A Life of Death: Episodes 1 - 4

by Weston Kincade

  A Life of Death: 1 - 4

  A Life of Death: 1 - 4

  Midpoint

  A LIFE OF DEATH: 1 - 4

  BY

  WESTON KINCADE

  - BOOKS of the DEAD -

  Smashwords Edition

  “A well written story that flows off the page.”

  ~ Coral Russell, author of Amador Lockdown

  “Another awesome book by Weston Kincade – a paranormal coming-of-age mystery page turner. I could not put it down… I promise you will not be disappointed with this one.”

  ~ Chantale, Geeky Girl Reviews

  “A Life of Death is a completely amazing story. Fans of paranormal mystery and suspense stories should enjoy this book. Definitely give it a read as soon as you can!”

  ~ K. Sozaeva, Now is Gone

  “A Life of Death is my favorite kind of book, characters' emotions are painted in details. It's so vivid and alive I get a sense that Alex, the main character, is a younger version of Weston himself. This book in beautiful in unexpected ways.”

  ~ Helmy Parlente Kusuma, author of There is Hope

  “A Life of Death is quite simply, absolutely superb. I loved this book, it was an emotional and entertaining journey that had me hooked.”

  ~ David King, An Eclectic Bookshelf

  “A very good story.”

  ~ Kathleen Brown, author of The Personal Justice Series

  “The title drew me in and the novel itself is an experience that should not be left unread.”

  ~ Bruce Blanchard, author of Demon's Daughter

  “Mr. Kincade did a wonderful job telling this story. The characters are well developed and easy to relate to. I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed this book."

  ~ Christi, Alaskan Book Cafe

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  A Life of Death 1-4

  Copyright 2013 by Weston Kincade

  Visit: Weston Kincade on his website.

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  BOOKS of the DEAD

  * * *

  A LIFE OF DEATH: 1

  BY

  WESTON KINCADE

  - BOOKS of the DEAD -

  Beginnings - 1

  February 12th, 2010

  Alex smiled as the wind buffeted his dark hair through the open window. While exhilarating, something tickled the far reaches of his subconscious, struggling to make itself known. The car sped down the wet pavement without regard to physics or the elements, curving through mountain passes. Rocky cliffs flashed by like lone sentinels as he took the blind turns. The grudging squeal of diminishing tires was his sole company, screaming as he straddled the yellow lines through each twist and turn.

  Where am I? wondered Alex for the umpteenth time, but his past memories were consumed by the dream’s vividness.

  Trees and deer flickered in his peripheral vision. A glance in the rearview mirror displayed olive skin, a stern jaw and partial day’s growth of whiskers. The stony brown eyes held his attention a moment longer; they weren’t his own.

  Who am I? Memories of a man four years gone flared in his mind, and recognition set in. Oh no. Not again… Dad!

  In a split-second, everything fell into place like pieces in a puzzle. Alex glanced back at the road, but his fateful knowledge did nothing to stifle his shock. Around the bend, brake lights flared under the chrome bumper of a silver semi. Alex stomped on the brake. Tires squealed, and he jerked the wheel right. The car veered toward the striated rocks of the mountainside and he spun the wheel left… too late. Time slowed as sunlight glinted off the sky-blue hood. It met the truck bumper with a crunch. The shriek of metal on metal pierced the air, and the car slid beneath the cargo truck’s rear. The hood crumpled like an accordion, rushing at Alex’s face, and the bumper slammed into the windshield, splintering it like a collection of glistening spider webs. The last thing Alex saw, what he always saw, was a shredded bumper sticker that read, How’s my driving? Call 1-800-EAT-SHIT.

  * * *

  “Hey, Dad, can we get started now?” Jamie exclaimed as he pulled a wooden chair up to his father’s desk.

  Alex bolted at the adolescent voice, almost tumbling backwards in his sturdy office chair. He overcorrected and slammed his hands down on the piles of papers covering his desk. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. His son and the vast room flooded his vision. A dozen vacant desks, computers, and workstations littered the dim office. Forms and documents were stacked on each of the desks. Though, none were as clogged as his. His heart slowed its rapid pace.

  God, I hate that nightmare. Is it even real?

  His eyes settled on his young son, and he wiped sweat from his forehead with a trembling sleeve. After taking a staggered breath, he pushed the question aside and asked, “What’d you say, Jamie?”

  “Are you ready, Dad?”

  Alex relaxed his shoulders and flexed his fingers. His knuckles popped. “Sure, son… sure,” he muttered.

  He glanced at the desk. It was large enough to accommodate them both, but was cluttered from end to end. The edge of his faux-wood placard peeked out from beneath the far edge, announcing him to visitors as, Detective Alex Drummond. Jamie peered over the towering papers like a wild tiger searching for prey in the grassy plains. His father set the stacks aside, clearing a space in front of the boy.

  Jamie set his spiral notebook on the desk and extracted a pen from the coiled, metal binding. He thumbed the top, and the ballpoint clicked into position. The youth assumed a journalist’s calm that doubled his fourteen years. His jet-black hair hung across his forehead in long tufts that reminded Alex of Clark Kent. It was a trait Alex had passed down. No one ever questioned who Jamie’s father was.

