by C. F. Waller
IMMORTALS TRILOGY
BOX SET
BY
C.F. WALLER
THE CALLING TREE: A TALE OF IMMORTALITY
THE CONDUIT: A TALE OF RESURRECTION
THE AGREEMENT: A TALE OF THE RAPTURE
DANUMA: A French word meaning a spectacular ending where all of the loose ends of the story (or piece of writing) are tied up, and everything is explained.
It’s been a pleasure working on The Calling Tree and The Conduit these past three years. Both books came to life in between my more well publicized book releases. I guess these characters and their story became my guilty pleasure, acting as a palette cleanser between highly researched Science Fiction novels.
Both books are included here, and while they are stand-alone works, you should read them in the order presented. The final book, or DENUMA is The Agreement: A tale of the Rapture. It was, without a doubt, the most fun I have experienced as a writer. I took full artistic license and let the characters roam free. It’s presented to provoke laughter, as well as sorrow.
The Agreement will be only available in this Box set. It’s not that I am trying to force people to purchase the first two books again. I just don’t want anyone accidently stumbling in Book Three and getting lost, and possibly offended. If you bought either The Calling Tree, or The Conduit before 11-26-17, email me a picture of your kindle and I’ll gladly pay you back.
All that said, I leave you with this, as it perfectly describes the following story.
“Life is just a bunch of accidents,
connected by one perfect ending.”
― Daniel C. Tomas
C. F. Waller
Cfwaller.com
[email protected]
Table of Contents
THE CALLING TREE
Acknowledgement
A Note to Readers…
Chapter One… a decade ago
Chapter Two… present day
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
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
Epilogue
THE CONDUIT
Acknowledgement
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
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
THE AGREEMENT
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
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
About the Author
THE CALLING TREE
A tale of Immortality
A novel by
C.F. WALLER
THE CALLING TREE
Copyright © 2015 by Charles Francis Waller
The right of, Charles F. Waller to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with The copyright, Designs and Patents act of 1988
All rights reserved.
First Publication: September 2015
ISBN 978-1-4951-7004-1
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Visit my website at cfwaller.com for links and book information
Acknowledgement
Thanks to God for getting me through a year during which my entire family’s faith was tested.
Thanks to my wife for giving me her love, encouragement and support.
Cover Design by Ethel Floon
Editing by TMM & JKW
A special thanks to the Beta readers.
Marcie Erbes
Leah Resko Aylward
Tamar Hela
Julie Newberry
Tina Mays
A Note to Readers…
Before you launch yourself into this book let me submit this disclaimer. There is a fairly blasphemous plot line running beneath the surface of this manuscript. Keep in mind this is a work of fiction and does not represent my views on God or the hereafter.
Furthermore it touches on Greek mythology, genetic mapping, gun pointing, love triangles, murderous redheads, bows and arrows, degenerate gamblers, wine choices when boiling people in oil, overuse of movie references, hooker tossing and indictments of the educational system.
Any resemblance between real persons and characters depicted in this work is pure coincidence, but really now . . . you know who you are.
C. F. WALLER
Chapter One… a decade ago
The wipers race back and forth across the windshield pushing water this way and that. I ride along in the back seat of the taxi silently tapping my finger on my watch. When I readjust my feet, the soles momentarily stick to something on the floor. I have never been to Gothenburg before, but in the hour since I got off the plane, all I have seen is rain. The car slows and makes a sweeping turn before pulling up to the curb.
“Ths ar det,” the driver blurts out, putting an arm over the seat.
“I’ll assume that means we have arrived.”
“Trettio,” he replies briskly.
“Keep it,” I offer, pushing a fifty-dollar bill into his hand before throwing open the door.
I don’t actually know what he said, but am confident that I overpai
d. Not being picked up at the airport in a private car has me preoccupied and cranky. The taxi pulls away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk in front of a three-story stone building. The rain is only a drizzle now and I pull my suit jacket together in the front. Holding it there with one hand, I stride up the sidewalk. There is a sign that I can’t read, but was told this is a residence. It’s probably apartments, but could possibly be condos. Reaching the end of the sidewalk, I am greeted by a lone female figure standing under an overhang just short of the main entrance.
