ELIJAH: A Suspense Novel

by Frank Redman

  I heard a noise downstairs. I looked out the window to see if the men were still there. Gone.

  “Tyler, we’ve got trouble. They’re back in the house.”

  He licked Mr. Broxton on the cheek. I heard Bye and then he looked at me. Come on, follow me.

  I made sure the file transfer had finished, grabbed the flash drive, and followed Tyler into the hallway. I heard feet ascending the stairs and looked right in time to see a pair of disembodied red glowing eyes. Lights to create an infrared field visible with night vision. Crap!

  I aimed the tranq gun at torso level of the red eyes and fired. The eyes dipped and I thought I scored a miraculous hit, but instead the eyes rose back up, then dipped, rose in rapid succession. He ran toward us.

  I could hear Tyler running to my left and followed him down the hallway until we came to a stairwell. A couple of seconds later I heard his nails ticking on the tile floor in the kitchen. These stairs were in a curved four-foot wide hallway with railings on both sides. I grabbed each railing and descended as fast as I could.

  On the way down I heard a cabinet door close and the crinkling of a plastic bag. I didn’t know if the noise was caused by an intruder. Tyler didn’t bark or growl, a good sign.

  The kitchen was a shade brighter, yet still not enough for me to see well. There were a lot of windows, but with the clouds blocking the moonlight, little light filtered in. I didn’t take the time to get out my flashlight, but instead briefly turned on the flash of the embedded camera in my iPhone. I just needed a quick snap of light to see where to go.

  Tyler was already through the open door to the mudroom headed toward the dog door leading to the rear grounds of the estate. He waited for me just outside the door, then said, or in other words, projected to me, Come on.

  I started for the back door and noticed red glowing eyes reflecting in the windows. I couldn’t tell how many. But hoping for a brief distraction, with one hand I turned on the bank of light switches, flooding the kitchen with bright white light, and ran out the door not waiting to see what happened.

  Tyler being a black Lab in a lightless night was just a shadow. But in the distance I could see the cream colored wall that surrounded the estate.

  Now, despite my geekdom, I’m a good athlete. I got ups. I can dunk a basketball on a nine-foot goal, and can come close on a ten-foot. Plus, learning to quickly scale walls is a required survival skill when you grow up running away from neighborhood kids twice your size.

  It would take little effort for me to jump up to the wall and scamper over. But Tyler?

  I wasn’t lifting a ninety-pound dog over an eight-foot wall. Or throw, for that matter.

  “How are you getting over?”

  Jump.

  “You’re going to jump over the wall?”

  He chuffed. It sounded kind of weird so I knelt next to him and saw a big bag hanging out of his mouth.

  “What is that in your mouth?”

  Cheetos.

  What! “You have a bag of Cheetos in your mouth?”

  Stop asking so many question. With that, he was off.

  I was so surprised, I laughed. I couldn’t believe I just got chastised by a dog. I fastened my backpack around my waist so it wouldn’t jostle as much when I ran, and chased Tyler.

  The rain had stop, but the ground was still soggy. My hiking boots sank a little with each footfall, making a squish squish squish as I ran. The air still had that damp coldness and felt thick.

  I couldn’t really see Tyler, but I could hear the Cheetos shaking inside the bag. I still wondered if he could jump the wall. Somewhere I read that the original Rin Tin Tin German Shepherd could jump over eleven feet. So I guessed it was possible, but it just boggled my mind.

  As we approached the wall, Tyler stopped. He studied the top, backed up a few steps, then ran forward and launched himself. Cheetos and all. His front legs landed on top, his back legs acting as shock absorbers against the side of the wall. He hung there for a second then scrambled to the top.

  Wow.

  My turn. Because I had a small laptop in my backpack, and other breakable items, I didn’t want to toss the pack over the wall. But when I’m playing hoops, I don’t typically have a twenty pound pack hanging over my shoulders. I also had just remembered that rain makes things wet. By inductive reasoning, because it had rained, I figured out the surface would be wet. I’m smart like that.

  Okay then.

  All right.

