by Jay Smith
The Resurrection
Pact
the Winston Casey Chronicles: Book I
JAY SMITH
BOOKS BY JAY SMITH
Rise of The Monkey Lord
Seven 'til Sunrise
Aggressive Vignettes
The HG WORLD Universe
HG World: The Audio Scripts
Volume 1: Season Zero
Volume 2: The GOOGIES
Volume 3: Season One
Volume 4: Prologues (in 2017)
Volume 5: The Final Season (in 2018)
AUDIO PRODUCTIONS
HG World
Hidden Harbor Mysteries
www.jaysmithaudio.com
The Resurrection
Pact
the Winston Casey Chronicles: Book I
JAY SMITH
Copyright © 2017 Jay Smith
This is a work of fiction.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1542553717
ISBN-13: 978-1542553711
DEDICATION
It took me longer to write this book than it took these guys to beat cancer. And they worked a lot harder.
David "Winston" Smith
&
Hugh Casey
And Fuck Cancer.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PART ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
UNO INTERMEDIO
PART TWO
Chapter Five
DUE INTERMEDIO
PART THREE
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
PART FOUR
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
PART FIVE
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
PART SIX
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
PART SEVEN
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
PART EIGHT
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
TRE INTERMEDIO
PART NINE
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
QUATTRO INTERMEDIO
Chapter Thirty-Three 455
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author would like to thank the Seton Hill mentors for their support and merciless feedback:
Tim Waggoner
Scott A Johnson
Additional feedback from
Heidi Ruby Miller & Jason Jack Miller
Paul "Goat" Allen
and my peer critique partners
Lynn Hortel Jacki King
Heather Houston Margaret Ayala
Jaye Wells Caleb Palfreyman
Kelsey Bowen Bill Huff
Stephanie Wieland Derek McElfresh
November Ellison
PART ONE
The Island-Nation of Ebetha
"Be thankful we are allowed to live
in the dignity of our illusions.
Reality and truth make monsters of us all."
- Alan Horus (Aeternus in Exile, Bathorian Books, 1996)
Chapter One
The resort concierge was a tiny, bald Frenchman in his sixties, but he towered over me in the hallway. The air of dignity and propriety he carried with him just made me feel worse. From my position, prone on the floor of the hotel hallway, I felt like a stain on his lush, forest green carpet. My own blood caked my chin and dress shirt as someone else’s vomit congealed down my back and across my lap. Cherry lipstick left a streak across my cheeks and my swollen bottom lip. As this wasn't sufficient humiliation, I was drenched head to foot and smelled like chlorine, baked chicken, sparkling wine with a hint of cat food.
I was at the ugly end of a weird day.
But at that moment the details of that day were still hazy.
I appreciated the complete absence of judgment in his expression as the man with the Louis Renault mustache spoke.
"Mr. Casey, is it?" The man in the tailored suit planted his fists into his hips and waited for me to acknowledge him. When the palm trees behind him came into focus, I offered a little wave.
"Yes," I replied, assuming he knew what he was talking about.
It was coming back to me as the hallway settled down to choose one compass bearing. I remembered the name of the island: Ebetha. Someone had called it the "New Orleans of the Caribbean."
"I’m Jean-Paul Gautreaux: head resort concierge. You telephoned me earlier."
Concierge. Resort. Telephone. Check. "Yes, hi."
"Do you require medical attention?"
"No. Give me a moment to find my breath and I’ll collect the bits of my dignity I spilled all over your nice floor."
He let the remark die in the air. "I was coming to give you an update on your missing bags and the problems in your suite, but - it seems you may have higher priorities at the moment."
I appreciated his cunning read of the obvious. "Yes, Jean-Paul."
"Would you like me to summon security?" To that point, Jean-Paul maintained what I can only imagine was a well-practiced stoicism. The only change in his face was to raise a single eyebrow to underscore his question.
"No. Just an icepack. Maybe some Advil."
"I’m glad to hear it. I enjoy problems that resolve themselves."
A hotel manager has a rough line to walk. If a problem can just go away, Jean-Paul was happy to move on to the next problem. Fights break out. Hearts get broken. People get drunk, puke on their friends, and fall into swimming pools. Those things can fade into hazy memories if all parties agree to forgive, forget or just move on.
I chose to move on. "Have a new room for me, yet? Or does it still have a redneck water feature in place of a bathtub?"
"I assure you the problems in the suite we’ve assigned you will be remedied in the next hour or two. Also, I'm happy to report that your bags may have been located by the airport."
"May have been? Well, I’m glad my stuff isn’t in Cancun like they originally thought." Remembering things to be pissed off about was a good sign. Ideas and information fell into place as the evening began making sense again.
