The Resurrection Pact (Winston Casey Chronicles Book 1)

by Jay Smith

  "It was my user name."

  Odd. "Okay. You and Park know about Aeternus. Is that part of this … game?"

  "This trip," she began taking a step toward me, "it's not just a game. Mister… Grant wanted to go with you so badly and take a journey with him and have adventures like you did when you were young. He set everything up so that you would have something to live for in the hospital. He thought you were going to give up." Nadeim's eyes welled up. "He wanted to see you happy. He still wants you to go. It…" she paused, looked at the floor and folded her arms across her chest. "It changed his life. He wants it to be the same for you."

  "How long were you married?"

  "Two years." She smiled with tears rolling down her perfect cheeks. "Two beautiful years." She was nervous asking, "Please. I beg you not to share this with anyone else. It is not known by many. I believe Grant would ask you the same."

  I nodded. "It's your business. I promise." I smiled. She was a lovely person and one I would have liked to get to know better even if she didn't represent the last person to help me understand my best friend a little better.

  "Thank you," she nodded. "What else do you need from me?"

  "I need you to change my return itinerary. I need to leave as soon as possible."

  That wasn't the moment of choice. If I were to be able to make a choice, I had to be home in time to make the choice – choke and go back to my life or trust in Parker that this wasn't just some fool's quest to drink, gamble and live out a pointless mid-life fantasy. Nadeim took the details and I walked out to the beach.

  When my cell phone rang, it was my ride to the airport.

  UNO INTERMEDIO

  Lawrence "King" Kline never wore a suit at home unless he was on his way to the office or just walking in the door. Any other time he was a jeans-and-sweatshirt kind of guy who thought of his thousand dollar tailored suits as the costume he wore in his identity as a family practice attorney. In that identity, King Kline didn’t deal with the everyday no-fault divorces and custody issues of failed marriages, he got into the dirty, high-stakes game of angry rich people dissolving their financial association posing as marriage.

  His ex-wife, local TV meteorologist Vivian Smith-Kline, said her husband needed to strip down from his expensive clothes as soon as possible. He hated long, formal events and lost his tie within seconds of leaving his office. It was like he hated the role, she said, and likened it to an actor tired of performing the same role night after night for years without any hope of winning a new role. Early in the morning of April 25th, Vivian was on the air reporting on a storm front heading in through the Susquehanna valley bringing with it heavy rain and strong winds through the weekend. She had not been to her home on Blue Mountain in over a week.

  Meanwhile inside his $8.5 million-dollar home, King Kline sipped a cold Stella Artois from the bottle at nine in the morning as he leafed through a fat, comb-bound report and checked the information against other documents spread around his huge mahogany desk. The connections seemed to concern him and he scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad. Email records indicate Kline had been active all night, drinking beer and snacking from the pantry as he responded to office business throughout the night. Several of his emails implied that further action would have to be carried out through his partners with no reason provided. Some of the messages sent later into the night were confusing, rambling, or referred to documents that were not attached.

  Kline sat in a grand, leather executive chair surrounded by framed copies of magazine covers and newspaper tear sheets celebrating his successes in advocating the rights of wives and mothers, fighting the establishment against abusive husbands and pushing for legislation cracking down on deadbeat dads. One local magazine announced him "Activist Attorney of the Year" while another showed him smiling in the arms of his soon-to-be-ex-wife with the legend "The Modern Feminist: King Kline talks about his queen." These reminders were joined by smaller frames containing facsimiles of cancelled checks, reminders of big settlements and victories he earned for his clients, each in the mid seven figures with names of business leaders and politicians caught violating their sacred marital vows.

  On the morning of April 25th, Kline’s activities increased as the sky brightened in the east and the start of a new workday approached. Kline interrupted his research and probably looked around at his modest legal empire one final time. He assembled a folder of personal legal paperwork including his signed divorce papers, modified and notarized will and testament, financial disclosures and other documents. He placed this conspicuously atop the coffee table on the other side of the office.

