ELIJAH: A Suspense Novel

by Frank Redman

  Or possibly the burning is somehow an extension of my gift. The day I discovered the gift is the day Allister attacked me. Not just a regularly scheduled beating, but an attack.

  Mr. Broxton was right; his dog Tyler is indeed a good dog. A great dog. I’ve talked to Tyler a few times. He’s incredibly intelligent, and also mischievous. He escaped the backyard—oh, sorry, the rear grounds—on occasion to roam the surrounding neighborhoods, hunting and exploring. Yet, it’s not entirely his fault. Mr. Broxton, who has no immediate family and, other than Tyler, lives alone, is gone frequently on business, which sometimes leads to extended periods away from home. Tyler gets bored. Neighbors check on him, and he has a better crib than some humans. If he gets too hot in the brutal summers, he has access to an environmentally controlled mudroom just inside the mansion. That room is as big as my apartment.

  Anyway, he’s a black Labrador retriever. It’s in his blood to explore.

  Tyler has described some of his adventures to me. It’s our little secret. Mr. Broxton doesn’t know Tyler is an escape artist.

  I sat on the bed, trying to decide what to wear. Brooding, actually. When you look like me, vanity isn’t an issue. And I’m not indecisive. So I didn’t understand my apprehension.

  I had no reason for trying to impress Mr. Broxton. Just one of his suits costs more than everything I own. Hell, just one of his socks does.

  My alarm clock displayed 7:15PM. I’d been sitting on the edge of my bed for half an hour. My apprehension had progressed into irrational fear. I felt like I’d just returned to the real world from a horrific nightmare.

  I placed my hand on my chest to feel my heartbeat. A hummingbird would be proud.

  Things normally don’t get to me. I’ve been through a lot, more than most people. Your perspective changes, your perseverance.

  I forced myself to calm down. Deep breaths, imagining a big blanket of cottony calmness floating down over my body, and an angel smoothing out my feather-duster hair. Something I learned in therapy as a child. It’s stuck with me, and it works. As an adult, it felt childish. Rarely did I ever have to use the technique.

  Sometimes the angel was Mom. Before drugs ruined her.

  Thunder hammered the roof and Niagara moved from New York to right outside my window.

  Able to function again, I decided on black jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt with my black hiking boots.

  Umbrellas don’t like me and I feel the same about them. We have a mutual understanding. I grabbed my hooded heavy coat and my backpack of tech goodies, then descended the stairs to the Beast.

  Chapter Five

  Mr. Broxton is a good guy. When someone has a commanding presence and is amazingly wealthy you automatically feel a little frightened of him or her.

  Seemingly aware of his combination of fear inducing characteristics, Mr. Broxton strove to be affable. Yet he didn’t have to strive to be kind. It came naturally.

  He knew more about my past than most people. Not because I’d talked to him about it, but because Uncle Joe had. Though, Uncle Joe didn’t share things too personal to me, just basic history. And even Uncle Joe doesn’t know everything.

  People who have some level of knowledge about my childhood seem to look down on me. I don’t think most of them do so intentionally, but it’s as if I’m less of a person, not as whole as they are, since I bounced around from place to place growing up and didn’t have “real” parents.

  They don’t know about all of the violence and death, or they might then think of me on the same level as the family of Cricetidae, or rats.

  On numerous occasions, Mr. Broxton has admonished me to call him Nicholas, or Nick. I just can’t bring myself to do so. It seems akin to approaching the President of the United States and saying, “Wasabi!” The Secret Service would interpret that to mean, “I have a bomb!” and the next thing I know I’m sniffing dust on the White House travertine floor (in truth, I don’t know if it has travertine floors, but it sounds appropriate) with a half-dozen agents piled on top of me playing real life Kill the Man with the Football.

  Somehow the scene would end up on YouTube. Jenny would see it. I just know it.

  So, with a pervasive fear of travertine floors and footballs, I call Mr. Broxton, Mr. Broxton.

  Nightfall had dropped its natural shroud over the land, which covered the unnatural shroud caused by the armada of clouds. The Beast’s headlights barely penetrated the night and storm. Xenon they were not. Rain still fell, but it had lightened considerably. I had to do the manual on/off intermittent wiper thing.

