The Keeper

by T F Allen

  As Hannah walked away, I thought about everything that had gone right for her in the last three months. The events that night at the Harkrider Vineyard had earned her instant fame, and she’d been more than ready to capitalize on it. She took every interview Michael and Jolene had refused. Her face appeared everywhere from television screens to tablets to the covers of celebrity magazines. The series of articles about how she and Sister Mary Elizabeth had tracked down and rescued Michael and Jolene boosted the circulation of the Sun-Times to record numbers. And a New York publisher signed her to a two-book deal—a memoir recounting every detail of her journey (The Night I Saw My Star) and a self-help book (Connecting to Your Universe).

  Everyone thought Hannah had the world by the tail, but I knew she’d trade it all to get her friend back. That night at the vineyard, she’d learned more about the Universe than she ever thought possible. But her revelation came with a cost—an invisible wound that continued to ache each time she thought about Sister Mary Elizabeth.

  Part of me wanted to see the world like she did, to believe I was a living element of the Universe, or a star, or whatever she thought she saw that night in the caves. It was enough that she believed in me, that she trusted the images I’d sent her and acted on them when logic pointed the opposite way. Her faith helped me save Michael and Jolene. And for that I would always be grateful.

  Michael led Jolene deeper into the cemetery. I followed close behind. Even three months after her rescue, she didn’t talk much. And Michael never forced her to. She wasn’t the same person he’d become obsessed with in art school, and she’d never become that person again. Like Michael, she was starting her life over, going to counseling three days a week. And she was painting again. They’d figure out the rest with time.

  We took her accepting his invitation to come to Louisiana as a positive sign. She wanted to show her support and thanks for what everyone had done to save her. She even donated a painting that was part of the auction set to begin in the multipurpose building next to the cathedral later this morning. The sisters of Saint Bart’s hosted one auction each year to support their charity work, and this year’s event was sure to bring in the most money ever. The signature item—and the reason the multipurpose building was packed with high-end art collectors from around the world—was the painting Michael had created in the underground cell. Throngs of reporters waited as well, each ready to snap a photo or video of the reclusive artist with his newest masterpiece. Hannah’s articles had sent the art world into a frenzy over the painting, and today was its first and only showing. The critics estimated its value in the high seven-figure range. This would be a very good year for the sisters of Saint Bart’s.

  Thankfully, the police kept everyone clear from the back of the property, and we were free to walk through the cemetery without fear that someone would take Michael’s or Jolene’s picture.

  None of us spoke as we walked among the tombstones. Thirty years ago, not fifty yards from where we now stood, someone had abandoned my brother and me in a dumpster. Only one of us survived that cold night. And in the morning, after he was discovered, that baby was given a name. It was a name the entire world would come to know, instantly synonymous with the masters of modern art. And now, after exposing a theft-and-forgery scheme and surviving a traumatic three-day abduction by a madman, Michael had become the most famous artist of his time. All of that was nice, but his fame was little more than a nuisance to us. What mattered was that we finally learned why we always felt so connected. We were family, something neither of us had ever known.

  “There it is,” Jolene said, pointing to a tombstone three rows deeper into the nun’s section—a tombstone half the size of those around it, though it kept the same basic shape. Michael left Jolene behind and ran. I ran, too. When we got there, he fell to his knees. I placed my hand on his shoulder, and together we read the epitaph.

  Jolene approached from behind and placed her hand on his other shoulder. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she didn’t blink or try to wipe them away.

  “This is my brother,” Michael said.

  From my earliest memories I’d always wondered who I was. None of the answers the world offered felt right to me: angel, spirit, ghost, phantasm, star, living element of the Universe. I may never know for sure, but on that day in Saint Bartholomew’s Cemetery, I finally discovered who I used to be. I was born, just like everyone else. I lived a very short life, and died so my brother could live. After then I stayed with him, watching out for him, protecting him any way I could. I always had a purpose in this world. And now I knew that from the moment my body was buried in the ground, I also had a name.

