by Rick Jones
In Between God and Devil
By
Rick Jones
© 2020 Rick Jones. All rights reserved.
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ALSO BY RICK JONES:
Vatican Knights Series
The Vatican Knights
Shepherd One
The Iscariot Agenda
Pandora's Ark
The Bridge of Bones
Crosses to Bear
The Lost Cathedral
Dark Advent
Cabal
The Golgotha Pursuit
Targeted Killing
Sinners and Saints
The Barbed Crown
The Devil’s Magician
The Nocturnal Saints
The Brimstone Diaries
Juggernaut
Original Sins (a prequel)
In Between God and Devil
The Sinai Directive (coming)
The Eden Series
The Crypts of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
The Thrones of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
City Beneath the Sea (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
The Sacred Vault (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
City Within the Clouds (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
City Beneath the Ice (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
Standalone ADVENTURE: The Menagerie (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
Stand Alone Novels
The Man Who Cast Two Shadows
The Valley (Severed Press)
Mausoleum 2069 (Severed Press)
Hunter Series
Night of the Hunter
The Black Key
Theater of Operation
With RICK CHESLER
First Strike
Contents
PART ONE STREAMERS OF NEW LIGHT
PROLOGUE
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
PART TWO SIX WEEKS LATER
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-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
PART THREE THOSE WHO STANDS BETWEEN GOD AND DEVIL
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
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY- FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY- FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY- SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY- SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY- EIGHT
PART FOUR WHEN ONE DOOR CLOSES
ANOTHER ONE OPENS
CHAPTER FIFTY- NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
PART ONE
STREAMERS OF NEW LIGHT
PROLOGUE
Kimball Hayden was standing within the hollowed Darkness of a long tunnel. At the far end was a small square of incredible brightness, perhaps a gateway that led to the Valley of Ethereal Light, or maybe it was simply an opening that allowed a simple splash of sunlight. In time it began to grow, the Light getting as bright as a thousand suns, though it was pleasant to his eyes, it was both warm and comforting.
In its own way it seemed to call and beckon to him, the invitation filled with the everlasting promise of peace.
Behind him, in the Darkness, he could hear the voice of the woman he loved.
Kimball! . . . You stay with me, you hear me? . . . Don’t you leave me! Not now! . . .You come back!
. . . PLEEEEEEASE . . . COME BACK! . . .
The pull of the Ethereal Light.
The voice of an angel calling him.
The pull of the Light.
The voice of the angel.
The pull.
The voice.
Everything seemed like a moment of time to Kimball, a blink of an eye, yet inside this void time had no concept or meaning. Minutes, seconds, days, months—time simply did not exist within this magnificent plain of Light and Love. It was also something Kimball Hayden had come to learn when he opened his eyes to see ...
. . . the ceiling . . .
. . . the bank of overhead lights . . .
. . . the monitors that kept track of his corporeal rhythms, such as heart rate and blood pressure . . .
. . . the face of the nurse, a hazy mask of what he believed to be twisting features, and then she was gone, the woman exiting from the room in haste . . .
His world remained a blur as if he was looking through a veil of cascading water that fell before his eyes, his realm a watery distortion and a defect of vision.
People rushed into the room moments later wearing white, all hazes under the banks of overhead lighting.
Mr. Hayden,” the voice was male, though the tone sounded hollow and tinny as if he was speaking from the bottom of a well. “Mr. Hayden, if you can hear me, please shake your head.”
He couldn’t. He felt as heavy as lead with the pillow puffed and bloated around his head as it rested against the soft down.
“Can you hear me, Mr. Hayden?” the voice repeated, “Nod your head if you can?”
Kimball felt frustrated for his inability to perform a simple function.
Then: “Can you blink your eyes?”
Kimball did by blinking them once, though with great effort which seemed to leave him exhausted.
Then the voice became a waspy hum as he wondered about the Light and its sweet draw. Had he really seen the Ethereal Glow of the afterlife, that light of a billion suns? He could recall Its magnetic effect, something so wonderful that nothing else could compare to It by comparison, only to be dismissed by It in the end.
Closing his eyes, a tear slipped from the edge of his left eye and trailed along his cheek.
“Mr. Hayden.” The voice was clearer, crisper, and less hollow.
