Earthbound : A gripping crime thriller full of twists and supernatural suspense

by Fynn Perry

  “You saw it, too?”

  Jennifer nodded, glancing again at John.

  “But . . . but . . . how was that possible?” David stammered, and followed it with another of his nervous coughs.

  Jennifer looked her father squarely in the eyes. “It’s John, Dad. John’s spirit is here, and it was John who held up the knife!”

  “That’s not possible,” David protested. “This is your obsession with the supernatural again! He’s not even dead—he’s in the hospital in a coma, for Pete’s sake!”

  Jennifer said nothing. She went to fetch the notepad and the pen used for writing grocery lists from the kitchen table and placed them on the coffee table in front of her father. She placed her hand on top of her father’s hand. “This will prove it, Dad!” she said gently as she nodded to John.

  David tried to come to terms with what he thought his daughter was expecting to happen––the thought of the pen moving under paranormal forces was insane. Then his pupils widened with the unexpected thought, but what if it does? He glanced nervously up at Jennifer. “You’re not seriously suggesting…” His voice, nearly a whisper, now trailed off as he watched the pen lift itself above the pad.

  David bolted backward, pressing himself deep into the couch. The pen started to write on the pad on its own, before being laid to rest, again by an invisible hand, on the glass coffee table. The words left on the paper were:

  I AM HERE

  JOHN

  Jennifer and John watched David as he sat staring at the paper, his face frozen, for what must have been a full minute. Then he shook his head slightly as if to make what he had seen fall from his memory. Finally, he whispered, “What the hell?” and looked up at Jennifer. His eyes darted around the room as if he might somehow glimpse John. The logical part of his brain was trying to negate what he had just seen, while the primitive part was slowly succumbing to fear—fear of the unknown.

  David looked at his daughter as if maybe she was somehow bewitched, but she seemed to be her usual sweet, believable self. Except that what she was telling him was unbelievable.

  She told him then how she, too, had been shocked, even repulsed, when John had made contact with her. But the difference was that when John had reached out to her, she had actually seen him as a spirit, an orange glowing form, and since then she had been able to not only see him but all the other spirits on the planet.

  David sat silently, listening to her explanation of how they had found out John was in another, hidden world on Earth, and how the fact that his body was in a coma could mean there was a chance he could come back to the real world. She suggested he think of John as being in an extended out-of-body experience, hoping it would ease his confusion.

  This explained her seemingly strange response to the trauma of the event, David thought. He recalled the psychologist explaining it by saying that everyone grieves in different ways. She hadn’t been grieving, he realized, because she hadn’t really lost John—she was still communicating with him.

  She gave him a few more moments before telling him the next part. Maybe this time he would believe her. “Dad, spirits can possess mortals. You have to believe me now. I saw a spirit possess Vernon Hardwell. It was the spirit of Juan Santiago, the drug lord you prosecuted in Miami.” She paused, seeing the bemusement in her father’s face before pressing on. “Devereux said those things to you at the clinic and stabbed you in the hand because Santiago’s spirit transferred to him after Hardwell was locked up.”

  The primitive part of David’s brain was taking over because the logical brain had nothing rational to offer. He felt as though his heart had turned to lead and his palms moistened in fear as he desperately wanted to dismiss everything that he had just heard. Yet the image of the pen writing on its own kept replaying in his mind, reminding him that his wish to return to his prior ignorance would never be fulfilled––his perception of the world had just been irreversibly changed. Unable to dispute what he had seen with his own eyes, he found himself considering the possibility that maybe—just maybe—it had been Santiago speaking to him through Devereux. “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed as the memory of his conversation with what must have been Santiago’s spirit flooded back. “He said he wasn’t going to kill me now but was planning something for later. He was trying to play on my fears. Keeping me terrified, in anticipation. I must have blocked remembering this until now because I didn’t believe it had really happened!”

  Jennifer said nothing. She could sense he had more to say.

