by Glen Carter
“Take Route 10,” Sarah said. “Then that old woods road.”
Sully swung the cab fast at the next turn, sending the rear end into a slide. “Does he know we’re coming?”
“Does who know we’re coming?” asked Bolt.
No answer.
Suddenly, headlights appeared behind them.
“Shit,” Sully said. “Sarah, your call.”
“How fast does this thing go?”
Sully hit the gas.
The cab hit a hundred and then some. Still, the headlights chasing them got brighter, larger. Something with a big bloody engine, with two pissed-off Secret Service agents inside. Bolt looked at Sarah on the seat next to him.
Eyes wide, she whispered in his ear. “Kallum took this road once. Billy was on our tail that night. Wouldn’t give up. We lost him. Then lost ourselves.”
“Nothing like a chase to get the adrenaline going,” Bolt replied, checking his shoulder.
“Around the next bend,” Sarah told Sully. “Look for a big rock. Turn in just before it. There’s an ATV path.”
Sully did as he was told. Around the next curve in the road, a car’s length before a huge boulder, he spun the wheel hard. The cab tore through the dense foliage onto a muddy path, and the bushes closed behind them. Sully killed the engine and the lights. No one breathed.
Twenty seconds later, Bert and Ernie sped past in a storm of dust.
Sarah gave Bolt a big smile. “My heart was beating a lot faster that night.”
37
The lighthouse was sixty feet high, perched at the edge of a bald cliff that dropped away to a rolling black sea. Back in the day, a powerful beam of reflected and refracted light guided ships for twenty miles. But that was before GPS—and now even smart phones—which could find you within five feet of any place on earth. The lamp was dark now, the giant optics processing nothing brighter than ambient starlight.
Candle flames danced behind a window. A lone figure was moving around inside.
“He’s waiting,” Sarah whispered. Sully and Abe nodded in unison.
They got out of the cab and walked toward the door. A face came to the glass. Tiny black eyes were set on them, and then on Bolt. Watching only him.
The door was a slab of rough-hewn timber planks. Like the entrance to some medieval fortress. Before Sarah could knock, it creaked open.
The man hoisted a lantern and shuffled immediately to where Bolt was standing. Five feet, tops. White hair and a thick white beard. A gnome dressed in a work shirt buttoned to the collar, and blue jeans cuffed at the ankles. He reached up, rubbed his hand across the front of him.
Bolt checked his instinct to push the guy away.
Satisfied, the gnome stepped back. “Let’s get him inside.” The voice was all bass notes. “No cellphones, please. Leave them in Sullivan’s carriage. Abraham, bring the demon liquor if you’ve got it.”
The gnome tugged Bolt across the threshold, into what looked like a wizard’s den. Walls of books and clunky wooden furniture. On a huge table at the centre of the room, a large candle flickered amber light across a half-dozen tomes. Quill writing implements were sunk into a pot of ink. In one corner, suspended from a wooden beam, a huge globe was hung, surrounded by planetary bodies.
The gnome shut and latched the door. Waited.
“Samuel Bolt, may I present Doctor Olaf Jürgen,” said Sarah.
Jürgen stepped forward and bowed. “It’s a pleasure, Mister Bolt. I’ve been expecting you.”
He wondered why. Sarah simply smiled.
“Please, sit,” Jürgen said.
Several chairs were set before a wood stove in a corner of the room. Jürgen opened the grate and tossed in a log, which quickly caught. “I prefer birch,” he said. “It’s not smoky and sparky like that old spruce, which helps to keep my carbon footprint at a minimum.”
Bolt realized there wasn’t a device visible that drew electricity. Not even a toaster. Sarah sat there, quietly. Still not willing to give anything away. Abe and Sully stared blankly at the fire.
“Do you know how much carbon is produced to burn one light bulb over its lifespan?” Jürgen asked.
“Can’t say that I do.”
“How many barrels of crude oil do you think it takes to generate electricity to fire a whole city? Take your Las Vegas as an example.”