  Kline emailed his partners at the law office downtown explaining he needed to do some case research and meet with clients that day, a fact contradicted by Kline’s personal calendar.

  The house was empty. Kline had sent his on-site staff home for the day, a fact that concerned his housekeeper Alvina, who had to be reassured she wasn’t being fired and would be paid for the day. Kline told her he was expecting exterminators to look at the house and spray for carpenter ants, but this didn’t make sense to Alvina who never once saw an ant inside her clean house. Maybe in the basement, she admitted to police later, but never EVER in her kitchen or common rooms.

  Kline sent texts to his legal staff shortly before nine telling them to also take the day off.

  ~

  Slumped in his fat, leather office chair without his disguise as an energetic and handsome activist attorney, Kline looked like he felt: a fat old man. His round tanned face drooped, his eyes sunk into deep black circles as his plump fingers slipped across lines of legalese and jumped across to spreadsheets or to shorthand notes on memo pads.

  Eventually he closed the bound report and picked up his cell phone from the desktop. At 9:52am, he made a phone call to his attorney and close friend Dennis Reilly. Lunch? A table at Manga Qui? No. Lunch at Kline’s house around 1pm would be better, Kline said. Kline would send out Edna to pick up soup and a couple of Reuben sandwiches from the restaurant at the club.

  Between 10am and noon, King Kline made a few more calls including two to an office in Las Vegas right after each other. Both calls were rejected. A minute later Kline made a call to a Ms. Ni Hahn which lasted 24 second and was immediately followed by a call to a London-based cell number registered to Mr. Alan Horus. The last call Kline would ever make lasted forty-three seconds.

  When Dennis Reilly arrived at Kline’s home around one in the afternoon, he knew something was wrong. Alvina did not answer the unlocked front door. There were no landscapers or gardeners around the house when they would normally be hard at work preparing the grounds for the season. Reilly went straight to Kline’s office on the main floor where the contents of Kline’s head created a mural of skull, brain and blood across a lifetime of framed accomplishments.

  ~

  Before calling the authorities or setting in motion the inevitable pageant of post-mortem investigations, Reilly experienced what he would describe to police as five minutes of panic; time that he could not remember due to the trauma of discovering his old friend dead. In those missing minutes, Reilly made sure to review the contents of the room, including the printed documentation, folders and memos left around the office related to Alan Horus, Ni Huan, Grant Parker, and himself -- people who might have been harmed by the sharing of that material. Reilly removed several important folders and placed them in the truck of his car before making all the necessary phone calls. Had Alan Horus not informed him in advance that Kline had gone "on walkabout" from The Realm, threatening to expose some dirty secrets about it, the act would have taken more than five minutes. Reilly saw this coming and even helped Kline prepare, but - legal counsel or not - Reilly wasn't going to have a million-dollar investment and his reputation evaporate because of a sudden spasm of conscience.

  King Kline would not expose a monster. Instead, through the machinations of The Realm, he would become one himself.

  PART TWO

  Home

 
; "For centuries, the Chosen Son walked the lands among the ruins of Great Aeternus. He followed the maps of Dimus Sol and the clues left by the Nameless Ancients as he searched for the Secret Harbor where the First Stones were said to rest.

  For years, he walked roads and paths to their ends and forged his own trail over field and crag, taking rest in small villages. Whatever village the Chosen One picked would one day rise into a great city and a tribute of the Reborn Empire of Aeternus. He would leave behind converts to the cause of finding Olde Aeternus; each new follower a companion in spirit and an ally in the quest. In the city of Drakken amidst the Choking Vines such a following grew that it became the second greatest city of Aeternus, second only to the Great City itself."

  - Alan Horus (Aeternus Rising, Bathorian Books, 1994)

  Chapter Five

  A quick hop to Miami wasn't a problem, but I had a few hours to kill at Miami-Dade before my connecting flight. I wished I had brought Parker's laptop with me. But I did bring along the first two paper bricks representing Alan Horus' "Aeternus" series, Aeternus Emerging and Aeternus Foundation.

