by Paul Deaver
Beyond Eternity
Paul Deaver
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Kestrel: Episode 1
Afterword
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2016 by Paul Deaver
All rights reserved.
www.PaulDeaver.com
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
For Mom
Chapter 1
I knew death. You could say that I had an intimate relationship with the subject. As an Apache pilot, I've seen more bloodshed than I care to remember. It takes remarkably little to end a man's life when you're flying an attack helicopter. A simple trigger pull unleashes a rain of steel, and the hotspots in my FLIR that used to be men quickly fade as their blood drains into the soil.
However, countless deployments, and all the death and destruction in the world couldn't prepare me to watch someone I love wither away next to me. Cancer had been devouring my mother for over a year, but she'd taken a sudden turn for the worse. I rushed home to the States as soon as I got word that she'd been admitted to Mount Sinai Hospital. My brother Mark picked me up from Hunter Army Airfield in Georgia, and we drove straight through the night.
But by the time we got to New York, Mom was completely unresponsive. The only indication that she was still alive was the subtle rise of her chest as she took rapid, shallow breaths.
The initial shock of seeing her lying helpless in bed was unbearable. I guess I'd never really believed that anything could stop her. Mom had faced countless challenges throughout her life, but she'd never let them slow her down or break her spirit. She looked for the good in every situation, and always found a way to care for everyone around her.
Now it was my turn; I knew I would have to step up and stay strong for the rest of my family. So even though my dad, Mark, and I had initially planned to take turns in the hospital, I refused to leave Mom's side.
I was standing next to the bed, holding her hand, when she finally stirred late on the second night. She tried to speak, but barely had strength to whisper. I leaned in close and strained to make out her words. "Are you okay?" she asked.
Typical. She was clinging to life and her first concern was me. I forced a smile and said, "I'm fine, Mom. The nurse left a tray of food. You need to try to eat something."
She shook her head and closed her eyes. Her frail voice barely uttered, "My mouth is so dry."
"There's juice, and water—"
Her hand gestured an inch or two above the hospital blanket, prompting my attention. "Ice," she whispered.
I pulled a few cubes from a pitcher of ice water and slipped them into her mouth, one at a time. With her eyes still closed, she crunched on them until they were gone. Then she drifted back to sleep.
And so it went for the next few days. Mom spent most of them in restless sleep, occasionally waking just long enough to say a few words and snack on ice. The nurses did their best to manage her pain, but there was only so much that could be done for someone whose organs were rotting away.
Looking out the window, I watched the sun gradually dip behind the towering skyline, casting an amber hue on the trees in Central Park. People paid fortunes for apartments on 5th Avenue with views of the park, but my mom was paying a much higher price, for something she couldn't even look at.
Mom opened her eyes and clutched her abdomen, then looked at me and said, "When will this end?" She grimaced as another surge of pain took hold of her.
I wanted to tell her that everything was going to be okay, but this was no time for lies. I simply held her hand and ran my fingers through her short hair, like she had done so many times for me when I was sick as a child.
A nurse tapped on the door and walked into the room. "It's time for your meds, Mrs. Stone." Her tone neatly straddled the line between somber and cheerful.
As the nurse injected the painkillers into the IV line, Mom averted her eyes and looked at me instead. "Why won't this end?" she repeated. "I'm ready. Why won't it end?" Tears rolled down her cheek when she shut her eyes, and her body went limp as the drugs swiftly kicked in.
I buried my face in my hands and sobbed. My mother was lying there dying, and I was powerless to do anything about it.
There was a gentle touch on my shoulder. I looked up at the nurse's kind gaze. "Your mom should be asleep for a few hours," she said. "Why don't you take a break?"
I knew she had good intentions, but why should I get a break when my mother couldn't get one? I didn't deserve this woman's kindness, and I couldn't stand to be looked upon with such pity. A storm of emotions welled inside me, and the last thing I wanted was for this stranger to watch me break down.
Bursting to my feet, I rushed out of the room and down the hallway. As I passed the nurse's station, I saw my father exit the elevator, holding a fresh bouquet of red roses. Mom hadn't noticed the other flowers he'd placed on her bedside table, and she probably wouldn't notice these ones either—but red roses were her favorite, and my dad continued to bring them.
I ducked into a stairwell before he noticed me. He had cared for my mother throughout her long sickness, and he shouldn't have to carry the burden of my sorrow now, as well. Hell, I didn't even know how to carry it. I'd spent years deployed to war zones across the world and had seen more misery than most men saw in a lifetime; but even on those battlefields I had never encountered a fraction of the turmoil that waited for me in my mother's hospital room.
It felt like I was suffocating as I gulped down the stale stairwell air. I needed to find a place to regroup. Only time could make things better, and I needed my space to regain control before I could face anyone. Ever since I'd been a teenager, I'd found comfort in solitude, so it was no surprise to me that what I craved most was to roam until I gathered my thoughts.
