Jim Rubart Trilogy
Author: James L. Rubart
Date: 2011-08-15 04:00:00+00:00
Description: Experience the power and excitement of award-winning author James L. Rubart's first three novels: Rooms, Book of Days, and The Chair. Journey all along the Northwest coast where Rubart weaves tales of mystery, romance, danger, and betrayal that ultimately point us toward the power and love of Christ.
Publisher: B&H Publishing Group

CONTENTS

Rooms

Book of Days

The Chair

PRAISE FOR ROOMS

Rooms is one of the best books I’ve read in the past year. If you like The Shack, I think you’ll like Rooms. If you liked The Shack, I bet you’ll love Rooms. This story got under my skin and it’s going to be there for a long, long time.

—Randy Ingermanson, Christy award-winning author of Oxygen

Two words about Rooms: blown away! It’s been a long time since I read anything this unique and truly creative and even longer since a book held me in such rapt attention during the moments I was reading it—and long after.

—Deborah Raney, author of Almost Forever and the Clayburn novels

If Frank Peretti had written The Shack, you might come close to having a book as great as Rooms. The twists and turns in the book took my breath away, but the most impacting journey was the one that drove me to examine my own soul. A heart-pounding, heart-altering read.

—Tricia Goyer, award-winning author of twenty-one books, including The Swiss Courier

A good book should not only leave the reader satisfied, it should leave the brain buzzing. James L. Rubart’s Rooms does just that. It is the kind of book that is not only read, but talked about long after the last page has been turned.

—Alton Gansky, novelist of Enoch and Certain Jeopardy

Rubart has made his mark with Rooms—a journey of a read, a spiritual adventure . . . a mystical page-turner that will impact your life.

—Tosca Lee, author of Demon: A Memoir and Havah: The Story of Eve

A profound spiritual tale spun with imaginative flair. I’m looking forward to more from Jim Rubart.

—James Scott Bell, best-selling author of Deceived and Try Fear

Rooms is being touted as another great among Christian allegories, such as Dinner with A Perfect Stranger or The Shack. I believe it will be the twenty-first century’s Hind’s Feet on High Places or Pilgrim’s Progress. Following Micah’s journey of discovery is an eye-opening—or perhaps I should say a soul-stirring—experience. As a Christian, I related to Micah’s faith journey, his confusion, doubts, hot one moment and cold the next. But it’s Rubart’s masterful imagination that makes this story so amazing. Rooms is not a chapter-a-night book; it’s a one-sitting read. A thrilling page turner, and a keeper in my permanent library. Rooms is the book I will purchase for Christmas gifts this year because Rooms is a must buy book. Novels Reviews and I give it five stars and our highest recommendation.

—Ane Mulligan, editor of Novel Journey

Rooms haunted me—in a good way, the kind of way that makes me re-ponder a freedom-giving God and the possibility of an unencumbered life. Clever, creative, fresh—Jim Rubart’s storytelling kept me turning pages, and his passion for his protagonist’s fractured heart endeared me.

—Mary E. DeMuth, author of Daisy Chain and A Slow Burn

Fascinating characters, an action-packed plot, and a mansion with secrets of its own provide a winning combination in this complex novel of supernatural awakening. Rooms is a thought-provoking story that stayed with me long after I read the last page.

—Kathryn Cushman, author of Leaving Yesterday

I couldn’t come up with only one word to describe Rooms—riveting, moving, entertaining, engaging, brilliant! A fantastic novel by a talented writer!

—Camy Tang, author of Sushi for One? and Deadly Intent

Rooms is an extraordinary read. It’s a time- and mind-bending exploration of regret and redemption, expertly crafted by a new and talented author. Part The Screwtape Letters, part The Shack, and all James Rubart’s fresh, authoritative voice, Rooms manages to at once entertain and stir thoughts about how our temporal decisions affect us for eternity.”

—Robert Liparulo, best-selling author of Comes a Horseman, Germ, and the Dreamhouse Kings series

I love a book that changes my mind. This book changed my heart. Like Micah’s house, Rooms wooed me into the story until I too walked through the doors of my heart to see long-buried lies and discover freeing truths. Powerful and riveting, Rooms is amazing life-changing fiction.

—Susan May Warren, award-winning, best-selling author of Sons of Thunder

If you’ve ever prayed, “God, take away the scales from my eyes and show me TRUTH . . .” Rooms is not for the faint at heart. It is for the warrior inside all of us that is fighting to know our created being, the one God made for all eternity. It lifts the layers of this life, exposes them for what they are and then leaves us breathless in the knowledge of God’s relentless love. A modern day Pilgrim’s Progress but so much more. Rooms will grip you and challenge you, and then leave you longing for a restored and ransomed heart so that you can be all God created you to be.”

