Cursed Presence
Page 1
CURSED PRESENCE
J.M. LeDuc
Book TWO
Trilogy of the Chosen
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2012 by J.M. LeDuc
Originally published by Suspense Publishing
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonEncore are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
eISBN: 9781477880524
This title was previously published by Suspense Magazine; this version has been reproduced from Suspense Magazine archive files.
PRAISE FOR “CURSED BLESSING”
“...Contains all the ingredients for instant success: memorable characters, a gripping storyline, spirituality, and romance. First in a trilogy, “Cursed Blessing” introduces us to Captain Brent Venturi, a mild-mannered librarian who, through faith and incredible acts of courage, manages to save his friends, save the world from a gang of criminal masterminds. J.M. LeDuc is a master storyteller and from the first page to the last, readers will be instantly hooked. Luckily, there are more books to come.”
–Caryn DeVincenti, Former Senior Editor, Fabulous 40rties Magazine”
“J.M. LeDuc’s, “Cursed Blessing,” the first in the Trilogy of the Chosen, will keep you reading well into the night. For a good part of that time, you’ll live on the edge of your chair. All the while, you’ll be unable to put the book down.
You are about to enter a world of high technology and espionage that seems almost unimaginable, challenging the most basic beliefs of your faith, yet J.M. masterfully combines all of the exciting elements of this story into the believable. The characters are human, yet extraordinary in their abilities. You’ll like some, love others, while not knowing, until the very end, who to trust. Expect to be surprised at your choice. J.M. LeDuc has captured all the suspense and mysticism of John Grisham, James Rollins, and the Preston & Child novels.
Turn off the television, and settle into a comfortable chair. Let “Cursed Blessing” take you into an adventurous new world. When the story ends, you will be praying to your God that Captain Brent Venturi and the Phantom Squad really do exist…just in case!
Suspense novels have a new sheriff in town.”
–Leslie A. Borghini aka The Angel of Horror: Author of “Angel Heat”
DEDICATIONS
I didn’t have to think long when I was asked if I wanted to write a dedication to go along with the book and to whom it would go to. Physically, this has been the hardest year of my life. A second knee surgery, an eighth hip surgery and finally the decision to have the infected prosthesis removed with no new one to replace it. Yep, I’m now a one hip wonder. As hard as it was on me it was even harder on my wife, Sherri. For everything I couldn’t do, it was one more thing to stack on her already full plate.
She not only had to watch me go through a physical struggle, but an emotional one and even worse, a spiritual one. The events that led up to my decision to have the hip surgery just before Christmas, 2011 really put a strain on my faith. Thankfully, her faith was strong enough for the both of us.
Sherri, I love adore you and would not be here without you. 2012 will hopefully be the year I get to show you how much you mean to me.
The second dedication goes to my brother Glenn. Our brotherly relationship has always been one that confuses people. We don’t live near each other, have similar interests, nor do we see each other all that frequently, but you will never find a bond between two siblings that is stronger than the one between us. Glenn, without your emotional and financial support when times were the toughest, I don’t even want to think what the year would have been like. I love you and will always have your back.
Last but certainly not least, I dedicate “Cursed Presence” to God. His unwavering love, grace and mercy endure forever…and that leads us right into chapter one!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
2011 was quite a year. They say when every door closes another opens, so it was with last year. Due to physical reasons, I closed my Chiropractic practice of twenty-seven years and opened the door to my new life as a professor at a prestigious nursing college in south Florida.
I also closed the door to my old publishing house and opened the door to working with the amazing talent at Suspense Publishing. Shannon and John Raab and the rest of Suspense have made me feel comfortable since our first conversation. I can’t thank them enough for their patience, positive attitude, and especially their friendship. They have made writing “Cursed Presence” a joy from the first word to the very last phrase.
All that said, I want to acknowledge everyone at Suspense Publishing, to all my advanced readers, and I would like to give a special thanks to Cindy Elder, the amazing artist, who painted the cover of the book. They say a picture paints a thousand words. In this case, I think you’ll find, it paints One Hundred and Seven thousand of them.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you to all.