  “You know, Jamie, family’s the most important thing in life.” His thoughts turned back to the dream and his voice quivered. “There’s never enough time to appreciate what you’ve got. When I was your age, I learned it the hard way.”

  “I know, Dad. You’ve told me about Grandpa.”

  Alex nodded. “Just make sure you remember that.”

  “I will.” He pinned Alex with dark, serious eyes that matched his own. The faint lamplight hovering over the desk illuminated their faces in stale yellow.

  Jamie cleared his throat before beginning. “Dad, I need to know about the most important thing that ever happened to you. Was there ever something that changed your life that much?”

  Alex smiled and leaned back in the ancient leather chair. It creaked like an old man’s rocker, but supported his slim frame. Everyone else had gone for the day.

  “Have you got time, son?” asked Alex in mock seriousness. “This may take a while.”

  Jamie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Dad, but don’t take all year. I’ve gotta get this paper done before the week’s out.”

  “I’ll try not to let you starve.” Opening a desk drawer, the uniformed man pulled out a large container of beef jerky and sat it between them. “Every man has a turning point in their life. I would have to say that mine is by far the most interesting story I’ve heard. I don’t know what set the events in motion. It defies all logic, but to this day I attribute it to sixteen days and a research project a lot like yours.”

  Jamie let out an exasperated sigh at the reference to school, a sore subject they often argued about. Alex chuckled with familiarity. “When I was your age, I looked at life a lot like you do. I was a high achiever until I reached high school. But
, there was one fateful day that changed my life forever.”

  “The day Grandpa died?”

  Alex nodded. “I was never the same after that. It started before I even made it to Madessa High School. Life at home fell apart after your grandfather passed. Your grandmother sold the house and moved us into a small trailer park. We stayed there, in Tranquil Heights. She found what work she could, but things were never the same. Before a year had passed, she remarried. For the following three years, I walked to school, passing through town like a stranger. Before your grandfather died, I did everything by the book. I got good grades, did what Dad asked, and things turned bad. With your grandfather gone, I became different, isolated. That went on for years. By the time I realized something was changing, I had started my last year in high school.

  “School had become a chore. Each day was the same; hours were spent in classes where I did as little work as possible, and I barely managed to pass. I had a pathetic excuse for a substitute father and didn’t look forward to going home, if you could even call it home. So, I always tried to make that walk from school last forever. It was never long enough.

  “Each day I stopped by my father’s grave at the old cemetery. At the foot of his grave stood an ancient pine. I often sat under its drooping branches and stared at his gray, unadorned tombstone. Other headstones mentioned time served in the military, like my father’s. At the time, I didn’t understand how something like that deserved to be remembered. It had been his decision, but I hated how much of his time it had stolen from me.”

  Wednesday - 2

  September 28, 1995

  Fifteen years earlier…

  “Hey, Dad,” I muttered with a frown. “I know you can’t be here, but it doesn’t change how much I miss you.”

  As I spoke, I massaged his dog tags with my thumb. I wore them each day, as much as I hated what they reminded me of. But because they were something he’d worn close to his heart, they were never far from mine. We talked about how cruel life was, but the conversations were always one-sided. While not ideal, it was as close as I could get to him. To this day, the bark on the eastern side of the tree is worn smooth by my constant company.

  I would speak with him until the sun set, then force myself up and trudge the rest of the way through town. I’d pass our old house, cross the railroad tracks, and wade through the vacant lots of waist-high grass, running my hands through the blades, which were like a sea of yellow and green waves. They’d escaped people’s notice, one of the only places in all of Virginia that might have. No one mowed the lots, and they were free to grow. In some ways, I envied those blades of grass.

  After passing row upon row of identical trailers, I found myself at the rotting steps of our three-bedroom, mobile resort. Vivian’s car wasn’t there. She hadn’t returned from work yet, but her husband’s truck sat in its spot. I looked from the artificial putt-putt turf covering the porch up to the wooden sign hanging from one remaining hook. The name “McCullins” could only be read if you craned your neck to the side. I chuckled at Vivian’s poor attempt to create some semblance of home.

  That isn’t my name and it never will be.

  I grudgingly trudged up the steps to my prison, praying to make it through one last year. As the door opened, a cloud of putrid smoke engulfed me. I slipped through the living room and avoided looking at him or my older stepbrother, Frank. But through my peripheral vision, I noted that their gazes never wavered. I almost made it to the hallway when the drunk parted his lips from his cherished beer can and said, “Hey.”

  I heard the clunk as he haphazardly threw the can toward the trash. It wound up in a heap on the floor with the others. Disgusted, I mumbled, “Hey,” and headed for the room I shared with Frank. The third bedroom belonged to my stepsisters. They’d lucked out with the larger room. Ours was only eleven-by-seven feet, smaller than prisons are allowed for single-occupancy cells. A bunk bed took up most of our room.

