Fallen Masters (45 page)

After about thirty emails talking about his book, or the promotion tour, or asking him to read something they had written, so he would recommend them to his publisher, he began reading emails pertaining to the assassination.

To: DARbook

From: RKurt

I don’t mean to sound too crass and commercial here, but as your agent I feel obligated to always look out for your best interest. Given your relationship to the president’s son, I wonder if you might consider writing a nonfiction book talking about Marcus and how he is coping with the death of the president. Let me know what you think.

Richard

“I can’t believe you,” Dawson said aloud. He drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to call him. Finally he decided to send an email.

To: RKurt

From: DARbook

No. No. And just in case you don’t understand,
DEFINITELY NO
. To you and to the rest of America, he was the president. To Marcus,
HE WAS A FATHER
. I have no intention of capitalizing on this in any way, shape, or form.

Dawson

The email had angered Dawson, but the feeling faded just as quickly. Richard was, after all, the quintessential agent, interested only in his next deal. And the truth was, he was a very good agent, and exceptionally honest, a trait that Dawson appreciated. He would send a follow-up email later on, ameliorating somewhat his harsh reply to Richard’s suggestion.

But Richard had given him an idea. Dawson had become friends with Marcus—and indeed with the whole First Family—as a result of a fan letter Marcus had sent him. He had been quite surprised to get a letter from the White House, and even more surprised to discover that it was written not by the President, but by Marcus Jackson Jr.

… I think your books are great. All Presidents write books when they leave office. When my dad leaves office I know he will write a book as well. I will have to tell him how much I like his book, but I know it won’t be as good as your book.

Dawson had visited the White House shortly after that, having been invited by POTUS. Marcus greeted him enthusiastically, holding up a copy of one of Dawson’s books that he wanted autographed.

“Please don’t tell my dad what I said about I won’t like his book as much as I like yours,” Marcus had whispered when he had a chance to speak to him without being overheard by his parents.

Dawson put his finger over his lips. “Your secret is safe with me,” he said. Marcus smiled broadly, delighted that he and his favorite author had entered into a conspiracy of sorts.

Thinking about that, Dawson very much wanted to call the White House and see if his little buddy was okay. He knew, though, that he would not be able to get through to him. He looked at the clock, then at the time chart. It was eight o’clock here, so that meant it would be four in the morning in Washington. It wouldn’t be appropriate to try calling anyway.

He did, however, feel compelled to write Marcus a quick letter. Even if he was not able to speak to him for a while, he wanted to get his thoughts and emotions on paper. He called up a new Word document on his laptop.

Marcus,

I know this is a very difficult time for you. And I know that telling you the entire world is sharing your sorrow doesn’t make it any easier. But I just wanted to take this opportunity to …

“To what?” he asked aloud.

He looked through the window of his room and down onto the parking lot below. He saw a family unloading luggage from their car and he watched them for a moment, almost envious of them, of their shared love, contentment, and completeness within their family unit. He thought of Mary Beth. No doubt they would have had a family now.

He looked back at the screen to reread what he’d written, so he could continue with the letter.

Nothing he had written was on the screen. Instead, he saw the words:

DAWSON WILL YOU ASSIST US

WESTON HAS RETURNED

THE LION MUST ROAR

WORMWOOD HAS BEEN WAITING

PERELANDRA IN PERMANENT DANGER

Dawson stared at the words on the screen for what seemed like no more than a few seconds. Where had the words come from? What did they mean?

When the phone rang, it startled him. He looked at the time on his cell phone and gasped. It was now nine o’clock! One entire hour had passed since he wrote the first words of his letter to Marcus. That didn’t seem possible.

The caller ID showed that it was Bob Anderson calling.

“Bob, it’s four
A.M.
there, isn’t it?” Dawson asked. “What are you doing up so late?”

“Is it that late? I haven’t been paying attention. Those disjointed words you blurted out before?”