—Jamie Carie, author of Snow Angel, Wind Dancer, Love’s First Light, and Angel’s Den

Rooms, Digital Edition

Based on Print Edition

Copyright © 2010 by James L. Rubart

All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-0-8054-4888-7

Published by B&H Publishing Group,

Nashville, Tennessee

Dewey Decimal Classification: F

Subject Heading: SPIRITUAL LIFE—FICTION \ SOUL—FICTION \ MYSTERY FICTION

Scripture quotations or paraphrases are taken from: the New American Standard Bible®. © Copyright The Lockman Foundation 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995. Used by permission (www.Lockman.org). Also quoted are The Message, the New Testament in Contemporary English, © 1993 by Eugene H. Peterson, published by NavPress, Colorado Springs, Colorado, and the King James Version.

Publisher’s Note: The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

For Darci

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Discussion Questions

What can you ever really know of other people’s souls—of their temptations, their opportunities, their struggles? One soul in the whole creation you do know: and it is the only one whose fate is placed in your hands.

—C. S. Lewis

CHAPTER 1

Why would a man he never knew build him a home on one of the most spectacular beaches on the West Coast?

Micah Taylor stared out the windows of his corner office overlooking Puget Sound, rapping his palm with an edge of the cryptic letter. Cannon Beach, Oregon. Right on the ocean and built by his great-uncle Archie, at least that’s what the letter claimed. But of all the towns up and down Highway 101, why there? A place that repulsed him. A place he cherished. Both at the same time. Fate wouldn’t be that cruel.

Shake it off. There couldn’t really be a house in that spot with his name on it. No way. Not there. This was exactly the kind of practical joke his team might try to pull off. No one would ever accuse RimSoft’s culture of being stoic. If they only knew how badly they’d misfired this time. Micah sighed.

But if the letter was real—

“Time to go, boss.”

Shannon stood in the doorway, eyes bright behind her Versace glasses, short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair outlining her face. She’d been Micah’s administrative assistant for three years. Smart and not easily intimidated, what churned in her five-foot-eight frame made her one of the strongest links in his company’s chain.

“I hate being called boss.” Reminded him too much of his dad.

“Yes, I know.” She pulled her glasses down and gave him her pirate look—one eye closed, the other squinting.

Micah tried to smile and tossed the letter announcing his inheritance onto his desk. Shake it off, he told himself again. It didn’t help.

“You all right?”

“Yeah. Great.” He grabbed his notebook and wagged his finger at Shannon as they walked out of his office. “You shouldn’t call someone boss when you’re almost old enough to be their m—”

“—much older sister.”

“Right,” Micah said as they fell into step and marched down the halls of RimSoft. Normally he loved Fridays. The creativity his team poured out was astounding. If employing people better than yourself were an Olympic event, Micah would be swimming in gold.

But today wasn’t a regular Friday. Today a bizarre letter sat on his desk trying to dredge up memories he’d buried forever.

As they turned the final corner on the way to the conference room, Kelli Kay, one of Micah’s more talented programmers, approached. “Want to hear something really cool?” Her red curls bounced like a Slinky.

“Absolutely.” Micah kept walking—now backward—his Nikes scuffing lightly on the teal carpet.

Single mom until four months ago, Kelli put herself through computer school while working forty hours a week and taking care of her ten-year-old son. Never complained about fifty-hour weeks. Never complained about sixty-hour weeks.

“My kid won that art contest I told you about last week; he’s headed to L.A. this summer to compete in the national—”

“You serious? Listen, if he places, let’s fly him and you and that new husband of yours to New York to see the MET. I’ll bring Julie, and we’ll all go check out the art with him and time it so we catch a Mariners-Yankees game.”

“Really?” Kelli half-jogged to keep up with him.

“RimSoft’s already made $2 million off that little antivirus program you developed last year. You’re amazing.” Micah turned and picked up his pace.

Shannon picked up hers too, her white Adidas running shoes helping in the effort. He couldn’t believe this was the same woman who showed up her first day wearing three-inch heels and a business suit straight out of Uptight Dresses for Corporate America. Micah told her to get rid of the heels and put on whatever she loved wearing and felt comfortable in.

“You could actually stop when you talk to people.”

