by John Edward
“You’re darn right,” IRA stated as if in answer to a spoken statement.
CHAPTER
73
Marcus could only estimate the time that had passed since he had last awakened from a drug-induced sleep. About an hour ago, he had been given some water and dried-out food by an unseen person who had opened the door and silently placed the plate and bottle on the floor, then relocked the door. The room had remained in total darkness, but Marcus could tell by the sound about where the food and water were located. He also discovered, by touch, that there was a plastic container beside the bed, which he guessed was to serve as a kind of toilet facility like they used to have in olden times. What did they call it back then?… Oh, a chamber pot. He remembered reading about that once.
He drank a little water and ate a few bites of what tasted like a granola bar. He did not feel hunger, though he knew his body needed nourishment and water. He stood by the side of the bed and walked in place for a half hour or so. He guessed he had been conscious for about three hours at this point.
He had the strong feeling that he was being held—how long, he had no idea—for reasons other than ransom or political leverage. It did not feel like a terrorist kidnapping, either, though he was not sure how he could reach that conclusion without any evidence one way or another. He was just going on his gut at this point. And he tried to think of a way he might be able to escape … though that seemed highly unlikely to impossible.
Whoever had done this knew what he was doing. Isolate the prisoner and keep him in total darkness, completely cut off from the world and from any sensory input. Perfect for their purposes, perhaps.
But little would they realize they were creating the perfect environment for him to “see” the Other Side when it needed to connect with him. Then it happened. He again heard his father’s voice, but this time it was more distinct and seemed much closer than before. He still had trouble making out the words, so he listened hard. With every bit of energy he could muster, he listened.
“My son, my son…” Now the words were audible.
“Dad! Dad!” Marcus said aloud.
“Do not speak, but listen to me, and answer me with your thoughts. Can you do this?”
Marcus bit his lips together so he would not say aloud what he was thinking: “Yes, I think I can, Dad. Is it really you, or am I feeling the effects of whatever drugs they gave me?”
“I’m no longer on Earth, but my journey, my work, is continuing. I’ve encountered my own father here on this side, and he has given me a better, deeper understanding of what role I am expected to play—and the energy, somehow, has also been given to me. I want you to know that you and your mother have been constantly in my thoughts since what happened to me. I can see you from where I am, and I want you to know that I am fine. This is but another stage of life, another way of being that is tied to my previous life on Earth with you, but there is much peace here. I want you to know that help is on the way.”
“I hear you, Dad. I want to believe you. I do believe that it is you.” In fact, Marcus had been trained, taken through drills by the Secret Service during his father’s election campaign, in the event of just such a contingency. He had called it “kidnapping school,” and he’d kind of enjoyed it—then. He hadn’t taken it all that seriously.
“Don’t be afraid to doubt all you want, my son. That is part of being human, part of being the son and grandson of a Jackson. But be assured that I am going to look after you. I have a job to do, and you are going to help me do it.”
“What do you mean?” Marcus felt his head spinning, and he felt thirsty.
“Son, I am not completely certain of how this all works just yet, but I know we are connected—and you are in trouble. Just as the rest of the world is in trouble. And I need your help, just as you need mine. Drink some water,” POTUS advised him.
Marcus drank the water and it reminded him of a hike he had taken one summer when he came across a windmill that was pumping water from a deep well. The water was cold and sweet, and he had never tasted any drink that was better, not any soft drink, or juice, or lemonade. The water quenched his thirst as no other drink ever had, until now, and this water, which his mind told him was tepid and stale, had the same flavor and coldness as that delicious well water.
“Oh, the water is very good,” Marcus said.
“Yes,” POTUS said. “It was like the water you drank from the well one summer.”
“How did you know about that?”
“You and I are one now, Marcus. We can communicate and share thoughts with one another across time, if we both wish to do so.”
“I have been thinking about you, Dad. I can’t put you out of my mind, did you know that?”
“Yes, I am aware of such things. Any time you think of me, I am there with you. I know you as well as I know myself, how you think and feel. I am with you now.”
“Where am I? Why was I abducted?”
“The simple answer is, you are where you are supposed to be, and all is as it should be. You will not experience pain. I will see to that. I will sacrifice myself for your safety if I must.”
“I don’t understand.”
A thousand thoughts raced through his brain as Marcus tried to hear and understand the words his father spoke to him. None of it made sense, yet he knew it was happening and that he was a part of something larger than himself.
“As above, so below, my son.”
“I think my brain is going to explode, Dad. Are you saying you were supposed to be killed so that you could communicate this to me?”
“That is exactly what I’m saying, son. But I will also tell you this: I am having trouble accepting that myself. It doesn’t make sense to me. I am learning many things since I left the earthly plane, many answers to questions I had been asking my entire life. Here, even though I am safe from any further physical harm, I can see what potential harm you and others are facing—and I am in a position to act upon that knowledge, to help you and others survive the evil that threatens you. Does that help?”