  As I slid the wooden door closed, the drunk began another tirade. “Hey what?” A minute later, he repeated himself and began ranting in slurred imitation of English. “Stupid, disrespectful kid. Can’ts even call me, Dad.”

  I threw my bag down, climbed to the top bunk, and pressed play on my portable CD player. I popped my headphones in, and heavy-metal guitar solos swarmed my consciousness. I tried the bottom bed once when I first moved in, but Frank just about killed me when he got home early that morning. He threw me out of it and beat me black and blue as a reminder of what would happen next time. The keepsake bruises took weeks to heal. He was only a year older than me, but he could have been a clone of his father. Since I was never what you would call built and didn’t care to tangle with either of them again, I kept to the top bunk.

  * * *

  Thursday

  September 28, 1995

  The next morning began as usual, with Vivian shrieking at my bedroom door. My music still drummed in my ears, so I turned over and pulled the covers up. A few minutes later, a deluge of ice water flooded my safe haven, drenching the bed and startling me from my quaint oblivion. I leaped down and searched the small room for the assailant, but Vivian had already left. The reused, forty-four ounce cup sat dripping onto the dresser in the corner of the room. The mirror above it advertised the damage. I stood bare to my boxers, dripping wet and shivering in the morning cold that permeated the trailer. My hair hung limp with soaked, black clumps plastered to my forehead. I grabbed a towel and made my way to the shower, pushing the oldest of my stepsisters out before she’d finished combing her preadolescent hair. I slammed the door and jumped into the shower. The warm water was cleansing, but soon turned cold as well.

  On the way back to my room, I passed Abigail waiting outside the door. She glared at me with cold hatred. As usual, I ignored her and rescued a heavy-metal t-shirt and jeans from the floor. I pulled out an old button-up from the dresser that had belonged to my father, and I let it hang loose over the wrinkled t-shirt. It was comforting to know that after four years I could still smell Dad’s aftershave on the collar. I grabbed my backpack and tiptoed past Vivian’s room. The drunk was still snoring. The cacophony was somehow in sync with Frank’s labored breathing as it echoed from my room. The resemblance was disturbing.

  My two stepsisters, Abigail and Gloria, were in the kitchen when I emerged from the dark hallway. Vivian had already left for work, but she’d toasted a few generic pastries and left them on the kitchen table. Both girls had one in hand and were collecting their lunchboxes. I grabbed the last off the plate and escaped the temporary hell for the day. The rickety porch groaned as I fled the trailer, threatening to crumble at any moment. The girls were hot on my heels but I soon outpaced them, striving to get as far away as possible.

  “Alex,” cried Gloria from behind, her high-pitched, six-year-old voice almost impossible to ignore. “You’s supposed to walk me to school.”

  I ignored her childish cries and hurried my pace, keeping my eyes on the sidewalk ahead.

  “I’s gonna tell Daddy on you,” she wailed. Her voice quaked as though physically pained.

  This had become another daily ritual, one I had hardened myself to long ago. Abigail shushed her at the mention of the drunk. Even at such a distance, I remember hearing her whisper, “Quiet, you know Daddy’s just as likely to bust our behinds as Alex’s for this. You ain’t gonna tell nobody.”

  While only twelve, Abigail was a survivor. She was a veteran at living through her father’s rages and knew when to stay out of the way. Gloria was too young to have learned those lessons.

  Once they were finally out of sight, I was able to slow down and meander along the sidewalk. My thoughts drifted amongst the clouds, thinking of nothing in particular, but contemplating everything at the same time. The point of living such a horrid life was foremost on my mind. I walked the same streets I normally did, crossing the railroad tracks and drifting into town. As I watched the world pass by, I noticed that the trees had begun to change, their foliage becoming a colorful clu
ster of branches. Each leaf anxiously waited for the right crosswind to catch its broadly spread arms and carry it away. It was comforting to know I wasn’t alone. I, too, longed to leave Tranquil Heights.

  I approached the more historic homes in town and white picket fences appeared along the sidewalk. I ran my fingers across them, each light thump echoing in my ears. I sped up and the sound thrummed like something caught in the spokes of a bike tire. Eventually the fence changed, as did the noise. An old family home appeared with a cast-iron fence. Rounded steeples perched atop each post. The enclosure guarded the majestic house, which had always belonged to the Brogand family. They were well respected in town, and their ancestors were some of the original settlers of this part of Virginia.

  It was a lot different from what I had grown used to over the last three years. A familiar voice picked up from behind me. Homeless Bob was drawing near, mumbling incoherent snatches of words. As though by an unconscious habit, he pushed his rusting lawnmower down the asphalt. The plastic wheels echoed on the roadway. Bob was a common road obstacle in Tranquil Heights, one everyone had come to know and look out for. Of course, Homeless Bob wasn’t his real name, but no one seemed to know him, or his past.

  I resumed listening to the new, deeper thrumming as my fingers slid across the black, cast-iron posts. The metallic sound was soothing and rhythmic. With the gate to the manor upon me, I ran my hand over its rail. The foliage changed, and an odd odor drifted in the vicinity. It reminded me of a musty attic or antique furniture. Day shifted to night like the flick of a switch.