The Unification Chronicles: Between Heaven and Hell

by Jeff Kirvin

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  Fictionwise

  www.Fictionwise.com

  Copyright ©1997 by Jeff Kirvin

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  BOOK I: REVELATION

  The Accident

  It was a bright and sunny day in Washington DC, and Daniel Cho found himself at the scene of an accident. It was a terrible three-car pileup. Some jerk in a Volkswagen had come tearing up M Street and plowed right into a station wagon, upending it and flipping it into a pickup truck. All three vehicles were totaled, and the wreck completely blocked off the intersection.

  Daniel had been walking home from the mini-mart, and he looked forlornly at his single bag of groceries, the pistachio ice cream already melting in the DC heat. Just my luck, he thought sardonically. And on my day off, too. Daniel set down his groceries, sure that he'd never see them again, and waded into the carnage. Already he could smell the familiar odor of blood, gasoline and motor oil.

  In the distance, he heard the familiar sounds of ambulance sirens, but they were too far away and the traffic blockage too heavy for them to arrive in time to do any good. Daniel approached the first car, the Volkswagen that caused the accident. He knew instantly that the driver was beyond help. He hadn't been wearing a seat belt, and the impact had rammed the steering column directly through his chest. Daniel gagged in spite of himself. No matter how many times he'd seen it, he still wasn't used to death. The interior of the car was coated in blood, and the reek wafting from the car was stomach-churning. The driver, a man in his mid-thirties, still stared straight forward, his lifeless eyes focused on the horizon. Odd, Daniel thought, they usually look surprised.

  Daniel shook off the mental picture of the man's lifeless eyes and moved on to the station wagon, still propped at a forty-five degree angle over the pickup. Here, he could do some good. What had formerly been a red Ford now more closely resembled a crushed beer can, but the passenger compartment was relatively unscathed. Two kids were in the back, belted securely but knocked unconscious, and their mom was up front belted, slumped over a deployed airbag and starting to stir. The door was badly mangled and certainly wouldn't ever open again, and glittering broken glass covered everything. Getting them out wouldn't be easy, and Daniel knew he couldn't do it alone.

  He turned back to the street and grabbed the nearest gawking pedestrian, a largish man in jeans and a Redskins t-shirt, by the arm. Daniel flashed what he hoped was a conspiratorial grin. “Ever been a hero?” he asked.

  The man pulled back slightly, and began stammering a reply.

  "Don't worry,” Daniel added. “I'm a paramedic. I just need an extra pair of hands. You game?"

  The man considered a moment, then nodded. Daniel smiled and led the man back to the car, and together they eased the woman out of the car through the broken driver's window.

  Following Redskins’ example, more people joined in on the rescue effort, struggling to free the kids and the driver of the pickup. Eventually, Daniel assumed the role of foreman, stepping back and directing the rescue. As he watched the now freed and conscious children run up and embrace their mother, as he watched a group of total strangers united to rescue yet another stranger from the wreckage of his truck, Daniel marveled at the inherent nobility of the human race. People always rose to the occasion. It was just a shame it always seemed to take the worst sort of fortune to bring that spirit out. It was a shame that idiot in the Volkswagen would never be around to see it.

  As if to drive the point home to himself, Daniel glanced over to the ruined Volkswagen. He froze at what he saw there.

  Or didn't see, actually. The corpse was gone.

  What kind of a sicko would steal a bloody corpse in broad daylight? Daniel wondered. He scanned the crowd, looking for signs of the theft.

  Near the edge of the crowd Daniel spotted something that made Daniel feel bitterly cold, even on a hot summer's day. The driver of the Volkswagen was calmly walking away, seemingly oblivious to the gaping, bloody hole in his chest. The man looked over his shoulder once, making sure he wasn't followed, before turning down a side street. Daniel recognized the face as easily as if it had been his own.

  "Sir?” one of the volunteers asked Daniel, patting his arm.

  Daniel turned away from the walking dead and faced the volunteer, a pretty college student. “Yes?"

  She was a little taken aback by Daniel's attitude, but she asked her question anyway, regarding the placement of the truck driver, now that they'd removed him from the wreckage. Daniel answered her quickly, then ran off in the direction of the corpse. He turned the corner of the side street the man had gone down, but it was no use.

  The VW driver was gone.

  VA XKZ-947.

  Daniel sat in the locker room of the firehouse where he worked, staring at a slip of paper with the license plate number of someone that should be dead.

  Only he wasn't.

  Or was he?

  Daniel leaned back, his head rocking back against his locker door with a hollow thump. The gunmetal lockers and dingy tile floor looked dark and menacing all of the sudden.

  Am I going crazy?

  "Danny boy!"

  Daniel looked up to find the imposing form of Herb Sloan towering over him. Tall, white-haired and barrel-chested, Herb was on the downhill side of fifty and easily the oldest paramedic in the city. He'd been repeatedly offered an easier job in a hospital, but he'd hear nothing of it. Being a paramedic was in his blood, and he was the spirit of the firehouse. Daniel couldn't imagine the place without him.

  "Hi, Herb."

  Herb squatted down, bringing his eyes level with Daniel's. “Why the long face, Danny?"