Nicely dressed guests heading up the hallway for dinner slowed as they passed. Some cast me the kind of sad glances one might give a dead bird along a scenic walk.
Jean-Paul noticed this as well. "Indeed, sir. Until then, sir, would you kindly come with me?"
"Where," I asked assuming the answer was somewhere in the security office.
"Somewhere that I can have you disinfected…the staff would like to get started on this hallway as well."
~
Jean-Paul directed me -- at arm’s length -- through a service corridor to an employee locker room and shower where I surrendered the only outfit to survive my flight from Baltimore. I presumed it would be burned. I spent the next forty minutes insulated by the hiss of the spigot and a bank of steam in the empty group shower scrubbing rot and shame off my carcass.
Habits from my first months out of the rehabilitation hospital meant I took care to clean the quarter-sized crater in my chest. This was the entry point for the Hickman catheter that, fo
r 90 days, pumped corrosive poison up into my carotid artery and back down into my aorta, where it diluted into my blood before it could burn through the walls of my heart. This device was painful, but it also delivered the necessary medicine to kill the cancer spoiling my blood.
If ever comes a time when my memory of that exercise in human plumbing fades, the recurring nightmare of lying awake in restraints while doctors reeled the length of plastic tube up and out of my body will remind me. It puts all other categories of "shitty day" into sharp relief.
Washing my shrinking patch of short hair, I made note of the divot where doctors once made a hole to vent the pressure on my brain and plug a leak, the cause of which they have yet to explain to me or my attorneys. Fortunately, I was asleep for that fishing expedition and it only took me a week to remember my name and how to speak.
Hot showers are a temple for self-reflection and meditation and remember the words of a nurse who got me through the worst of it: You can feel. You can stand. Today is yours and, if you’re lucky, tomorrow will bring you something new.
I came to Ebetha because my old friend Lucy asked me to be a special guest at her wedding. Her fiancé Blake had his reservations, but being the dutiful – and submissive – partner, he went along with it. At the time, I didn’t know it, but Lucy had told Blake that I grew up with a crush on her and – despite being married to Claire – would take her in a heartbeat. When Lucy proposed a toast to my survival at her rehearsal dinner, the combination of sun, stress and wine inspired her to take the story a step further and talk about how sad it was that I never admitted how I felt and how horrible it must be to sit there knowing that in a few hours she would be gone forever. Then she asked me if I had anything to say to her before she gave herself away forever.
I said, "Did you know Blake slept with Claire while I was in the hospital?"
It got fuzzy after that.
~
Someone left a chemical ice pack, towels and some horrifying tourist clothes on a bench outside the shower. Jean-Paul returned to the locker room just as I finished dressing and ushered me further down the service corridor to a storm door leading outside.
"Come with me, Mr. Casey? I understand you asked the desk clerk to use a special membership card when you checked in."
"Yes. She said it wasn’t transferable. The friend who gave it to me said it was."
"That is correct, under most circumstances. But your friend – Lieutenant Grant Parker – he is an exception."
"I hear that a lot about him." We kept walking. By that time my body was so exhausted and my mind depleted, he could have been taking me to the incinerator and I would not have been aware of a problem until he turned on the gas. Instead, we emerged to a beach with only the western sky on fire, burning through a blanket of clouds far out to sea. The cool breeze and fresh air helped clear my head a little.
"I’ve approved you for the perquisites and courtesies we would naturally extend to Lieutenant Parker."
"Very kind. He mentioned he was a frequent guest here."
"Yes. He left instructions to take care of his friends on this clearly very special occasion."
There was a definite change in Jean-Paul’s tone since our last encounter on the hotel floor. It had nothing to do with me, but my old friend Park usually left an impression on people wherever he was in the world.
"Thank you."
"The executive lounge is straight ahead," the manager said, then put a hand on my shoulder to stop me from wandering onto the beach in an entirely wrong direction.
I took note of the stone path leading through palm trees to a secluded pavilion.
"Your accommodations are ready. We’ll have your bags put there when they arrive from the airport within the hour. Until then, please… eat something. Drink and relax."
I wandered toward the sound of surf and the strains of Jimmy Buffett somewhere in the distance and found myself at the edge of the civilized world; a stretch of pristine beach with feet planted firmly in warm, white sand. The tropical wind carried the smell of the ocean and stale beer. Immediately, I started to forget about things like lost luggage, a room without running water and the embarrassing end of a lifelong friendship.
Chapter Two
The bar was an altar to expensive taste in booze. The wicker bar stool was comfortable and had a strong back. And it did not yell at me. Or regurgitate chicken on me. Or try to punch me in the face.