  My name is Alexander.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  No one writes a novel in a vacuum—at least not one worth reading. This book is no exception.

  When I finally got serious about writing novels, I attended the Salt Cay Writers Retreat in October 2014. In the workshop sessions, several well-meaning mentors eviscerated an early version of The Keeper. The harsh but fair criticisms I received that week forced me to reevaluate everything I thought I knew about writing. I’ll never forget the lessons I learned during that retreat.

  I attended many craft-intensive events over the next few years. I’ve learned dozens of helpful tips from the CraftFest seminars offered by International Thriller Writers. The names are too many to list. If you’ve ever taught a session at ThrillerFest, chances are I’ve taken a set of notes from your talk. Special thanks to Steven James and Robert Dugoni, two best-selling authors who offer an amazing retreat focused on writing craft called the Novel Writing Intensive, for their mentorship and advice.

  Jill Marr became my friend in the business when I didn’t know anyone. Later she offered many smart suggestions on how to improve this story. She fought valiantly for years to sell The Keeper to New York publishers. Jill, I can’t thank you enough for your efforts.

  DiAnn Mills, legendary author in the Christian suspense genre, has been a constant mentor, critique partner, and cheerleader for several years. Thank you, DiAnn, for your friendship.

  I met Karen Dionne online in 2002 while attempting my first manuscript. Back then I wrote about Romans, and she wrote about kittens. Together we grew as writers and storytellers, offering painfully honest critiques at all hours of the day and night. Karen, I’m proud of the writer you’ve become. Everyone should check out her blockbuster novel, The Marsh King’s Daughter. Judging by its sales, they already have. Thank you, Karen, for these many years of friendship and encouragement.

  Dozens of critique partners and beta readers also offered valuable feedback on this manuscript. Thanks to you all. But my most consistent critic also shares a bed with me. My wife, Luzmarie, keeps me accountable and encouraged by asking each day what I have written and if I would read it to her, either in person or over the phone. Our nightly reading sessions bring us closer as a couple. And they expose more writing and logic errors than I’m comfortable to admit. Luzmarie Alvarez Allen, you are the best thing that ever happened to me. You are the most talented artist I know. And you’ve made me into the writer I am today. Thank you for allowing me to see the beauty of this world through your eyes.

  Once I decided to self-publish The Keeper, I assembled a production team that outperformed my expectations. Jeroen ten Berge created a cover that gives me chills. Jennifer Zaczek at Cypress Editing provided the most detailed copyedit I’ve ever seen, saving me from embarrassment more times than I can count. Amanda Kruse provided a thorough final proofread. Rob Siders at 52 Novels ensured that both the print and ebook versions of this story look exactly like I intended. Any remaining errors are my fault.

  Finally, thanks to you, dear reader, for choosing a book by an unfamiliar writer. I hope the story didn’t disappoint. If you liked it, please consider posting a review. A review on Amazon or Goodreads is the best present an author can receive. Thanks again, and please turn the page to read a sample of my next stand-alone title, The Night Janitor.

  An e
xcerpt from

  THE NIGHT JANITOR

  T. F. Allen

  CHAPTER 1

  No one had shot at Luke Johnson in three months. He had been careful this time. Few people in Port Arthur gave him a passing glance.

  But tonight a man in a suit had shouted his name—his real name, not the one on his janitor uniform—chased him into an alley, and pointed a gun at his chest.

  “You don’t have to,” Luke said.

  The windows in nearby buildings had gone dark hours ago. Two overfilled dumpsters and a tower of cardboard boxes decorated the alley. A security lamp spotlighted the gunman’s Astros baseball cap. Everything else was a black silhouette.

  The man stepped forward. “It’s my job.”

  “You kill for her?”

  “Among other things.”

  Ten feet separated them. A chain-link fence blocked his only escape. Luke’s pulse surged through his eardrums, creating a rush of white noise.