Bolt shrugged.
“Then there’s that dirty coal,” Jürgen continued. “It dooms us all.”
“The Hoover Dam,” offered Bolt. “It’s clean and green.”
“Yes, billions of kilowatt hours of electricity. Commendable, except for the methyl mercury bubbling up from the soil.”
Bolt simply nodded, wondering when Jürgen would end his lecture.
“But that’s not why you’re here,” Jürgen said, glancing at Sarah. “We’ll get to that in a moment. Abraham, I know that’s a bottle under your jacket.”
Without a word, Abe got up and walked to the kitchen, which consisted of a small sink and an ancient gas stove. He pulled glasses from a cupboard and poured. He carried drinks to everyone and then sat again.
Jürgen tasted the liquor. “There’s a distillery in Canada that uses water from icebergs. Formed by mother earth a million years ago, before we polluted our oceans. Though this isn’t bad.”
Sarah had yet to utter a word, which was unsettling, since every law enforcer in the state was now gunning for them, because of her.
“Don’t worry,” Jürgen said. “No harm will come to you here.” He nodded in Sarah’s direction. A permission of some kind was silently communicated.
“Olaf has been a good friend,” Sarah said. “For a very long time.”
Olaf smiled benevolently.
“He helped me,” she continued. “To accept things which are beyond our understanding. The indestructible energy of life and the continuation of the soul. I’m still trying to understand.”
“Always a student,” Olaf said.
Sarah smiled warmly. “Always a teacher.”
“So,” Olaf said, sitting straight in his chair. “Samuel. You have come along, and you present something of a mystery, but maybe not a mystery when we embrace those lessons which Sarah is talking about.”
“You’re a psychic,” Bolt said.
“A psychiatrist by profession,” he replied. “But I abandoned the rudimentary instruments of that discipline long ago.”
Bolt checked the faces in the room. Everyone was content. Abe’s glass was empty, but he seemed in no hurry for a refill.
Jürgen swirled his drink, parted his beard, and brought the glass to his lips. “Sarah came to me about you. And now I can see why. The energy from you is remarkable. I felt that as soon as you got here, even before you got out of the car.”
The pat-down, Bolt thought. Like he was being checked for a wire or a weapon.
“Sarah felt it when you both met,” Jürgen continued.
Bolt recalled how she had reacted during Elizabeth’s interview, when he put the microphone on her.
“Sarah has a remarkable sensitivity,” Jürgen went on. “All I had to do was teach her how to use it. To experience the residual energies in her life. Her parents. The husband she lost.”
Sarah nodded. Never breaking eye contact with the mystical figure before her.
“I have strong memories of the boy,” Jürgen continued. “The man Sarah married. He was a good man, and I liked him, greatly. Tragically, his physical body was shed, and Sarah, of course, was beside herself with grief. As humans, we are all threatened by loss. Our finances, our health, our loved ones. When a beautiful flower suffers the loss of water and nutrients, it eventually wilts and dies.”
Bolt thought about the flowers in Diana’s garden. Wondered if she was also a student of Olaf’s little sc
hool of higher consciousness. She had lost a son and a husband, in short order.
“Samuel?”
“Yes.”
Jürgen appraised him. “I believe you have lost a great deal as well.”
My mind, he could have replied, though that would have been impolite.
“There’s a painting at Sarah’s home,” Jürgen said. “A poor soul lost in the midst of a storm.”
Bolt recalled the work. The wooden ship was doomed, along with its skipper. A metaphor for the stormy seas of life. “Nice piece,” he said.
Jürgen said, “We all need an outlet. Mine is painting. It was my gift to Sarah. I feel you are like that sailor, Samuel. Lost in the middle of a raging storm.”
“Okay,” he said, thinking any minute now Jürgen would produce a magic wand and an arsenal of potions.
“Have you ever heard of a man named Edgar Cayce?”