  I moved away from the wall a few steps and looked up at Tyler, who wagged his tail and seemed to be grinning even with a large bag of Cheetos hanging from his mouth.

  Fine.

  I ran and jumped, catching the top of the wall as my body slammed against it. Ouch. I didn’t have hind leg shock absorbers. I struggled to maintain my grip. I really didn’t want to fall and have to body slam the rock wall again.

  Tyler said, They’re here. Hurry. Then I heard an impact and bits of rock fragment exploded a few feet to my left.

  The filthy-scabby-spider monkey wannabes were shooting at us!

  Chapter Seven

  I didn’t hear the gunfire, which meant they were using silencers. That would reduce accuracy, but I wasn’t going to hang around, literally, to see how much.

  I tried to pull myself over and use my legs to drive up. Hiking boots have great traction on uneven, coarse ground. Even when wet. But on a smooth, slick wet surface? Not so much.

  I looked back at the assailants. I couldn’t tell if they were in shape or not, and didn’t know if they’d be able to scale the wall easily.

  But I was getting ahead of myself. First, I had to get over the freaking wall.

  The life-giving (in this case) fight-or-flight adrenaline kicked in, I grunted and clambered over.

  Tyler still waited on top.

  I looked up and he dropped the Cheetos bag in my hands.

  He quickly located a good landing spot then jumped to the ground. He said, This way.

  We ran through the woods. I used my ears as much as my eyes to stick with Tyler, who ran slower than normal to maintain a pace I could handle. And hoped he wouldn’t run under branches over his head, but lower than mine.

  I couldn’t see or hear gunfire. Either they were unable to get over the wall or we were out of range.

  After running hard for about a mile, I stopped, panting, and between big inhales, I said, “We need to, find a place, to chill for, a minute, to figure out, what to do next.”

  Got it, he said.

  Stooped over with my hands resting on my knees, I turned to look behind us. I thought I was in better shape than this.

  No one chased us, but of course it was still hard to see in the pervasive shadow. Especially with the dark clothes the scurvy-stricken monkey-men were wearing. I suddenly had a strong dislike for people who had an affinity for wearing dark clothes.

  I didn’t see any flashlights either, but that would make sense if they were still wearing night vision goggles.

  I hate people with night vision goggles too.

  The black clouds did seem to be chasing us. No stars were visible. Most of the trees had lost their leaves. Scarecrow limbs reached high toward the shrouded moon.

  I looked at Tyler. “I don’t see them, but let’s get out of sight anyway.”

  Tyler was so intelligent, I had to keep reminding myself he’s a dog. He led us to a shallow ditch that fed into a large concrete culvert. Even at six feet, I only had to slouch a little. I pulled out my LED flashlight, and surveyed the area, making sure light did not escape back out the entrance. We went in a few paces and then a connecting pipe appeared to the right. A fresh waterline indicated the heavy rains created a fairly deep runoff, but now the water was gone.

  Tyler walked deeper into the pipe until we came to a cutout for a ladder leading to a manhole. The four-foot by four-foot cutout had a concrete pad, high enough to have remained dry despite the rain runoff. We both sat down, exhausted. The drained feeling of adrenaline ebbing was way worse than a
sugar crash. My groin muscles tightened in the cold. I tried to sit Indian style to stretch them before they decided to tighten up completely. There were few things worse than a groin cramp.

  I switched the flashlight to a low setting, which emitted a minimal amount of light, and placed it in a corner of our little hideout.

  Tyler sat straight up and put a paw on my knee to get my attention, wagging his tail. Cheetos.

  I smiled. “You want Cheetos?”

  Yeah, Cheetos. Love Cheetos. Yeah. Yeah.

  He stood on all fours, his tail wagging so enthusiastically that his rump swayed from side to side.

  I’d placed the Cheetos in my backpack as we started to run so I wouldn’t have to worry about holding them, wanting both hands unencumbered in case I fell, and to help prevent getting decapitated by a branch. Tyler bent forward and sniffed even though the bag wasn’t open yet. I opened it; Tyler’s tongue lolled out of his mouth. I said, “Sit.”

