Damascus, I said under my breath.
“Very good,” Rupert said. “He authored a very famous work of literature called the 'Source of Knowledge.' He was to obtain the copy of the Book of Sighs that had been hidden in Damascus. But he met an untimely death at the end of a thief's sword before he could complete this quest. Bad fortune and fate often struggle against each other.”
“On the fourteenth day of November,” Kristen began again, “ . . . in the year of sixteen-hundred and one, a thousand years later, John Eudes came into this world. He was the second reincarnation of St. John the Divine. He, unfortunately, was slowly poisoned by religious fanatics in sixteen-eighty after having come into possession of the book that had originally been hidden in Athens, Greece. Sadly, he never returned from his first crossing to the Land of Sorrows, and was lost. His body was in France at the time of his death.”
“He was our second chance, our second hope,” Rupert said as his eyes looked down, almost paying silent homage to these men.
“You are the third,” Kristen said as her bright eyes studied me. “The only one, in fact, to successfully cross back and forth between both lands. You are St. John the Divine's third reincarnate. And you will be the one to succeed.”
And, I asked them, what happens if I fail . . . like they did?
“You won't,” Rupert said confidently.
“You can't,” Kristen affirmed.
And the both of them, they were so sure that I could do it, and that I was their saint, that I believed it, too. It all made sense, in a kind of outrageous, sensational way. My accident, and then the book, and now this . . . it all adds up.
“How do I get there?” I ask. “What does the door look like? I still have a lot of questions.”
She brought my hands to her chest, just above her breasts. And I'm having a really hard time concentrating on saving the universe.
“ . . . you will figure all of this out. It is your destiny to do so. And your reward, it will be your memories. Your past life will be given back to you. And once again you will be complete.”
My heart is racing a million miles-an-hour. I then ask her, blood flowing away from my brain at an alarming rate as my hands touch her soft skin, What will happen when I accomplish this?
What happens to us, then?
To you and I?
She smiles that same perfect smile that I glimpsed in my dream. Her eyes, blinking slowly, thoughtfully, she tells me, “ . . . that is a bridge that you and I must cross . . . together. When the time comes for us to consider us, we will make that decision. But right now, this isn't about you and I. This is about setting our captive souls free so that we are no longer hunted by the monsters in the sky. So that we may feel the grace of God. The warmth of his glorious embrace.”
She did make it sound noble.
I'll do it, I tell her. I'll do whatever it takes.
“You must look at the back cover of the book. There is a rough picture of the area you must search to find the door. It will guide you. And remember, the book is the key. The book, nor you—alone—can open it.”
Where will you be during all of this? How will I find you?
Out of the darkness Rupert steps forward, “We will leave for that place, now. When you get there, we will be waiting. This will be our last chance to speak with you until you arrive in Syria. And make haste, John. Time is of the essence. The window of our opportunity is closing quickly.”
“How much time do I have? I mean, this isn't just something I can up and do. I need plane tickets, a passport, all kinds of shots. I might even need permission. I've never even been on a plane before. This isn't easy. What's my time frame?”
They looked at each other, and then Kristen turned to me, “Days, John. Not weeks. Days.”
Or what?
“Or we all rest here until the End of Days, being attacked, hunted, and eaten. And nobody ever goes to Heaven.”
She sure knows how to lay a guilt trip on a guy. Man, I like her.
Rupert came forward, kneeling between us, his right hand on my shoulder, and it felt a bit creepy—my hands still technically on Kristen's breasts, with Rupert touching me. “Can we count on you to be the saint you are fated to be? It is your destiny. Your whole life was for this very aim. This is your quest. Will you do this, John?”
And you know, gullible old me, I said, “Yes. I'll go as far as it takes. But there's one thing I need to know.”
“Anything,” Kristen said.
There's no other way to put this. “Are you and I in love? I mean, were we in love? I need to know. I'll do this, either way. But I have to know.”
