by Alton Gansky
© 2017 Alton Gansky
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3138-3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the authors’ imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Gearbox
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
Epilogue
Selected Books by Alton Gansky
Prologue
I know the people behind me are wondering what I’m doing. I can’t blame them. It’s not everyday you see a man my size standing on the parapet of a high-rise building in the middle of a major city and looking down at a street he can’t see a mere fifty floors below. Did I mention it was night and the only light I have comes from emergency lamps? Probably not. I’m not at my best at the moment.
I’ve never admitted this to anyone before, but I don’t like heights that much. I don’t let on, of course. A big football player isn’t supposed to have such fears. Well, I ain’t a football player anymore. I’m just a big ex-jock teetering on the edge some five hundred feet above the sidewalk below.
It’s eerie up here. Not just because most of the lights in the city are out, but because of the silence. About a million-and-a-half people call San Diego home, or so the professor tells me. He has a knack for such things. When we first arrived, I noticed the noise of downtown: traffic, people talking, busses, mass transit trains, and other noisemaking things of humanity. Now all I can hear is the sound of a gentle breeze pushing at my back and zipping by my ears. That and the sobs of my friends.
If all of that wasn’t enough to raise the hair on a man’s neck, there was the fog—a fog like I’ve never seen before. At first it looked like your garden-variety mist, but it moved differently, and—how do I say this—it was populated. Things lived in it. Bad things. Horrible things. Ugly things.
When I look down I can’t see the street, just the roof of the fog bank. That and the things swimming in it.
A face appeared.
I shuddered.
It wasn’t alone.
The things swam in the fog like dolphin swim in the ocean. Except dolphins are cute. These are no dolphins. No siree. These things ain’t from around here. They’re not from anywhere on this earth. I can only guess where they call home, but if it was Hell, I’d believe it with no hesitation.
“Tank . . .”
Even with my back to her, I recognized Andi’s voice. I would recognize it anywhere and at anytime. The biggest hurricane couldn’t keep her words from my ears.
I raised a hand. I didn’t want to hear it. I wanted to hear it more than anything I’ve ever wanted. I know it doesn’t make sense, but I’m a guy standing on the edge of certain death, so my thinking, such as it is, has a few hiccups. Don’t expect me to make a lot of sense at the moment. You stand on the edge of a high-rise an inch from death and see how well the gears in your head work.
I allowed myself one last glance back. I turned slowly to look at my friends and the scores of people standing behind them. I was real careful. When I go over the edge, I want it to be my decision, not a fool mistake.
My gaze first fell on Professor McKinney, worldwide lecturer, atheist, and former Catholic priest. Yep, he’s a bit conflicted. He’s the smartest man I’ve ever met, and at times, the biggest pain in the neck. He is retirement age, but hasn’t slowed down. Good thing. The team needs him. He stared at me through his glasses. Even in the dim light provided by a pale ivory moon overhead and the emergency lighting, I saw something I had never seen before: a tear in his eye.
The professor’s hand rested on Andi Goldstein’s shoulder. I let my gaze linger on her. My gaze always lingered on her. Her usually wild red hair might strike some as a bit strange, but she was fashion-model beautiful to me. There were tears running down her face. The sight of them squeezed my heart like you might squeeze a lemon.
Next to her stood Brenda Barnick. Her black face seldom showed a smile, and she could put on an expression that would melt steel. I’ve faced a lot of big guys on the football field, but not one of them put any fear in me. When Brenda loses her temper, she plain scares me and anyone else within the sound of her voice. She’s a street-smart tattoo artist, all hard on the outside, but I know she has a great big heart. She looked away, but not before I saw the fear and pain on her face.
One way I know Brenda has a big heart is the boy standing in front of her. The kid has mental problems. Well, that’s what the doctors say, but we know better. He’s just different. And talented. Brenda, through a lie or two, got herself named his guardian. She makes a good mom.
The sight of my friends gutted me. I turned from them. It was easier looking at what I feared rather than those I love. I was on this ledge for them and for many others.
I raised my right foot and inched it over the edge of the parapet. The breeze pushed at me as if encouraging me to jump.
The things in the fog were agitated, like sharks in bloody water. Their small, lethal heads bobbed up and down in the fog.
They were waiting.
Waiting for me to lean forward.
I did.
A hundred pairs of clawed hands reached for me.
But first, I need to tell you how I got here.
CHAPTER
1
All Dressed up with Somewhere to Go
Of all the things I’ve seen lately, and I’ve seen a lot, today might just take the cake. I’ve seen a house that appears and disappears at will. I’ve seen the inside of the Vatican. I’ve seen flying orbs made of living metal (that’s what Andi calls it). I’ve seen a green fungus that invades living things and takes them over. I’ve been chased by monsters not of this world and protected a little girl who grew younger with time instead of older. But this. Seriously. This is almost too much. I would think I was dreaming if I weren’t standing and lookin’ into a mirror in my hotel room.