“You Dunn?” she sighs, seeming bored.
“Yeah.”
“Dominick Dunn?” she presses as I get to the overhang and duck out of the rain.
“Yes,” I reply, shaking the water off my jacket and running a hand through my hair. “Running into a lot of guys named Dunn tonight?”
“Funny,” she grumbles dismissively. “Welcome to Sweden.”
“You are?”
“Rahnee,” she grunts, pulling on a jet-black ponytail that hangs off the back of her head by a thick rubber band.
She has a marginally Middle Eastern accent, but it’s faint. Tan denim jeans are pulled over the top of black boots. Not fancy lady boots, but also not military, something in between. A Star of David necklace hangs over her heart just above a V neck tee-shirt. Slightly damp, the star glints through water droplets. Over this is a form fitting brown leather jacket.
“Is Hector inside then?”
“Hector, Hector,” she replies thoughtfully, before shaking her head. “No Hector here.”
I consider, stepping back out into the rain, but the taxi is long gone. I was under the impression that Hector would be here. My employer uses several different assets, but over the last two years it has always been Hector. I waffle between leaving and staying, but notice she is glaring at me.
“I’m going to need to make a call,” I stall, taking a step back and reaching for my phone.
“You want to see this guy or not?” she bristles.
Holding up a finger, I dial my contact. It rings several times before going to voicemail. Frustrated, I hang up, leaving no message. Even though she’s new to me, work must go on.
“Okay Ronnie,” I concede, deciding to see where this goes. “Let’s see what you have.”
“It’s Rah-nee,” she replies emphasizing the two-syllable pronunciation.
“Got it,” I nod while waiving a hand at the doorway.
After an annoyed huff, she bulldozes through a lobby of sorts to a bank of lifts. The floor is a mosaic of alternating colored tiles. Some are an antiqued burgundy, while others are a golden tan. Worn furniture dots the space, featuring many art deco pieces. Typical rich colors, bold geometric shapes and lavish ornamentation adorn the various items. I am reminded of my aunt’s house in Miami, which leaves me thinking of a minty fresh mojito.
The lift doors have a shiny brass finish and feature a metal gate you have to pull across before you can enter. A dark-skinned man wearing a beret, rough looking jeans and boots is already holding the doors. As we step in Rahnee punches the 3rd floor button aggressively with her thumb. The button is cracked, but still illuminates when pressed. The floor jerks, wobbling my knees for a moment, before starting up.
“On three then?” I offer, trying to make conversation.
“Two,” she mutters.
“You pushed three?”
“Observant,” she remarks sarcastically. “How about you just follow me? Your boss is going to love this.”
On the third floor there is another roughneck waiting. He gets a silent nod from Rahnee as we pass. The hall is narrow, the floor carpeted with forest green carpet. One tattered edge has a trail of threads protruding into the pathway. Under the carpet is a poured concrete slab, which peeks out, tiny bits of glue stuck to it. Lines in the remaining carpet show a recent vacuuming, which is at odds with its well-worn condition.
The door to Apartment 314 is standing open, paint cracked and peeling around the peephole. Inside, the living space, looks as I would expect. A couch, chairs, dining room table, that are all from the Deco period.
“It’s like Frank Lloyd Wright barfed in here,” I say loud enough for Rahnee to hear me.
I expect a response to my musing, but get none. She keeps going as if I didn’t say anything. For some reason I find myself liking her. Maybe I find her indifference attractive. Once this train of thought enters my consciousness, I suck in my stomach without thinking about it. I really need to get to the gym more. She turns and glances at me when I start to fall behind as if she’s reading my thoughts. The look I receive is judgmental. Snapping out of my narcissistic fog, I follow along obediently.
The place isn’t high end, but it’s not a slum. I was expecting upscale given whom we are looking for, but this probably isn’t him anyway. Another wasted trip chasing a phantom that doesn’t exist. I have been searching for two years and my employer indicated that I was not his first hire.
