The Messenger: A Novel

by Burke, Jan

  Daniel, who was driving, immediately braked to a halt. Eduardo expected this sort of obedience from his two trainees. Lord Varre expected it.

  “Is something wrong?” Evan asked.

  “I saw something moving in the woods. Stay in the truck and lock its doors as soon as I get out.” He paused, then added, “Lord Varre will be extremely unhappy if either of you fail to do exactly as I ask.”

  He could see they took this warning seriously, as they should.

  “If anything should happen to me,” he said, “anything, then you must drive away as fast as possible. Do not try to rescue me. Do you understand?”

  They nodded, but he could see the dismay written on their faces.

  He wondered if Daniel had paid any attention to all he had confided to him earlier in the evening. He had little hope for Evan, who reminded him too much of himself.

  He looked again to the trees that stood between Hawthorne’s home and the property below it and saw the bright eyes—golden in the reflected moonlight—watching.

  Neither Daniel nor Evan seemed aware of the presence in the woods. He wondered if God would forgive him for bringing them into Lord Varre’s service.

  But what should one sin matter over all his others? Starting with taking a small chest out of the wreckage of the Morgan Bray.

  He got out of the truck, heard the door locks snick down. He began walking.

  He knew Lord Varre already sensed his rebellion. His head began to pound, but he kept walking, one step and then another, alone up the road, toward the woods where he had seen the dog. The pain increased, moving through his whole body now, intensifying with each passing second. Although he felt near to collapsing from the agony, he forced himself to stand straight and still in the road.

  The dog came out of the woods, a black blur racing toward him.

  Somehow, in his pain, he found the strength to ask for mercy.

  Evan and Daniel watched in horror as Eduardo stood in the road, letting the huge dog race toward him. In the beam of the headlights, they saw him fling his arms open and smile as the dog reached him.

  The dog made one powerful leap and fastened his fangs on Eduardo’s throat.

  Eduardo burst into flames. And was gone.

  One moment, he had been in the road, covered in fire. In the next, he’d disappeared—with not so much as a pile of ash left where he had stood.

  The dog looked toward the truck.

  “Go!” Evan shouted to Daniel. Daniel wheeled the truck around and drove off.

  Tyler Hawthorne stepped out of the master bedroom of his newly acquired home, onto the deck that almost entirely surrounded this level of the house. The hillside sloped away sharply enough to allow him a view through the trees, to see the lights of Los Angeles far below, glittering through the mist that had settled over the city on this moonlit spring evening. The house was empty and quiet.

  A flash of bright light appeared from somewhere near a curve in the road below, and he wondered what had caused it. A fire? An explosion or accident of some sort? But there was no smoke rising, and there had been no sound of a collision, which even at this distance he must have heard. He waited, feeling uneasy, but the night stayed quiet.

  A little too quiet. The usual insect noises had ceased.

  “Shade,” he called softly. The big black dog had shown an unusual level of excitement about exploring beyond the fenced-in area of the property, and Tyler had let him out. Although he knew it was extremely unlikely that his closest companion would be harmed by anything in the woods, Tyler couldn’t help but feel uneasy.

  He waited, listening, then the crickets took up their song again. What had disturbed them?

  He called again to Shade, but the dog did not return. Odd behavior indeed.

  Tyler sighed and turned back into the darkened house. Although he had purchased many of the previous owner’s possessions along with the property, not many of his own had yet arrived. His small staff was not due here for another two weeks. They would eventually have a guest, a man recovering from a serious illness, and Tyler realized he needed to consider all that would be required for his care. Unless he missed his guess, though, there was still a little time to make those arrangements.

  He sat in an overstuffed chair near an empty fireplace and savored this opportunity to be quiet and completely alone, not even Shade at his side. No one asking anything of him.

  He had youth, wealth, and excellent health. He looked at the luxury surrounding him and wished, not for the first time, that he would die.

  He stood again, trying to shake off this mood. He decided that perhaps he should go out looking for the dog, then heard a floorboard creak just behind him.

  He turned swiftly.

  A match flared, and a voice spoke from the shadows. “Feeling sorry for yourself tonight, Tyler?”

  “Colby?” he asked in disbelief.

  “None other,” the man said. He lit a cigarette and blew out the match.

  Tyler stayed where he was.

  Colby laughed. “What, no warm welcome for an old friend?”

  Tyler bent to turn on the lamp next to the chair. He straightened and said, “No welcome, and no old friend.”

  The man standing across the room from him was fair haired and slender, slightly shorter than Tyler, dressed in an elegantly tailored suit. His blue eyes were full of amusement as he said, “I’m heartbroken.”

  “Impossible.”

  “You’ll say that’s because I have no heart, but really, you do me wrong.”

  “It’s been a long time, Colby, but I doubt you’ve changed that much. What brings you to Los Angeles?”

  “Strange occurrences. Don’t you notice something in the air?”

  He had, but answered, “Cigarette smoke.”

  Colby smiled and took a long drag, blew it out slowly. “Still self-righteous, I see. Haven’t you had enough of living as you do, Tyler?”