  He cocked his head, Are you really going to make me do tricks?

  “Yep.”

  He jerked his head and peered down the pipe as if hearing something. What’s that?

  I tensed and looked in the same direction, staying quiet. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his muzzle spring for the Cheetos bag—I yanked it out of his reach.

  Ah man.

  I laughed, shaking my head. “You… are a bad dog.”

  He grinned.

  I said, “Sit.”

  If a dog could roll his eyes, he would have. He sat, then chuffed.

  “Good boy.” I grabbed his neck and gave him a soft noogie. He wagged his tail, enjoying the attention.

  Opening the bag, I poured a small pile of Cheetos on the ground.

  He attacked the pile. Crunch crunch, slurp, crunch.

  “Chew with your mouth closed.”

  Tyler said, Yummy.

  I discovered I was pretty hungry too, but I wasn’t going to eat Cheetos off the ground. I grabbed a couple and tossed them in my mouth. Contrary to Tyler, my crunching was silenced with closed-mouth chewing.

  I said, “You’re right. Yummy,” as I chomped on some more.

  The only bad thing about Cheetos is the orange, sticky residue that’s left on your fingers. I wondered briefly if I should eat them off the ground, but my inner germophobe screamed in panic. Yet I hate having stuff on my hands. Lotion, chocolate, Cheeto dust… Not even hand sanitizer. I’d much rather wash my hands with soap. I also don’t like wiping my hands on my clothes. I never lick my fingers. And I wasn’t about to let Tyler lick them. This presented a quandary. The concrete surface wasn’t suitable for wiping off the Cheeto dust.

  I stared at my orange fingers, then sighed. I swallowed my dignity, and also Cheeto dust after sucking my fingers.

  I guess when you’re on the lam, you do what you’ve gotta do.

  Between the two of us, we finished the large bag. I soon discovered a second negative of Cheetos: they also make you thirsty.

  Tyler had a simple solution to the problem. He jumped down from the raised concrete pad and lapped some leftover rainwater which pooled in the culvert.

  The water was probably just fine for me too. But my inner germaphobe spoke up again—at least this time not screaming—and reminded me of what potential bacteria could do to my intestines after the water mixed with loveliness left in the pipe by insects and animals. Being on the run would be the worst time to get the runs.

  After the things I’ve gone through, the various levels of squalor I’d been forced to live in, you’d think I’d get over being a germaphobe.

  Nope.

  If I could have collected the rainwater before it hit the ground…

  After a few more moments, I’m not sure if it was psychosomatic, but I could just feel the Cheeto dust cloying in my throat. I was going to die of asphyxiation. Water… water…

  Whatever.

  I walked up the dark pipe a little bit, got on my hands and knees and slurped rainwater.

  Tyler gave me a look that seemed to portray both amusement and pride.

  Returning to the platform where my still-on flashlight provided illumination, I said, “We need to figure out what to do next.”

  Get more Cheetos.

  “Well, that is a solid plan, but I don’t think it’ll be too easy to forage for Cheetos out here.”

  Reality—bad reality—came back to light as I sat in the mild glow of LED’s. There were so many questions. Why did they kill Mr. Broxton? Hell, who were they to begin with? Why didn’t they kill Tyler? Why leave and come back?

  What… is on that flash drive worth killing for?

  Who was Meredith? I don’t know anyone named Meredith. How could I warn her?

  During this question and non-answer session with myself, I had shifted on the concrete ground to sit with my back against the wall. I wanted to sleep. I was so tired. Drained. But I knew even if I was in my bed, I wouldn’t be able to sleep.

  Tyler lay on his stomach, his head flat on top of crossed forelegs, eyes open, just staring at concrete.

  I know what dogs are thinking only when they project their thoughts to me. I’m not a mind reader. It might sound similar, but there’s a distinct difference.

  But I didn’t need to be able to read minds to know his thoughts.

  How do you console a dog who just lost his closest “relative”? Even a dog who’s smart enough to understand what you say. How do you console a human who just lost a spouse? A parent, a sibling, a child, a best friend… You say, “I’m sorry.” But it doesn’t really mean anything. There is nothing you can say that can do more than provide surface comfort. The void—chunk of your soul—that had just been ripped out of you will never be replaced. Time will cover it, but the hole will always be there.