  “I thought we were safe!” David whispered in bewilderment. “With a name like Miller in a city like New York, nobody would have cause to think we were those Millers. I checked—there are 50,000 Millers registered here, and out of those, a thousand David Millers, and as many Jennifer Millers. It was a case of either us moving here or to a backward town somewhere in the boonies,” he said nervously. Then he continued, almost babbling now. “I thought there was nothing more low profile than doing charity-funded legal work in Brooklyn. That any gangland interference with my cases would be extremely small.”

  Jennifer put her hand on his. “We would have been safe if Santiago hadn’t been murdered in prison . . . and if . . . if there wasn’t this other dimension where spirits go on existing. I know it sounds crazy. But it’s all real, Dad.” She paused, glancing at John before continuing, “We believe Santiago’s spirit was selected and that El Gordito was matched with him as the perfect mortal host for him to possess.”

  David said nothing, his mind switching between the fear of such a partnership and the ridiculousness of it. “El Gordito runs the most powerful drug distribution network in the States. I guess he has contacts all over the city . . .” he finally said.

  “That’s how Santiago must have found you,” Jennifer surmised.

  David nodded, still dumbstruck. “What do you mean, Santiago was selected and matched?”

  Jennifer took a deep breath, filled her cheeks with air, then blew it out and explained what she and John knew of The Game and how the key to getting rid of Santiago was to ensure his failure at it, which would necessitate the downfall of his host, El Gordito, in the real world.

  The light was fading outside by the time David finally understood. He sat silent for a long moment after that. As much as he wanted to, he could not just dismiss as fantasy what his daughter had said—after all, he’d just seen proof of the existence of John’s spirit with his own eyes. But the idea that humanity in the afterlife might control the present day and the past? That was even more mind-blowing.

  He steepled his fingers under his chin and attempted to clear his head of his many scattered thoughts. He had to put the whole spirit world revelation to one side, calm the pounding in his head, and think of someone who could help them bring about the downfall of Miguel Vargas. Anything that could be done in the mortal world was, at least, feasible. And, with his thoughts tumbling, he realized that nobody had a better grasp of the inside track on how New York was run—with regard to politics, drugs, gangs, and the police—than a young reporter David had once worked with—Paul Hamilton from The New York Tribune. As the paper’s Miami correspondent, Hamilton had covered some of David’s more high-profile cases with impressive integrity. David proposed they all go and see him.

  Seventeen

  Following a quick call by David and the promise of a major story, thirty minutes later by taxi, they were at Hamilton’s door in an apartment building in the Flatiron District of Manhattan. The journalist was in his early thirties, lanky and pale-skinned, with short blond hair that was gelled to give it a spiked look.

  Hamilton didn’t waste time on pleasantries save for a brief handshake and curt greeting. He invited them in and then gestured for them to sit down on the only couch in the main room of his small apartment. He got straight to the point and asked Jennifer to spill the story while he sat back in a battered leather armchair, making notes on a pad.

  Jennifer had already agonized over how to get around the obvious problem that the w
itness to all the incredible events she was about to describe was a spirit, a ghost. Clearly, she had to say a mortal had seen what John had seen. Her solution, which was to claim that she had sources who preferred to remain anonymous, was, as she expected, met with a look of suspicion by the reporter. However, after he glanced in her father’s direction and received a nod of approval, Hamilton seemed satisfied to continue. She recited John’s observations of the drug manufacturing and distribution, substituting John for an invented production assistant working in the laboratory in the secret basement of the fulfillment center in New Jersey. And secondly, she gave John’s account of the organ harvesting, this time substituting him with a fictitious orderly at the medical center located at Hargreave Merciful hospital in Manhattan. Both witnesses naturally refused to give their names for fear of reprisals, and Jennifer was unable to say how she knew them for the same reason.

  Hamilton interrupted. “David, we have known each other for a long time, so you can understand my curiosity and my doubts as to whether a laboratory assistant and an orderly working for El Gordito’s organization would confide in your daughter.”