  Daniel looked up at his friend, one of the few he had the time for. He glanced at the slip of paper again, then back at Herb.

  "You got a minute?” he asked.

  Herb sat down next to Daniel. “Shoot."

  "What's the worst you've ever seen?"

  Herb paused, remembering. He scratched his prominent chin and stared at the ceiling. “Let me see...

  "I know! About eleven years ago, I was at this tenement in Southeast. The whole dump shoulda been condemned, but you know this town. There was a fire, and the whole damn building imploded. There were half a dozen people out of maybe twenty still alive, and all of them trapped under the fire in the basement. Some of them had started out on the fourth floor. The ones that didn't make it ... Why do you ask?"

  Daniel looked at the slip of paper again before answering. “I saw something today,” was all he could get out.

  "What?"

  Daniel looked at the older man, saw the camaraderie and friendship in his eyes. “Look, I know people always begin stories like this with ‘I know this sounds crazy, but', and usually they turn out to be crazier than the stories. I don't know if that's the case with me yet, so just hear me out, okay?"

  Herb nodded.

  Daniel relaxed a little and told Herb about what he had seen, including the corpse casually wandering away from the scene. Herb was silent throughout the story, and for a long moment afterward.

  "That's some story,” he said finally.

  Daniel grinned in spite of himself. “That's an understatement."

  Herb stood up. “I don't know what to tell you, Danny. Are you sure the
guy was dead? Maybe he had a head wound. Even superficial head wounds bleed all over the place."

  Daniel leaned back, exasperated, and smacked his head against the locker. “I know a head wound when I see one, Herb. He didn't have a head wound. He had a steering column rammed through his chest. I think I'm qualified to diagnose that."

  Herb nodded. “Yeah, I guess you would be."

  Daniel just stared at him.

  "Can I see that?” Herb gestured at the slip of paper still in Daniel's hand. Daniel gave it to him.

  Herb took out a pen and started writing on the back. “I'm gonna give you the number of an old poker buddy of mine. Works at the DMV. He should be able to tell you who owns the VW, and we can find out if he's dead or not."

  Daniel heaved a sigh of relief as Herb handed him back the paper. “Thanks for believing I'm not crazy, Herb."

  "I don't know what happened out there, Danny. But I know you're a good kid. If you say you saw this, then you believe you saw it. And that's enough for me to believe you saw it."

  Daniel smiled, and Herb headed for the door. He stopped short and turned back to Daniel. “I'm gonna talk to Rob,” he said, referring to Robert Turner, their supervisor. “Take a long weekend. Get some rest."

  Daniel nodded. “Thanks again, Herb. See you Monday."

  "Feel better Danny."

  Daniel aimlessly wandered the aisles of the corner grocery. Heeding Herb's advice, he'd taken a minivacation. He'd been away from the hectic life of a paramedic for three days now, and it was driving him crazy.

  Being idle always made Daniel uncomfortable. When his grandparents came to America from their native Korea, they'd brought with them an almost fanatical work ethic which they passed on to their children, who, in turn, passed it on to Daniel. “Idle hands are the Devil's playthings,” his mother had drilled into him, usually while urging him to finish his homework.

  Thanks to his parents’ relentless support, he graduated third in his high school class, granting him easy acceptance into college. From there, it wasn't far to getting his degree and into med school. He was going to be a doctor.

  "Going to be” being the operative phrase. Daniel skated through med school and was starting his internship when it happened. He was assigned to an ER, and one night a pregnant woman was wheeled in, victim of a hit and run. The ER was packed that night, and he was the only one that could help her. Everyone else was just as bad off, and there weren't enough doctors to go around. Daniel and some nurses worked for five hours to save her, but they lost the mother and the child.

  Daniel was shattered. He decided right then and there that he didn't want to be asked to play God, not ever again. He left the ER and forgot about being a doctor.

  Daniel threw some essentials into his plastic hand basket: bread, peanut butter, grape jam. Some chips, too. He shuffled over to the soft drink aisle.

  He was happy with his life as a paramedic. It let him save lives, but without the pressure. A paramedic wasn't expected to work medical miracles. The job didn't leave him much time or opportunity for a social life, but he really felt like his job made a difference. He left work every day with tangible accomplishments, the faces in his mind of people whose lives he'd saved. He mattered. That was more than most office slaves could say.

  Staples of his bachelor existence collected, he trudged up to the counter to pay for them.

  At least he thought he mattered. If he wasn't going mad (and he couldn't let himself accept that he was), then he saw a dead man walk away from a fatal accident. Where was the use in cheating death day in and day out if death could simply be ignored?

  Groceries bagged and in hand, he stepped out into the bright July sunlight, letting it beat down on his naturally tan skin. His face featured a broad nose, high cheekbones and a narrow chin. He had close-cropped black hair and a lean, muscular build over his five foot eight frame. He was in great physical condition, thanks to his daily runs and, of course, the job. The same job that made his social life nearly impossible to plan with any certainty and had kept him dateless for over six months. Daniel often worked the shifts no one else wanted, sometimes putting in more than sixty hours a week.

