Soul Thief (Blue Light Series)

by Mark Edward Hall

“Doesn’t matter what you believe,” Spencer said, his voice a solemn whisper. “My orders are to find that artifact, and to find McArthur. Listen to me, your buddy just might have brought down an airplane full of people, and in my book that would make him guilty of a mass murder.”

  “Oh, you bastard,” Jennings said. “You’re going to use that, aren’t you? You’re going to use that to grab him and then he’s going to disappear into a black hole that he might never escape from.”

  “This is the reality, Rick. McArthur just happens to be one of the most wanted men on the planet and I aim to grab him before someone else does.”

  “Get out of my office, Spencer. I don’t want to see your face around here again.”

  “You know you’re not immune, Rick.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Spencer. Get out of my office, now!”

  Chapter 47

  When Doug awoke he felt nothing. He lay on his back with his numb arms resting like lumps of cordwood beside him. He could not lift them. It took him a very long time to open his eyes. When he did finally manage to get them open he saw nothing but white. In a short moment of panic he believed he’d somehow been blinded. Then his eyes began to focus and he could see the ceiling above him, the room around him and the bed sheets that covered him. Everything was white, brilliantly so and nearly blinding. As his weary and watering eyes further focused he saw tubes running liquids into his arms, a panel with red and green lights winking on and off.

  A bespectacled young man in a white lab coat appeared above him, his face solemn but hopeful. There was a name tag pinned to his lapel and Doug could read it quite clearly: Dr. Parsons.

  “So our patient is back from the dead,” Doctor Parsons nodded with approval.

  Doug tried to reply but could not make his mouth work.

  “No, don’t try,” the doctor said. “There’ll be plenty of time for talking. We’ve been waiting for you to come around. Doctor Ferguson will be pleased.”

  Doug tried again to talk but it was no use. Nothing worked. His throat felt like it had been burned closed. Doctor Parsons, sensing his distress, lowered a container with a straw sticking out of it at a right angle. Doug took a few small sips—not nearly enough—before the container was cruelly snatched away. “Not too much at first,” said the doctor. “It’s been quite some time since you’ve had anything in your stomach. We wouldn’t want it to betray you.”

  Doug was starting to remember some things now; in fact they were coming back with relative ease. He remembered a woman named Ferguson, Lucy Ferguson, in fact. He wondered if she was Doctor Ferguson. She’d seemed so familiar to him when he’d first met her, and he’d felt so comfortable in her presence. She hadn’t mentioned being a doctor. He remembered having coffee with her in the airport cafe, the shapely curve of her thigh as she’d crossed her legs, his embarrassment at thinking the thoughts he was thinking so soon after leaving Annie, and then . . . things got a little fuzzy. He was in the men’s toilet and someone had come out of a stall holding a gun. He remembered the gun coughing and a feeling like he’d been kicked in the chest. Then he was back in his childhood reliving parts of his life he would rather have forgotten. Then he was on an airplane and something had happened. There had been a bomb or something worse on board. People were screaming and being sucked out through an opening in the broken fuselage. He was having a hard time articulating what was real, separating it from what had been dreams or illusion. He remembered thinking that he was dead or dreaming and that none of it could be real.

  He realized that Dr. Parsons was no longer hovering above him. Instead the doctor’s attentive visage had been replaced by a middle-aged woman with wavy black hair wearing a white uniform. “I’m your nurse, Donna Sanchez,” the woman said giving Doug a compassionate smile. “Doctor Parsons has gone to notify Doctor Ferguson of your reemergence into the world of the living.”

  “Where am I?” Doug said and it came out a rasp. He was surprised that he’d had the capacity to speak at all, even more surprised that he’d been understood.

  The nurse seemed to hesitate for a moment before saying, “You’re at University Hospital in Whitehall Virginia. You’ve been through quite an ordeal. Now you mustn’t try to talk. You’re in no condition—”

  “Where’s my wife?” Doug said around a tongue that felt like a beached whale in his mouth.

