendition was pretty loose, more like a jam session, but the crowd loved it. The song has a killer beat, sort of Nigerian-blues-reggae fusion. Best of all is the simplicity of lyrics addressed to the devil himself—“Jesus done beat you two thousand years ago.”

  When we got to that part, because the house lights had started to come up, I could see the lineup of standees at the other end of the room by the entrance. And that was when I recognized Ashley standing there, grinning and clapping wildly. I think she couldn’t help but laugh and applaud at the song that told about beating the devil and about who it was who had beaten him.

  The ovation at the end was for New Jersey Dan Hoover and his group. I was just along for the ride, and it was a rush for me simply to be there.

  Then I noticed
that Ashley had begun to point. She was pointing next to her. To a young blonde woman in jeans and a leather jacket. The face, now visible in the glare of the overhead house lights, was a face I had seen before. So much like her mother. So very much.

  I stumbled through the crowd and past a few well-wishers until I found myself standing inches away from her. Miraculous. Heather had been delivered. One of life’s most important messages, lost in the mail, now recovered and standing in front of me.

  I told myself to hold it together, for whatever reason, but it didn’t work because my eyes blurred over and I could feel my chin starting to wobble. I strained to read her. Heather had a strange kind of calm. Keeping her distance. No tears. No hugs. Just an awkward moment as she studied me.

  Then Heather said, “I understand that you’re my dad. I guess you have been looking for me?”

  All I could say—all that could be said—was simple. “Yes, I have. In one way or another, for most of my life.”

  Neither of us spoke for several seconds. Ashley broke the ice. “Okay. It’s clear I am going to have to be the ringleader for this circus. Let’s grab a table. Or do you two want some time alone?”

  Both of us said no, that the three of us would be just fine together. Hopefully there would be plenty of time for Heather and me to get to know each other after that. We grabbed an open table in the noisy music hall.

  How do you cover the distance of lives that have been lived apart, an entire lifetime? We couldn’t. Not in one night. I did most of the talking, along with Ashley. Heather did most of the listening. At the end of the night, Heather reached out her hand and shook mine. I had hoped for a catharsis, but none came. But my daughter had come. That was the important thing.

  EPILOGUE

  Through all the murders and mutilations, I had thought I was pursuing a monster. It turned out that I had been chasing my friend. He wasn’t the enemy. Not really. He was just taken hostage by the enemy.

  That weighs heavy on my mind as I sit in my Land Rover. The North Carolina ferry is sliding through the water toward the harbor of Ocracoke Island, which is now in sight.

  Other things try to crowd their way into my mind, too, like the big man who was hovering at the window of my car, earlier on this ferry ride. One of the horribles.

  Now a ferry master in the tan uniform is waving us forward. I take my car out of park, keeping my foot down on the brake, and when the cars ahead of me start moving, I creep forward and eventually over the metal drawbridge on the ferry until my tires hit solid ground.

  There is only one road that leads to the one tiny hamlet of a town on my island, and I am traveling on it, following behind a line of cars. But something stirs in me, and instead of heading directly home, I stop my car at the marina. The sea is calling.

  I have much to ponder as I prepare to embark. There is still an ocean of distance between my daughter and me. But I pray for the lost years between us to somehow be restored.

  That is on my mind as I motor toward the Gulf Stream. The engines throb heavy in my ears, and the wind is laced with salt spray. The good news is that Ashley and Heather have announced a joint visit to my little island hideaway. The plans are already under way. I am hopeful.

  But then there are the consequences of life in a fallen world and the loss of people I have cared for, some of them brutally lost; the ache is still there, as if at a fracture line. So the world toils on. The flesh fails. And demons rage, but only for a while. Until the Guardian King finally crushes them underfoot.

  Until then I will be buoyed, like a sail that is billowing full, captured by a good wind and plowing forward under a power that is not my own. Despite the treacherous waters all around, there is still joy. A paradox.

  A catamaran cruises past me, tilting, its double hull cutting the water and its sail filled with a good wind. It is full of islanders, and they all wave. The man at the helm points to the newly painted name on the stern of my boat. He seems to be enjoying a good laugh at the new name that I have given my fishing vessel. He points to himself, creating his own interpretation, perhaps. But the name on my vessel carries a truth beyond the visible world.

  I’M OCCUPIED

  At the wheel, I daydream about hooking a yellowfin tuna today and about the vastness of the great blue rolling Atlantic. Even with the uncertainty of where things will go from here, I find myself hopeful and at peace.

  Then my cell phone rings. I never considered I would have reception way out here. It’s Dick Valentine on the line, asking me a question, although it begins with a statement. “Trevor, I’m investigating this crime, another grim one. The kind that troubles the soul. The kind that cuts a wake. I thought you might be interested. Are you?”

