Fallen Masters
Authors: John Edward
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Jill Fritzo
The world is a brighter place because you are in it.
Acknowledgments
More than a decade and a half ago I was approached to write a book about my life and the psychic experiences of clients—it was called
One Last Time
. Unbeknownst to me at that time, I would go on to write seven more books on the subject of spirituality—both fiction and nonfiction. Hold the psychic jokes please!
Over the years I discovered that, while many people are wide open to the potential of going “above and beyond,” there are also many who are deeply rooted in their belief systems yet are curious and inquisitive of the infinite possibilities of the “Other Side.” Through fiction, I learned that I could convey a message of spirituality, kindness, and love that allowed the reader (whatever their religion) to contemplate, without giving up or abandoning their faith. I love taking people on these journeys of potential.
People often ask, “Where do you get your ideas from?” and quite honestly I can only say that I believe most of it is channeled creatively in some way. I’ve been blessed with guides—both here and on the “Other Side”—and I want to take this opportunity to thank a few of my earthly guides for stewarding this new work of fiction: Claire Eddy, for not being “Lost” on the subject; Greg Tobin, for your guiding light and literary tailoring; Corinda Carfora, for always being one of my original Publishing Angels and just “here and there”; and Tom Doherty, for the opportunity to bring a message of love and humanity to the world by igniting people’s imagination. To my family: my love and appreciation. And to the
Fallen Masters
in all of our lives … here’s our story.
Contents
PROLOGUE
Twenty-eight years ago
Ten-year-old Charlene St. John glanced at the clock. It was almost 6
P.M
. and her father should have been home by now. Her father, Ian St. John, was a Scottish immigrant who had fallen in love with the African-American woman who worked at the laundry where he took his clothes each week. Ian and Louise had married and moved into a small house in Denbigh, a suburb of Newport News, Virginia.
Ian worked for the Northrop Grumman Shipbuilding Company in Newport News.
With only a rudimentary education, he was not one of the white-collar engineers or technicians. He was, he liked to say, one of the men who held the ships together.
“If men like me dinna screw in the bolts and tighten the nuts, the ship would come apart and sink to the bottom of the sea,” he insisted.
Ian took pride in his work, and the walls in the living room of his house on Loraine Drive were lined with photographs of the USS
Ronald Reagan,
and the USS
George H. W. Bush
. These were nuclear carriers of the Nimitz class, both of which he had worked on for years.
“Mama,” Charlene pleaded, her hands over her heart, “is something wrong? Did Daddy call and say he was going to be late?”
“No, darlin’,” Louise said. “But you know what your daddy says about traffic on Warwick Boulevard. In the morning going toward the shipyard, it’s like pushing down on a coiled spring. And in the evening coming back home, it’s like pushing on that same spring from the other direction. I’m sure he’s just tied up in traffic or something. Probably a wreck somewhere, and that brings traffic to a complete halt.”
“Oh!” the girl said. She put her hands to the sides of her head. “Oh, Mama! There
was
a wreck, and Daddy was in it. Daddy is dead!”
“Charlene, what are you talking about?”
Charlene began crying inconsolably.
“Hush now, dear,” Louise said. “You want your eyes looking all red when your daddy comes home?”
“He’s not coming home, Mama. Never again,” Charlene said.
“Now, Charlene, stop it. You’re making me nervous.”
The doorbell rang.
“See, there’s your daddy now.” Though, even as Louise said the words, she had a sinking feeling. Why would Ian ring his own doorbell?
When Louise opened the door, she saw two uniformed police officers standing on the front porch, a black male and a white female. The police car was parked out on the street, right in front of her house.
“Mrs. St. John?” the male police officer said.
“No,” Louise said quietly—so quietly that she could barely be heard. She held her hand out in front of her, as if holding the police officers off, and stepped back into the house, away from the door. “No, no, no, dear God in Heaven, no!”
“May we come in for a moment?” the policewoman asked gently.
“No, no, no, no—,” Louise said, burying her face in her hands and shaking her head.
Charlene, who was no longer crying, came to the front door. “You may come in,” she said.
“And who are you?” the policewoman asked, smiling at the little girl.
“My name is Charlene, and my daddy is dead, isn’t he? He was killed in a car wreck on Warwick Avenue.” As she said this, she clasped her hands over her heart again.
The two police officers looked at each other in shock.
“Has someone already called?” the policewoman wondered. “Nobody is supposed to call before we get here.”
“Nobody called,” Charlene said. “But Daddy
is
dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sweetheart, I’m sorry to have to tell you, that is true,” the policewoman answered.
“Mrs. St. John, is there someone we could call? A relative? A close friend, perhaps?” the police officer asked.
Louise was still sobbing and totally unresponsive.
“Mama has a good friend named Norma Keeler,” Charlene said.
“Do you know her telephone number?” the policeman asked.
Charlene led the policeman over to the telephone, then pointed to a number that was written on a pad on the wall.
“Thank you,” the policeman said as he picked up the phone and dialed the number.
“Mama,” Charlene said. She stood next to her mother and wrapped her arms around her. “Mama, it will be all right.”
“Oh, Charlene, how did you know?” Louise asked, putting an arm around her daughter. “How did you know?”
They could hear the low-key voice of the policeman on the phone.
“What do you mean, how did she know?” the policewoman asked.
“She knew,” Louise said. “Even before you got here, she knew.”
“But how?” the policewoman asked.
Charlene stood there like a little statue or a sentry on watch, gazing up at her mother; then turning to the lady cop she quietly said, “I felt it, here,” and put her hands over her heart for the third time. Charlene’s mother began to keen softly, and the look on the young girl’s face as she comforted her mother brought tears to the policewoman’s eyes.
Part
ONE
CHAPTER
1
New York
Dave Hampton had the looks of a star. With a full head of dark hair always perfectly coiffed, blue eyes, and well-chiseled features, he could have been the lead in a dramatic television show. He was, in fact, a television star, but not in a drama series. He had his own news, commentary, and talk show airing at six o’clock eastern time, Monday through Friday. From Maine to California, millions of Americans adjusted their schedules so they could watch the show live, and those who couldn’t watch it live recorded it.
Hampton specialized in controversy and conspiracy theories. There were few who were ambivalent about him—the public either loved him or hated him. “Innovative, brave, probing,” his supporters said. “A wacko, conspiracy nut-job,” his detractors said.
Today his guests had discussed such subjects as whether or not the United States was purposely not drilling for domestic oil in order to exhaust all the oil reserves of the rest of the world, to whether or not Errol Flynn was actually a Nazi spy.
The guests were gone now and the show was on a commercial break before the final segment, which Hampton called “Critical Update.”
“Back in one minute thirty seconds, Dave,” the director said, his voice audible in Dave’s ear plug.
“I don’t see my CU queued on the teleprompter,” Dave said.
“Sure it is,” the director said. “Untapped Oil Reserves.”
“That’s not the one I want. I changed it, remember? I want Sinister Shadow.”