Those who stood around him were sharper, clearer, well-defined. The physician that stood over him appeared aged, perhaps late sixties, he considered, with pewter-colored hair, gray eyes and a hatchet-thin face. Two nurses stood on both sides of the bed with neutral expressions, one a blond and the other a brunette, with neither being pretty nor ugly, but simply nondescript.
“Mr. Hayden, my name is Doctor Brady.” The physician’s voice rang clear and without any measure of hollowed interference. “Mr. Hayden, can you remember the last thing that happened to you?”
Kimball’s eyes went to the ceiling as if to search for remembrances or clues of his past, which seemed like seconds ago. He could remember a woman’s voice calling to him, sweet and melodic like an angel beckoning him from the Light, rather than to compel him towards it. And then he recalled memories that were tainted with images of destruction and foulness. In his mind’s eye he saw the blossoming of fiery explosion and the pillar of smoke that resulted from the blast, the area around him suddenly taking on a Stygian darkness as cloying ashes filled the air.
From the base of Kimball’s throat came a series of clicks. It was as if he was trying to voice what he was recalling in order to purge himself of these images through admissions, and as a means of catharsis. But the words became locked.
Then he recalled seeing himself from high above, the man floating as a tranquil feeling encompassed him. A woman was sobbing as she cradled him. And he could see the significant burns to his left arm, his skin blackened and charred, along with broken legs that were at angles never meant to be possible.
“Mr. Hayden?” The voice of the physician remained crisp as he shined a light first in Kimball’s left eye, and then his right.
Kimball could feel his muscles starting to become electric, could feel the charge that was beginning to spark sense and feeling to his limbs, the warmth of rejuvenation beginning to stoke maneuverability.
Kimball’s eyes began to dart about as if trying to get a fix of his location, trying to regather his wits and his acumen. The Tunnel and the Light was now a room filled with strange people wearing strange faces.
“Mr. Hayden?”
Kimball’s voice came as a raspy whisper. “Where am I?”
The physician leaned over him. “Mr. Hayden, you’re at the Providence Hospital. You’ve been here for quite some time now. Fourteen weeks, in fact.”
Fourteen weeks?
Kimball shook his head, incredulous that he had been bed ridden for nearly four months. Seeing the Tunnel and the all-consuming Light—that moment wasn’t more than fleeting, not even thirty seconds.
Kimball rolled his head slowly back and forth. “Impossible.”
“Fourteen weeks, Mr. Hayden. You’ve been in a coma all that time.”
“No . . . I—” Kimball’s words trailed.
In this new light, which was not as bright as the Illumination, but was coming from a bank of overhead fluorescents, the doctor brought a small juice box with a spaghetti-thin straw to Kimball’s lips. “Slowly,” he told him.
But Kimball’s body craved liquids beyond the saline he had been receiving, his intake of the juice so quick that the box the doctor was holding imploded in his grasp almost immediately.
“Another,” Kimball managed to say.
Four boxes later and with Kimball’s reality coming more into focus, he is disappointed.
The Tunnel and the Light; his gateway to a peace he had never known . . . now gone. Fourteen weeks in this timeline was mere seconds in another.
He had been teased with Serenity . . . only to be rejected in the end.
Kimball Hayden slowly closed his eyes to fight off the sting of tears.
“Mr. Hayden, I do believe you’re going to be fine.”
But Kimball, in his effort to contain his emotions, ended up squeezing a tear from the corner of his eye before he whispered, “I’ve been turned away.”
“Turned away?”
“From the Light of God.”
“No-no-no, Mr. Hayden, what you were probably experiencing was the synapsis of your brain misfiring when your body was shutting down. What you most likely observed were the brain’s electrical impulses beginning to power down as billions of dying synapsis provided a moment of brilliant explosions and electrical discharges, all which would explain the light you saw.”
Kimball shook his head because he wanted to believe that something highly spiritual had taken over the reins of his fate with ultimate command, rather than something that could be explained away by the rationale of science.
Kimball opened his eyes—which now had a red-and-rheumy thickness to them—and stared upward as if Providence hovered just beyond the tiles of the acoustic ceiling. When nothing appeared, when no hint that something of magnificence would once again reveal itself to him, he turned his head to the side.
He watched as the green line on the screen vacillated as peaks and valleys to the rhythm of his heartbeat, which sounded strong. Then as he raised his left arm, which had been so badly burned that his skin had healed to look like the tallow of melted wax, he then noted the umbilical tube that extended from his arm to a half-filled bag of saline.