  I listen as my friend gives me just the headlines, but enough to remind me that the destroyer is still out there and that I will have to make a decision soon. I steel myself as I look out to the horizon where the sea meets the sky. No sense in calculating the risks. After all, no matter how many forces the enemy brings, what really matters is who occupies me.

  I respond to the NYPD detective.

  “Tell me more.”

  Keep reading for the next Trevor Black novel . . .

  The Empowered

  Visit Craig online to learn more.

  I raced off the escalator, pressing through the crowd, and searched for the tunnel leading to the silver line of the Metro. Another glance backward. No sign yet of my pursuer. I heard the sound of the Metro rushing up to us, and as it pulled to the curb, there were the chimes and the canned announcement telling everyone to step back to allow passengers onto the car. When the doors slid open, I was about to dash into the nearest car but then looked back to the escalator. The red-shirt twin was now sprinting my way.

  I jumped into the Metro car. Then the double chime and the recorded voice: “Step back. Doors closing. . . .”

  “Yes, good idea. Close, close,” I said under my breath.

  I put my face to the glass as the doors slid closed and saw the demon in the red shirt squeeze into the car behind ours.

  The Metro railcar sped forward with a jerk.

  Then the realization struck me. At each stop, the doors would open. The demonic twin would be into my car in an instant. To avoid that, I would have to dash out at each stop and make it down to another car. Musical chairs, with my life on the line.

  The subway slowed down. Only seconds to decide my next move.

  In our crowded subway car there was a huge guy standing close to me—maybe six-foot-five, must have weighed close to three hundred. He was trying to keep his balance as the Metro car rocked slowly to a stop.

  As we eased to a halt and the chimes told us the doors were about to open, I stood up and took a position—rudely, it must have seemed—directly in front of him.

  The doors slid open effortlessly. Once I felt him hovering behind me I departed the car, using the big man as a visual shield from the demon twin to my rear and trying to match his pace exactly.

  The platform was crowded, and I managed to stride two cars ahead and then chanced a look over my shoulder. The red-shirt twin was charging toward me. I ducked into the car as the door began to slide shut.

  Then it banged open. In an instant my pursuer was in the car and had his fingers clasped on my shirt, dragging me out with one hand. As I punched wildly at his face with both fists, I began to see the inner creature that occupied him. The human face was fading into another—the image of a hairy, foul-smelling beast with yellowish animal eyes and razor teeth. Behind him, I saw the silver line Metro whisking away.

  The monster had me by one hand on the platform. A Metro cop was rushing up to him from behind, but the twin never turned. He didn’t need to. He lifted his free arm and with a flourish of his hand, like some perverse orchestra conductor, he sent the policeman flying back without ever touching him. Passengers were stumbling as they madly sprinted away in all directions.

  Then the monstrous twin tossed me down onto the platform. Before I could get up, he
waved his hand and I felt myself lifted into the air. In a single slow, bizarre moment, he began to move me through the air until I was poised over the rail on the opposite side. And then I heard the rushing thunder of an approaching Metro liner coming my way. First only the sound off in the distance. Then the deep rumbling. It was getting closer.

  On the opposite platform, two men hurried over and tried to reach out to take hold of me. While they did, they searched the air around me, trying to figure out how I was being held up, hovering four feet over the rails.

  But they didn’t see the other twin with the yellow golf shirt who had just appeared on the platform behind them. He moved both of his hands as if performing a magic act and sent the two men tumbling backward along the concrete platform. Unable to move, I dangled in the air several feet above the rail, like I was caught by some dark magnetic force.

  The rumbling sensation was growing and I heard the rushing sound increase. Then, as I hung in the air directly in its path, the Metro rail liner appeared, heading right for me.

  Visit Craig online to learn more.

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  The novel is divided into three sections: “The World,” “The Flesh,” and “The Devil.” Identify where these three elements appear in Ephesians 2:2-3. Now read the following Scripture passages about supernatural activity in our world: Hebrews 1:14; 1 Timothy 4:1-3; Luke 11:24-26; Ephesians 6:12. What does the Bible say about supernatural forces like angels and demons?

  By the time Trevor meets Mason Krim, the man has dabbled with demons for a while. He tells Trevor, “You have to be the one in control. You. Not them.” Considering what we know about Krim, what is foolish about this statement? Is there any wisdom to it?

  Think of some of the choices Trevor makes throughout his life. Which ones are the right choices? Which ones are wrong? How do you see God’s hand guiding him, even before he puts his faith in God?