She considers my question as Rupert backs away. She stares into my eyes with her intoxicating gaze. And then she leans forward and kisses me, again. And this time, it was a real kiss. Like in those movies where two people really care about each other.
And me, I'm so dizzy I'm about to pass out. Everything is just about as great as I can imagine.
I don't know how long we kissed, but it was epic. And when she pulled away she reached her little fingers up and touched my lips, patting them a few times and said, “Go now, John. Go to Damascus and save us all.”
I stood, nodding. There's nothing I wouldn't do for her. Nothing.
“Hurry, John. Save us.”
I turned and dove back into my body. I had places to go, doors to open, all our souls to save.
Chapter 61
Jack's apartment,
Earth plane . . .
I wake-up, back in my bed, shivering and aching and cold . . . but happier than I can ever remember being. I sat up, pushing the heating blanket off of my pale chest and try to steady my vision. My throat, as is typical in my on-again off-again life as a mortal human, is burning something fierce and I know that if I try to talk I'm going to cough my lungs up.
I have to take small breaths, and it is driving me crazy because I have so much to tell Ricky and Ms. Josephine. But I'm a saint now, and I must behave like one. And this saint is hungry.
The blurriness starts to fade as the room becomes more clear. Ricky is standing, using the underside of his arm to squish the healing bag of normal saline. I'm feeling these little lines of heat travel through my veins, working their way around my body. He's looking over at Ms. Josephine, who is kneeling down fiddling with something on the kitchen floor.
Finally, I gather enough strength and saliva in my throat to speak, “We have to take the book to Damascus!”
Neither Ricky nor Ms. Josephine responds to me, and I kind of feel robbed of the moment. I just crossed the plane between life and death, conversing with troubled spirits about fulfilling my destiny and saving every soul that has ever lived, and I finally possess the answers that we have been searching for this entire time. You'd think they'd be just a tad bit more enthusiastic.
Damascus! I repeat.
Hidden door!
Ricky turns his face towards me, his eyes still focused on whatever Ms. Josephine is fooling around with on the floor. I so hope that she didn't drop a jar full of hairy poisonous spiders or snakes, or whatever. Because, even if she assures me that she's recaptured every last one of them, I'll never get a single second of sleep in this apartment, ever again.
Ricky, he speaks out of the side of his mouth, “Yeah, that's awesome, Jack.” But he's clearly preoccupied.
So I squint over to where Ms. Josephine is kneeling and I have to blink several times because it sure looks like there is a pair of legs lying across the floor of my kitchen. And since this apartment only came with spooks and ghosts, I know that is one pair of legs too many.
Those aren't spiders, are they? I say slowly as my mind tries to make sense out of what I'm seeing.
“No, dude,” he explains. “That detective that came by asking about that toothy retard on the third floor? Turns out he wasn't a detective at all. He was looking for the book, and after you crossed-over he came back with a pistol and an attitude, and he said he wasn't leaving without the book.”
That's one of the guys who killed Rupert? One of the goons?
“Maybe,” he said speculatively. “Not sure,” he shrugs noncommittally, “ . . . could be, I guess.”
So, what? I ask. Did Ms. Josephine hit him with some voodoo? A jar full of icky bugs? Some spell to freeze his heart?
Ricky proceeded to explain that with me being on the other side, he had to tell the guy some song and dance about us selling the book to a private collector in Houston. Then, when the guy looked thoroughly perplexed, and there was a small window of opportunity,
“ . . . I head-butted him and kicked him in the nuts with my boot! Like a Chuck Norris kick. Hit him so hard his kids will feel it. Dropped his thug-ass to the kitchen floor. While he was trying to breathe, I did the Riverdance on his face and then hit his ass with a thick rig of a barbiturate cocktail that I like to call, 'sleepy-time'. He's out for a while.”
Ricky laughed, “Funny thing is, I was saving that syringe for you, you know, in case you started freaking-out. But the goon asked for it first.”