  God may bless you with as much of an understanding as we can have about the ways of life. Or He may not.

  Some people tried to console me after the death of my mother, the death of my siblings.

  Meaningless.

  They meant well, sure. We’re conditioned to offer comfort to the survivors, and conditioned to accept that comfort when we’re the one left behind. This conditioned offer and acceptance is simply the way of things. But it has no true essence. Life and then death is the true way of things. And we will never understand as long as we ourselves are living.

  I didn’t bother trying to console Tyler with words about his loss. I stroked his back and gently massaged his neck and ears. He let out a long, forlorn sigh.

  But I didn’t want him to think this was his fault. I have carried that weight for years. Often punishing myself. Sometimes without even knowing it.

  I wasn’t going to let Tyler do the same. Even if he got over guilt much faster than a human would, he had no reason for the blame.

  I scratched behind his ears. “Hey, you are not at fault for Mr. Broxton’s death.” I felt silly calling him Mr. Broxton. But I also felt silly referring to him as Tyler’s master. He was more than just a master, he was family. The dog’s only family.

  He wanted you to call him Nick.

  I said, “I know,” then paused, trying to think of something else to say. I couldn’t, so I just dropped it. “The important thing is his death was not your fault. You’ve got to understand that.”

  I am supposed to protect. I need to protect.

  Tyler may have been smart for a dog, but he was not a human. He couldn’t process his thoughts. Some humans can’t either. He felt he needed to protect because that’s how he showed love. Dogs can’t talk. They can run up to you and make you smell like dog breath, expressing love with copious amounts of saliva painted on your face. But they can’t verbalize, “I love you.”

  They are pack animals, social animals. They need to belong. And the pack, or family, they belong to, they protect.

  “Yes, but you cannot protect if you’re drugged.” I didn’t know if he knew what it meant to be drugged. “They shot you with a gun that makes you go to sleep. It’s called a tranquilizer gun. It’s used a
lot on animals in the wild to capture them and transport to zoos.”

  I got the tube containing the dart out of my backpack and showed it to him. “See?” I rattled the tube to get his attention. “They shot you with this. It made you sleep.”

  He raised his head and turned so he could look at the dart and then looked me in the eye. He held my gaze for a beat and then dropped his head back on his legs. He didn’t project any thoughts to me. I guessed he was trying to see if I spoke the truth. Satisfied, he resumed staring at the concrete.

  There was no point in repeating what I’d said. He understood. Time would have to cover the void.

  “Did Mr.—did Nick ever say anything about a person named Meredith?”

  I heard him say Meredith talking on the phone.

  “Do you know who she is?”

  No.

  Then I said as much to myself as to Tyler, “We’ve got to figure out who she is. Warn her about the fake FBI, or whoever they are. Maybe we can get some answers too. She’s obviously involved.”

  Time to do some digging. I retrieved my laptop from the backpack, opened the lid and slid my right index finger over the biometrics fingerprint reader, a small scanner built-in to the wrist rest by the keyboard. If a successful read was made, and the scan matched the credentials I’d set, it then powered on the laptop and logged me on.

  I just had to make sure no one stole my laptop and my finger.

  I planned to reconnect to the computer in Mr. Broxton’s study to see if there were any attempts to retrieve information, other than mine. Then investigate the flash drive.

  As I watched the screen come alive, casting a bluish light on the walls in our cubby hole, a light suddenly shined in a previously dark room within my brain. And what I saw startled-horrified me.

  “Oh no! Not Meredith—” before I could blurt anything else, I spasmodically clamped my hand over my mouth.

  Chapter Eight

  I’m an idiot. I freely admit it, though there’s plenty of evidence to figure it out without my declaration. The identity of Meredith should have been obvious to me. I was surprised when Jenny recognized Mr. Broxton, to which she explained the connection between him and her dad. With Mr. Broxton’s dying words, I was so focused on Meredith being a first name, I didn’t get it.