  Although he had been thinking that very thing not five minutes before, Tyler said, “If you’re here to recruit me, you’re wasting your time.”

  “Hmm. Terribly lonely, isn’t it?”

  Tyler didn’t answer.

  “Not necessary to admit it,” Colby said. “I mean, really—a city of millions of souls, and Tyler Hawthorne sits alone in the dark.”

  “Amusement isn’t happiness. Starting to realize that, Colby?”

  Colby lowered his gaze and took another long drag. “Really none of your business. What have you done with your only companion, by the way?”

  “He’s nearby, don’t worry.”

  Colby gave him a crooked smile. “The odd thing is, Tyler, I do feel a bit worried for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for one thing, I think those woods out there are haunted.”

  “As if that would bother you.”

  “No, of course not. But…” He grew serious. “But something more, Tyler, I mean it. Bad neighborhood, for all its money.”

  “It’s where I’m supposed to be now.”

  Colby faked a yawn. “Yes, well, you go on being a good little scout. I’m sure that even as we speak, somewhere someone’s sewing a merit badge for you. Don’t bother showing me out.”

  He was at the door when Tyler said, “Colby—”

  Colby looked back at him.

  “Good to see you again.”

  Colby laughed derisively and disappeared from view.

  Tyler was wondering if he should have done more to encourage Colby to stick around, despite the complications that would inevitably ensue, when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the number on the display. He answered and assured the caller that he would soon be on his way to the hospital.

  He went to the deck again and called to Shade, waited a moment, then locked up. He tried not to worry about the dog, knowing those who had called from the critical care unit couldn’t wait for him to search the woods. He told himself that when Shade heard the van start up, he’d head back.

  He had just driven past th
e gate when a familiar dark silhouette came racing up the drive.

  Shade.

  Relieved, he opened the passenger door, and the dog jumped in.

  “I trust I’m not keeping you from anything important?” Tyler said, closing the door.

  Shade wagged his tail.

  Tyler gave him a soft scratch between the ears.

  He hit the remote to close the gate behind him.

  “I was a little worried about you,” he admitted.

  Shade cocked his head to one side.

  “Yes, ridiculous. But Colby visited.”

  Shade sighed.

  “Yes, I felt the same.”

  By the time they reached the curve in the road, Tyler, his thoughts taken up with Colby’s visit and the work before him, had forgotten about the flash of light, the silence in the woods, the dog’s delay in returning.

  3

  Harry Williams lay dying, knew it, and although he did not fear it, fought it with every ounce of his dwindling strength. Had he not been so desperate to communicate with his wife, Catherine, just once more, he would have let go, would have given in to the tidal pull on his soul.

  For days now he had lain in a dark world, unable to move, unable to speak. Comatose. Trapped in a body that would not obey him, able to hear but not to respond—not with so much as the batting of an eyelid or the lifting of a finger. He had tried. If will alone could have accomplished it, he would have come back to the family that surrounded him.

  But Harry couldn’t. He had fallen from the roof of his home while trying to adjust a television satellite dish, an accident he had come to accept in this sea of dark hours for what it was: stupid but unchangeable. He knew he would not recover—his injuries were too severe to allow his life to continue.

  He was not destined to remain with his loved ones. He accepted this. But he wasn’t ready to go. Not yet.

  Catherine and the kids, his parents, his brother and sister were grieving. Already missing him. At his family’s request—God bless them for following his wishes!—the respirator and the feeding tube had been removed. All this he knew. He could no longer feel physical pain. That had been true for some time now. All the same, Harry Williams was in anguish.

  He had something to say. It was not, as some might have supposed, “I love you.” Catherine knew he loved her, just as he knew she loved him. If he had harbored any doubts about that, her whispered pleas at his bedside would have reassured him. No—more than spoken words, their love was something down in his bones now, or deeper even than that. The children—he realized there would be no knowing who they would become one day, but against that loss he felt the peace of a man who has done his best to be a good father.

  He did not need to ask forgiveness—he had forgiven, and had asked for and received it for himself. This he also knew. No, the urgent message he had for Catherine was utterly mundane, a matter of business: the location of his hidden office safe and its combination.

  She might discover it somehow. She might get someone to open it for her. But all that was maybe and would take time. Catherine deserved to have access to the papers and the cash he had stored there. He wanted her to find the diamond bracelet he had planned to give her on Valentine’s Day. The contents of the safe would help her and the kids to survive while she waited for the insurance to pay. He wanted her to have access to it now.

  He had been a fool never to tell her about it. When he first realized that he would not recover, he had been angry with himself. He now thought of this failure in a dispassionate way. At this stage of the process of dying, all his passion went into hoping for one last chance to be granted the ability to speak.

  Time passed in the darkness. He breathed. His heart beat. It would not last.

  Only Catherine was in the room with him when the door opened.

  “Oh!” she said. “You’re here! I wasn’t sure you’d come. Thank you!”

  Harry heard the newcomer move toward the bed. A man took his hand. A doctor? No, not a doctor.

  “I called you because he seems to be fighting so hard,” Catherine said. “The doctors say he won’t recover. But he’s still alive. Were they wrong?”