J. M.
CURSED PRESENCE
J.M. LeDuc
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
&
nbsp; CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
“On the count of three, you’ll awaken. You’ll have no memory of anything that has happened. You’ll feel tranquil, as though you’ve taken a long peaceful nap. One, two, three…”
Though the words were distant, he heard them deep in the recesses of his mind.
Cognizant of their meaning.
On “three” the inmate awoke and scanned. His gaze sharp enough to cut glass. He knew where he was. The room brought an awkward peace.
When he spoke, his voice was feminine and sounding preadolescent. “How did I do, Doc? Was I able to tell you anything new? Did I remember anything about my childhood?”
Two feet away, sat Dr. Osgood. Amazing, he thought, nothing like the psychopathic serial killer who first appeared at Dreamland seven years ago.
The prisoner had arrived shortly after Dr. Osgood opened the Dreamland penitentiary and research center. It could be argued that the facility was built because of him.
“That’s not important,” the doctor answered, “You’re doing great, you’re getting healthier and your mind is healing. I’m proud of you.”
The young man sat up, his eyes darted about the room at all times. The greenery of the plants and the pastel walls helped him focus.
“How do you feel?” Dr. Osgood asked.
Hands on his knees, kicking his feet back and forth like a child, his eyes fixed on the doctor’s. “Kind of like I took a long nap. But I’m not groggy or nothing. Know what I mean?”
The doctor’s mouth turned upward in a friendly, relaxed manner. “I do,” he answered, “that’s the way you should feel.”
Inmate 54112 bit the inside of his upper lip. His thoughts cut deeper. I’ve grown to like the guy, it’s too bad I have to…a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.
A cold, abrupt voice rang out, “Time’s up, doc. I have to take the inmate back to his cell.”
“Sorry, son, but we’re out of time for today. We’ll pick back up tomorrow in our next session.”
Two heavily-muscled men walked in. As they moved towards him, the inmate instinctively stood up and held his hands straight out in front of his body, as he’d been taught. The first guard cuffed his wrists and tightly held onto him while the second guard bent down to shackle his ankles.
A chain fastened to the leg irons was brought up between his legs and attached to a waist chain. It was drawn through an extended link on the handcuffs and pulled down, drawing his hands into his body, and again fastened to the shackles.
“Let’s move,” the guard said. The prisoner shuffled his feet and moved towards the open door.
Dr. Osgood looked up from his notes, “Until tomorrow.”
Not allowed to speak, 54112 nodded an affirmative and kept walking. The distance from the doctor’s office to the inmate’s cell was a short one, but it took several minutes to navigate because of the confining chains.
The guards, posted on either side of the prisoner, continued down the hall. “Are you sure this is the guy?” Jim, the guard on the left asked.
“That’s the scuttlebutt. Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Mickey, the other guard replied.
“I’d say. This guy’s what, five-foot-five, maybe six? And weighs about a buck forty. I’m surprised he’d have enough strength to overpower those girls, not to mention what he did to them.”
The first guard turned and looked at the inmate. Goosebumps covered his forearms, as if in warning. “I don’t know, Jim, if you think about it, the timing’s right. He got here at the end of 2001, just about the same time the Omega Butcher was convicted.”
Jim shook his head. “I know, but it’s still hard to believe.”
“Yeah, well—if it’s him, he’s gonna fry for those atrocities as soon as Dr. Frankenstein finishes playing with him.”
The inmate sucked his lower lip and bit down trying to abate his aggression. I’ll show you how I did it, he silently promised. I’ll tear the two of you to shreds before you ever have a chance to pull your weapons.
Seething with anger, he heard a calming voice somewhere in the recesses of his mind.
Easy, my son. It’s not yet your time.
His heartbeat slowed as he listened to the voice. The voice he now considered a friend. A friend who’d kept him from going crazy shortly after he arrived at Dreamland.
Seven years ago he had questioned the voice’s identity, and was told, I am the one; the ruler of all that is of this world and all that will ever be, and you are my chosen, my son. If I’m asked who sent me, whom shall I say? the inmate pressed.
Tell them The Dark One sent you. The one who lurks from within the shadows of men’s souls sent you and that you are my chosen.
One of the guards walked ahead as they approached the prisoner’s cell and unlocked the door. Mickey, the second guard walked 54112 straight through without delay. Once inside the small cell, the guards removed the chain, shackles and cuffs in reverse order. The prisoner put his hands down by his sides and remained at attention until he heard the door shut and the tumblers lock.