“A little bit.” Marcus sat down on the edge of the bed, his legs unsteady. He was trying to absorb all this, realizing there was no time to waver or ask too many questions. There was too much at stake here. “I will do what you tell me to do, Dad,” he said in his thoughts.
“I know you will,” POTUS answered. “And you will have help on Earth as well as from this side. The forces of good, what we were always taught in Sunday school, are with us.”
“You mean, like angels?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. There are angels—and other created beings and many souls of the departed all living in harmony in a beautiful place. I can’t begin to describe it to you, Marcus. There are no words to describe the beauty of this place, and there certainly isn’t any time.”
“Have you been trying to communicate with me when I was passed out?”
“Yes. I have been calling out to you, wanting to speak to you. I had to wait until you were ready and fully conscious to receive my words. As soon as you crossed that threshold, we were able to have a conversation as we are doing now. You will understand when the time is right. So, be prepared. I am going to download information to you.”
Young Marcus smiled, despite his pain and confusion. “That sounds good. A data dump, huh?”
“You’ve got it, son.”
CHAPTER
74
Melbourne, Australia
The day dragged on, and Dawson sat completely immobilized as he watched the nonstop coverage of the presidential assassination, watching it over one of the American satellite news networks. He had completed all his media appearances for the book and felt depleted, depressed as he sat in his hotel room watching the terrible news coming from the United States.
“Shortly before driving to the Henry B. Gonzalez Center in San Antonio, President Jackson announced that he had invited Charlene St. John to the White House, where he intended to present her with the Presidential Medal o
f Freedom, the highest award that can be bestowed upon a civilian. Here, we see President—”
Suddenly and unexpectedly, the pictures became black and white, and the words changed in midsentence.
“—Kennedy as his motorcade drives past the Texas Book Depository in Dallas. But the mood of the crowd alongside the motorcade changed suddenly from one of excitement and joy to one of horror and sorrow as the shots rang out. Mrs. Kennedy, who is resplendently dressed in a bright pink suit, reached first for her husband, then crawled out onto the back of the car, as a Secret Service agent jumped on. The car accelerated quickly, and the president was taken to Parkland Hospital. We are waiting for further word.”
Now, on-screen, sitting at a desk in a newsroom, Walter Cronkite stared into the camera.
“From Dallas, Texas, the flash—apparently official—President Kennedy died at one P.M. Central standard time.” Cronkite removed his glasses and looked up at the clock. “Two o’clock Eastern standard time, some thirty-eight minutes ago.” He put his glasses back on, and paused for a long moment before continuing. His voice broke, slightly, as he went on. “Vice President Lyndon Johnson has left the hospital in Dallas but we do not know to where he has proceeded.” Cronkite removed his glasses yet again. “Presumably, he will be taking the oath of office shortly, to become the thirty-sixth President of the United States.”
Dawson was immobilized for a moment as he watched the screen. This wasn’t archival footage! He was watching the telecast of the Kennedy assassination as it was originally broadcast on November 22, 1963!
What was happening to him? He hadn’t even been born yet when JFK was killed. This entire day had been a series of bizarre events. Had President Jackson been killed? Or was it Kennedy? Was there some sort of warp in the space-time continuum? Was he in the present, or in 1963? He looked at the room receipt and saw that it was dated in the present. Perhaps he was in both time periods simultaneously.
He felt an overwhelming feeling of dizziness and went over to the bed to lie down.
Within a moment, words and pictures flashed by him, and he could feel air rushing by, as if he were riding in a car with his head sticking out the window. Was he asleep?
He felt himself falling, and involuntarily grabbed on to the bed with both hands. He forced himself to open his eyes.
He saw a man standing in front of him. He was pleasant-looking, with relatively chubby cheeks, bald except for a crown of hair that passed around his head just above his ears. He was wearing glasses and clothes from the 1960s.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my room?” Dawson asked, startled by the appearance of the intruder.
The man smiled pleasantly, nodded respectfully, then said one word: “Perelandra.”
“What? What does that mean? Why do I keep hearing that word?” Dawson asked.
The man disappeared before his eyes, though like the Cheshire cat, his smile remained for a second longer.
Dawson was breathing hard, and he could feel his heart beating in his chest. He looked over at the TV, which he had left on. When he lay down, the TV was broadcasting images and reactions to the JFK assassination. Now the talking heads were reacting to the assassination of President Jackson. He was back in his own time, but who—or what—was that apparition that had greeted him when he awoke a moment ago?
“… leaves behind his wife, Win, and a son, Marcus Jr.”
It was one o’clock in the afternoon in Melbourne. The hotel had a convenient time chart in each room and, consulting it, he saw that it would be eight o’clock in Decatur, Illinois, where his parents lived. When he called home, his mother answered the phone.
“It’s awful,” his mother said. “It is so terribly sad.” She began to cry over the phone, and a moment later his father’s voice came on.
“She’s been crying all day,” Alex Rask said.
“It is a sad day,” Dawson concurred.
