ELIJAH: A Suspense Novel

by Frank Redman

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Praise

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Acknowledgements

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  ELIJAH

  A NOVEL

  FRANK REDMAN

  INSPIRE PUBLISHING

  ARLINGTON

  Praise

  "If your destiny ever requires a walk through hell, make sure to take Elijah Raven with you. Both lighthearted and horrifying, Redman's debut novel stares down evil through the eyes of the best kind of hero: one who has survived it and won't leave anyone to suffer the same. ELIJAH is a thrilling page-turner that won't let you down."

  — Erin Healy, author of THE BAKER’S WIFE and STRANGER THINGS

  “Captivating, funny, suspenseful, heart-wrenching, believable, simply wow! Redman straps you into a front row seat of the protag's mind and sends you on a non-stop ride guaranteed to entertain.”

  — Claude Bouchard, USA Today Bestselling Author of the Vigilante Series

  “I’m in awe of Frank’s voice. It’s captivating.”

  — Lynn Rush, New York Times & USA Today bestselling author of the Violet Night Trilogy

  “Frank Redman is an author of startling insight and wonderful expression who brings to life his characters in such a way as to make you forget you are reading. They are living and breathing alongside you, a startling achievement for a new novelist. I highly anticipate reading more of Redman’s work in the future. His is a voice that will shine on for many years to come.”

  — Luke Romyn, USA Today and Amazon #1 bestselling author

  "A strong first outing from Frank Redman who introduces us to Elijah Raven, a winsome Every-man who just happens to communicate with animals and has an uncanny knack for getting into trouble. Humor, romance, and supernatural intrigue follow in this fun, fast-paced novel. Looking forward to more from Frank Redman!"

  — Mike Duran, author of THE GHOST BOX and SAINT DEATH

  Copyright

  ELIJAH is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Inspire Publishing, LLC

  www.InspirePublishing.guru

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Tom Nynas

  Dedication

  For God,

  Thank you for keeping me around to write ELIJAH

  For Sheri,

  Thank you for saying yes

  For Dad,

  Thank you for believing in me,

  Even when I didn’t believe in myself

  Chapter One

  After finishing a late dinner, I stood and stretched and welcomed thoughts of going to bed.

  But then I heard, or perceived, a voice that froze me. I glanced around my apartment and noticed a small, dark form outside the glass door to the balcony.

  I turned on the light and slid open the door.

  The voice hit me again, this time more clearly.

  Danger. Girl. Hurry.

  I looked down and saw the yellow eye-shine of a solid black cat reflecting at me. Some animals are wordier than others, but this cat’s quiet anxiety was compelling.

  The cat turned and darted down the steps, assuming I’d follow.

  I’d give anything to trade my strange gift for musical genius or an eye for art. Or even to exist with no gifts at all. I hate being drawn into trouble that is not my own, risking my minding-my-own-business safety to go chasing animals out in the night and straight into danger.

  But that’s exactly what I did.

  I ran down the steps, two-three at a time, and jumped the last several to try to keep up with the speedy feline. I lost the cat in darkness between streetlights, but kept running anyway as he emerged into light under the next lamp. I ran blind in those same patches of darkness.

  A girl screamed.

  I dared to run faster.

  We crested a small hill and I saw a car in the middle of the street with the driver door open, the interior light splashing onto the pavement. Two shadows moved frantically by the sedan, muffled screams could be heard.

  As I got closer, the rear door opened.

  A large man was trying to force a smaller figure into the backseat.

  Lyndsey Grant. An eighteen year-old senior at my old high school. She was a freshman when I graduated. Cute and petite. She wore yellow running shorts and a matching sports bra. Although small she put up a fight, trying to use whatever leverage she could muster.

  The black cat was nowhere to be seen.

  The sounds of the commotion and the perp’s loud grunts masked my footfalls. He had managed to get a bandana around Lyndsey’s mouth, using it like a dog leash to pull her to the car.

  I came up quickly, undetected.

  Four feet away, I launched myself at the kidnapper, knowing it would cause Lyndsey to fall hard to the ground, but expecting the man to reflexively let go of her to break his fall.

  I’m 6’0” and wiry. Although the man was bigger than me, you’d have to be a mountain to stay on your feet when 190 lbs. hits you at full speed unexpectedly.

  He wasn’t a mountain.

  He yelled, let go of Lyndsey, and tried to turn and stick his arms out.

  But when I dove for him, I wrapped his arms up. He crashed hard, face-first against the pavement with my full weight landing on top of him. His head bounced off the street and my nose bounced off his head. Blood flowed. Having experienced the pain of a broken nose before, I knew it wasn’t broken.