Still, I can’t deny it. The image was right there in the mirror: me—in a tuxedo. I’m a simple kind of guy. I like meat and potatoes, vanilla ice cream, and have been known to watch a little NASCAR racing from time to time. I figured I’d have to wear a tux if I ever got married, but maybe not even then. I skipped the proms at school, so I never had a need to rent one of these monkey suits.
There was my image: all six-foot-three, 260 pounds of me—in a tux!
Someone pounded on my door. “Let’s get a move on, Tank. The car and driver are waiting.”
The professor. Dr. James McKinney is our leader although we never elected him. He makes many of the decisions because at sixty he’s the oldest and because he is smart, educated, and domineering. He’s a priest who lost faith and left the church. Now, instead of conducting Mass, he sp
ends his time traveling the country proving that God doesn’t exist, faith is a dream, and believers are fools. His words, not mine. Yep, despite all that stupidity, the guy is the smartest man I know. I like him.
“Do I have to kick the door in, Tank?”
I smiled. I’d kinda like to see him try. “Coming.”
I turned from the mirror, glad to leave my image behind, and opened the door. He had his arms crossed, wore a tux similar to mine, and flashed his well-known frown at me. He was tall, with a full head of gray hair and eyes that seemed to look through people and things.
He studied me for a moment, relaxed, and lowered his arms to his side. The corners of his mouth ticked up a coupla notches.
“For a star football player, you clean up nicely.”
“I was a good college player, but never a star. You know that, Professor.” That was as true as sunshine in the morning. I played well in high school, and my first two years of college weren’t too shabby. When I transferred to the University of Washington on a football scholarship, things changed. I had been playing for a junior college in Southern California and lovin’ it, but playing for a major university with a well-known football team was an eye-opener. I was playing with and against people who made me look small. The hits were harder, the plays more complicated, the competition out of this world. I was a tiny fish in a great big pond.
Then I got hurt. A three-hundred-pound lineman did a dance step on my foot, and I was out for the season. To make things worse, our little team of do-gooders was traveling more, facing greater unknowns, and risking our lives. Somehow, football just didn’t seem important anymore. I haven’t touched a football since last December. People told me I’d miss it. Maybe I do a little, but I need to be here, with this team doing what, apparently, only we can.
“Do I have this on right?” I asked the professor.
“Your bowtie is loose. Turn around.”
I did an about turn and felt the professor fiddlin’ with the adjustable bowtie. It tightened.
“Can you still breathe?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so not tight enough then.”
“Hey.”
“Just kidding, Tank.” He had me turn around again. “Perfect. You look like James Bond.”
“I look like a penguin on steroids.”
“Nonsense, son. Besides, people like penguins.”
“Are you gonna be ridin’ my case all night, Professor?”
“Most of the night, anyway. Come on. You’re in for a surprise.”
I hoped it was a good one. We’ve had our fill of bad surprises.
The Courtyard by Marriott was a cut above most hotels, but not fancy. The professor called it a business hotel, but I saw plenty of people who didn’t look like executives. I didn’t bother to point that out. I was just glad for a nice place to stay. In the early days, we often had to rely on the professor to pay for airline tickets, food, and the like. These days, someone was taking care of such things. Don’t ask who. I don’t know. None of us do. Not yet.
We rode the elevator down three floors to the lobby. Seated on a sofa situated across from the desk was a young woman with vivid red hair. Andi normally let her hair hang whatever way it chose, but not tonight. She had spent part of the day at the hair salon, but to me there was nothing they could do to improve on perfection. I may have been wrong. Her hair had been pulled, woven, whatever they did in such shops, close to her head. She wore an evening dress of white and black stripes that were set on the diagonal. The dress left one shoulder bare. Not being an expert in such matters, I have no idea how a designer would describe it. I settled for “wow.”
Andrea Goldstein (we just call her Andi) rose from the sofa and all the air left the room. She seldom wore makeup, but tonight she proved she had skills that went beyond computers and patterns.
She straightened the dress. “Do I look all right?”
She was looking at me. I cleared my throat and wondered if I should comment on the dress, her hair, her makeup, her beauty, so I said, “Um, wow!”
The professor chuckled, something he seldom does. “It’s okay, Andi, I speak fluent Tank. He says you look gorgeous.”
“Yeah, what he said.” I’ve never been quick.
Andi smiled in away that nearly melted my spine. “Mr. Bjorn Christensen cleans up pretty good, too.”
“Hear that, Tank? She thinks you look like James Bond.”
“I didn’t say that, Professor.” Andi’s smile widened. “But you do, Tank.”
I hoped for all I was worth that I wouldn’t blush.
I blushed.
The professor’s expression soured. “Where’s Barnick? Do I have to go get her?”
“Of course not, old man.”
