The Paladin's Redemption (The Keepers of White Book 3)

by Richard Crofton

  The Keepers of White

  Book Three:

  The Paladin’s Redemption

  Richard Crofton

  ©2017

  ©2017 copyright, Palm Coast

  All Rights Reserved – RICHARD CROFTON

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise) without written consent from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Though certain facilities and locations may be mentioned, any reference to such does not necessarily contain factual information. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  LCCN:

  ISBN: 9781977007643

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to extend my undying gratitude to the following loved ones, friends, and acquaintances for their support and assistance in the creation of this work:

  First and foremost, my wife and biggest cheerleader, Elisha, for giving me strength, and for always believing in me.

  To David Karner of Thunder Mesa Designs for his outstanding creativity and effort towards the creation of the book cover, and to AsgardScotland (www.asgard.scot) for their permission to use their image of the rune necklace on the cover.

  To my newfound friends and fellow indie authors: Amanda Donnelly, Edmund Kelly, Carol Ann King, K. J. Simmill, Dee Cooper, Karen Glista, Elizabeth Comiskey, and Joy Yehle. We’ve grown and learned so much from working together.

  Other special thanks goes to my parents, Gary and Diane, Donna Arsenault, Mary Harayda, Tim Hassler, and especially to Jo Beach, Mike Link, Bill Gartzke and his son, Alex, for their constant encouragement, feedback, and support. And to my sensei, Master Dave, for teaching me the value of tenacity.

  And lastly, to you the reader. A thousand thanks for journeying through the pages of this work.

  Author’s Forward

  DO NOT READ THIS BOOK… YET.

  As the title informs, this is the third book in The Keepers of White series. In the first, subtitled Agents of Shadow, I had left an author’s note at the end, explaining the structure of this story. When I had finished my manuscript, I’d found that the total word count far exceeded what would be considered appropriate to compile the entire story into one, singular book. With reluctance, I was forced to break it up into three, and I use the word “reluctance” because separately, the books may seem somewhat incomplete. But in the end, I felt it was the lesser of two evils to do so.

  The Paladin’s Redemption picks up immediately where Book II: The Paladin’s Message left off. With that said, I’ve inserted this note to strongly urge you, the reader, that if you haven’t already done so, pick up or download a copy of the first two books, Agents of Shadow and The Paladin’s Message, and read them first before venturing on through The Paladin’s Redemption. Choosing not to do so could very well cause confusion, or many more unanswered questions than originally intended.

  If you happen to be a satisfied, returning fan of the series, and you’ve already read the first two installments, having been anxiously awaiting the release of this one, I apologize for having stolen the few minutes of your life just now, as none of this note applies to you. In that case, forgive this interruption, and by all means, continue your journey through the world of The Keepers of White.

  Lastly, thank you to all for choosing to ride on this paranormal roller coaster. May reading it gave you the same thrill as it gave me when writing it.

  -R.C.

  Dedication

  I’ve intentionally held out until the completion of my third novel to make this important dedication. Though not my first, combining it with the previous two books concludes the first part of The Keepers of White series that will continue on. The three books, The Agents of Shadow, The Paladin’s Message, and The Paladin’s Redemption, packaged together complete one whole story. Therefore, to my wife, Elisha: as you complete me, this one’s for you. Having you in my life is a far more powerful and precious magic than that which I write about in these novels.

  “Instead of a man of peace and love,

  I have become a man of violence and revenge.”

  - Hiawatha

  Paladin – “a class of warrior that is fully devoted to kindness and ridding the universe of evil. They are very religious and have an extremely strict honor code, as well as a soft spot for children and animals. In combat, a Paladin with a cause is almost impossible to defeat.”

  - www.urbandictionary.com

  Part I

  The Curse

  Chapter I

  Miles Harrison groggily opened his eyes to the annoyance of sirens piercing his eardrums. He was in an enclosed area with bright florescent lights above him, causing him to squint. A confining feeling of disorientation overpowered him, and when he tried to move, he was mostly constrained. “Where am I?” he croaked with a dry rasp.

  “Well it ain’t Tahiti,” a familiar voice answered. “Good to see you finally resting, even if it ain’t yo’ choice.”

  Harrison turned his head toward the voice of his partner. “Gibbons!” he croaked again, trying to clear his throat. His partner was sitting next to him, nearly hovering over him. He could tell that he was lying on his back, but when he tried to sit up, he was unable. He was either too weak, or strapped down… or both.

  “Whoa,” Gibbons put a firm hand on his shoulder. “Easy, pal. You in an ambulance. They got you hooked up to an IV, so don’t struggle. They tryin’ to counter whatever anesthetic you got dosed with.”

  “Jesus, I’m thirsty.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably a side effect o’ the same shit. You just dehydrated, man.”

  Harrison tried to sit up again. “Why the hell am I strapped down?”