  Lyndsey tumbled to the street, but then got to her feet, grabbing at the cloth in her mouth.

  The perp didn’t move. Not dead. Just unconscious.

  I pushed up roughly from the man and wiped the blood from my face.

  Lyndsey ran to me and squeezed hard, sobbing heavily.

  Between gasps she managed to say, “Thank…you…Elijah.” She repeated her thanks a few more times, gaining more control of herself with each repetition, and then let go.

  My nose had stopped bleeding.

  She tried to wipe her face with her hands but had little success. She didn’t have anything else practical to use. Even though my shirt was bloody and sweaty, I handed it over.

  She smiled meekly. “Thank you. You’re bleeding.”

  I waved it off. “It’s nothin
g. Already stopped.”

  She looked at the man on the ground with disdain, then walked over and kicked him hard four times in the ribs.

  In semi-consciousness, he managed to curl a little.

  “Feel better?”

  She thought about it for a moment and shook her head, then kicked him three more times, grunting, “Now… I…do,” with each kick.

  “When he wakes up, he’s going to hate breathing.” I ran out of my apartment so quickly I forgot my cell. “You have a cell phone?”

  She looked down at herself. “These shorts have no pockets.”

  “You might—”

  She raised a hand to stop me. “Save it. I learned my lesson, don’t worry.”

  I looked at the perp, loathing the thought of having to dig through his clothes for a phone. I instead went to the car, hoping to find a prize. “Nice.” A cellphone. I called 911, gave them the scoop, wiped my prints off the phone, and tossed it back into the still-running car. I didn’t care if it ran out of gas.

  I looked at Lyndsey. “On the way.”

  “You know you probably saved my life. Is there anything I can do?”

  I shook my head. “You don’t owe me anything.” I smiled. “What were you doing over here anyway?”

  My uncle and I live at the far end of the neighborhood. The only things behind our street are trees.

  “Trying a new running route. I got bored.”

  “Privacy.”

  She furrowed her brow. “What?”

  “You can give me privacy. I’d really like not to be interrogated by the police or anyone else. So, I’ll go hide over beside that house and watch until the police arrive in case Mr. Bunghole decides to wake up.”

  She smiled. “Okay, I can do that.”

  “You can claim a stranger helped and took off. Or, hell, just tell them it was all you.” I gave her a hug. She squeezed painfully tight. “You okay?”

  She nodded. “I’ll be fine. Thank you. I’ll never forget this.”

  She handed me my shirt and I took off just as flashing red and blue lights reflected on the trees.

  Chapter Two

  I was ten when I ran away from home. Twelve years later, I realize how crazy that was. I mean, what did I expect to accomplish with all the wisdom gained in ten years of life? Where was I going to go? I didn’t have a clue.

  I wasn’t even smart enough to ask those questions.

  I ran away because my best friend, Billy, told me to. Right before he was killed.

  He saved my life.

  Those are painful memories, even now, but I’m sure they’ll come out as I get used to putting my thoughts on paper.

  I was with my parents until then, but they weren’t really people. At least not in the sense of emotionally stable individuals. Especially my father. A demon straight out of Hell. Beelzebub taking a spin on Earth in the form of a human.

  Sounds harsh. You may think I’m exaggerating. Trust me, I’m not. I know I’ll have to earn trust with only these written words, but I am confident that before this is finished, I will have done so.

  He’s dead now. May Satan have mercy on him.

  As for my poor mother, she was powerless to save herself from the man, let alone save me or either of my two siblings. Her husband corrupted even her mothering instinct. My Uncle Joe told me she actually tried to be a good mother. Mom, as I remember her, was always strung out on crack, though then I didn’t know the difference between being strung out and being in a coma. Now she’s just dead.

  I’ll make sure these writings won’t be all grim and heavy. In fact, Uncle Joe advised that I make a point to not be heavy-handed, but instead to tell the story in a lighthearted style. “People like fluffy waffles,” he told me. “Not manhole covers.”

  Bad things have happened, yes. Strange things. That said, much of life is what you make of it. I choose to be happy. Not because I have to, but because I can.

  Happiness is a choice, not a circumstance.

  My name is Elijah Raven. Growing up, kids called me “The Bird,” usually followed quickly with a gesture involving the middle finger and peals of laughter.

  I live in Fort City, a medium-size town in northeast Texas. Triple-digit temperatures are common most of the year. It is hot outside. I don’t like heat. I stay inside. Self-awareness and problem-solving are a great combo.

  My hair is black, and looks even darker compared to my very untanned skin. That whole staying-inside thing plays a factor. I have bright hazel eyes, which I’m told change from blue to green to grey depending on what I’m wearing.