“Yeah, like I said, I’m sorry about that.”

“No, don’t be sorry. I ran your info and it’s interesting.”

“Interesting in what way?”

“Does the name Jack Lewis ring any bells for you?”

“No … I don’t know any Jack Lewis.”

“What if I tell you what his real name is, and not what his friends call him? His real name was Clive Staple Lewis.”

Dawson knew exactly in that moment who Bob was speaking about. C. S. Lewis, the writer. And, oddly—or maybe not so oddly the way things were going—the very writer that the interviewer Gordon had compared him to.

When there was a long, pregnant pause before Dawson replied, Anderson chuckled.

“Tell me, Dawzy … did I pass your literary test? I’ll just bet you thought I had never heard of C. S. Lewis, didn’t you?”

“I’ve no room to talk,” Dawson said. “Truth is, though I’ve heard of him, I’ve never actually read him.”

“That word you gave me?
Perelandra
? That’s the name of one of his books,” Anderson said. “That’s what led me to C. S. Lewis.”

Dawson felt as if he were in a carnival hall of mirrors. “All right, well, I’ll be here if you need me,” Dawson said.

“When did you say you’re coming back?”

“I’ll be on the plane tomorrow. As a matter of fact, I am flying through L.A. And as you had said you were in the town for a little bit, maybe we could get together during my layover.”

“That sounds great. And yeah, I made that flight once,” Anderson said. “It’s almost twenty hours. I don’t envy you.”

“I’ll be in touch when I get back,” Dawson said.

Dawson punched off the telephone call and continued to stare at the monitor. The words had not left the screen. Was he finally losing it? Could it be exhaustion? The traveling? The time zone? What? “Maybe I’m finally losing it,” Dawson said out loud to anyone who could possibly be listening.

Where was JFK? Or C. S. Lewis, for that matter, if indeed that’s who the strange little man was? And just what was the deal with the lion? The unreality of the situation, of these visions or hallucinations, had him confused. And why should he even care whether they ever showed up again? Dawson suddenly felt a wave of sadness come over him and he found himself near tears. He hadn’t really cried since Mary Beth died. Was he having a breakdown, due to all the stress he had been under, all those unresolved feelings of love and despair that he had shoved deep down inside? Dawson rubbed his eyes and decided to take a short nap. He needed some relief—some break from all of it …

On the Honduras–Nicaragua border

The village was not even big enough to have a name. The people lived poorly, removed from “civilization,” which meant that they stayed far from the frequent dangers of civil war that could erupt on either side of the border. They spoke a combination of Spanish and a native tongue that was almost extinct. They prayed to no God or gods and subsisted off the land.

In the middle of the day, a cloud descended like a theater curtain of black and red velvet over the huts and makeshift shelters of the village.

Forty or so people—men, women, and children, including an illiterate elderly couple who had survived decades of wars and massacres—all came outside and looked up into the sky. What they saw was unfamiliar to them. The infants and very young children began to cry. The curtain—or whatever it was—moved closer, falling from heaven.

When they were finally enveloped in the miasma, there was no escape for any of them.

A noxious odor overcame many of them, who fainted. The others, of strong jungle stock, who had experienced very little or no contact with city life or any of the accoutrements of the modern world, stood as long as they could, before the bacteria-laden darkness fell completely to the ground. The babies died first, then the oldest among them. It took about an hour before the last of the villagers succumbed to the mysterious killer disease.

The dead and dying could not hear the cackle of laughter on the other side of the curtain that separated their world from denizens of another, malevolent dimension who had released the dark energies that contained every evil known to mankind and many other kinds that had not yet entered human consciousness.

The experiment had worked. Now others around the world would be surprised by the same random plague designed to incite fear and panic among survivors who would hear of its power and finality.

CHAPTER

82

The sunless chamber that had no visible ceiling housed the Tribunal, as the souls of darkness, who had once been soaring spirits, huddled to speak with one another and to observe what was happening on Earth as they stood around the mirror-like pools of consciousness that dotted the “floor” of the assembly hall.