  The last page of each book contained an advertisement for the online Massive Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game:

  There is only The Realm.

  Thousands of years ago, the Forces of Light and Dark, agents of the gods of Aeternus, fought their final battle and plunged the world into eternal night. For the people of Aeternus, they lived beneath a veil of storms and Darkfog containing the Avatars of Darkness. The Gods of Light fled into the sky creating the sun. The people of Aeternus lived in darkness until one man stumbled upon a weapon of The Light and used it to burn away the shroud of night and build a city safe from the forces of darkness. Based on the novels by Alan Horus, The Realm Aeternus is more than a game: it is a world of adventure and intrigue, passion and power set against the Realm of Lord Bunting-upon-Stropf, the mysterious Lord of the Realm and keeper of The Light that keeps it safe.

  The novel's prose was thick and poetic but I admit the first book – weighing in at 550 mass market, small-print pages – held my attention as it explored the fantasy world of Aeternus and the struggle of Man to revolt against its masters, the orc-like Vukkur. For every sword fight and magical duel there was some scantily clad woman with "huge flesh orbs" surrendering to a man with a "straining manhood." I finished the first book by skimming through all the sex scenes and predictable twists, and stared at the man on the back cover – Alan Horus.

  He had that faraway look of a confident visionary, the kind of hair that declared "fuck you, comb, I am fabulous and wild" and the kind of face that publicists called "unconventionally handsome." I couldn't place his age except somewhere between thirty and infinite depending on if I stared into his dreamy steel eyes that defied the ages reflected in them or his smooth, chiseled yet pointy face. I tossed the book back into my carry on and tried to ignore the passengers who looked like they enjoyed their time in paradise.

  I didn't like driving at night, but I was happy to check out my car and head home.

  On the way, I considered what my supervisor would say about granting me another week off in Las Vegas. Parker was dead, so how was I supposed to do this trip alone? What if his participation was needed? What if he hadn't made all the necessary arrangements before he died? Nadeim knew more than she admitted but I understand being duty bound.

  The answer shifted back behind a sudden, but very important question about my house. Why was there a large, red pick-up truck in my driveway? An old magnetic sign on the passenger door read "HARRY S. CLOWNSHOE HOME REPAIR" featuring a cartoon workman in oversized coveralls and painter's cap holding a big wrench. Under the name was a phone number and a list of services.

  Claire's Mustang was parked on the street instead of in the garage, so I had to park in front of my neighbor's house.

  I could understand needing a handyman while I was away, but the sight of one in my driveway at midnight on the weekend made me think something bad happened...the water heater exploded, perhaps. Maybe Claire panicked when she ran the microwave and the blender at the same time on that breaker and forgot how a switch worked... maybe the electricity was out because even the porch light was dark.

  Too tired to heft my bags, I left them in the car and zombie-walked to the front door, prepared to see some kind of minor domestic issue blossomed into a giant cluster fuck of drama and first-world misery. Claire was the kind of person to threaten calling a lawyer if the cable went out for more than an hour. As I approached the front door, I noticed that there was power at least in the back of the house. I could see the glow of the kitchen lights through the front windows.

  Harry Clownshoe's truck filled my driveway ass-end in with the ball hitch just inches from my garage door. There didn't seem to be any tools about, no work lights or any sign that there was a major problem being managed inside. I decided an explanation was coming soon enough and entered my home at last.

  And home smelled like fried chicken.

  The lights were off in the living room we reserved for the kind of important people who never visit and the formal dining room that we never used. I walked back the main hallway between the two, noting that the upstairs landing was also totally dark. I followed the light, hoping that Claire could explain things to me. Two things struck me about the house at that point. One was the number of new small appliances in the kitchen and a load of pots and pans soaking in the sink. The other was the smell of recently candle smoke just overpowering the weird combination of cinnamon and vanilla in the air.