Micah frowned at Shannon. “We have a meeting. You know, the company? Work to do. Software programs to develop. Lots of sales. Happy stockholders. Make money. All that stuff.” He brushed past a lush, broad-leafed dracaena plant and walked faster.

“You’re not exactly yourself this morning.”

“A lot on my mind.”

“They just want more time with you, Micah, to know you like them.”

“I like everyone. But, to be sure, let’s get out an e-mail that says, ‘From Micah Taylor. To you. I like you. I really, really like you.’ ” He pushed open the conference room door and held it for Shannon. He returned her glare with a forced smile.

The conference room was small but comfortable. No vaulted ceiling, no massive table, just two light tan leather couches and six overstuffed espresso brown chairs all circling the center of the room. RimSoft’s version of Camelot. The room wasn’t designed for ego; it was crafted for efficiency.

The couches held two people each. On one couch sat Micah’s head of Legal, with his jet-black hair and John Lennon glasses. Next to him slumped his VP of Mergers and Acquisitions, thirty-one years old but looked fifty with his premature gray hair. On the other couch perched his VP of Marketing, looking more every day like a young Oprah. Next to her sat his chief financial officer. Two of Micah’s software development VPs sat in the chairs.

Shannon also sat in a chair; Micah paced in front of his.

On a table in the center of the room sat a steaming pot filling the air with the aroma of Seattle’s Best Coffee. Clumped next to it were mugs from Disneyland, the University of Washington Huskies, and cups with RimSoft’s logo on them.

Good. All the pieces were in place. Time to check out the condition of the chessboard.

“All right,” Micah said, a slice above his normal volume. “Let’s roll. Where are we with the i2-Rock alliance?”

“Done,” his Mergers VP said.

“We love their hardware; they still love our software, right?”

“Madly.”

“Excellent, great work.” Micah focused on Oprah’s twin. “Is the ad layout done for Wired?”

“Yep.”

“Last one you did was a home run into the rafters, so let’s keep the hits coming.” He turned to his right. “Beta testing on version four is done, right?”

“Finished Wednesday.”

“Very nice work. I can’t believe you already have it almost bug free.” Micah looked at the head of his legal team. “You’ve finished the docs for the Bay-C buyout?”

“Not quite.” The man glanced up at Micah. “We’re almost there.”

Micah stopped pacing. What was this guy’s problem? Everyone else knew how to fire on all cylinders. He couldn’t afford to have the guy keep playing with his B game.

Micah whipped his pen around on his yellow notepad like a poor man’s Picasso, then held it up for everyone to see. “This is a sketch of underwear. But not just ordinary underwear; it’s asbestos underwear.” He turned to the head of Legal. “You need a pair.”

“Why?”

“Well, you said your team would be done on Tuesday. It’s now Friday. So since it isn’t done, your team falls into the category of ‘liar, liar, pants on fire.’ I would think the asbestos underwear would help squelch the flames a bit.”

The head of Legal squirmed and mumbled, “We’ll get it done by the end of the day.”

“When?”

“End of the day.”

“When?”

“By two o’clock.”

“What comes out of a toaster?”

Legal Guy frowned and shifted in his chair. “Toast?”

“You’re not sure?”

“Toast.”

“Positive?”

“Yes.”

“It’s nine thirty now. What will you be if your docs aren’t finished by noon?”

Legal Guys’s face flushed. “Toast.”

“A little louder please so the whole class can hear.”

“I’ll be toast.”

One of Micah’s team coughed. The rest kept their eyes glued to the agenda.

Micah turned and looked out the conference room windows overlooking Puget Sound. One breath. Two. Wow. Not the way to win friends and influence stock splits. He turned back to his team. “Okay, let’s move on.”

A half hour later Micah glanced at each member of his team. “Thank you. For two things. First, for being good enough at what you do that this company could no doubt survive without me. Second, for not being so good there’s no room left for my input.” He grabbed his notebook and strode toward the door.

Too harsh in there on Mr. Always-Late-Legal? Probably. Micah sighed. Definitely. Where did that stuff come from? He rolled his eyes. Micah knew precisely where it came from. Cannon Beach.

Shannon stepped into the hallway just ahead of him and clipped down the hall like a speed walker.

In two bounds Micah caught up to her. “Hey, slow down.”

She walked faster and didn’t respond.

“You’ve got that Micah-was-a-jerk look again.”

She looked up at him with a thin-lipped smile. “It’s only the first time this year. You’re improving.”