Their beings vibrated with anticipation of the work of centuries that was timed to culminate in a crescendo of energies that would truly rock the foundation of the world from which they had emerged in previous ages. The choices they had made, both in their terrestrial existence and after, placed them in positions of great jeopardy and great promise. It was exhilarating, this time of waiting and watching.

The humans, it seemed, were all too eager to take the easy way out when presented with moral dilemmas in the course of everyday life. What a delight! How easily malleable they were! There were some exceptions, of course, and the heavenly realm was full of those who, even tentatively or reluctantly, had made a decision at some point in their lives to live rightly or had opted for the good over self-serving evil.

That was a shame, of course. Why couldn’t they
all
get with the program?

But then there would be no challenge and no confrontation such as that which awaited the world. What a conflagration of emotions lay in store for the unsuspecting humans when Viva Domingo would become a reality and not just a mysterious slogan and rallying cry for those in the know.

The hourglass had been turned one last time, and the end of time approached …

*   *   *

“We call to
dis
order this convention of the Tribunal,” the once and future Angel of Darkness, the most senior statesman of the assembly, declared.

A hideous laugh erupted among those gathered with a purpose. To the human eye, the evil senate was only dimly visible, as multiple cloaks of darkness—more accurately, of the absence of light—shrouded the figures, who knew each other well by the sounds of their voices and the distinct odors of translated beings. Most, but not all, had once been human and had retained, even on this side, certain senses and connections to earthly conditions of being.

Angel Emphatic, as he liked to call himself, pretending that he had no care for rank or title, though he clung to both tenaciously and purged any who threatened his preeminence in the governance of the Tribunal, spoke in a booming, mellifluous voice that demanded the attention of all within its range. Silence fell like another cloak over them.

“The time is near at hand for us to broadcast the energetic message of our accomplishments. Legions of souls have already embraced our past messages, even if they do not fully understand why and how this is so.” The dictator of the Tribunal paused and peered out at the indistinct mass of those in attendance. If they could see him, they saw his broad, mirthless smile, an evil gash that split his face—if it could be called a face—nearly in half.

“Our agents and avatars on Earth have reported successes at every level, on every continent, especially in North America where they have found the soil of discontent to be richer than it has ever been for many generations of mankind. It is laughable that the African continent is riven with wars and famines, because it has been the case for so long. And the peoples of Asia, who multiply faster than we can calculate, are shouldering the burden of our cause quite reliably.

“For centuries we have discounted the little nations and little people that call themselves Europe, because they do so well at destroying themselves and denying the divine. That leaves us with only the barest toehold among peoples in South America and throughout the Pacific Ocean—both of which are vastly outweighed by our strength elsewhere.”

A rumble of approval grew into an unearthly roar from the numberless assembly of beings.

“The earthly clock ticks down as the celestial signs align in our favor, as in distant ages past. But very soon we shall have the resources at our disposal to evolve to the next and final stage of our destiny. Soon we will be able to see ever more clearly the families who have crossed into the Light and have been kept from us. Then we can pose to their souls a choice once again. Soon we shall have that which was promised to us and never delivered: the promise of eternal love and energy—the order of
dis
order.

“That covenant, which was broken by the Supreme Spirit—not by us!—will be fully restored, and I shall be—that is,
we
shall be masters not only in name but in a new reality.” Emphatic’s demonic voice achieved an unbearably high pitch that, on Earth, would have shattered glass and cracked stone. Human ears would be pierced and bleed at such an ungodly shrieking sound.

*   *   *

The pools of consciousness on the other side of the veil, in what men and women called Heaven, similarly served the Council of Elders and the hierarchy of angelic spirits as a view of earthly activities and helped them know when—or whether—to intervene and attempt to guide humans as they stumbled toward destiny.