  “Tell her I forgive her,” he said.

  The gunman adjusted the brim of his cap. “You what?”

  “Tell her she doesn’t have to worry. I’m the last person who wants to hurt her.”

  “She needs to make sure.”

  A rustling sound erupted from behind the stack of boxes. The gunman glanced toward the noise. Luke saw his opening and charged. The man’s shoulders lifted, and his gun wavered. Luke closed half the distance between them before the gunman fired.

  The crack of the silencer quickened his nerves. A bullet tore into his shoulder, bringing a flash of pain. He ignored the sensation and kept running.

  Another shot punctured his right lung, stealing his breath. He lunged forward, grabbed the barrel, and pushed it aside as it fired again. His momentum crashed him into the gunman’s chest, driving them both to the ground.

  Heat from the silencer seared his palm, but he didn’t let go. The gunman turned him over and tried to pin him down. Luke’s adrenaline surged. He fought through the pain, forced his strength into his hands, and twisted the gun away.

  Black spots dotted his vision. He couldn’t catch a breath. His fingers searched for the trigger. His shoulder and chest burned. A hard punch landed on his jaw, rattling his teeth. For a moment his eyes couldn’t focus.

  He found the trigger and shoved the gun forward until it met resistance. He fired two quick rounds. The gunman hovered weightlessly for a moment, then slumped to the pavement beside him, facedown and unmoving.

  Silence flooded the alley. Luke rested his head against the warm asphalt, stared into the night sky, and wondered if these were the last stars he’d ever see.

  As the adrenaline left his body, so did his strength. The gun tumbled from his fingers. He struggled to move his arm. Darkness tugged at him. He felt himself slipping away. With one last surge of effort, he swung his hand to his chest.

  He covered the hole in his rib cage with his fingertips.

  Closed his eyes and concentrated, letting the power flow through him.

  His collapsed lung filled with warmth, but not the same kind that came from the bullets. Its tissues flared and vibrated. Capillaries repaired themselves. New flesh grew from the fissures the slug had torn open. He coughed. Fluid from his lung shot through his windpipe and sprayed across the asphalt.

  The bullet retraced its path through his chest, inch by inch, as if pulled by a magnet. The flesh around it closed and healed. He inhaled a deep breath. The bullet broke through his skin. He pinched the tip and pulled it free. The hole behind it disappeared.

  His fingers crawled toward his opposite shoulder. The bullet worked its way out of his muscle and into his hand, leaving no scar and no internal trauma, only healthy and rejuvenated flesh.

  He climbed to his feet, then turned and faced his attacker. He rolled the gunman onto his back. The man’s injuries looked fatal, and definitely well deserved.

  God, this one was just a kid, no older than twenty-five. He’d probably taken this job to prove his bravery. Luke wondered if the attacker’s boss had warned about his special ability. Probably not. That was just like her, sending others to do what she couldn’t do herself.

  Others, he reminded himself. Sometimes she sent more than one.

  He grabbed the man’s wrist and found a pulse—faint but still there. He covered the man’s wounds with each hand. Closed his eyes and concentrated.

  “How’d you do that?”

  He turned. A wrinkled old man with huge eyes stared at him from beside the stack of cardboard boxes. “You an angel or something?”

  Luke touched a finger to his lips. He turned toward the unconscious gunman and closed his eyes again.

  After he finished, he snatched the Astros cap and fit it on his own head. He walked toward the man by the boxes. “Don’t talk about this.”

  The old man, clearly a frequent visitor to this dark alley, backed away.

  Luke held out his fist and opened his hand, showing a collection of four bloodstained slugs. “I’d find another place to sleep tonight.” He dropped the bullets and pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “When that guy wakes up, he won’t be happy.”

  He left the alley before the man could answer.

  Time to get out of Port Arthur.