I follow Rahnee into the dimly lit master bedroom. One lamp sits on the carpet, the shade off, casting stark light all around. A king size bed is suspended on the far wall, the mattress seeming to dangle from nothing. On further inspection, the top is hinged at the headboard. Viewed from the side, I can see that when down, it would appear normal, but on the spring-loaded hinges one man could push it up. Ratty six-inch sections of plywood form a box on the floor to act as a base for the contraption when down. This is clearly not for sleeping on, but rather more like a movie prop.
Beneath the bed is a round hole three feet across. It’s drilled through several feet of concrete in a rough way leaving uneven edges. A blow torch of some kind has been used to cut away the rebar trapped in the concrete. The top of a wrought iron ladder pokes out into the room. Rahnee stands next to the hole with crossed arms.
“Down there?” I question, leaning forward to glance down the odd excavation.
“Yeah, you first.”
After an initial hesitation, I climb down the ladder. The expanse below is lit by candles giving the space a yellow glow. This apartment appears the same size as the one above, but all the walls have been removed. Upon closer inspection, the place where the front door should be is gone. The room is smaller by just enough for the second-floor apartment to open into a hallway. How very clever. If you opened the door to 214 it would appear normal as long as you didn’t try and to go in.
Sizing up my surroundings, no other egress is visible. I conclude that you can’t get into this room from anywhere but the ladder. A half-dozen round posts have replaced the load bearing walls, leaving it wide open. The posts have adjustable bases featuring thick screw adjusters. They are the type used in construction when a temporary brace is needed. In this application, I would assume they are permanent fixtures. The two long sides of the room are covered by tall bookcases, lined with books from floor to ceiling, the occasional gap leaving books on their sides. Down the center are three long tables. Bound manuscripts and papers litter the table tops in a haphazard way. Wax from the many candles drip down the candlesticks, in some cases onto the parchment under them.
Sitting on a swivel chair is a pale skinned man, his hands bound in front with a large zip tie. He’s not fat, but also not particularly fit. He’s sort of a paunchy fellow. The man looks calm and boasts a grin that’s not quite a smile. He wears grey dress pants, a white shirt, black tie and matching grey vest. At first glance he appears bald, or possibly his hair is clipped so short it’s difficult to tell. Tiny wire framed glasses hang off his nose, the square lenses leaving him with a bookish appearance. In these surroundings he looks right at home. He watches me inquisitively as I study the room.
A man stands next to his chair, a gun dangling from his hand. An armed guard seems a hair over the top. This guy looks pretty harmless. Rahnee passes close to him and they exchange a whisper.
On the table is a stack of papers nearly a foot high. I pluck the top sheet off the stack, holding it up to catch the flickering light. It’s hand written top to bottom, l
eaving hardly any unused space. The penmanship is exquisite, making it hard to imagine a human being could have produced it. The language is foreign to me, but I study it as if I find it interesting. After a moment, I turn to the man and find his gaze upon me.
“Latin,” he says in an assertive tone. “You strike me as a colonial. The English texts are on the far-left wall.”
“Thanks,” I nod and place the paper back on top of the pile. The sheet doesn’t line up perfectly with the pages under it and he seems to be bothered by this, staring at the pile and shifting in his seat. “And you would be?”
“The man your employer is looking for,” he explains, tilting his head and struggling to take his eyes off the misaligned sheet of paper. “Seems it’s your lucky day.”
“How would you know who I’m looking for?”
“Not you, your employer,” he shakes his head. “You’re just an errand boy.”
“Errand boy,” I chaff, pointing from me to Rahnee. “That makes her what?”
“Dog catcher,” he replies, nodding at her. “No offense to either of you, of course.”
She seems unscathed by this proclamation, showing no emotion. Apparently, the term dog catcher suits her. Glancing around the room, I am beginning to think he might actually be the Cartographer. I want to ask Rahnee how she found him, but before I can, her man sticks his gun in the restrained man’s face.
“That makes you the dog then,” he chuckles.
Before I can protest Rahnee takes the man’s free arm and twists it up behind his back. This tense moment only lasts a split second. She holds her hand out and he sets the gun in her palm obediently. They exchange a stare and then she nods toward the ladder. Begrudgingly, he heads that way.
“It’s not like you can kill him anyway,” her guy mutters as he climbs out of sight.