The sun dipped below the horizon as I departed the hospital and crossed the street to Central Park. Street lamps flickered to life as I walked along a footpath lined with trees. Sure, the park wasn't considered safe after sunset, but I'd always felt that some rules didn't apply to me.
A couple of hours passed, while I struggled to regain my composure. I had nearly calmed myself down, and was about to walk back to the hospital when my cell phone vibrated. I pulled it out and saw I had a text from my dad's phone. My heart sank when I opened the message. There it was, in stark letters: "Mom's suffering is over."
That couldn't be right, could it? A part of me had always maintained the hope that she'd somehow pull through. Indignant, I turned off my phone and shoved it back into my pocket. Though that glimmer of hope quickly faded as I accepted the message at face value. I only made it several steps before I crumpled to my knees and I heard myself unleash a torrent of incoherent screams. I couldn't contain myself and didn't want to anyhow. It didn't matter if anyone heard me. What was one more madman in New York City?
When my throat was too sore to wail anymore, I fell silent. Gritting my teeth, I tried to choke down the misery. One thought, above all others, tormented me: I should have stayed with her. I should have been strong
er. Throughout my life, I had always been able to count on my mom. But when she needed me tonight, I was off strolling through the park, because I was too weak to allow someone to see me feel. I was too proud to let them see me suffer.
It was unforgivable that I hadn't been there, that I had been absent when she needed me the most.
Out of breath, I climbed to my feet. My head throbbed as I stumbled forward, and I focused on the sensation. It was far better to fixate on a bit of physical pain than the imagined horrors of Mom's final moments, which kept creeping into my mind. I didn't care where I ended up; I just needed to keep moving. If I could just keep going forward, maybe I could outrun the guilt.
The cool spring air nipped at my exposed skin, and I buried my hands in my pockets. Eventually, I found myself near the old weather station at the center of the park. It was a small gothic castle built atop a rock outcropping. The pond at the base was glass-smooth and cast a perfect reflection of the archaic stonework in the dim moonlight. The scene seemed more fitting in a fairytale than the middle of a modern city.
The path continued along the edge of the water, leading me to the base of the structure. Then an electrical popping noise and a faint light at the corner of my eye shook me from my brooding, putting me instantly on alert. As I searched the darkness for whatever had made the sound, someone cried out in pain. I followed the direction of the sound, and bounded up the broad granite steps of Belvedere Castle.
I found a man on the landing at the top of the steps. He was lying flat on his stomach, his hands clawing at the ground. As I moved closer to help him, he extended an arm toward me. His face was contorted in an agonized grimace as a fiery glow burned like an ember in the center of his back.
Before I could reach him, the blazing orb burrowed deeper into his flesh and intensified its radiant light. I locked eyes with the man, and his expression pleaded for help. He opened his mouth as if to scream, but only a crackling sound managed to escape.
In the next instant, an inferno spread through his entire body, and his skin became molten like the surface of the sun. Before I could blink, he erupted in a brilliant, dazzling flash.
I shut my eyes and raised my arms as a burst of heat knocked me to the ground. When I lowered my arms and dared to look around again, nothing remained of the man. There was no sign that he had even been there—aside from a strange circular band, which was slowly rolling toward my feet.
I reached out and snagged it. The object proved to be a wide metallic circlet, almost like a bracelet. Playing the scene back in my mind, I recalled that the man had been wearing it on the wrist of his outstretched hand. Despite the fact that this man had just been incinerated, his bracelet was cool to the touch. How could that be? If that burning object in the center of his back was hot enough to vaporize a man, shouldn't his bracelet have retained at least some of the heat? What was this thing made of?
On closer inspection, the band was also far lighter than I expected, and semi-translucent. It felt like a metal, but it wasn't quite like any metal I could name. Running my fingers along the strange object, I decided that it felt at least as strong as an equivalent piece of titanium, but at a fraction of the weight.
I looked around to see if anyone else was present, perhaps an attacker or anyone who might have heard the commotion. When I looked back, the band had somehow secured itself around my left wrist like a bracelet. I tried sliding it off, but the loop was too small to move past my hand and appeared completely solid. There were no catches or seams, or any other apparent way it could have gotten on my wrist, nor had I felt it move. One second I'd been holding it, the next it was holding me.
Maybe I was losing it. Here I was, thinking about an inanimate object as if it had a will of its own. Looking back to where the man had been—where I thought the man had been—I wondered if my mind was playing tricks on me. I had hardly slept the past three days, my body ached, and my eyes throbbed from mourning. I searched the spot where the man had disappeared one more time, but the only evidence of his existence was locked around my wrist.
I considered reporting the incident, but who would believe me? Hell, I didn't even believe it myself. I could imagine how a conversation with a police officer would go. "I'd like to report a murder. No sir, there isn't a body, but I do have this magic bracelet around my wrist. What's that? You'd like to give me pair of shiny bracelets with a chain between them, or maybe I could just try on a nice white jacket? Is the jacket supposed to be this snug?"
