ELIJAH: A Suspense Novel

by Frank Redman

  Children? I thought. As in more than one? The extreme effort I undertook to calm myself was failing.

  Jenny closed the laptop lid, stood, and walked over to me.

  My body rebelled against my brain’s direction to be calm. Fury, adrenaline pulsed through me.

  If she was still scared of me, she covered it. Instead, she took each of my hands in hers, turning them so that the backs of my hands were visible. I resisted at first, but she gently, yet firmly, pulled on me. She massaged them with her thumbs, not making eye contact. Then she stepped closer and hugged me.

  Again, I resisted at first.

  She said, “Breathe. I’m here.”

  I took a deep breath and exhaled, closing my eyes again and just standing there. I had to think, concentrate. It took force of thought—ironically—but I could feel myself relaxing, letting Jenny calm me. It felt wonderful. The affection, the concern, the understanding. She didn’t really know about my past, the abuse, the terror, but she did know I had grown up in the system. Maybe she put things together.

  Under normal circumstances, I’d have been elated. Supremely elated. But with the polar opposite emotions surging through me, her actions merely helped me back off from the cliff. Which was still a good thing.

  After a few minutes of standing there, embracing, I was finally able to speak. “The girl in the pictures,” I had to stop to regain control of my voice. “She looks just like my sister, only older.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jenny didn’t know I had a sister, or a brother. Outside of counselors who would never remember me, and Uncle Joe, saying something to Jenny was the first time I’d divulged such information to another human. I didn’t even tell the various children’s home workers and foster care workers. I didn’t trust any of them at first. Some never.

  I’m sure many of the workers had been briefed to a degree about my past, which would include a statistical rendition of my immediate family and their deaths. A few tried to inquire. I did not get angry with them. Despite my childhood, I like people. I did not inherently assume each one only asked because they were careless and deceitful. Or, at least I tried not to make the assumption. Regardless, I just shook my head politely when asked about my family or past indicating that part of my life was off limits. Even when other kids asked.

  My memories of Chloe and Ben were sacred. I felt in some way the memories would become diluted if I mentioned them to anyone, maybe even tainted, like my memory of that final day.

  To Jenny’s credit, she held on to her curiosity and did not let it out. She did not try to draw information from me. She just stood there, hugging me.

  The fury, the rage… the storm quieted.

  She hugged me. She cared. She cared about me.

  I don’t want to sound like a hermit. I have a few friends. And of course, I have Uncle Joe. And God.

  I also don’t want anyone’s pity. In fact, the last thing I want is pity. It is not possible to pity without judging. The two cannot be separated. To pity is to compare your current state to the state of someone less fortunate, to assess the differences and place yourself in a higher position.

  Show empathy, or sympathy if you cannot identify with a less fortunate person. Have mercy if it is full of grace. Honor them.

  But never pity.

  The girl I loved, the girl I didn’t deserve was hugging me. I had a hard time reconciling all of these conflicting emotions.

  After some minutes, we both simultaneously decided to break the embrace, our timing in sync with one another. My eyes watered. I swiped at them quickly. Stupid eyes.

  I no longer shook; the rage racing through me had died down. Yet I knew the rage was only in remission, waiting in a dormant state, anticipating my release of control.

  I hoped that would never happen.

  And then part of me hoped it would.

  I said, “I can’t look at any of the other folders. The only one I saw was Aaron Lynch. I need you to see if the other people have similar material.

  She stepped back and looked me in the eyes.

  I’m not going to pretend I knew what she was thinking and what she did or did not feel for me. But I don’t believe it was my imagination that something had happened. Something passed between us. There was a clarity in her look, an earnestness as she looked at me I had not seen before. I did not know what it meant.

  Maybe it was an expression of her feelings for me. I tried not to speculate.

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  “We need to find them,” I said.

  She sat in front of the laptop again.

  I grabbed my backpack. “I’m going to go take a shower.”

  “I’m sure I’ll need another one after looking through these folders.” She smiled to show she was only half-joking.