  Gibbons replaced his hand on Harrison’s shoulder. “Come on, you know the drill. Can’t have you jostled around if we hit a bump. Now just hold tight and…”

  “Listen,” Harrison interrupted forcefully, ignoring the fire in his throat. “Gibbons. We gotta put out an APB on a guy. Brown hair, blue eyes, about six feet tall. A young biker dressed in black, riding a black sport bike.”

  Gibbons instinctively reached for his radio clipped to his belt. “Why? What happened?”

  Harrison cleared his throat again, desperate to ensure that his next words were loud and clear. “The Panco girl’s with him.”

  Gibbons almost dropped his radio. “You shittin’ me? You found her?”

  “Yeah. She’s alive.”

  “You sure it’s her?”

  “She fits the description, and she told me her name. If it’s not her, she’s claiming to be.”

  Gibbons held his radio to his lips, hesitating slightly.

  “Do it, man,” Harrison tried to bark, “can’t waste time on this.”

  Gibbons nodded and called it in. Once he finished communicating the information Harrison had relayed to him, he breathed an exhausted sigh. “So, you gonna tell me what the hell happened? Last I heard from you, you told me you was tailin’ Dr. Palmer.”

  “Long story, pal. First, my car broke down.”

  “Yeah?” Gibbons seemed intrigued. “That’s why we found it stranded a few miles from where we found you.”

  “Radio and phone stopped working too,” Harrison went on. “No fucking idea how that hap… Wait. How did you find me?”

  “Got a call from the fire department. They the ones that found you. The school house you was knocked out by wa
s burnin’. Our boys were on the scene too. I heard it all on my radio. When they identified you, I came as fast as I could.”

  “What else did they find?”

  “Not sure,” Gibbons shrugged. “They still tryin’ to put the fire out. The source was at the foundation… in the storm cellar. CSI will probably investigate once it’s contained. They found you on the ground with your own cuffs ’round your hands. EMTs checked you out and put you in this ambulance. That’s about when I got there, so Captain Metz told me to ride with you to find out what you can tell us.”

  “Metz?” Harrison turned to look at his partner again. He swallowed in attempt to alleviate the discomfort in his throat.

  “Yeah,” Gibbons confirmed. “He’s the OIC at the scene.”

  “Biddle know about this?”

  Gibbons shook his head. “Chief ain’t answering his phone. We called his house and his wife said he ain’t home yet. No one knows where he’s at, so Metz is runnin’ the operation in conjunction with the fire chief until Biddle arrives on scene… if we can get in touch with him that is.”

  Harrison gave Gibbons’ statement some thought. He could tell that there was concern in his partner’s voice regarding Chief Biddle. They both understood that it was rather unlike him to go MIA, especially if it meant missing out on involving himself with an event that would surely result in media coverage.

  “Harrison,” Gibbons began, pulling his partner away from his thoughts. “You wanna tell me what all this is about? And the deal with this biker guy?”

  “He got the drop on me.”

  “No shit. On you?”

  Like I said, long story.”

  “You know you gonna haveta tell it anyhow.”

  Harrison nodded, almost winced. Because of his foolhardy endeavors that night, book-loads of paperwork would be waiting for him to fill out, along with a line of questioning from Chief Biddle, and any other interested party above him in the chain of command. Gibbons brought a small Styrofoam cup to his lips and helped him take a few tiny sips of water filled with crushed ice. Then, with some uneasiness, he explained to his partner the events that led up to his encounter with the mysterious biker… leaving out the part with the handcuffs. He wasn’t about to admit that he somehow placed them on himself, especially since he had no clue as to how that even happened. Instead, he simply relayed to Gibbons that the biker must have cuffed him after sedating him with the syringe.

  By the time he finished, Gibbons had been shaking his head in disbelief for quite some time. “I gotta say, Harrison, you the biggest fool I ever laid eyes on.”

  “Gibbons…”

  “What the hell was you thinkin’ tryin’ to make an arrest with no backup, no working car, radio, or phone? You crazier than ever! You know you coulda gotten yoself killed out there!”

  “Gibbons,” Harrison repeated.

  “You know how many safety procedures you violated? You gonna take some serious heat fo this one!”

  “Gibbons, just save it!” Harrison snapped in a scratchy growl. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. You were right, okay? About everything. I’m way in over my head and I should’ve listened to you. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  Surprisingly, Gibbons offered him a smile. “Well, it’s a start.”

  “Look,” Harrison continued more calmly, “it’s been a long night. And that’s an understatement. A lecture is the last thing I need right now. I’m drained, mentally and physically. Tomorrow, I’ll give my report and face the music. Try to make sense of all this. But for now, I just need a break.”

  Gibbons nodded again, sympathetically. “Okay if I ask you just a few more questions?” he said after a period of silence between the two.

  “Shoot.”

  “So no sign of Dr. Palmer or the men you said she was with?”

  “No idea what happened to her,” Harrison admitted, shaking his head. “I’m starting to worry that she was in that burning schoolhouse.”

  “And you didn’t see anything? Inside the house, or in the cellar?”