You killed him? Oh, we're in deep shit, now! They've got institutions for people like us. Not prisons . . . institutions for the mentally deranged!
“'e's not dead,” Ms. Josephine said from across the apartment. “And da both of you . . . watch your mouths.”
Fifteen minutes later . . .
I'm still shaking, nearly uncontrollably, staring at this guy who is narced-out on my floor. Turns out Ricky didn't use the IK-1009 on him. So that's good. Ms. Josephine did a number on him with a roll of olive-green duct tape.
After the excitement of finding a semi-dead body wore off, I explained to them exactly what I had learned from Rupert and Kristen. How I was the third reincarnation of St. John the Divine, and how the book—like me—is somehow stuck a little bit in both worlds.
“So that book cover might not be leather, after all?” Ricky says, rubbing his chin. His eyes were studying the Book of Sighs.
“That's the first thing I thought,” I told him. Me and Ricky, we're starting to think alike, and that kind of scares me.
I recounted for them how, in Damascus there is a gateway, or a door, or something, and that only the book—in my saintly hands—can be used to open the passageway and free all the trapped souls.
“And then you'll be, what . . .” Ricky says, “ . . . a savior?” He says it with wide excited eyes, and I know he's trying to figure out how he can use this whole thing to pick-up on women.
“Den,” Ms. Josephine said, “ . . . 'e will learn who 'e really was before 'e got 'it on the 'ead. And 'e'll get to be wit 'is girlfriend.”
She makes it sound kind of trite and pathetic when she says it like that. But, yeah, that's basically the size of it. I save all those souls so that I can learn my past, fulfill my destiny, and get the girl. That sounds like some cheesy movie.
So now, I tell them, I don't know how, but we have to get to Damascus . . . and soon. The window for being a savior is closing quickly.
“Well,” Ms. Josephine said, “ . . . we certainly 'ave to leave dis apartment. Whoever sent dis guy, dey'll send more. And dey're not going to be 'appy about what we done.”
I look at the motionless body of the supposed detective, wondering if the two spooks that are looking at him are doing routine work, or just answering some subconscious request of mine. This is something I may need to address.
It's time to go, I say. Now!
“Grab some clothes, and the book,” Ricky barks. “I'll call my dad and ask him for some help with the travel arrangements.”
As I'm packing I hear Ricky talking to his dad while he is circling my kitchen, stepping over the unconscious body. I grab my duffel bag.
“ . . . we need to go to Syria, dad . . . ”
I pack all of my folded white t-shirts—four of them—sniffing them to make sure they're sanitary.
“ . . . well, I guess we need to go tonight . . . ”
I grab all of my socks. They're thick tube socks and I like the way they make my toes feel warm and safe.
“ . . . no, dad. This has nothing to do with a girl. I mean, there is a girl involved, but it's not like that . . . No, that was a one-time thing . . . ”
There are only two pairs of pants in my wardrobe, and they are stone-washed blue jeans. I got them at Old Navy, but I was assured that they were new.
“ . . . one good reason? Okay . . . how about saving the fate of all our souls in the afterlife from the overwhelming forces of evil? How about that, dad?”
Of the two pairs of shoes I have, I am conflicted. I guess I'll bring both the Adidas cross-trainers, and my Doc Martin's boots—that Ricky bought me so that I wouldn't look like a pussy when I was out on the town.
Ricky's voice, it got considerably more serious, “ . . . yes, dad . . . it's important to me. For real, important . . . ”
Looking at my choices, I zip-up the duffel bag. I'm going to look like an escaped mental patient. But then, that's not far from the truth, so . . . whatever.
“ . . . thanks, dad. I owe you one . . . well, okay, I owe you several. Can you call the captain and file the flight plan, we're on our way over, right now.” Ricky's doing a lot of nodding at this point in the conversation with his father. “ . . . alright. Thanks. Later . . . yes, tell mom hugs-n-kisses.”
I walk back into the living room with my bag. “Hugs-n-kisses, Ricky?”