  There’s a Bible story about an Old Testament prophet named Elijah. God told him to hide and He’d have ravens feed him. The birds brought Elijah meat and bread in the morning and evening. Now think about that for a moment: I can see how the birds got meat. Ravens feed on carrion, small mammals, lizards… But I don’t understand how they baked the bread.

  Uncle Joe said my mother named me Elijah. There wasn’t a choice in the Raven part, my born surname. But there are multiple ironies in being named Elijah Raven. I sometimes think my name came from a Higher Source, for three reasons. First, I didn’t know people could come up with names while in a crack comma—I mean coma. Second, I didn’t think Mom knew what a Bible was. Third, when taking into consideration my gift, the name bestowed on me before my birth seems to be prophecy itself.

  My gift? First, I ask that you clear your mind of what you’ve seen in movies where people move things by thinking about it, bend spoons, start fires with their minds, and other such psychic phenomenon.

  Animals talk to me. I don’t mean they suddenly master the English language, develop vocal cords and a mouth capable of synthesizing human speech, and then tell me what they had for dinner. Well, I guess sometimes they do tell me what they had for dinner, but that’s beside the point.

  The best way I can describe it is to call it telepathy. Dogs don’t actually talk. But I hear their thoughts. Animals seem to know that I can understand them. They project words, and in the case of more intelligent animals, such as dogs, even phrases.

  For most of my life it’s something I’ve avoided with all of my heart.

  One might think it would be cool to communicate with animals. At times it is. But many times, the things I hear are bad. Real bad.

  I’m not saying your neighbor’s poodle drops f-bombs. I’m saying animals see things. They know what’s going on, even when they are typically powerless to convey that awareness to humans. They see horrible things like murder, rape, abuse…

  I’m still struggling with the “gift.” It’s more like a curse. That’s why I’m writing this. Uncle Joe said if I write it all out, it will help me come to terms with it. I’m not so sure, but we made a deal.

  Believe it or not, there’s already a documented precedent for this kind of thing, a case even more bizarre. In the Bible, a donkey talked out loud to its master in the Book of Numbers, chapter 22. That donkey actually did use human speech, though I doubt it was English. Verse 28.

  So, does this mean that God is making animals project their thoughts to me? Hell if I know (no offense, God). But it does require faith in something unknown, something unbelievable. Since God, who created animals and humans, with some of those animals—and humans—being pretty freaky (no offense, God), isn’t it even slightly possible to suppose He could make other weirdness happen?

  I fully recognize that I have an amazing gift, even if it feels more like a curse. I’m still trying to figure out why me. I suppose I’m expected to do something good with it, to help people. Sometimes I succeed.

  Yet other than this odd talent, there are many people with backgrounds similar to mine. Kids abused by their parents, taken away by authorities, placed in children’s homes, abused, bounced around foster homes, abused. I’ve known a few of these kids while they were alive. Sadly, I’ve known some who are now dead. My brother and sister among them.

  Not all foster homes are bad. Some are wonderful and save children. I’ve just b
een unlucky at a few places.

  So the math is a family of five, four gone, one left. Both parents and two siblings. How is that possible? Here’s a spoiler: it has to do with my demon-father.

  The very idea that a man possessed by such pure, concentrated evil could be the same man that brought me into this world makes me want to revolt against the slightest recognition, not to mention the acceptance, that there is a God. To believe a person could be so completely devoid of moral character, be a black hole that destroyed all goodness around it, is further proof against the existence of God.

  Yet, despite the damning evidence that was my father, evidence that has played a major role in my life, I believe the contrary.

  Faith is a funny thing.

  This is the last time I will refer to him with a term as intimate as father. I only do so now as the word is an immediate definition of my genealogy. Going forward, he will be referenced by his first name, Allister.

  As for what happened to my mother, she died after Allister gave her some bad drugs.

  And Allister? I killed him.

  Chapter Three

  Thursday is the first day of my weekly shift at Buy City, the cleverly named department store in our fine town of Fort City.

  I woke up in my apartment above Uncle Joe’s garage, originally designed to be servants’ quarters.

  Uncle Joe is a famous psychologist who’s written several self-help books. Believing that writing my experiences would be therapeutic, he made a deal with me: If I’d write, he’d give me a place to live.

  Deal.

  I love books. The children’s homes I lived in had great libraries. People do a wonderful job of donating books to orphanages and the like. Books were my flight to grand adventure, mystery, and escape. Old books, new books, it didn’t make a difference. Suspense, thrillers, scifi, fantasy… I even read scary stories. But no graphic violence. I’ve seen enough in real life. I had no need—or desire—to feed my imagination with images conjured by violence-addicted novelists. And no romance. Bleh.