  She had such great control. I could not sit in that chair in front of that laptop, knowing what was in at least one of those folders, so calmly. My sanity would be weakened.

  “Do you want anything from the store?”

  She tapped her bottom lip, pondering. “Chocolate is always good. You might get some things to replenish what we’ve used of Ray’s. Maybe some extra.”

  “Chocolate. Extra food. Got it.” I opened the door, but turned and said, “Jenny…”

  She looked at me.

  “Thanks.”

  She smiled.

  As I walked across the parking lot to the truck stop, I turned around a few times, scanning for black Suburbans. I didn’t see any.

  The truck stop was bright and shiny and smelled like tire rubber. Several banks of fluorescent lights covered the ceiling, casting a bright-white on everything. The top half of the walls were covered in white slate tiles, the bottom half in grey slate, separated by a six-inch brushed nickel strip. It looked expensive.

  I always envisioned truck stops as poorly lit, nasty-dirty places. Ray was right; this stop was far from it.

  Row after row offered an impressive variety of goods for the travelling trucker or family. And ten feet right in front of me on an end-cap, center stage, calling out to me, a display of Hostess apple pies. My brain performed Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus,” in HD stereo.

  You could also buy iPads, cellphones, TV’s, t-shirts, and antifreeze. It was still a truck stop, after all. Tires lined the long back wall. There was even a place to mail things.

  I own zero credit cards. Which was good because I didn’t want to pop up on some fake Fed’s computer screen because I have an apple pie fetish.

  Over to the right were a few workstations with computers. Nice. My latent brilliance arrived. I paused to savor the moment; it was a rare occasion.

  At this point, I had no idea whether the bad guys knew about Uncle Joe. I had to assume yes. They seemed to have extensive resources. At minimum, wisdom suggested Uncle Joe’s phones were tapped. Calling him would potentially place him at risk, as well as Jenny and I. Even if I bought a reusable cellphone, or called from a payphone, I couldn’t conceal Uncle Joe’s end. The line would be traced back to the origin and location of the caller: me.

  Email? Just as bad.

  But old-fashioned letter delivered via courier? Seemed rather unlikely the enemy watched Uncle Joe’s front porch.

  Was the idea paranoid? Certainly. It’s not whether you’re paranoid, it’s whether you’re paranoid enough. The deaths of Mr. Broxton and Mr. Meredith proved there was strong reason to be overtly paranoid.

  Uncle Joe was my last living relative. I was taking no chances.

  A plan in place, I headed to the bathroom to shower and think about what I was going to say in the letter to Uncle Joe. Then I bought a cellphone, activated the anonymous short term service, and went to one of the computers. I found a web service in which I could use an online form to write the letter and have it couriered to Uncle Joe next day. I included the number of the temporary cellphone in the letter so he could call me. I advised him to use a payphone.

  I was stoked to have a cellphone again. Reconnected to the world.
I could even use it to check the time. Technology.

  Then I went shopping for Dr Peppers, Cokes, hot dogs, buns, Cheetos, real dog food, two bowls, plus various other foodstuffs. And Hostess apple pies. I looked left and right to make sure nobody was going to try to steal my apple pies and paid cash.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  When I returned to Ray’s truck, the engine was idling and all of the windows were opaque. The door was locked, so I knocked once.

  Jenny opened the door and took some plastic bags from me as I climbed in.

  Ray was hunched low in the driver seat, his back to everyone, talking quietly on a cellphone. The sweet notes of jazz drifted throughout the cabin, making it impossible to hear Ray. Probably intentional.

  Jenny started pulling things out of the bags.

  Tyler vigorously sniffed the various items that were placed on the table and counter, his tail swishing eagerly. What did you get? What is this? What is that? Did you get me anything? What did you get me?

  Jenny pulled out the Cheetos bag and set it on the table.

  Tyler stood on his hind legs to see the bag. He said, Mine, snatched it, and padded to the bed, jumping on top.

  I said, “Uh, no. But nice try,” and walked to the bed to return the Cheetos.