“Yes,” Bolt said simply. Cayce was a psychic and medical clairvoyant. He had been the poster child for reincarnation, long before it was fashionable. There were dozens of books about his astounding insights, and Bolt had wandered through one or two.
“The sleeping prophet,” Jürgen added. “He said more from a couch than he did a podium. Everything from the secrets of the universe to how to cure arthritis. A remarkable man, even while he lectured in his sleep-like state.”
“Past life regression,” Bolt added.
“Of course.” Jürgen nodded. “Are you familiar with it?”
“Enough to ask the right questions.”
“Which ones would you like to ask?”
He shrugged. “Does it hurt?”
Jürgen chuckled. “That’s actually a good question. The simple answer is, that depends. On the suffering endured during your previous life.”
“Sounds like a blast.”
“That’s one way to describe it,” Jürgen said. “Make no mistake. The journey into our past can be very real and sometimes unpleasant. You feel, hear, and even smell those things that were part of your previous existence. A former slave might remember the sting from a lash. A subject who was once a soldier might recall the impact of a bullet on the battlefield. A murder victim might experience the cut of a knife, the panic of blood gushing from a fatal wound.”
Sully cleared his throat. Twirled a finger at his temple.
Sarah flashed her displeasure.
“There are always disbelievers,” Jürgen said. “Sullivan is a doubter. Some people are unwilling or incapable of understanding the infinite possibilities of the human condition. The width and breadth of the spiritual landscape. The soul’s hunger for growth.”
Bolt folded his arms. Planted his feet firmly on the floor. “How many past lives have we had? Exactly.”
“As many as it takes for the soul to complete its journey,” Jürgen replied. “To satisfy its pursuit of enlightenment. Sometimes the need to right some dastardly wrong.”
Redemption. Revenge. Both words popped into Bolt’s head.
“Would you be willing?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s why you’ve come.”
Hijacked was more accurate. Bolt looked at the others. No panic in their faces. Abe gave him a thumbs-up. Sarah pleaded with her eyes. Sully wouldn’t look at him.
“I promise it won’t hurt.” Jürgen grinned behind his beard.
Why not, Bolt decided. What was the worst that could happen?
It took a few minutes to set things up. There was a dusty couch piled with books. Abe and Sully made quick work of clearing it while Sarah supervised. In the meantime, Jürgen consulted one of the great tomes on his big wooden table. Bolt checked the walls for a diploma of any kind but saw none. “When was the last time you did this?” he asked.
Abe held up a hand. “Apparently, I was a Franciscan monk named Bernardo di Quintavalle. He was a jolly old soul who liked to sing and drink. Sound like anyone you know?”
“Great,” Bolt said. He stretched his tall frame on the couch. Tried to get comfortable.
Jürgen blew out a candle. He hushed the room and pulled up a chair. His little legs barely reached the floor. “Relax, Samuel. You have no worries while you are under my control.”
Bolt was having second thoughts, but the look on Sarah’s face pushed them away. He cast out the clutter in his head. Snarling government agents at their heels. The impact of bullets. With his mind clear, he closed his eyes. Deepened his breathing. “All aboard, Skipper,” he quipped.
Jürgen waited a full thirty seconds. Stroking his beard and staring off into space. “We are many constituents, Samuel,” he began. His voice soft as a ball of cotton. “There is the conscious side of you. It’s the person listening to me right now. But there is also a separate part of you. That’s where your dreams come from, and that part knows a great deal about you. Things that even you don’t know about yourself. It knows, for instance, how to relax you more deeply than you ever could.” Jürgen paused here and there for maximum effect, emphasizing the rich, logy words that tugged at Bolt. “You feel dreamy. Your eyelids seem glued shut. Heavy. Picture yourself in a summer field. Warm. Comfortable.”
He wasn’t sure Jürgen was even talking to him. Like the words were meant for someone else. His voice was distant. Bolt was suddenly drifting upon the current of some warm, endless river.