  “You’re right, Paul. It’s more complicated. The information came via other parties, but we can’t give you any names,” David admitted. “You have to trust me, this story is huge. Do some initial investigations, and I’m sure you’ll find something to support what you are hearing.”

  “As she’s your daughter, I’ll hear her out,” Hamilton conceded.

  Hamilton continued to listen intently to Jennifer, all the while making notes until she had finished. “I’ve seen drug manufacture by cartels in Mexico and I’ve reported on organ harvesting in India, but to find the two linked, right here in New York, is incredible,” he muttered.

  “Let me check something,” Hamilton said. He got up and fetched his laptop and then sat back in the leather armchair. He powered up the computer and, after logging on, accessed the New York Tribune online database. “So, you think El Gordito kidnapped a biochemist and forced him to genetically engineer a yeast that can be used to biologically synthesize cocaine and heroin from scratch, without the need for any plants?”

  “Yes,” Jennifer confirmed as Hamilton continued to scan the screen of his laptop.

  “What you are saying is possible,” he acknowledged, “but the understanding of the biological processes of synthesizing organic compounds that complex is thought by scientists to be many years away!”

  “Well, El Gordito didn’t kidnap just any bioscientist, he kidnapped Emrez Yilmaz, the one man in the world who can actually do it!”

  Hamilton feverishly tapped away at his computer and scanned the screen.

  “Do you know what this means if it’s true?” Hamilton didn’t wait for an answer. “He’s going to make the growing of poppies for heroin and coca leaves for cocaine redundant. That would marginalize all the drug production in South America, Central America, and Afghanistan and eventually render it obsolete. Because with the synthesis method there would be no transportation costs, no middlemen and no more ‘cutting’ of the product with substances that dilute purity and stretch profit.” He paused, appearing to do a mental calculation. “Right now, a kilo of cocaine sells in the Colombian jungle where it is made for $2,000 and by the time it gets to New York City its value has risen to $27,000 and it has been cut at least ten times. With local production and superior purity, El Gordito has practically zero costs and maximum profit. He’s going to enrage a whole lot of people and cause a huge rise in drug-related murders between gangs that will be eager to get a share of the distribution and profits. Then there’s of course the increased risk of medical complications and death due to the likely intolerance of most users to drugs of such purity. This is going to require a whole new war on drugs! And you say that he is pressing the cocaine and heroin into a single pill?”

  “Yes, with a red spider logo,” Jennifer confirmed. “It’s called Spider Bite.”

  “Speedballs in a pill— that’s even worse,” he sighed.

  “What do you mean? What are speedballs?” asked Jennifer.

  “Speedballing is when you mix a stimulant like cocaine with a depressant like heroin.” He paused, seeing that David and Jennifer were looking lost. “OK, let me back up,” he said. “Cocaine is a stimulant, which is great for when you are clubbing and need a lift but it’s no good when you want to relax and get high at home—that’s what heroin does as a depressant. By mixing the drugs, you are using the sedating effects of heroin to temper the extreme energy rush of cocaine and soften the inevitable crash after a cocaine high. The result is an intense, longer-lasting high than either drug can provide on its own, which, of course, makes cravings for it stronger.”

  “But it’s more dangerous?” David prompted.

  Hamilton nodded his agreement. “What users don’t realize is, that because they don’t feel the extreme effects of either drug, they are not able to tell if they’re approaching lethal levels. Even if users are careful not to overdose, they are not in the clear, because there is also the detrimental long-term effect that a rapid change between energetic and sedated states has on the organs of the body. And taking into account the purity of the drugs that El Gordito is making… you can assume that every effect I have just mentioned will be greatly amplified. What he has created is probably the most addictive and dangerous drug on the planet.” He sounded both alarmed and excited.

  “So, overdose victims wouldn’t necessarily make good organ donors, would they?” Jennifer offered, thinking of the other batch of rogue pills John had told her about.

  “Probably not, and the fact that the main organs are undamaged by the drugs is interesting. That will need some expert research,” Hamilton replied, sounding mystified.