  I picked up the bowl that would serve as Tyler’s dog bowl and poured some dog food for him.

  Tyler sniffed happily, then said, Real food! Wait, can I have Cheetos first?

  “No.”

  Bugger. He ate.

  I had stashed a Godiva chocolate bar in my back pocket instead of leaving it in one of the shopping bags. It was cold enough outside that it wouldn’t melt. I said, “Hey, what’s this? Cool, look what I found.” I showed her the chocolate.

  She smiled, it made her look like a goddess. No, not like… she was a goddess. She said, “Have I ever told you that you’re my favorite Elijah Raven in the whole wide world?”

  I feigned deep thinking for a second, then said, “Um, no, don’t believe so.”

  “Well, it’s true.” She took the bar and opened it. “Godiva, chocolate of the gods.” She took a bite. She was a goddess eating Godiva chocolate of the gods. There were a lot of god-things happening here. She offered the chocolate and said, “Want some?”

  I won’t repeat the first thing that came to my mind.

  She seemed to realize the suggestiveness of her question and her cheeks reddened. Then she favored me with Perceptive Smile #1, which was the most frequent smile she gave me.

  A flash of insight gave way to a flash of horror. Was I that easy to read? Probably.

  I got Tyler some water and asked Jenny, “What’s Ray doing?”

  “I’m not sure. He came back after resting, I told him about the pictures and he—”

  “There were more?”

  “Yes.” Jenny looked away so I couldn’t see her eyes. “Every one of the people listed except Dad and Mr. Broxton.”

  I felt lightheaded and sat down. Anger’s flame flicked on again. I snuffed it and promised myself there would be a time.

  Jenny said, “Ray looked at the names on the folders, but didn’t say anything. He breathed heavily, not like he’d been running, but slowly and loudly inhaling and exhaling through his nose. He turned away, started the truck, turned on the music, darkened the windows, and has been talking quietly on the phone since.”

  I nodded. “We have to do something.”

  Jenny said, “What? What can we do? How are we going to find these people? And even if we did, what could we do about it? These are some of the richest people in the world. We need to tell the FBI, or at least the police.”

  “FBI imposters are already chasing us. We can’t go to them. Someone inside must be helping them. They have to be for Mr. Broxton to be fooled. Their credentials must be legit. We can’t go to the police either. If Feds are involved, seems likely some local police could be getting their hands dirty. If we go to the locals, someone could run it up the chain, then it’s game over. Not only would it do nothing to bring justice, but it would send the hellhounds on us, and they would know where we are.”

  “Okay fine, if we can’t contact the authorities… we can’t do this on our own, Ellie.”

  I sighed. “I know. You’re right. But there’s no other choice.” I smiled. “Maybe our guardian angel can help,” and nodded toward Ray.

  She lifted her eyebrows.

  As if on cue, Ray got up from the driver’s seat and walked over to us. “All right, folks, it’s time to roll.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Denver, Colorado, Rocky Mountains, my home, God’s country.” He favored us with a big smile; his bright white teeth looked crazy white compared to his dark skin. “We should—”

  Jenny said, “—why are we going to your house?”

  I said, “—why are we going to Denver?”

  Tyler said, I love Colorado.

  I looked at Tyler and wanted to ask him how he would know anything about Colorado, but figured asking the dog such a thing in front of Jenny and Ray would only heighten concerns about my stability.

  Ray chuckled at the questions, surely expecting them. “Oh, we won’t be going to my house, we’ll be going to my home. The Rockies are home for me. We have some friends who are going to help us out. What God can do, it can blow... your... mind.”

  I hadn’t noticed how tall Ray was. Until then, I hadn’t seen him stand. I had to tilt my head up to look at Ray, who must have been more like 6’6”, a good half-foot taller than me. I said, “I hope so.”

  Ray smiled, staring intently at me and said, “Elijah, there is no need to hope, when one has faith.”

  I’m sure it was just my imagination, but when he said ‘Elijah,’ the name seemed to echo faintly. I shook my head as if breaking a spell.