  I thought perhaps Claire had her pals Beth-Anne or Connie over for dinner or maybe even one of her foodie functions. She always preferred that I not be there for those, even if she framed it as a "long overdue night out with the boys". Despite this, nothing in the kitchen appeared amiss.

  The smell of fried chicken reminded me that I had not eaten anything since a slice of Styrofoam covered in butter and salt from a Miami-Dade pizza shop. I opened the fridge and found three plastic containers of chicken meat. I guessed Claire planned for more people than showed up. I made myself a nice sandwich and found a bottle of Budweiser in the crisper. It was an odd choice for the wine cooler and rum crowd, but I decided to grab one to take the edge off the road.

  I took my plate into the sunken family room. Aside from the small office upstairs in what was to be our child's room, the family room was the only place I could really relax. Even the bathroom was a disputed time-share. But the family room held my overstuffed couch and my comfy overstuffed lounge chair and my absurdly-oversized high-definition surround-sound-enabled television which I used to watch low-definition monophonic movies late at night.

  And eat a pair of chicken sandwiches. And drink a beer.

  I nearly tripped over my work boots getting into my chair. I cursed at them for nearly tossing my dinner across the Sedona area rug, but then remembered something important.

  I didn't own work boots.

  My lounge chair shouldn’t smell faintly of motor oil and man-funk, either.

  Good chicken sandwich, though.

  The remote control wasn't where I liked to put it, but it was in the chair, itself. I flipped on the television and it brought up ESPN.

  I never watch ESPN.

  And I never watched television with the volume high enough to be heard over a vacuum cleaner, so the four large men laughing at each other behind a desk were somewhat distressing to me and probably the people sleeping upstairs. Feet thumped onto the floorboards over my head and as I dialed down the volume, I thought I heard the anxious squeaking of my wife Claire through the vent system.

  I changed channels to my go-to movie network, the one with all the old black and white features and no explosions or hyperkinetic jump cuts. I sank into my chair, exhausted in both mind and body, not really caring about the footsteps on the stairs. They were too heavy to be Claire and I pictured a little cartoon handyman with a pipe wrench creeping up on the family room like Elmer Fudd. Of course, it wouldn’t be Claire com
ing downstairs unless she was certain it was me. They wouldn't call the police yet because Clownshoe's name would be on the police report. Maybe they thought I was a raccoon with an addiction to SportsCenter. I just did not care. Part of my brain was in denial because accepting what I was about to discover required energy I didn’t have or a sense of betrayal and abandonment that had already healed over into an ugly, jagged scar.

  A tall, lanky shape rounded the corner from the hallway, cautious as someone who had never really cleared a house before and only saw it done on television. I didn't see a pipe wrench or a painter's cap and, most assuring – no gun.

  "Hey there," I said with a tiny wave. "Winston Casey. You might recognize me from some of the photos hanging up around the house. I'm a little less pudgy now, but that's me. You're Harry?"

  Still, just a shape, a low voice, younger than I expected, replied. "Naw. I'm Randy. Harry's my dad." He was just a kid, maybe in his early twenties.

  "Good chicken," I mentioned, gesturing to the empty plate. There was a full minute that the only person speaking was Cary Grant.

  "So… what's gonna happen now?" Randy's voice sounded a little scared as he stepped down into the family room. He wore boxer shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt with a simple gold chain that sparkled in the half-light of the television. It was good that he had a strong body because God sure wasn’t kind to him from the neck up.

  "You could shoot him," Parker offered from out in the kitchen. "Plug him in the chest and no court in the world would convict you. It's a free murder pass, man."

  I didn't acknowledge Parker. He was angry enough for both of us. I took a moment to decide which Cary Grant movie was on the television. It looked like Holiday or Bringing Up Baby because I thought I heard the purring of Katherine Hepburn off camera. Randy started shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His big hands slipped further down as his shoulders slumped. Convinced that Claire wouldn’t be making an appearance, I decided this was enough for the day.