They walked seven paces in silence. “I was trying to make a point with a little humor. That’s not who I really am.”

“Oh?”

Four more paces.

“You’re right; I was a royal, platinum-certified jerk in there,” he whispered. His face grew warm as he fingered the scar on his left palm. “It’s just . . . some realities about life have stuck with me whether I wanted them to or not.”

“So you weren’t this way from birth?”

Not always. Only since he was nine.

He looked down as he gave his head a tiny shake.

“Zero! Zilch! Nada! That’s what you’ll always be, kid!” The rest of the scene—the torn jersey, the humiliation, the message—tried to surface, but Micah slammed the vault to his heart shut and the memory vanished.

By the time he arrived at his office, his breathing steadied and his focus shifted to the letter from his great-uncle that sat on his teak desk. Micah picked it up and flopped into his black leather chair. The yellowed paper was probably white once, though the fluid script looked as crisp as if it had been scrawled yesterday.

The envelope it came in had been sealed with wax, the outline of a lion’s head distinct in the dark-blue paraffin. Micah leaned back and stared at the name above the return address. Archie Taylor. Definitely strange.

Archie was his great-uncle whom he knew less than a paragraph about. He’d been dead since the mid-nineties, and Micah had never met him. Archie had made quite a bit of money and hadn’t married, but the rest had always been a mystery. Until Micah’s late teens, he hadn’t known Archie existed. When Micah had asked, his dad only said Archie was odd, a man to stay away from.

Micah opened the letter and wondered once more if it was real.

September 27, 1990

Dear Micah,

You are likely shocked to have received this letter as we never had the opportunity to know each other. The reason for the letter will surprise you more.

I have asked a friend to mail it when you turn thirty-five or when you acquire enough financial resources that you no longer need to labor. Consequently, if you are reading this letter before reaching your thirty-fifth birthday, you have already made a significant amount of money, which is sometimes a beneficial occurrence at a young age but usually is not.

If my instructions have been carried out, a home was built during the past five months on the Oregon Coast, four miles south of Cannon Beach. I designed it for you. I assume by this point you’ve asked yourself why I would choose to build this house in Cannon Beach of all places.

You likely already know why.

Because it is time to face your past.

It is time to deal with it.

My great desire is that the home brings you resolution and restoration, and if the builder followed my directives, I believe it will. It will certainly—if you’ll forgive the cliché—upset your applecart if you allow it. The home is all you.

Your great-uncle,

Archie

P.S. There should be a key enclosed with this letter as well as a card with the address.

Micah reread the last line and frowned. “The home is all you”? Typo. Must mean all yours. He leaned his head back till it hit the back of his chair. His dad was right. This guy was a whacko.

Face his past? His past was dead. Buried. Forgotten.

And it would stay that way.

||||||||

A noise in the hall made Micah look up. Julie. Good. Back to real life. Julie was the perfect business partner. Tenacious skiing partner. Recent romantic partner.

Her shoulder-length blonde hair bounced as she pranced through the door of his office, her crisp beige suit complementing her gleaming pearly whites.

“Hey!” Micah rose from his desk and opened his arms.

When she reached him, she ruffled his dark brown hair and kissed him softly.

The faint scent of Safari floated up to him. She never wore too much, almost not enough. Julie. Powerful yet tender at times. Driven and radiant. It was nice to have her back.

“How was the trip, Jules?”

“We’re richer, but I’m so glad it’s over.” She slid out of her blazer, flicked a piece of lint off the lapel, laid the coat across the back of Micah’s chair, and patted it once. “I did find the perfect SLR digital camera to add to my collection. You’ll model for me, please? Your baby-blue eyes are worth taking up two or three hundred megs on my laptop.”

When they’d started RimSoft six years ago, he never imagined they’d strike such a rich vein in the software gold rush. Of course, he’d never imagined their long-term platonic relationship would bud into romance, either.

Micah sat down and stared at Archie’s letter. He had to get down there. And if the house existed, get rid of it. Now.

“You with me here?” Julie leaned against Micah’s desk.

“Huh?”

“I asked about Monday’s board meeting, and I think waiting five seconds for a response is long enough.” She laughed.

“Sorry, didn’t hear you. Brain freeze. I got a bizarre letter from a long-lost relative. In fact, this weekend I might have to go—”

Julie pressed two fingers against his lips. “We cannot allow those thoughts to escape.”

“What thoughts?”

“Of nixing our Whistler trip this weekend. You and me and snow and spring skiing and fireplaces and old, old bottles of cabernet. Ring any bells?”