  Ray patted me on the shoulder, his hand large, and warm, and firm. He looked at the things we’d bought from the store. “Wolf brand chili. I love Wolf brand chili. ‘When’s the last time you had a hot, steaming bowl of Wolf brand chili?’”

  Remembering the TV commercial of old, I said, “Well that’s too long!”

  Ray laughed heartily, slapping me more on the shoulder. “That’s right! That’s right! Well thank you two for your kindness. Let’s get going. Buckle up. God can blow your mind, and I have something to tell you as proof.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ray shifted the big rig into gear and looked left and right multiple times as we pulled out of the long parking space and onto the service road feeding Highway 287. The big truck lurched and growled, slowly gaining speed.

  Although the truck was solid, you could still feel the immense power of the rig vibrating in the cabin. It seemed right that someone as powerful as Ray drove the semi, leading us to the next phase of our quest.

  What didn’t seem right was the fact we were on this quest to begin with—in fact, well underway—and until now I hadn’t even realized it.

  I sat in the passenger seat watching the world go by on the other side of the window. The terrain was mainly wild grass and flat, with a few brown hills that seemed out of place. We passed a few sections of farmland with huge water irrigators that sprayed on the crops and were as long as half a football field.

  Jenny reclined on the lower bed reading a paperback, I couldn’t see what. Tyler was at her feet, content.

  I wondered what would happen to him when all of this was over. He didn’t have a home anymore. For that matter, neither did Jenny. She still had the house, but would she want to keep living there now that both of her parents had died? I’m sure it was paid for, but still.

  Since that day when I was ten, when I walked out my front door and found Billy’s racquetball, I never stepped inside the house again. All of my things, Ben’s things, Chloe’s, my parents’… I just left them there. Everything.

  I walked away and never looked back.

  I’m sure I was in shock. I had nothing with me, except Billy’s racquetball. I couldn’t eat a racquetball. How
did I expect to survive? I suppose deep down I didn’t expect I would. At least I hadn’t planned on it. Those next few days…

  I turned to look at Tyler.

  Noticing the attention, he raised his head and smiled in a doggy pant, his tail wagged.

  I smiled and turned back to the open road. A road I had never been on before, a road far away from home, much farther than I’d ever dreamed.

  A new road.

  Ray had put on some smooth jazz in the cab’s surround system. It wasn’t quite the same as Sinatra’s Strangers in the Night, especially since it was daytime, but it would work.

  I’d been watching the scenery go by, my thoughts wandering aimlessly, when I recognized a familiar tune on the sound system: Dean Martin’s Everybody Loves Somebody.

  I looked at Ray, who was smiling, of course. He was always smiling. And one big eye was eyeing me from the side. I said, “You like Dean Martin?”

  “He’s all right. I don’t like him as much as you do.”

  Huh? “How did you know I like Dean Martin?”

  Ray chuckled. “I’m your guardian angel, remember? I know everything about you.”

  “That’s not spooky.”

  He laughed.

  I’d been waiting for Ray to continue telling us what he started back at the truck stop, what he said was going to ‘blow our minds,’ but he hadn’t volunteered further details as we drove up the highway toward Colorado. Wanting to change the subject from his supposed knowledge of my inner secrets, I prodded, “Don’t you think we’ve been hanging over the cliff long enough?”

  Jenny put the book down and moved to a closer seat.

  Ray turned and said, “Hi Jenny, come join us.” As he looked back to the road, he continued in his deep, mellifluous bass, “I need an audience with flexible minds. Minds capable of faith, of believing in what cannot be seen.” He paused to see if we were willing participants in the audience.

  Ray turned to glance at each of us. He looked up at the sky, seemingly searching for something, then nodded. “What I’m about to tell you, you have to keep to yourselves. People’s lives depend on the secrecy. Your lives depend on the secrecy. Trust me.” He flicked glances at each of us again. “There are a few dozen of us, we call ourselves—unofficially—the Network. Officially, we have no name. C-Man, myself… we’re a part of the Network.” He paused. “As were Bob Meredith and Nick Broxton.”