  Before Jennifer could say anything about the batch of defective pills, Hamilton continued, his voice more commanding now. “Let’s keep the stories separate for now, for greater impact and ease of investigation. We should tackle the drug-brewing story first, get it substantiated, and then move onto the next big story on black-market organ trade. What was the name of the logistics place?”

  “Supreme Logistics.”

  “Where’s it located?”

  “Newstone in New Jersey.”

  “Whoa! That’s perfect!”

  “Why?” Jennifer’s asked, her curiosity overriding her desire to tell Hamilton about the other pills.

  “Where do I start? It’s a crime-riddled town with corrupt police and other officials. Most of its population is unemployed, disenfranchised, and desperate people. The county jail is located right in the center of the town and a huge number of prisoners get paroled there instead of in their native hometowns. Most of these releases are violent offenders, drug dealers, and burglars, creating the perfect environment for gangs, drug pushers, and desperate families ready to do about anything for a buck and with a deep-seated hatred for law enforcement. It looks like El Gordito did his homework.”

  “What about the fulfillment center. Is there anything suspicious about how it got built?” David asked.

  Hamilton typed some keywords into the database. “There’s nothing about a permit or anything else specifically for that building, but the entire park came under a master permit, which got some positive press for creating jobs in the area. Looks like interest died down after that. You could see the master permit at City Hall, but I doubt it will go into detail about the building layout, especially a secret basement for that building.”

  “Of course,” David nodded.

  “Now, about the organ harvesting,” Hamilton went on. “The donors were all club-goers from El Gordito’s clubs and they were all found to have taken the Spider’s Bite pills and they all showed symptoms of brain-death, but their organs were undamaged, right?”

  Jennifer nodded.

  “Clubgoers would make ideal donors because of their young age,” Hamilton muttered, as he wrote on his pad. “And your orderly involved in the harvesting confirmed this, I mean about the brain-death and or
gans?” the journalist asked.

  “Yes,” Jennifer offered, remembering to keep the account of her fictional character in line with what John had told her. “He overheard one of the nurses confirm that all the donors were brain-dead and that earlier they’d shown signs of a violent struggle with the club bouncers.”

  “Severe head trauma, most commonly from a car accident, can cause brain-death.” Hamilton interrupted. “I remember writing a story about such an incident a few years ago. However, I never came across it happening from a beating. Theoretically, it could occur, but only as a freak occurrence. I can’t imagine anyone being trained to be able to cause it.” He paused while typing again on his laptop. “The other cause is a specific type of stroke, but that doesn’t match with the young age of the donors.”

  Jennifer continued after waiting patiently for Hamilton to finish his thought process. “There’s still more to this story. I found news articles of isolated cases where men and women of a similar age to the donors, showing the same symptoms, had been discovered unconscious near the clubs and were taken to the hospital. Some of them eventually recovered after about five days but only because their families could afford premium healthcare and had decided to keep them on life-support equipment despite doctors advising that there was no point. In all cases they had taken ‘Spider’s Bite’ pills bought at the clubs.”

  “So, you think that the symptoms of brain-death were only temporary?”

  “I can’t be sure, but it looks that way.”

  “And they all took El Gordito’s pill?”

  Jennifer confirmed.

  “That would suggest that the symptoms were somehow chemically induced. There’s something familiar about this scenario of a pill inducing symptoms of brain-death . . . I can’t quite put my finger on it.” He paused, and they could all see the wheels turning in Hamilton’s mind. “Wait… Yes, there was a case in Turkey,” he said as he typed something on his keyboard. “Here it is!” He pointed to his screen. “A drug called Tiroflen, used to treat heroin addiction, is a central nervous system depressant and muscle relaxant, which can, in high doses, rapidly penetrate the blood-brain barrier and drastically slow the central nervous system to a near standstill, giving rise to symptoms similar to those associated with brain-death. However, once the drug is eliminated from the body, consciousness returns with no lingering harmful effects. A woman accidentally overdosed on it and had all the signs of brain-death. This woman recovered after five days—just before the machines keeping her body alive were about to be switched off!”