  A perplexed expression crossed the nurse’s face. “I’m a private contractor, sir,” she said. “I’m not aware of our patient’s personal circumstances.”

  Doug tried to move. The nurse placed a hand on each of his shoulders to hold him down. “Please, sir,” she said. “You’re in no condition—”

  “But I need some answers.”

  “And you will have them, just as soon as Doctor Ferguson arrives. She brought you here, you know. She saved your life. She cares very much about your recovery.”

  Doug relaxed. “How long have I been here?”

  “Six weeks, sir.”

  “Six weeks?” Doug said, “And you’ve never heard of Annie, my wife?”

  The nurse shook her head. “I told you, Mr. McArthur, I know nothing about your personal circumstances.”

  “Who’s Doctor Ferguson?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss staff members. Doctor Ferguson will be here shortly and I’m sure she will be able to address all your concerns.”

  Later—Doug was not sure how much later because he had dozed—he opened his eyes and realized he was staring directly into the eyes of Lucy Ferguson.

  “How do you feel, Doug?”

  “I don’t know. What happened?”

  “You were shot.”

  “So I wasn’t in a plane crash?”

  Lucy gave a curious frown. “How did you know about that?”

  “I had a dream. It’s true, isn’t it?”

  Lucy nodded sadly. “Not only did you dream it, you predicted it.”

  “Damn,” Doug said. “I warned them, but they wouldn’t listen. It wasn’t the first plane, was it?”

  Lucy shook her head. “No. It was the second. The one they rescheduled you on.”

  “Jesus. Why?”

  “Someone wanted you dead.”

  “Was it De Roché?”

  Lucy did not reply.

  “I’ll kill the bastard,” Doug said.

  “Dead men don’t kill.”

  “What?”

  “Doug, there’s something you need to know.”

  Doug searched Lucy’s eyes.

  “You and I were both on that plane.”

  Doug stared at Lucy in confusion. “You’re not making sense.”

  “After you were shot two of my colleagues took our seats. They used our identities.”

  “My God,” Doug said. “Why?”

  “It was a diversion. We were there immediately after the attempt on your life.”

  “I saw you,” Doug said. “I heard you. I knew you were there.”

  “We took care of the assassin,” Lucy said. “We’re not totally sure who ordered the hit but it’s entirely possible that it was De Roché. Nice and clean in an airport restroom. The killer would have taken your wallet and any other valuables you might have had. Made it look like a robbery. No one would have ever suspected De Roché. But there was no evidence of a crime. We cleaned everything up. When records showed that you’d boarded the second aircraft it was obvious that the assassination attempt had failed.”

  “But how . . .”

  “We have no idea how that jetliner was brought down. We’re working on it. But it seems someone wanted you out of the way big time. In a way it was partly our fault. We wanted them to believe you got on that airplane. We knew they’d keep hunting you and eventually we might have been able to implicate De Roché without you even being harmed. That’s assuming it was De Roché.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Doug said. “All those lives. And it was because of me?”

  “No,” Lucy said, her eyes turning hard. “You can’t blame yourself for that.”

>   “Everyone thinks I’m dead? Is that right?”

  Lucy nodded. “The important thing is whoever tried to kill you thinks you’re dead.”

  “And Annie?”

  “Doug, there’s been a memorial service.”

  “And you didn’t tell Annie?”

  “We couldn’t.”

  “Who the hell are you people?” Doug tried to sit up but he was weak and he could not move. He felt his eyes swirling in his head. They felt hot and wet as rage boiled in him.

  “Whoa, Doug, you’ve got to stay calm.”

  “Calm? How can I stay calm when Annie thinks I’m dead? Who the hell are you?”

  “I work for an organization known as the Brotherhood of the Order. We’ve been watching you for a long time.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “How is it then?”

  “We’ve been protecting you.”

  “Protecting me from what?”