  Mr. Broxton lives on an estate with a few acres. The roads did not have streetlights.

  Just before turning onto his street, I passed a black Suburban parked to the side, partially in the road. Tinted windows, black bumper, black non-glossy paint. If there was a license plate, it was hidden behind a black cover of some sort. The only reason I noticed the truck was because it surprised me a little in the absolute dark with no reflective surfaces.

  As I pulled into Mr. Broxton’s long driveway, I noticed another black Suburban parked at the top of a hill farther up the street, but the oddity of two monoblack Suburbans didn’t register in my brain at that time.

  An eight-foot high, stone wall surrounded the estate. A wrought iron security gate blocked the entrance. Expecting my arrival, Mr. Broxton had left the gate open.

  Cameras kept watch from a security hut on the right. The few times I’d previously been here, the hut was manned. This time it was empty. And dark inside.

  After pausing by the hut to peer quizzically into the darkness, I continued along the flagstone driveway. I checked my rearview mirror to see if anyone stepped out of the hut behind me or if the gate closed, but it was too dark to see. I applied the brakes to create light. A red hue brightened the immediate area behind the car, but still did not provide enough light to see the hut.

  As I sat watching, the bright red seemed to darken and darken until it appeared to flow down in a blood red. My imagination entered the room in my brain where regular thoughts mingled, and announced its presence. Loudly.

  I locked my doors. Since the Beast didn’t have electronic door locks, this meant I had to dip below the viewing level of the windshield and side windows to stretch to the passenger door lock, which I was wary of doing. I wanted to know when a rabid group of spider monkeys were going to descend on me, screaming, bearing their teeth, jumping up and down on the car until they broke through the glass, chewing on me like a fresh batch of fried chicken.

  I’ve never talked to a spider monkey and I don’t know if they eat fried chicken. My imagination doesn’t care about being factual.

  The driveway curved around the heavily wooded front grounds. I’m not sure how absolute darkness could get darker, but it did. Then I realized the exterior lights that normally illuminated the trees along the drive were dark. As was the water fountain up ahead.

  Not knowing why all the lights were off, or if rabid spider monkeys waited for me in the darkness, I wanted to turn off the headlights, but I was afraid there wouldn’t be enough light to see the driveway.

  I switched off the lights anyway. I felt like a target with them on. It’s not whether you’re paranoid, but whether you’re paranoid enough.

  I let my eyes adjust in the oppressive gloom and crept forward in the car.

  No wildlife. No birds, squirrels, opossums… Not even spider monkeys. I was the only thing alive on Earth, and beginning to fear I wouldn’t be for much longer.

  The scars on my left arm started to burn. Trouble. The fight or flight adrenaline started streaming into my blood.

  Monoblack Suburbans. Two of them, flanking Mr. Broxton’s mansion. The security guard, gone. Lights out everywhere.

  Mr. Broxton is a friend.

  Fight.

  I drove a little faster and followed the flagstone drive as it circled the water fountain in order to point the Beast toward the street for a fast getaway if necessary.

  I’ve seen a few thrill
er movies. That’s what they would do.

  I pulled the hood of my black coat to cover my head from the rain and grabbed my black backpack. With my black jeans and black hiking boots, I’d never been more thankful for having an affinity for wearing dark clothes.

  I grabbed the keys—they weren’t black—and tucked them in my jeans pocket. Now if I could only cover my lighthouse-white face.

  The dome light in the Beast didn’t illuminate when a door opened. I still didn’t know for sure whether I was being watched, but my burning scars seemed to be a solid indicator that I was.

  Darkness consumed most of the mansion, with just a few faint lights seen through second floor windows.

  Chapter Six

  The front door stood slightly open. My scars burned hotter. I knew from experience touching them wouldn’t help, nor water, ice, lotion... I eased through the open doorway. I had a flashlight in my backpack, but didn’t dare use it. I wished I had night vision goggles.

