The Accidental Existentialist (5 page)

Perfect.

He stayed under until he had to
breathe again.

Then lifted his head and swam, so as
to give away his position and lure them towards him.

A deep breath and then under the waves
again. He looked at the detonator in his hand. The power light
still glowed. But he noticed some water seeping into the
bag.

The boat was coming closer.

But there was no way he could tell if
the package was still stuck to the hull.

He pressed the button.

Nothing.

Out of breath. He surfaced
again.

This time a bullet flew right over his
ear and hit the water. He looked up and was shocked to find them so
close.

Under again.

The green power light
flickered.

It was starting to short
out.

Like rain drops in a bucket, bullets
hit the water all around him.

Come on, dammit! Chris pressed the
button repeatedly.

The boat must not have been more than
fifty feet away. But nothing happened. He would never know now if
he’d failed because the package had fallen off, or if the remote
had been damaged by the water. Probably both.

It was over.

Images of Marlena and Robbie floated
through his mind. Her smile, during those carefree days before he
joined the CID with Masterson. He saw his sons, Ben and Robbie, as
newborns. Holding them for the very first time, his chest swelling
with pride. And he saw the tiny casket that held Ben’s body.
Something no parent should ever see.

I’m sorry. I’ve let you
all down.

His lungs grew urgently tight. He had
to surface and get shot, or drown.

The Yatch loomed just about ten yards
away now.

He started swimming to the
surface.

Through the salt water, he could feel
tears streaming from his eyes as the green light grew dimmer and
dimmer.

Ben’s death, his own. All in
vain.

Just as he reached the surface and
gasped for air, Masterson began to shout. Weapons drawn, the men
all ran to the side of the boat facing Chris.

Oh God, help
me.

Exhausted, he shut his eyes. Squeezed
the button one last time before…

A sudden blast rocked the air. Shards
flew all over, splashing into the water. A black plume expanded and
tongues of fire licked wildly into the air. Like a blossoming rose,
the entire yacht expanded in a dazzling array of black, yellow and
amber. Chris blinked, and wiped his eyes. He could not imagine a
more beautiful sight.

It didn't bring Ben back, but it sure
felt good to know that the people who'd held the lives of countless
innocents in their slimy fists were gone. And their American
enabler, whom Chris would never forgive himself for colluding with
in order to get to Khrenikov, had paid for what he did to Ben, and
God knows how many others.

He swam in the direction
of the abandoned
Potemkin
as best as he could recall. But the euphoric
sense of relief and closure overshadowed his need to find it.
Instinctually, he reached into his pants pocket. He wanted to look
at pictures of Marlena and Robbie on his iPhone. But as it had been
soaked in sea water, it was, of course, dead. No way to contact
anyone, even if there was a signal out here.

Didn’t matter.

He'd gotten the message out in time
while they were still in cellular range. And he’d gotten the
response:

Everything in place. Tracking you.

Smiling, he lay on his back and
floated. Thinking on all that had happened he could not help but
laugh.

And cry.

Like a madman.

But there was no one around to witness
it, so did it really happen? What defined his existence anyway?
What would Kierkegaard have thought? Had he lived his life with
sincerity, with passion? Did his life have meaning now, as a
result? He hadn't chosen this path, just the job which led him
here.

As he pondered these matters, the sky
over the Atlantic transfigured into a heart-breaking shade of red
and purple. Soon, amidst the whistling wind, the lapping waves, and
seagulls calling above, the steady beating of rotors and propellers
filled the air.

As the CH-46 Sea Knight pressed a wide
crater into the water around him, Chris thought of holding Marlena
and Robbie in his arms.

And never letting go.

FROM THE DESK OF JOSHUA
GRAHAM

Dear Reader,

I’d like to take this opportunity to
thank you for reading THE ACCIDENTAL EXISTENTIALIST. It means so
much to me.

Did you know that you as the reader
are the reason we writers write? Sure, we write to make a living,
but most of all we write to entertain and take you places you might
not otherwise go in “real” life.

As writers, we owe such a great deal
of our success to you, for it there were no readers, there would be
no way for a writer’s career to succeed. Yes, I am stating the
fairly obvious, but what you may not know is that you hold the
power to turn your favorite authors into bestsellers. That’s right,
you.

How, you may ask?

It’s a simple thing you do all the
time without even thinking about it. It’s called “word of
mouth.”

If you have enjoyed any of my work,
please recommend my books and stories to your friends. One day, you
can say with pride that you helped me become a bestselling writer!
Wouldn’t that be fantastic?

Here are some other ways you can
support your favorite authors:

1. Send a note with your
feedback! You can reach me at:
www.facebook.com/j0shuaGraham

2. Leave a glowing review wherever you
can Smashwords.com

3. Keep reading! The more of an
author’s work you read, the more it encourages him/her to continue
writing.

Thanks, and I look forward to “seeing”
you in my next story or book.

Best wishes,

Joshua Graham

PS: Be sure to check out my debut
novel BEYOND JUSTICE, available at all major online retailers
including Smashwords.com

EXCERPT from the Bestselling Legal
Thriller BEYOND JUSTICE, by Joshua Graham

PART I

The descent into Hell is not
always vertical.