  He walked down the street and up the steps to his third floor, one bedroom southwest Washington apartment. When he reached the door, the phone was ringing. He nearly dropped his groceries and fumbled madly for his keys. Daniel burst into the apartment and dashed for the phone. “Hello?"

  There was silence at the end of the line and for a moment, Daniel's stomach sank as he feared he'd missed the call he'd waited three days to get. Then a small, quiet voice said, “Daniel Cho?"

  "Speaking."

  "I'm Joel Furman, from the DMV? Herb Sloan asked me to call you."

  Daniel unknotted his shoulders and took the cordless phone with him to close the door. “Do you have some information for me?"

  The voice on the other end of the line paused, then continued in a voice even quieter than before. “You realize, I could get in a lot of trouble for this."

  "I understand. I really appreciate this.” Daniel silently prayed the guy wouldn't bolt on him.

  "Well, first off, he's dead. The owner of Virginia tag XKZ-947 was Mister Floyd Rockport, thirty-eight years old, with an address in Arlington. He died three days ago in an automobile accident."

  Daniel considered explaining to Furman that he knew that part already but figured that would scare him off for good, as antsy as the guy was. The less said, the better. Besides, Rockport might not be dead after all. “What's the address?"

  Furman paused again. “Look, why do you want to know? The guy's dead, right?"

  That's a better question than you think, Daniel thought. “Please. The address."

  Furman sighed, but gave Daniel the address, a townhouse in Arlington. “That's all I know. Tell Herb he owes me for this."

  The line went dead.

  Daniel carefully placed the phone back in its cradle and began to put away his groceries, lost in thought. Floyd Rockport. For the billionth time, the features of a walking dead man's face filled his mind. A long face with razor-sharp lines. Flint gray eyes. Receding sandy hair. Daniel had two mental images of that face, one dead and lifeless over an impaled chest, and another sidelong glance walking away minutes later. If Rockport was officially dead (and it didn't get much more official than the Department of Motor Vehicles), but walked away from the crash, where was he?

  Grabbing his keys, Daniel hurriedly locked his door and sped down the stairs to the street. His car was parked a block away, and he had to get across the river to Arlington.

  Evidence

  The address Daniel had been given was a ratty three-bedroom townhouse in a low rent district of Arlington. The front door was ajar, so Daniel let himself in.

  The interior was a mess. Either Rockport was a terrible housekeeper, or the place had been ransacked. The first thing Daniel noticed was that most of the stuff was old, most likely antique. Everything was scattered all over the living room like a tornado had hit it. What probably had been an expensive wooden coffee table was overturned and broken. The upholstery was ripped from the leather recliner and couch. An art deco lamp protruded from the television's shattered picture tube. A faint tinge of ozone lingered around the television, which had probably been on when it was destroyed.

  Daniel walked into the kitchen to find a stark contrast to the living room. The kitchen was immaculate, nothing out of place. It took Daniel a moment to realize why. There was nothing there to be out of place. No dishes, no food, no utensils, nothing. The place was empty. Why would whoever did this break expensive antiques but steal all the dishes?

  Puzzled, Daniel climbed the stairs to the top floor. He found a short hallway with two doors on either side. The first door on the right was a bathroom, also spotless. Through a connecting door Daniel walked into a bedroom, but it had been converted into a computer room, or home office. It was much the same state as the living room, except there was definitely evidence of theft here. The c
omputer was conspicuously missing between the overturned printer and the shattered monitor. Both bookshelves on the far wall were upended, their contents spilled on the floor.

  Thinking of the stolen computer, Daniel realized he was leaving his fingerprints all over the place. He'd have to wipe carefully everything he'd touched before he left.

  Two more rooms to check. The far room on the left side of the hall was a library. It was in a similar state to the computer room. All the bookcases lining the walls had been toppled.

  The last room was ... also a library. Where did this guy sleep? Daniel started taking a closer look at the books. Theology, history, sociology ... maybe the guy was a professor.

  Getting an idea, Daniel ran back to the “office” and searched the desk more thoroughly, covering his hands with the end of his shirt. It had to be there somewhere.

  Found it! Daniel picked up Rockport's checkbook and flipped through it before pocketing it. There had to be some clues to the guy's life in there. If the guy was really dead, he wouldn't miss it.

  Daniel paused, taking in the carnage around him. The silence quickly grew oppressive. He was rummaging through a dead man's house.

  He had to get out of there.

  Speeding downstairs, Daniel wiped off everything he remembered touching and ran out the door.

  As Daniel fled from the twice-ransacked apartment, he was noticed.

  Kneeling, gargoyle-like, on the roof of a nearby building that shared the same courtyard as the townhouse was the creature that started this whole mess. The creature Daniel would recognize as Floyd Rockport.

  As Daniel swiftly exited the building and hurried down the walk, the creature snarled, and leaned forward. It would be so easy to kill him now, it thought. Just jump down and snap his neck. Would serve him right for butting into my life.

  But there were children playing on the expansive lawn between the buildings, and their mothers close by. Daniel Cho was a threat because he'd discovered a secret. It wouldn't do to eliminate him only to reveal the secret to dozens more.