  “No, they weren’t wrong,” said the stranger, but not unkindly.

  A moment later, Harry thought the stranger was mistaken. He could see again. He was standing next to Catherine at his bedside. He felt stronger than he ever had before. Then he looked down and saw himself on the bed. He looked awful.

  We only have a few minutes—perhaps less than that, the stranger’s voice came to him, although the man had not spoken aloud. Harry realized that he was somehow connected to the man, and hearing his thoughts.

  What are you? Who are you? Harry wondered.

  Never mind! Hurry! the stranger urged him. What do you need to say?

  Suddenly Harry was certain that this was his only chance, and for reasons that he could not have explained to himself, he believed that this man was to be trusted. “Catherine, it’s me—Harry,” he said, and heard the stranger repeat the words aloud, felt them form and move in the stranger’s throat and mouth, felt the breath that moved them. Wonderful thing, speech, he thought, but at the stranger’s urging continued. “Listen carefully. There is a safe hidden in the south wall of my office. You can find it by going to the thermostat on that wall and removing its cover. There’s a keypad under it. Enter this code: one-eight-five-five-eight-nine.”

  She was looking at him in shock.

  Write it, the stranger commanded. Otherwise she won’t remember.

  With his free hand—the stranger’s free hand—Harry searched quickly for the notepad next to his bed, found it, and wrote the number down. He turned back to Catherine. “Enter that and press the pound sign. A hidden panel will slide open. On the safe, enter Jerry’s birthday in this order: the four numbers of the year, then the two numbers of the month, then the two numbers of the day. Everything in the safe is yours, and will help you for a while. The bracelet is your Valentine’s Day present, Cath. Sorry I won’t be there to give it to you.” He paused, seeing Catherine looking into the stranger’s eyes, but seeing that she saw him there. “I love you, Cath. Be strong. See you later.”

  He was back in his own shell then, and as cold as it was growing, wondrous things were happening. He heard Catherine crying and saying she loved him, too, her voice indicating that she had noticed that he was back in his body. He felt her clutch his other hand.

  Are you an angel? Harry asked the stranger, knowing that only the stranger could hear him.

  No, the stranger answered, in Harry’s own thoughts. Tell me—

  Oh, now I know who you are, Harry said, as a new awareness began to flow through him. Yes. Things will be changing for you soon.

  Harry could feel the man—Tyler Hawthorne—suddenly become alert.

  What do you mean?

  I’m not sure, I just know I’m supposed to tell you that. Oh—also, you’ll be needed in St. Louis nine days from now. The hospital room of Max Derley. Harry recited an address and a phone number, having no idea how he had learned them. He gave other details about this Missouri hospital he had never previously heard of, and the phone number of a man named Sam Gunning. He did not know how Mr. Derley and Mr. Gunning were connected, but he had a clear sense of the importance of Tyler receiving this information.

  Fine, yes, but tell me—

  And please stop by the hospice and check on your future guest.

  I promise I will. Now, please tell me—

  Harry heard the desperation in the man’s thoughts and pitied him for a brief moment. I’m sorry, Harry answered. He had to leave—this was a matter of supreme urgency, both unavoidable and wholly desirable. Still, he managed to add, Thank you. Tyler Hawthorne, and bid good-bye to his last friend on earth.

  The dead, thought Tyler, are damned self-centered.

  He left the room before the widow could add her thanks to her husband’s.

  He was halfway to the van before he realized that he was not at all
feverish. Then again, this hadn’t been an especially strenuous assignment, so perhaps this was one of those rare occasions when he’d escape that particular side effect of his work.

  Shade was peering out the open window of the van, standing on the passenger seat, tail wagging so hard his whole back end curved with it.

  “Happy to see you, too,” Tyler said, settling into the driver’s seat. “How do you manage to remain so enthusiastic?”

  Shade briefly nuzzled him, then sat watching him.

  Tyler sighed. “I’ll try to improve my attitude. I’m not sure why I find that so difficult lately.” He started the van. “We have another stop, by the way.”

  Shade seemed undaunted.

  It was just before midnight when he approached the open door of Ron Parker’s hospice room, but the visiting hours here were not restricted. Although Harry Williams had passed along the message saying he should come here—his second visit today—he was uneasy about the thought of waking Ron, who to all appearances was dying from leukemia. After all, the message had been to check on Ron, not to talk to him.

  So he walked quietly into Ron’s room. Just past the doorway, he was brought up short by the sight of another visitor.

  A slender, dark-haired woman sat in a chair pulled close to the left side of the bed. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties, probably Ron’s age or very nearly. Her face was in shadow, her head bent and mostly curtained by her hair as she read a paperback by the light of a small clip-on book lamp. As he watched, she managed to turn a page using only her left hand, the hand that held the book. Her right hand gently held one of Ron’s hands as he slept.

  Was she Ron’s girlfriend? He was certain that Ron wasn’t married. Ron’s late grandfather, Derek Parker, whom Tyler had befriended, had not mentioned that his grandson had a fiancée or any other attachments. When Tyler had spoken to Ron on other occasions, including today, they had discussed many things, and there was no word of a girlfriend.