  CHAPTER 2

  Annamaria grabbed her Fendi purse, adjusted her D&G sunglasses, and climbed out from the rear passenger seat of a black Audi SUV. She told the driver to wait, then shut the door. After a pause, she opened the door and grabbed the tiny yellow stuffed bear she’d left on the seat. She tucked it into her purse and shut the door again. Then she paced down the sidewalk of the strip center, toward the most unlikely place she thought she’d ever visit.

  A nail salon and a dry cleaner sandwiched the business on either side, but no one could miss the neon signs blazing from the windows of Psychic Readings by Nick. The largest panel featured a Capricorn goat, a horned Taurus, and a long-fingered hand with an eye in the center. Other signs boasted the services Psychic Nick offered: Spiritual Advisor, Tarot Cards, Healings, Readings, Connecting with Lost Loved Ones.

  Jackpot. She hurried inside.

  When she crossed the threshold, her anxiety level spiked, but she forced it down with a deep breath. She dug a fingernail into the top of her blond wig and scratched. She could pull this off, no problem.

  “You must be Diana.” A twentysomething woman looked up from a magazine resting in her lap. She closed the pages and stood.

  Annamaria removed her sunglasses. “Where’s Nick?”

  “He’s finishing a call with a client.” The woman motioned toward a couch along the opposite wall of the lobby. Every surface looked covered with a blanket of grime. “I’ll let him know you’re here.” The woman disappeared behind the only door in the office.

  Annamaria picked out the cleanest-looking section of the couch, sat, crossed her legs, and tried to look calm. She opened her purse and slid her hand inside. She found the tiny bear and stroked its well-worn fur. This was it—the moment she’d dreamt about since she was thirteen. Answers that had eluded her would soon come within her grasp, but only if she kept it together.

  The door opened. A large man strode into the lobby. Despite his size, he looked smaller than she’d imagined, even wrapped in a Tibetan robe. His gray-streaked hair ran from the center of his scalp to the edge of his shoulders, nearly masking the crow’s feet etched into the corners of his eyes. But what a set of eyes—so deep, so green, so electrifying, they explained how he drew a steady stream of customers to such a hellhole of an office.

  “Diana, please come with me.”

  Another deep breath.

  He led her to a room with dark violet curtains lining each wall. A shelf to her right held a collection of crystals. They sat at opposite ends of a small round table situated beneath a globe-shaped glass chandelier. A set of tarot cards lay spread in an arc in front of Nick. She had to hand it to him. Even though he was surely a fake, this room held the pulse of a genuine psychic energy.

  As if there were such
a thing.

  Nick struck a match and lit a votive candle, then placed it on the table between them. “What kind of reading are we doing?”

  “What do most customers ask for?”

  “I’m a tarot specialist.” He scooped the deck into his left hand and flipped the bottom card to the top like a skilled poker dealer.

  “When you say ‘specialist,’ does that mean you’re good?”

  “Best in Greater Memphis, honey.”

  Annamaria’s stomach clenched. No one called her honey and got away with it, especially not this guy. She swallowed and forced a smile. The prosthetic latex covering her nose tickled against her skin. It felt unnatural and smelled like toxic chemicals, but she worked to suppress her reaction. Instead of cringing, she focused on the bright side—the wig and fake nose must be working. Psychic Nick definitely didn’t recognize her.

  “It works best if you have a specific question,” he said.

  She leaned forward. “I’m trying to find my parents.”

  “I see.” He pushed the stack of cards toward her. “Did they pass away recently?”

  “You tell me.”

  Those charming green eyes twinkled as he laughed. “I’m happy to do that. But we need to cover something first. I have a policy of receiving payment up front. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I have a policy of seeing what I pay for.”

  “I’ll show you plenty. But not for free.”

  Dammit. Just like she’d expected, Nick was a disciplined con artist. He’d probably danced these same steps a thousand times. No use fighting it. The money didn’t matter. She opened her purse. Her toy bear stared up at her. She gave it a gentle squeeze, then pulled a hundred-dollar bill from her wallet and passed it across the table.