His shoulders dropped as he expelled a relaxing breath. Here, in his nine-by-nine square foot home, he felt secure. He looked around. Everything was white: white walls, white linoleum floor, white metal-framed twin-sized bed, and crisp, white linens. A commode and sink, also white, sat in the back left corner opposite his bed.
He, like other Dreamland inmates, had running water twice a day, between six and six-ten in the morning, and again between eight-fifty and nine in the evening. During that time, inmates brushed their teeth and took a quick sponge bath. There were no showers.
Truth be told, the cell reminded him of the only other place he had ever felt secure, his bedroom where he grew up.
If he was nothing else, the prisoner was a man of patterns. He kept a mental schedule of how and when things were to be done and he followed the schedule to a tee. He permitted himself no variations, a system familiar to him from earliest memories.
A cold sweat began to form as he thought back to that fateful day. He could still hear his mother screaming in pain as she lay in the fetal position on the kitchen floor. The salty sweat burned his eyes as he remembered waiting outside the operating room. Bile bubbled in his throat at the memory of the surgeon walking down the hall, head down, not wanting to make eye contact with him.
His last memory of that day was throwing up on the shoes of the woman from Child Services.
His mother passed away from a burst appendix and subsequent infection. He had no father, at least none he knew of. He was sent to live with his Aunt Peg. She was his mother’s older sister, his only living relative. She had agreed to take him in only when she learned the state would pay her to keep him.
Following his mother’s funeral, Aunt Peg took him by the hand and they walked silently to her car.
When they arrived home, she grabbed the visibly distraught boy by the shoulders and shook him. Fear swept over him as he looked into eyes that held no love. Evil was all he saw. Evil eyes set in a sharp, angular face. The boy often wondered if her face would crack if she smiled. It was a theory he was never able to prove or disprove in the thirteen years he lived with her.
“There will be no more crying, boy,” she shrieked.
She shoved him into her three-story Beacon Hill walkup, as she continued her ‘get to know you’ rant. “Things are done differently around here. Everything is done on a schedule. If you’re late, you’ll be punished. If you’re late for a meal, you don’t eat until the next scheduled meal and you’ll be punished. There will be no sparing the rod in this house.”
The mere thought of Aunt Peg caused the inmate to shake uncontrollably. Time and schedule had been burned into his being, figuratively and literally.
The clock above the door of hi
s cell read 4:29 p.m. Dinnertime was 5:00. It was time to pray, a rigid practice he’d held to since the day he moved in with his aunt. 54112 knelt in the middle of the floor. He knew he was being watched by security officers. They assumed the inmate was praying to God.
CHAPTER 2
Later that evening, long after lights out, he heard his ‘father’s’ voice. Deep and guttural. Tonight is the night, my son. It is the night you begin your ascent to the seat of honor. Prepare yourself.
Still asleep, his muscles began to involuntarily contract. First, a slight tremor coursed through his body. Then his limbs twitched. His hands and feet followed, jerking up and down in quick, sudden movements. Fully awake, the twitching grew more exaggerated. Soon the spasmodic movement contained itself to his torso, it quaked with such force the security officers were afraid he would injure himself. Soon, he convulsed to such an extent that his entire body rose above the bed before crashing back down.
An officer grabbed the in-house phone and dialed #001. “Doc, you better come see this.” No response. He pushed the panic button that rang in Dr. Osgood’s residence and summoned the guards.
“Doc,” security screamed, “there’s something wrong with 54112. Looks like he’s having seizures.”
Dr. Osgood threw off his bed covers and grabbed the phone. “On my way. Nobody is to enter the cell until I get there, understood?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll relay that message.”
He turned his attention to the intercom. “All personnel are to stand down, I repeat, stand down. No one is to enter cell 54112 without Dr. Osgood’s permission. This is a direct order.”
The thrashing settled into a rhythmic movement, the muscle twitching took on a certain cadence. Standing in his cell, he stared directly at the security camera. Following each contraction or thrust, a non-intelligible noise emanated from his throat. The more he screamed and convulsed, the more non-human he appeared. His mouth foamed and his eyes rolled. His mouth and eyes were as white as the rest of his room.