He shrugs, shoving his cell phone into his pocket, “Let's roll, team!”
I ask, where are we going? He says, Damascus.
I say, how are we getting there? He replies, private airplane.
I ask, how we can do that? He answers, charter flight.
Then he smiles, like I'm a little slow, and I need it all filled in for me. “My dad's hooking it all up. We're taking a private flight.”
I tell him that I don't have a passport, and he just smiles like it's no problem. So then I ask him how rich he really is. And you know what he does? He just looks at me with this smug grin on his Cheshire cat face, and he says that he's rich.
When you say rich . . .
“Ugly rich,” he replies. “We're ugly gross rich?”
Which, I assume, is a lot.
“Now quit jacking around,” he orders, “ . . . we need to burn-off . . . now!”
I couldn't agree more. I grab the book, give my apartment one last look. Time to fulfill the prophecy. My destiny.
Chapter 62
Addison Airport.
Wednesday evening, 10:26 pm . . .
Ricky took us by Ms. Josephine's shop so she could grab her passport and some clothes. He asked her—politely—to not bring any insects, arachnids, or snakes due to some obviously strict international flight standards prohibiting such cargo. Reluctantly, she agreed.
Now we're waiting in the front lobby of a private airline company named, MillionAir, while he talks with the pilot—a cute girl named Amy—who usually handles Ricky's family's private jet. And by the way they are treating all of us, I'm pretty sure that ugly gross rich is probably the same thing as super wealthy.
They ask for all of our travel documents and all I have is my Texas Driver's license—that I just got in the mail two days ago. When they asked about my passport, Ricky got somebody on his cell phone and handed it to the receptionist. She did a lot of nodding and said, “yes, sir,” about 15 times. My passport, they informed me, would be waiting at the private airport in Atlanta, Georgia when we arrive there in less than three hours.
So I guess we're going to Atlanta, first.
About 20 minutes later, we are being driven out to a large hangar where a monster-sized plane is waiting. They refer to it as a G-5, and I don't know what that stands for. Ricky says something about 47 million. I guess the G means something expensive.
This looks like something oil barons would have, I said as we made our way up the steps to the plane.
Ricky replies, “A plane should be like your second home in the sky. It should make you feel as if you're in a lavish luxury suite.”
And I know that he must have just read that in some brochure.
Anyway, Ms. Josephine and I, we're almost in shock as we settle into the leather couch in the living room! This plane, it has a living room. My apartment barely has one of those. My apartment could fit twice in this plane.
Yeah, I think to myself. I'd much rather be depressed and feeling sorry for myself in a plane like this, than in my dumpy old apartment. Ricky's right: rich people problems are much better than poor people problems. I've decided to make sure I'm rich at some point.
Amy—our captain—she has a wonderfully pleasant voice. She instructs us to relax, have a nice flight, and that we should be in Atlanta in a little over two hours. That's depending on a low-pressure system that we may or may not have to fly around.
Oh, in case you're wondering, I've got the Book of Sighs sandwiched between my white t-shirt and my stomach. I feel the need to be in close proximity with the book at all times.
As we taxi to the runway, I pull out the book and study the back cover. I'm not relaxed enough to be able to see the map that is supposed to be there, but I do see the squiggles, so that's a good sign.
I don't think I have a degenerative brain disease anymore.
As I feel the book on my body, I realize that there are no signs of advanced schizophrenia.
Most likely, there is no tumor. Never was.
All of this craziness, it's real. It is happening. If I was a Rorschach Inkblot, people might see a butterfly, or a tree, or they might see a reincarnated saint.
My hands on the book, I lean back—the leather couch sinking in and hugging me . . . consuming me. I close my eyes as Ms. Josephine stares blankly out of her window. She's probably thinking of her homeland of Haiti—a fact we learned when she gave Ricky her passport.
See Jack Die (Part 1 in the Paranormal Series) (See Jack Die Series) Page 29