Across the room was a body-length mirror, a rectangle from top to bottom, but it was angled away from him. Pursing his lips and digging deep into his reserves, Kimball snatched the cord free from his arm and tossed it aside, which prompted the physician to cry out with a declaration that Kimball wasn’t supposed to ‘get out of bed,’ at least ‘not yet.’
But Kimball wanted to see what fourteen weeks in a hospital bed had done to him, what life had given him in exchange of the Light.
In lieu of the Light, what have I become?
What have You made me?
As soon as he stands before the mirror, he’s as shaky as a newborn foal. His face has thinned to the point where his flesh now hangs with the looseness of a rubber mask. His eyes are surrounded by dark loops, making his hollows appear deeper as the bones around his orbital sockets look sharper. And numerous scars adorn his arms and legs where the flesh had first been scored and then sealed, the wounds closing as angry red lines. Once an unstoppable man who stood within the Gray between God and Devil, he now stands before the mirror looking like an unfinished monster.
Kimball, with heartfelt pain, closed his eyes against the abomination that he has become.
CHAPTER ONE
Providence Hospital, Washington, D.C.
Three Weeks Later
When Kimball woke up, the first thing he saw was the grinning face of Monsignor Dom Giammacio.
Recognition was immediate, which brought a lethargic smile to Kimball’s face. “Padre.”
The monsignor placed a warm hand on Kimball’s forearm. “I must tell you; all within the Vatican sends you their love. You were deeply missed, my friend.”
Kimball’s smile appeared so tired it looked artificial and lazy, but it was quite genuine. “Believe me,” he answered, “I miss them, too.” With his left hand that had been grossly discolored by the fire that left him with a tone that was lighter than his tanned-colored skin, Kimball covered the monsignor’s hand and gave the cleric gentle pats of appreciation. “And it’s good to see you.”
The monsignor looked upon Kimball’s hand that had no pores or hair, all which were replaced by the swirl-like patterns of melted flesh that eventually cooled to forever lock in these new and grotesque designs. The burns, the monsignor considered, and the melting of skin, were certain indications that Kimball had been to Hell and back with the flames touching but not consuming.
Intuiting the monsignor’s study of his wounded hand, Kimball said, “If you think that’s bad, you should see my legs.” Kimball continued to maintain his smile of good humor.
The monsignor placed his hand over Kimball’s burned one, leaving Kimball to wonder if the monsignor was purposely masking the wound.
“I’m sorry, my friend. I had no idea that your tribulations were so great.
”
Kimball’s lazy smile never wavered. “In order to get to Heaven,” he stated, “one most go through Hell. Isn’t that the claim, Padre?” Kimball raised his burned hand before his eyes and began to flex the digits. “No damage to the underlying nerves. Fully functional.” Then he turned his hand over to study the backside, the burned side. His flesh appeared thicker, almost calloused, with the buildup of skin having nautilus-like loops and swirls to them. His legs were no different.
Lowering his hand, Kimball turned to the monsignor. “Right after the explosion,” he went on, “I remember being inside this tunnel, or maybe it was a hallway. And at the end of this hallway was a small square filled with Light. Then I heard this voice calling me, telling me to come back. Everything was warm and inviting. And then this Light expanded and came closer, filling the hall with a wonderful brightness that had the luster of a thousand suns.” Kimball paused and swallowed, his throat becoming dry. Once his cords were lubricated, he continued with a dreaminess to his words. “Then there was this voice calling me to ‘come back,’ sweet and pure, the voice of an angel.” Kimball’s smile left him, nothing but a grim line. “And then the Light dimmed and faded, becoming the overhead fluorescents you see above your head.” Kimball pointed to the bank of overhead lights. “And then the pain, the strange faces, all acting concerned about my welfare.” Kimball sighed as he turned his eyes ceilingward. “That’s when I knew that I had been rejected by the Light.”
“Not so, Kimball, you may have been turned away because your mission here might not be over. Did you consider that?”
“No. In fact, I was considering it to be a cause of science than something spiritual.” He turned to face the monsignor and locked eyes. “I was told that upon the moment of my body shutting down, the synapsis of my brain was firing off with electrical discharges when dying. Therefore, the explanation of the Light . . . Sounds feasible.”
“Sometimes, Kimball, science and faith collide. Perhaps this was one such incident, yes?”
“If that’s the case, Padre, that only means I was rejected by the Light, which I choose not to believe in. To do so would only validate that I’m not wanted.”