  “You have a gift that needs protecting. If we hadn’t been there you’d be dead.”

  For a long moment Doug stared at Lucy, speechless.

  “The Brotherhood of the Order has a big stake in keeping you alive,” Lucy said.

  “Who are you people?”

  “We’re a religious organization.”

  “Oh, shit, that’s just what I need—”

  “Wait a minute, Doug. Let me explain. We’re not holy rollers. We’re not fanatics. We’re scholars. The Order was founded in the twelfth century by a group of Jesuit priests. But they were more than priests. They were soldiers, scientists and scholars. Part of our mission is the study of paranormal phenomena.”

  “You’re one of those nut job organizations I had to hide from when I was a kid.”

  “No, Doug, we’ve never contacted you before. We’ve watched you, but always from a distance.”

  The Brotherhood of the Order? Doug thought. A small memory fragment pierced a corner of his mind, but before he could grasp hold of it, it quickly receded back into a gray and foggy area. He tried to concentrate, but it was no use. Part of his mind did not seem to be working.

  Lucy saw his confusion. “We are multi-faceted,” she said. “It would be useless to try and explain now. You’re just not ready. You need to heal.”

  Jesuit Priests? Doug thought. Paranormal phenomena? His mind kept trying to grasp some significance there, but it was no use, and he almost screamed in frustration. “I want to know about De Roché,” he said. “I want to know what he has to do with all this.”

  “There will be time enough for that when you’re better,” the woman told him. “Right now you need to heal.”

  “Wait,” Doug said, before Lucy could turn away. He was aching inside with the need for reassurance. His thoughts seemed frustratingly fragmented, and he didn’t even know which questions to ask of this woman. “Annie’s in danger,” he said suddenly, not understanding where the thought had come from. “I can feel it. I need to warn her.”

  Lucy leaned in close and tenderly brushed a strand of hair back off his forehead. Doug could smell the cleanness of her skin as her warm breath caressed his cheek.

  “Doug, listen very carefully. I can assure you that Annie is in no immediate danger. You must not let them know you’re alive; not under any circumstances. Your survival depends on it. If you are going to heal, if you truly intend to make a difference in Annie’s life and the life of your unborn child, then you must stay in the shadows. Trust me, it is the only way. My organization lives and works in the shadows. It is the only reason we continue to exist. In a sense you are lucky. The ones who wanted you dead are some of the most ruthless people on earth. They believe you died on that airplane. My best advice is to keep it that way, at least for now. I guarantee no harm will come to Annie until after the baby is born.”

  “Am I a prisoner?”

  Lucy shook her head. “No,” she said. “You’re free to go whenever you wish.” With that said, she turned and left the room, leaving only a lingering scent of clean, sweet skin.

  Chapter 48

  Lucy came back the next morning. In the interim Doug had eaten a small portion of solid food and had managed to sit up in his bed, propped against pillows. He looked down at his body in disgust, seeing that he’d lost a significant amount of weight. His upper body was wrapped in bandages so he had no way of assessing how much damage had been done by the bullets. He sighed in defeat, understanding that it would take him months of rehabilitation to get back to where he was before the shooting. Damn, he needed to be strong now. Not months from now. He had to find Annie. He had to make things right.

  Between the kind nurse, Donna Sanchez and Dr. Parsons, Doug had learned that the first bullet had punctured his abdomen and gone through his stomach. Then it had contacted a rib exiting through the back and had shattered, sending lead and bone shrapnel into his lungs and spleen. The damage had been extensive. The subsequent surgeries to remove shrapnel had been tricky but were successfully accomplished. The second bullet had entered his left chest just above the heart, missed arteries and had gone straight through his lung where it exited just below the shoulder blade. The lung had collapsed, leaving him on an artificial breathing apparatus and in a coma for nearly six weeks, and only yesterday—after his vitals had improved dramatically—had he been taken off the critical list and his condition upgraded to stable. Doug had always had good instincts and in his conversations with the nurse and the doctor he’d felt there was something more to his condition and recovery that remained unspoken. He sensed it in body language and in the subtle way eyes were averted whenever his questions became too pointed.