  “Never had a chance to. When I got there, the biker and the girl were coming out. That’s when everything else happened.”

  Gibbons let out a sigh. Harrison wasn’t sure, but for some puzzling reason, he imagined it was a sigh of relief, which made little sense, so he dismissed the thought.

  “Why the hell would the Panco girl go with this guy? Willingly?”

  “I’m wondering the same thing,” Harrison commented. “Hardly any of this adds up.”

  “Well,” Gibbons said, sighing again, “I wouldn’t try to do the math right now. Let’s just get you checked out at the ER and call it a night.” He patted his partner on the shoulder in a friendly gesture.

  “Can you do me a favor, Gibbons?” Harrison asked.

  “Sure, man. What’choo need?”

  “Can you take my phone from my jacket pocket and call your number with it?”

  Gibbons reached for the phone and did as Harrison asked. Within seconds, his own phone began to vibrate. “Works fine,” he said with an “I don’t know what to tell you” kind of shrug.

  Harrison couldn’t think of anything to say. He didn’t have the mental capacity to venture a logical explanation. All he could do, besides imagining the tune to The Twilight Zone playing through the speakers of the ambulance, was laugh.

  “Need anything else?” Gibbons added, hoping to keep his partner from a nervous breakdown.

  “Yeah,” he answered, still laughing. “Have my car towed to my place, would you?”

  “You don’t want me to have it taken to the shop?”

  Harrison shook his head. “Something tells me there’s no need.”

  Chapter II

  Earlier, on the same night of the new moon, Jim Panco sat patiently on the quaint porch, doing his best to enjoy the cool air as he helped himself to one of Moonie’s lagers, taking small sips and breathing in the faint aroma of salt water in the westward breeze, brought on from the Atlantic Coast just twenty miles away. The town itself was coming to life as the summer season approached, but the outskirts of Toms River maintained a peaceful stillness that Jim was accustomed to.

  Checking his watch, he noted that it was shortly after ten p.m. His generous host had been tending to the children in the guest room for some time. They had nestled in for the night around 8:30, but the girl, Emily, had awaken terrified from a bad dream. Her cries had awoken her younger brother Alex, and Moonie had to work with some difficulty to calm them down. He remained in the bedroom with the door closed. Jim had heard him speaking softly to them, but was unable to make out any words. Only Moonie spoke. The children were silent for the entire time. Jim was unaware of what transpired, but he noted that Moonie’s time in the bedroom with the children was identical to some strange, pre-bedtime routine that occurred regularly since the first night of his stay. And every morning before breakfast. Always, the door was shut. Always, only Moonie spoke. Always, it… whatever it was… lasted about an hour. Jim never bothered to ask about it. He had too much on his own mind. Especially tonight.

  The wind picked up slightly, the leaves rustling around the house increased in volume, and then it all died down again. Periodically this happened, and before long, Jim began to keep track of the heightening and softening of the peaceful sound, only to help time pass by, and to distract himself from the opened pack of cigarettes on the glass end table that sat in between an empty, white, plastic chair and the one he currently occupied. Now and then, he caught himself staring at the pack, as well as the lighter lying beside it. Each time, he brought the bottle of lager to his lips and took a sip. Despite his physical comfort, he was mentally on edge, which caused time to crawl at the pace of a lethargic snail, despite his best efforts to occupy his mind with the simple counting of the wind’s changing tempo. He was on his third beer already, and he could only take so many sips to stop himself from grabbing a smoke.

  “Go ahead,” Moonie’s voice spoke from behind him, almost
making him jump out of his chair, “help yourself.” Even in a wheelchair, the young man was stealthy. Or Jim was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t hear his approach. “Just let me shut the door and turn on the ceiling fans.” He spun his chair ninety degrees and pulled the handle, sliding the glass door shut. Then he pressed one of many buttons on a console of one of the armrests to his wheelchair. Immediately, the ceiling fans started to spin at an easy pace.

  “Haven’t had a smoke since my younger days in the Army,” Jim replied. “Quitting wasn’t easy. Not sure I want to take the chance of getting hooked again.”

  “Can’t say I blame you,” Moonie empathized. “Me? I never touched the things until after my accident.” With as much good humor as he could bring his face to express, he pointed to where his legs should have been. “I used to run every day,” he continued. “Even though I was always a short little fucker, I was a fast one too. Had more stolen bases on my high school team than any two players combined.” He easily used his arm strength to transfer himself to the empty chair beside the small end table, then grabbed for the pack and the lighter. “Nowadays I figure, what’s the point of having good lungs if I can’t use ‘em the way I want to?”

  Jim nodded. He couldn’t relate exactly to his host’s situation, but he knew enough about loss and its effects. “To be honest,” he contributed, “I still don’t know how I didn’t start back up after losing my wife. Maybe because it was cancer that took her. But it had nothing to do with her lungs or cigarettes. Cheryl never smoked. Still, I guess I must’ve connected the habit with her disease. I wanted a cigarette every day for a while, but hated carcinogens at the time.”