Sometimes you're better off keeping your mouth shut until things make sense.
Rather than head back to the hospital, which I still couldn't face, I slowly made my way home. I'd made this same walk through Central Park countless times as a teenager, and knew the way without thinking. The street lamps along the footpath interrupted the stretches of darkness, and cast odd shadows off the park benches and trees. I exited the park at 69th Street, descending a steep ramp that, as a kid, I'd loved to speed down on my bicycle. The buildings towered around me and blocked the horizon, permitting a narrow view of the muddy grey sky. The crosswalk signs were more of a suggestion than a rule at this time of night, as the only traffic was the occasional yellow taxicab.
Although I hadn't been home in years, the doorman had watched me grow up and recognized me immediately. He greeted me as I walked in, and I gave him a half-hearted smile and a friendly nod, trying to mask my true emotions. I was confused and full of shame, but my grief was something I wanted to carry alone.
I made my way through the lobby to the elevators. After pressing the button to call a lift, I turned to face the floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the opposite wall. The man in the mirror looked normal enough—athletic build and clean cut—but I felt hollow and lifeless.
I took a short ride in the elevator and walked to the end of the hallway to reach my parents' apartment. As I approached the door, I reached for the house keys, and the back of my hand brushed against my pocketknife. This knife was more than just a tool, and touching it triggered a flood of memories. My dad had given it to me the first time I went to combat, and it had never been far from my reach ever since.
When I opened the front door, only the kitchen light was on, and I could hear my brother snoring on the living room couch. Careful not to wake him, I crept through the apartment and into our boyhood room, collapsing onto my bed. Although I was exhausted, sleep didn't come easily. I was haunted by the desperate look in my mother's eyes as she struggled to breathe. Next, I saw the piercing gaze of the strange man lying on the ground as he disintegrated before me. With my eyes closed tightly, I felt like the world around me was slipping away, like I was falling. Involuntarily, my body jerked awake to stop the tumbling sensation.
I found myself lying on the cold, hard floor of an enormous cave with giant stalactites hanging above me. It looked like something out of a dream, but lacked that certain surreal quality associated with dreams. As much as I tried to convince myself that I'd soon wake up, the details were too precise, my sensations too perfect—and by perfect, I meant that I felt as perfectly lousy as I did before I climbed in bed. There was no doubt about it—either I was awake, or I had completely lost my mind.
Looking around, the only light came from two passageways at opposite ends of the large chamber. The air was cool and still, but I heard footsteps approaching. As I climbed to my feet, I saw shadows moving along the walls of the closest tunnel. A figure came into sight with a menacing look on his face. Four men trailed a few paces behind him. They all stopped suddenly, surprised to find me there. One of them yelled, "Don't move!"—so naturally, I ran.
But I'd only made it a few steps when a loud crack echoed through the chamber and a whip bit into the back of my shoulder. Stumbling, I tried to regain my balance. In an instant, the burning sting on my shoulder blade turned into icy numbness spreading through my entire body. My muscles became petrified, and no amount of will could compel them to move. This was no ordinary whip. Whether it was laced with a neurotoxin, or something beyond my experi
ence, I had completely lost control of my body and stood motionless.
The man who had been first through the tunnel strode in front of me and began coiling his whip, wearing a smug expression on his face. "What do we have here?"
He was a large, muscular man who stood a few inches taller than me. His black coveralls bore no insignia. He continued to look me over as he secured the whip to a strap on his utility belt, beside a baton.
I was helpless, and unable to respond.
When he completed his inspection, the man signaled his escorts. "Find a cell for this riffraff, but ensure he is kept isolated from the other prisoners."
My body was stiff as a board, and there was no way to resist when the men grabbed my arms and legs. They hauled me down the closest passage, while the man with the whip turned and walked away. It was difficult to keep my bearings as I was carried through corridors that appeared to have been bored from solid stone.
Finally, they placed me in a concrete room with a barred metal door. The guards searched me and confiscated the contents of my pockets, including my knife. Then they slid the barred door into place and activated the lock using what looked like a small electronic device.
Where the hell was I? Between neurotoxic whips, high-tech electronic locks in caves, disintegrating strangers, and a bracelet with a will of its own, nothing about this night seemed to make sense.
Unable to move, I simply waited for time to creep along. Icy numbness was replaced by dull burning as I slowly regained control of my body. But control couldn't contend with sheer exhaustion. I collapsed on the floor of my barren cell and drifted into a dreamless sleep. If Death wanted a piece of me, he could wait until morning.
Chapter 2
I awoke disoriented. However, the cold concrete floor and the metal band around my wrist quickly reminded me what had happened. It was impossible to know how much time had passed, but my body felt somewhat rejuvenated by the rest. I noticed the murmur of voices approaching and quickly closed my eyes. Maybe I could learn something if they thought I was still asleep. The voices grew louder. "Where did he come from?"