  Doug had a multitude of questions that did not relate to the state of his health, but neither Dr. Parsons nor Nurse Sanchez could or would answer them. He was told that Dr. Ferguson would be joining him presently and that she was the only one who could address his concerns.

  Frustrated, Doug waited for Lucy’s return, watching news television as he did so. Although the crash had happened more than six weeks ago, it was still a main topic in the headlines. It had been a terrible tragedy, claiming the lives of two-hundred and thirty-six people. The possibility that it had been a terrorist attack was now the main thrust of the investigation. FAA investigators were still combing the rural Allegany Mountain site trying to piece it all together. The destruction had been so complete that there was little identifiable at the crash site, therefore few obvious clues.

  There was one tantalizing nugget that had surfaced elsewhere, however, and the news-hungry media had pounced on it like vultures on carrion. It seemed that a male passenger had been pulled off an earlier flight after some sort of incident, and had subsequently been cleared and given passage on the doomed flight. For national security reasons the individual’s identity was being withheld. The press was hungry for fresh details, but the government was not talking.

  When Lucy entered the room the report was just ending. She could tell by the look of shock on Doug’s face that he’d been watching the headlines.

  “What’s going on?” he said. “Are they going to blame me for that?”

  “I see you’re feeling better,” Lucy smiled sheepishly. She pulled a chair over next to the bed, sat down, and crossed one smooth, tanned leg over the other.

  “I want answers!” Doug demanded. “No more bull. I want to know what’s going on. Now!”

  “Okay,” Lucy said. “I guess you deserve that.”

  “Let’s begin with you. Who the hell are you?”

  “I told you the truth. The Brotherhood of the Order is an organization that studies and observes paranormal phenomena. But mostly we study human beings with extraordinary abilities.”

  The memory fragment in Doug’s mind swelled again and he was close to remembering something important, but it quickly receded and he was left with just a dull ache, and more questions than answers. “Why haven’t I ever heard of you?”

  “Because we work in secret. Ours is a very old so
ciety, founded in the thirteenth century by a renegade group of Jesuit scholars who had begun questioning what they were being taught. They knew that miracles happened; they just weren’t convinced that all miracles were the work of God. Some came from darker places and conveyed much darker intentions. The reason we are secret is because of the world in which we live. If our existence was made public, governments would interfere and try to regulate us. In the beginning the only law was Vatican law and heresy was punishable by death. Now we have to deal with governments—distasteful as it is—most of which are shaped by ideological tenets. The world is filled with spoilers who would try to prevent us from objectively doing our research. In order to be objective our studies need to be completely unbiased and unstained by special interest. That’s why we live and work in secrecy.”

  Doug glanced down at Lucy’s bare legs then quickly averted his eyes. “So how do you fit into it?”

  “I’m just an employee. I do a job, that’s all. The Order employs many people in a variety of fields.”

  Doug relaxed a little but he was still having trouble wrapping his sluggish brain around the mystery of this woman. “Listen, sorry I snapped at you. Guess I should be thanking you for saving my life, huh?” He shaped a wan smile.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Lucy said. “I’m just glad you’re alive.”

  “So, your organization has been keeping an eye on me.”

  Lucy nodded. “Since you were a child. We know what you’ve suffered, but we’ve always kept our distance, even when everyone else was scheming to get their hands on you.”

  “So why am I lying in this bed recovering from gunshot wounds?”

  “That wasn’t us, Doug. We only wanted to protect you. And we almost failed this time.”

  Doug frowned. “How much do you actually know about me?”

  “Considerable. What we don’t understand is why you’ve been . . . quiet for so long.”

  “Quiet?”

  “Your mind. Your sight.”

  Doug’s eyes drew down on Lucy. “What is going on?”