  Though sightless in the gloom, I knew I was in the foyer. Marble columns spread out left and right. To the left was one of the formal living rooms. To the right was a gallery which narrowed into a wide hallway leading to another wing. Stairs wrapped majestically around the room, and a passageway straight ahead led to the far side of the first floor.

  Mr. Broxton had four computers in various locations, each one set up by me. The computer he used the most was in his study on the second floor. That’s where the only light shined.

  It didn’t take instinct or a burning scar warning system to know things were not right. I thought about returning to the Beast and calling the cops. I may have super geek skills, but not super ninja.

  No, Mr. Broxton might be hurt, or worse.

  Or Tyler. I wondered why I hadn’t seen or heard the dog. Mr. Broxton must have left him out back.

  I groped in the gloom for the newel post of the stairway, then ascended to the second floor, staying close to the side to lessen the chance of creaking.

  I didn’t worry about clearing the first floor. If unseen enemies waited to jump me, they were going to whether I knew they existed or not. Besides, that would delay my arrival to the study, where I hoped to find Mr. Broxton unharmed.

  Yet my burning scars told me I was probably wrong.

  Not wanting to make any noise as I ascended, I held my breath. At the second floor landing, that proved to be a big mistake because now I couldn’t breathe after climbing the stairs. I paused long enough to catch my breath without sounding asthmatic.

  Two hallways, one to my left, one right, fed additional rooms. Small, recessed lights in the walls dimly illuminated the floor in spots. I stepped off the carpeted stairs onto the wooden floors of the landing toward the left hallway. I walked on my tippy-toes with arms spread like wings for balance so that my wet hiking boots didn’t squeak on the wood floor, praying there were no low-light surveillance cameras recording my actions. That video would also end up on YouTube.

  After reaching the hallway’s long carpet runner, I moved to the third door on the left, the study.

  Under normal circumstances, this was my favorite room in Mr. Broxton’s mansion. Modeled as a smaller version of the library in the Biltmore Estate, though still huge with a twenty-foot ceiling. The room had floor to ceiling bookshelves and a balcony that wrapped around the upper half. Spiral staircases led to the balcony in two corners. A bookshelf in a prominent location displayed all of Uncle Joe’s books.

  A six-foot high ornate fireplace was on the wall to the right. To the left was a stately desk. All of the wood in the room was mahogany. A Tiffany desk lamp provided the only light in the room.

  I heard, “Oh my God,” fall out of my mouth, then realized I said it. Mr. Broxton lay on his side on the floor fifteen feet away. A pool of blood glistened sickly underneath his body.

  Tyler was on the floor a few feet away.

  I got to Mr. Broxton’s side in three long steps and a slide on my knees, searching for his carotid and a pulse. He opened his eyes and weakly grasped my arm.

  “Thank God,” I said. “I need to get you an ambulance.” I put one foot in front of me to stand—

  “No time,” he said, in little more than a whisper. He glared at me in desperation, commanding obedience.

  He got my attention.

  “Hidden folder… recipes… remove.” He had a hard time sucking in enough air to talk. His face a pallid grey.

  “Who did this? Why?”

  He closed his eyes. I tried to find a pulse again, then I heard him talk more. “Take Tyler…dart…they”—cough—“they’re returning.” He had opened his eyes to make sure I heard him. The brilliant green was dull and flat.

  Death grabbed Mr. Broxton’s soul, trying to separate it from his body. Mr. Broxton desperately tried to hang on to this Side, but Death would not lose.

  I didn’t know what he meant by dart until I noticed a thin needle sticking in Tyler’s neck. They must have just used a tranq gun on him instead of killing him. Afraid to touch the dart in case some fluid leaked, I removed tweezers from a toolkit in my backpack and also got a plastic tube used for extra screws and jumpers. I didn’t know why I wanted to keep the dart, but I put it in the tube and closed the lid.

  One of them left a tranq gun on the desk, which I pocketed.

  I gently but firmly shook Tyler, trying to rouse him. He’s a big dog, about 90lbs. We wouldn’t get very far if I had to carry him.

  Mr. Broxton’s eyes were closed again.