The voice came from behind us. A very familiar voice. I turned and got another shock. Brenda Barnick looked like she had just stepped from a model’s catwalk. Her dress was white on top and contrasted with her ebony skin. Gold lace something or another separated the floor length black dress. She too had spent time getting her hair done. She wore dreadlocks most of the time. Of course, she still had those, but somehow the hairdresser worked some kinda magic. For a streetwise tattoo artist, she looked like a movie star.
“Give us a spin,” Andi said.
Brenda did. It was a tad wobbly. “I hate these shoes. They make no sense.”
“No worries, girl. You’ll get the hang of heels. All you have to do is shut out the rest of the world and focus on your feet.”
“That should make the evening fun for me,” Brenda said.
A movement behind Brenda caught my attention. “That you, Daniel?”
No response.
“Come on, dude,” I pressed. “I’m wearing one, too.”
Daniel was the youngest member of our team. Just ten years old, and a year ago he was spending much of his time in a mental institution for children. Apparently telling people you have invisible friends is not a good idea. He has no parents. He was alone until he found us. Daniel has been a lifesaver several times.
Brenda has been declared his guardian. She introduces him to others as her son. They usually look at his white face, then at her black skin. When that happens, she narrows her eyes and says, “What?”
Brenda is tough. I think she could cower a rhino just by staring at it. Despite her tough exterior, Brenda has a heart of gold. She is a natural mother, and she takes care of Daniel as if she gave birth to him.
I stepped to Daniel and held out my fist. He smiled and started our secret handshake. Fortunately, he chose the short one. The long one takes two full minutes.
“Now that we’re done looking at ourselves, it’s time to go.” The professor pointed at the entry doors. A long black limo pulled up.
First a tuxedo. Now a limo. It all should be fun. I doubted it would be.
It never was.
CHAPTER
2
Square Pegs
The limo was long and black and shiny. I’m a pickup guy, Chevy if you must know, but once inside the Ford I began to change my mind. Like I said, I’m a simple guy, but a man could get used to this. The car was a Ford Excursion that looked as if someone had spent a year or two stretching the thing. I counted the seats—fourteen people could fit inside. It looked expensive. It smelled expensive.
Our seat was a long, deeply padded bench that wrapped around the back of the vehicle and ran along one side of the passenger area. A simulated wood bar ran along the other side. Once we were in and comfy, the professor and Brenda wasted no time in helping themselves to the wine. There was even a soda for Daniel. Me, I passed. I’ve never been good with liquor. Something Brenda knows since I let myself get talked into drinking something I shouldn’t. When I came to, I learned my football friends had dumped me off in a tattoo parlor. That’s were I first met Brenda and got my first and only tattoo. I wasn’t conscious during the tattooing. I’ve stayed away from booze ever since.
I glanced at Daniel. He was in awe. He held his soda, but show
ed little interest in it. There was too much to see.
A small brochure awaited us, and I glanced through it. “Hey, Daniel, this car’s got four televisions. Four, little dude.”
His eyes widened. Daniel doesn’t talk much. He’s certainly capable of it, he just chooses not to. Much of the time he seems lost in a world only he can see, or playing a video game on his smartphone. I’ve even heard him talk to people who aren’t there. No, that’s not quite right. He talks to people the rest of us can’t see. Don’t get me wrong. The little guy is not nuts. His invisible friends have helped us a few times in the past.
The limo pulled from the hotel and onto the street. Our hotel was in a San Diego suburb called Kearny Mesa. Our destination was downtown proper. The professor told us to expect a twenty-minute drive, maybe longer. It was Friday night, and he had been told traffic could back up anywhere along the path. Since we were headed to a party, we didn’t have to be there on the stroke of seven.
Night had settled like a thick blanket, so the professor turned on the overhead lights.
“Okay,” he said. He spoke just above a whisper. “We have a few minutes for review. Andi?”
Andi Goldstein, still so pretty she hurt my eyes and my heart, shifted in her seat and pulled a set of folded papers from her purse—the kind of purse women call a clutch.
“We’ve gone over this before so I’m going to be quick. We’re going to Krone & Associates. It’s an architecture firm. That you know. I’ve spent part of the day gathering information. I had to do it at the salon, but I found what I needed. Gotta love smartphones.”
She passed one page to each of us. On the page were some photos and a brief history of Krone & Associates.
“Krone is our primary concern,” the professor said. “At least that’s what I glean from the little information our handlers give us.” He pressed his lips into a line. “One of these days, we’re gonna find out who they are.”
“Focus, Dr. McKinney.” Andi was one of the few people who talk to the professor that way. She had been his assistant for several years and traveled with him while he tried to convince the world there is no God, that religion is for fools, and that smart people know that. I don’t know it. I’m a Christian myself, and I don’t hide it. Naturally, I irritate the professor a good deal. There’s some satisfaction in that.