“Focus on my words, Samuel. The sound of my voice. You have a long way to travel, but I am with you. Take us back, Samuel. Take us to the beginning.”
Bolt was asleep.
38
Someone was shaking him.
“Wake the fuck up.”
Harder this time.
“Kallum.”
Doody gasped. Opened his eyes. To legs and boots.
“He’s awake.”
Dust coated his throat, which made him cough.
“Fuck, man, you had us scared.” It was Morgan. “You were mumbling shit.”
Doody groaned. He lifted his head and tried to focus. Chongo, Morgan, and Oakley stared back. Chongo looked the worst. Both eyes black and swollen like yeasty dough. Nostrils caked with blood and lips fat, like something out of a cartoon. Morgan and Oakley were not much better.
Doody looked around. They were in a cinder-block courtyard. Four cement walls and a metal door. “What happened?” he grunted.
“Shoulder-fired is what happened,” Oakley said. “And Rutter’s hundred-yard dash.”
Chongo made a fist. “He gets this.”
“And more,” Morgan added.
“Where is our brave team leader?” Doody croaked.
Oakley rubbed a smear of blood from his mouth. “Same place they took us, probably.”
He pulled himself up. Rubbed his skull.
“Bastards wired you up, too,” Chongo said. “Last time I felt like this was at a Motörhead concert. Scrambled me up, like that fucking machine.”
Doody couldn’t recall much. The electrodes. The buzzing, and then nothing. There was the woozy residue of some chemical in his veins. “How long have I been here?”
“A few minutes,” Morgan said. “They tossed you in like a sack of shit.”
There was a perimeter of barbed wire above their heads. Beyond the wire, the night sky. Doody sized up the walls.
Chongo shook his head. “Forget it. The only way is through that door. We fight our way out. But first I kill that motherfucker colonel.”
Chongo was right. The walls were smooth and high. Then there was the wire. The door was it, and when they were done with Rutter, he’d come through it the same way. Any minute now. They’d have to be ready, though Doody was a little short on the how. “Oorah,” he grunted weakly. “Get in position.”
They all got ready. Doody kneeled. He planned to annihilate the first guy through the door. The rest would
be tougher, but they were Marines, and the soldiers inside were date farmers in second-hand uniforms.
Muscles were strung tight. They were hurting and thirsty.
“Fuck,” Morgan said, after a while. “They might be smarter than we think.”
Morgan was right. It was foolhardy to think it would be so easy. They were battle casualties. Half-strength warriors. Doody was about to stand everyone down.
Then an explosion shook the compound.
* * * * *
The Marines were cheering. The way a crowd goes nuts when a quarterback runs the ball for the winning touchdown. So much was at stake, with the visiting team suddenly controlling the play.
The Rangers were in the house.
Doody and the others pounded on the door, shouting, whooping, and hollering. Everyone wanted to fight, but Doody ordered the men to hunker down. Those Ranger cowboys would be blind with adrenaline when they burst through the door, firing at everything.
A second later, the door swung open, and they froze.
Rutter was standing there.
“Rutter, the man,” Morgan yelled, with a fist pump.
Followed by “fuckin’ right” from Oakley. Both men leapt into a flailing high-five.
Chongo said something to God.
Doody searched Rutter’s face and didn’t like what he was looking at. He held up a hand, and everyone stopped dead.
Rutter glared at them, gripping a rifle. He shifted his legs, one behind the other, getting into a firing stance. It was insane. The enemy was the other way. Time to join that battle, you stupid bastard. Go. Go. Go.
Rutter’s eyes narrowed, his lips a scar.
“Rutter,” Doody shouted, unable to believe what he was seeing. “Lower that weapon!”
Nothing.
They all got it now. Fingers tightened into fists.
“Fuck you doing, Rutter?” Morgan edged forward. “Time to fight, motherfucker.”
Rutter was a blank. Whatever he was thinking was also in the weapon. Like electricity shooting through his arm to the trigger.