  I’m used to multitasking, but this was too much. I needed to try to save Mr. Broxton’s life, wake the dog, get the secret files off the computer, prep it for my later use, and get Mr. Broxton, Tyler, and my sorry butt the hell out of there before whoever did this returned. All within the same second.

  Mr. Broxton seemed to know my thoughts. Without opening his eyes, no longer trying to conjure a voice, he whispered, “Files…now…fake FBI…Meredith next…warn…” He hitched an inhale and then nothing.

  I didn’t bother taking time for a pulse. I’d been around death multiple times, witnessing it firsthand, on the scene when the Reaper came to collect.

  Mr. Broxton was gone.

  There was no time to mourn. Or get angry. I could do both later.

  I vigorously shook the dog, this time getting a response with a leg twitch and eyeball movement under heavy lids.

  Get the files, return to Tyler. I pushed a 2TB thumb drive into a USB slot on the computer, thankful both were USB 3.0 because it’s much faster. I knew Mr. Broxton did not cook, so I figured the name of the hidden folder was Recipes, with a $ after the name so it wouldn’t appear in the folder structure. Bingo. I was surprised Mr. Broxton knew how to hide folders. After checking the size—300GB—I started the transfer, doing a simple cut and paste to remove the directory off the hard drive.

  That alone wouldn’t keep someone from accessing the data even after it had been removed/deleted if the person knew what he or she was doing. I had previously installed a second network interface card, or NIC, into the computer with its own static IP address so I could access the computer remotely through a back door if Mr. Broxton ever needed my assistance at, say, 2:00AM. I instructed him to leave the cable unplugged when not in use so he wouldn’t worry about my access. Not that he would. He trusted me. But that was also for my own conscience. When you’ve been an orphan much of your life, many people automatically distrust you. I didn’t ever like having the keys to the kingdom. No suspicion.

  I plugged the loose cable into the second NIC, then unplugged the cable from the first NIC as well as from the wall jack and took it. The first NIC was for Internet access. The second NIC didn’t provide direct access without “cheating.” I hoped these people didn’t know how to cheat. I uninstalled the first NIC from Device Manager and disabled Plug and Play so the computer wouldn’t recognize it had the NIC without further intervention.

  Tyler lifted his head, trying to get his bearings.

  I looked out the study window. The Beast cou
ld be seen from there on the other side of the water fountain.

  I could barely see two dark figures looking into the car. They didn’t use flashlights. That meant the friggers had night vision goggles. Not fair.

  “That’s it,” I said aloud. “I’m buying night vision goggles.”

  Then one of them knelt next to the left rear tire, and I saw that corner of the car dip down.

  No! They punctured the tire.

  No no no no no! They moved to the remaining three and did the same. Those tires cost a lot of money.

  I wanted to break the second floor window and yell obscenities at them. Thankfully, wisdom overruled emotion.

  It might seem silly to be so angry about them slashing the Beast’s tires. That was an anger my psyche knew I could deal with at that moment. I had to stay sharp. My anger over Mr. Broxton’s death was infinitely stronger, and not something I could rationally control.

  Obviously, the air had been let out of my quick getaway plan, pun intended. I needed a new plan, fast. If they didn’t know anyone else was in the house before, they did now. They’d be searching for us soon.

  Tyler whined behind me. He’d gotten to all fours, steady, and nudged Mr. Broxton’s chin, trying to wake him.

  I said, “He’s dead, Tyler.”

  I don’t know if Tyler intentionally projected his thoughts to me, but I picked up on them. My Master is dead. I am sorry. I failed you.

  I almost lost it—right there—and started to cry. Feeling Tyler’s anguish, despair. Even as I knew the murderers were just outside the house.

  The last time I really cried was right after I killed Allister when I was ten. Not because of remorse. But because it was finally over. There have been a few tears here and there since then, but I got over them quickly.

  Some dogs cannot use first person pronouns, like I, me, or, my. I’m not sure if it’s a self-awareness thing, or maybe even a form of subservient humility. Tyler’s understanding is beyond most dogs. But, that also means his hurt—his grief—was more pungent. Stronger. With greater understanding comes greater pain.