"Mr. Casey." The voice sounded American with hints of Boston. He was shifting things behind the bar so I’d missed him coming in.
"How did you know?"
"The concierge phoned ahead to say I should expect a confused looking man wearing clothes from the gift shop clearance rack."
The bartender was someone’s attempt to build a Patton Oswalt from memory and was distracted by Robin Williams halfway through. He was short, stocky and covered with hair with a head like a cube and a square jaw that looked almost as impressive as his massive brow. He wore his Hawaiian print shirt open to show off his ape-like torso and a single gold chain that looked like the Yellow Brick Road winding through a dark forest of man-fur. His expression reminded me of a cunning cartoon rodent. At first I felt inclined to dislike the man before his disarming candor pegged him as an honest man on an island of sycophants.
"Welcome to The Deep End, Mr. Casey."
"Huh. Ironic since we’re at the shallow part of the ocean. Why’s it called The Deep End?"
"I’m thinking because ‘Secret Bar for Rich, Tourist Assholes’ didn’t quite ring the owner’s bell." He caught himself. "Present company excluded, of course. I'm sure you're not a dick."
"I try not to be, though today seemed to be tougher than most. Not rich, either."
He continued polishing clean glasses with a rag. "Besides, you appear to be my only source of gratuities tonight -- so sky’s the limit, sir."
"You said this is a ‘secret’ bar?"
"Some guests are more equal than others, so this little corner of the resort is kept off the ‘all-inclusive’ plan except for those aforementioned ‘rich, tourist assholes.’ We keep the really good stuff here, keep the kitchen staff working until you’re done gorging on lobster or pureed duck meat…whatever the hell rich people eat... and I’m something of a concierge for the things you wouldn’t ask the desk staff for or in the presence of island police." The bartender paused but saw that this news did not pique my interest and so continued, "Looks like you took one on the chin there. Was that the big to-do I heard about up in the Botaki Room?"
"Yep."
"Well, that’s what we live for at this resort: watching the tourists eat one another. Need a bag of ice?"
I rubbed the side of my face where Lucy’s fiancé landed a drunken punch. It hurt a little, but not as much as getting punched in front of the entire bridal party. Or tripping over my own feet and falling into the pool after. Come to think of it, the punch fell below getting thrown up on by the bride at her rehearsal dinner and falling back into the pool trying to prevent her from falling in…which didn’t work.
Lucy and Blake were two people I'd known since high school. Each of them dated most everyone else in our extended circle of friends except one another. This was Lucy's second marriage and Blake's first. Blake always said he waited into his mid-thirties because he wanted to be able to provide. He also happened to be the Top Junior Sales Manager for my father-in-law's Ford dealership back home. It was the only significant accomplishment of note in his life after being the big football hero of our senior year unless you count sleeping with my wife as an accomplishment. Lucy and I had been close since grade school. We even dated twice and agreed never to speak of it again. Nevertheless, I was her "advice guy" for many years because I was so boring and sensible which provided her devil's advocate for every time she did something wild or stupid. She never listened, but it gave her something to open our conversations at two in the morning when she needed someone to bring her home from a party or pay her bail. To be fair, the bail thing only h
appened twice, but one time involved putting a car into Swatara Creek.
My friendship and loyalty to Lucy is something that Blake, in his growing insecurity, never understood. He didn't like me and I wasn't his biggest fan, either even before the infidelity. Blake was proud of his relationship with my father-in-law, especially the fact that the old man once told Blake he was the "son he never had."
When I wrestled Lucy out I handed her off to Blake with a frustrated "She's all yours, man. Good luck." He chased me down the hall and hit me in the jaw.
Now that it all fit back into my head, I could let it all go until Blake realized he just punched his boss' son-in-law and sought me out to apologize. So, I shrugged at Murray and distilled my night into a simple, "Shit is, my friend. Shit just is."
"True enough. What can I get you? What’s your poison?"
"Daunorubicin."
"Dino-whata-sin?"
"Never mind. How about a Ginger Ale?"
"You might have heard me mention something about a lot of free alcohol just now. I have 50-year-old single-malt Scotch back here, Mr. Winston."
"Oh, I’d love to…uh…"
"Murray," he said drawing a line under his invisible name tag with an index finger.
"…Murray. I got real sick recently. When I got better, I had my first beer and couldn’t take it."
"Real beer?"
"Yes."
"You poor bastard. What kind of horrible, evil disease takes away a man’s ability to drink?"
"I know, right?"
"How is that even a thing?"
"Cancer."
"Cancer killed your liver?"
"No…I'm wearing a new body that just looks like me. My oncologist said that when you kill all the marrow and get new marrow and blood and have your cells radiated your whole body basically regenerates...like a Time Lord."