“I remember when Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy were killed,” Alex said. “I remember the sense of anger I felt, that all of us felt. I mean here we were, fighting a war overseas, while our best and brightest were being killed back home.”
“Pop, do you remember when President Kennedy was killed?” Dawson asked.
“Yes, of course I remember,” his father said. “Everyone who was alive then remembers it, vividly. I was a student, and I had just gone to the cafeteria for lunch.”
“Are you still there, Dawson?” his mother asked after an awkward few seconds of silence.
“I’m still here.”
“You need to come home. I’m worried about you being alone, so far away.”
“Mom, I’ve got more stops to make on my book tour.”
“That’s just the point,” his mother said. “I read something about you in a magazine the other day. It said that you are one of the country’s most eligible bachelors. That shouldn’t be. You shouldn’t be alone. You should have a wife.”
“No thank you.”
“It’s been a long time since Mary Beth was—uh, since Mary Beth died. You know she would want you to be married and happy.”
“With two kids, living in Middle America in a bungalow with a white picket fence?” Dawson asked.
“I worry about you, Dawson, that’s all,” his mother said.
“Don’t worry about me being alone, I’m doing fine. I just wanted to make sure you and Pop were doing okay. I’ll call again when I get back to the States.”
CHAPTER
75
Two seconds after he ended the call, his cell rang again, and without reading the caller ID he answered, “What? You forgot to tell me that you love me. I love you, too!”
“Well, I appreciate the sentiment, buddy … but let’s start with dinner before we get to the ‘I love you’ stage.” Dawson recognized Bobby Anderson’s voice. The FBI agent was a friend whom Dawson hadn’t spoken to in some time. “Can you talk, Dawson? I need your expertise—and an autographed copy of your new book, so I can personally hand it to Marcus Jackson when he is found.”
Anderson and Dawson Rask had met years earlier, before Anderson joined the FBI. Bobby had been a member of New York’s Finest then, working on a serial killer murder case and thought that Dawson might be able to help him. Dawson had not yet become a widely known celebrity writer, mentioned on all the TV tabloid shows, and appearing often on Page Six of the New York Post. He was, however, writing articles for various publications and had developed a justifiable reputation for his expertise on symbolism. Dawson’s unique perspective on the information Anderson brought him helped to solve the case and save a potential victim. And the horror of 9/11 bound them in a tight emotional bond. They were as close as brothers (to tell the truth, Anderson was more like a brother than Dawson’s own biological sibling could ever be), and nobody was prouder of Dawson’s literary success than Bobby Anderson.
By now, Special Agent Anderson was a veteran of more than 200 homicide investigations, most of them multiple killings, some outright mass murders, others serial crimes, all of them horribly violent and shocking to “normal” sensibilities and emotions.
Even today, as an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, if Anderson was working on a case that showed certain patterns were beyond the normal police perspective, he would call Dawson. The calls were always on the QT, out of respect for both of their careers.
“What can I do for you, Bobby? I’m in Australia, so it had better be important.” He was feeling raw from his publicity tour and the strange visions that still made no sense, and the death of his President was all too much for one day.
“We’re not doing too well on this end of the planet either, pally,” Anderson said. The two shared their memories about the President, and there was a moment where both men were silent.
Dawson sighed. “Sorry, Bobby. This day has been a bear. So go ahead, tell me how I can help.”
“As your specialty is ancient wisdom teachings and the symbols used by the ancients in their religious rituals, I have
some material that has baffled me but may be child’s play for you. I would like to consult with you on a case that has gotten progressively worse over the past months. It seems to be pointing to something else, another event independent of the actual murders, as if predicting a much greater and more horrific event or mass killings on a genocidal or possibly global scale.”
“Is that all? Well, maybe I could add my two pence to your investigation.”
Anderson was taken aback at the flippancy of Dawson Rask’s remark, given the gravity of the situation. He, Anderson, had been brought in on the murder investigation after four of the killings—and there had been seven subsequent deaths, all following the same bizarre and gruesome pattern, clearly the work of the same monster, yet each with a distinctive creative flair (if such acts could be called “creative”) and unique symbolism attached. Early on, he and the local investigators had identified the symbols as possibly related to some larger cosmic pattern but what it was they were at a loss to identify.
At first glance this looked like a string of run-of-the-mill occult or Satanic murders, the kind that common criminal minds used to cover up more simple murders. In his gut, however, the FBI man felt strongly that there was an evil force behind these killings, something that had far-ranging consequences.
Anderson said to Dawson, “I must add this: I was told to call you. Or, perhaps I should say, I had no choice but to call you.”
Dawson said, “That’s weird, Bobby—okay, so where are these murders taking place?”
“Belfast, Ireland,” Anderson said matter-of-factly, as if it were Anywhere, Anywhere.
Inexplicably, Dawson felt as if he had been sledgehammered in the chest. Was this another reference to C. S. Lewis? Something was nagging at his mind and welling up in his soul. But he was at a loss as to its origin. For several seconds he could not breathe. He thought he might be having a heart attack.
* * *