—
Bishop Frank Morgan

Chapter One

The question most people
ask
when they first meet me is: How does an attorney from a
reputable law firm in La Jolla end up on death row? When they hear
my story, it becomes clear that the greater question is not how,
but why.

I have found it difficult at times to forgive
myself for what happened. But a significant part of the answer
involves forgiveness, something I never truly understood until I
could see in hindsight.

Orpheus went through hell and back to rescue
his wife Euridice from death in the underworld. Through his music,
he moved the hearts of Hades and Persephone and they agreed to
allow Euridice to return with him to Earth on one condition: He
must walk before her and not look back until they reached the upper
world. On seeing the Sun, Orpheus turned to share his delight with
Euridice, and she disappeared. He had broken his promise and she
was gone forever. This failure and guilt was a hell far worse than
the original.

My own personal hell began one night almost
four years ago. Like images carved into flesh, the memories of that
night would forever be etched into my mind. The work day had been
tense enough—my position at the firm was in jeopardy because of the
inexplicable appearance of lewd internet images in my folder on the
main file server.

Later that night, as I
scrambled to get out the door on time for a critical meeting with a
high profile client, my son Aaron began throwing a screaming fit.
Hell hath no fury like a boy who has lost his Thomas Train toy. In
my own frenzied state, I lost my temper with him. Amazing how much
guilt a four-year-old can pile on you with puppy-dog eyes while
clinging to his mother's legs. His sister Bethie, in all her
seventh grade sagacity, proclaimed that I had issues,
then
marched up to her room, slammed the door and took out her
frustration with me by tearing though a Paganini Caprice on her
violin. All this apocalypse just minutes before leaving for my
meeting, which was to be held over a posh dinner at George's At The
Cove, which I would consequently have no stomach for.

I couldn't wait to get home. The clock's amber
LED read 11:28 when I pulled my Lexus into the cul-de-sac. Pale
beams from a pregnant moon cut through the palm trees that lined
our street. The October breeze rushed into the open window and
through my hair, a cool comfort after a miserable
evening.

If I was lucky, Jenn would be up and at the
computer, working on her latest novel. She'd shooed me out the door
lest I ran late for the meeting, before I could make any more of a
domestic mess for her to clean up.

The garage door came down. I walked over to
the security system control box and found it unarmed. On more than
one occasion, I had asked Jenn to arm it whenever I was out. She
agreed, but complained that the instructions were too complicated.
It came with a pretty lame manual, I had to admit.

The system beeped as I entered the house,
greeted by the sweet scent of Lilac—her favorite candles for those
special occasions. So much more than I deserved, but that was my
Jenn. Never judging, never condemning, she understood how much
stress I'd been under and always prescribed the best remedy for
such situations.

From the foot of the stairs I saw dimmed light
leaking out of the bedroom. It wasn't even date night, but I had a
pretty good idea what she was thinking. So before going up, I
stopped by the kitchen, filled a pair of glasses with Merlot and
set out a little box of chocolates on a breakfast tray—my secret
weapon.

As I climbed the stairs I
smiled. The closer I got, the more I could smell the fragrant
candles. From the crack in the door classical music flowed
out:
Pie Jesu
from Faure's
Requiem.
Must've been writing a love scene. She always
used my classical CDs to set her in the right
mood.

A beam of amber light reached through the
crack in the doorway into the hallway. The alarm system beeped. She
must have shut a window. It had just started to rain and Jenn hated
when the curtains got wet.

Kathleen Battle's angelic voice
soared.

Pie Jesu
Domine
,
Dona eis requiem
,
Requiem sempiternam.

Jenn didn't know a word of Latin. She just
liked the pretty tunes.

I nudged the door open with my
foot.

"Honey?" Caught a glimpse of a silky leg on
the bed. Oh, yes. I pushed the door open.

Shock ignited every nerve ending in my body
like napalm. The tray fell from my hands. Crashed to the ground.
Glasses shattered and the red wine bled darkly onto the
carpet.

Jenn lay partially naked,
face-down, the sheets around her soaked crimson.
 
Stab wounds scored her entire body.
Blood. Blood everywhere!

"Jenn!"

I ran to her, turned her over.

She gasped, trying to speak. Coughed. Red
spittle dripped from the corner of her mouth. "The
kids..."

I took her into my arms. But her eyes begged
me to go check on them.

"You hang on, honey. With all you've got, hang
on!" I reached for my cell phone but it fell out of my belt clip
and bounced under the bed.

On my knees now, I groped wildly until I found
the cell phone. Dialed 9-1-1. Barely remembered what I said, but
they were sending someone right away.

Jenn groaned. Her breaths grew shorter and
shorter.

"Bethie... Aaron."

Her eyes rolled back.

"I'm going. Hang on, baby. Please! You gotta
hang on!" I started for the door. Felt her hand squeeze mine twice:
Love-you.

No.

Tears streamed down my face. As I began to
pull away, she gripped my hand urgently. For that split second, I
knew. This was the end. I stumbled back to her. Gathered her
ragdoll body in to my arms.

"Jenn, oh God, Jenn. Please don't!"

"Whatever it takes," she said.
Again, she squeezed my hand twice. "Mercy, not...sacrifice.” One
last gasp. She sighed and then fell limp in my arms, her eyes still
open.

Holding her tight to my chest, I let out an
anguished cry.