“Hmm.” He grinned, raised his eyebrows, and hoped Julie would understand a change in plans.

“If you’re canceling, you’d better have a really, really good reason.” She straightened the collar of his olive green polo shirt.

“Apparently I’ve inherited a house right on the ocean, just south of Cannon Beach.”

“Cannon Beach?” A scowl flashed across her face. “Didn’t you once tell me you hated Cannon Beach?”

“I used to love it.”

“What? You did?”

“Forget it.” Sorry, Archie. The emotions that stupid letter wanted him to face would never see daylight.

Julie stared at him, but he ignored it.

“Let me see something.” Julie leaned over him as her red fingernails danced over his keyboard until a sampling of Cannon Beach oceanfront homes for sale flashed on-screen. “Take a look at these prices.” She tapped his monitor. “Your little gift could be worth $3 million plus. Throw a sign on it and make some quick cash.”

“Exactly. The quicker the better.”

“That’s why I love you, Micah. Cha-ching. Where did this mystery house come from?”

He picked up the letter and drew it across his hand like a blade. “My great-uncle, whom I’ve never met, had it built for me.”

“You never met him and he gives you a house?”

“Weird, huh?” Micah snapped his fingers. “So this weekend, let’s head for the sand, see if it’s real, and if it is, put a For Sale sign on it and make some money.”

“Instead of Whistler?” Her shoulders sagged.

“You’re right.” He ran his finger over the surface of the letter. “Let’s go skiing.”

“Wow. You really need to get this taken care of, don’t you?”

Julie didn’t wait for an answer. A few seconds later, Google Earth splashed onto Micah’s monitor. “Address?”

Micah read it to her off the letter. In moments they gazed at a patch of dirt overlooking the ocean.

“Not even a pile of concrete,” Julie said.

“Maybe, maybe not.” Micah punched a few keys. “Look. That satellite image is seven months old. Archie’s letter says the home was built by somebody during the past five months.” Micah’s gaze stayed riveted on his screen. “There could be—”

“How ’bout I make you a deal so you can go to the beach, Mr. Break-My-Heart.”

“Hey, it’s not that important for—”

“No, no, stay with me here. I know that look. You have to go. If you switch out our weekend at Whistler for a week in the Alps, we have a deal.”

“Then you’ll come with me this weekend?”

“No.”

“What? I’m not sure I want to do this by myself.”

Julie slid her finger across Micah’s cheek and turned his head toward her. “Something tells me you need to do this alone.”

It would be his first time in Cannon Beach in more than twenty years. And his last. Without question the last.

CHAPTER 2

Too late to head for Cannon Beach to see if the place was real? Probably. Micah walked through his penthouse doorway that evening the moment the numbers on his digital clock snapped from 8:59 to 9:00.

He tapped his phone to get his messages and slumped onto his couch, hoping one would be from his dad—dreading one of them would be from his dad.

“Hello, son,” his dad’s deep voice trundled out from the machine. “Received your call today. No need to call back. The only response for anything having to do with Archie Taylor is to run in the opposite direction. I don’t need to know what the letter says. Burn it and forget it. That’s what I’d do. What I expect you to do.”

Micah sighed. Joy. That’d be a fun call to return.

He got up to pour himself a glass of Diet Coke and stopped on the way to the kitchen in front of a framed picture of Julie and him on the cover of Inc. magazine hanging in the hallway. Their first cover story. A lifetime ago. He kissed his fingers and touched the glass. He’d popped the cork on a bottle of champagne that day. They’d made it.

Too bad the champagne of success seemed to be losing its bubbles.

After getting the Diet Coke, he clicked on his Panasonic big screen and glanced at the wall on either side of it. Blank. Last time Julie was over, they’d had the same conversation they had ten times before about his penthouse’s lack of decor.

“Why don’t you put some art on the walls, Micah? Some paintings? Or pictures? At least something.”

“I don’t have any.”

“Well, buy some, or put up those drawings and paintings you did back in high school and early college. The ones stacked in the closet. They’re pretty decent if you ask me.”

“They’re horrible.” His high school counselor had encouraged him to major in art in college. No way. No money in it. A shot too long to seriously consider. That part of his life was over.

“Then why have you hung on to them for the past twelve years?”

“Yeah, I will. Soon.”

“Which? Toss or hang?”

Micah didn’t reply. He didn’t know the answer.

That was a month ago. He took a sip of his Diet Coke and glanced over at the closet door, cracked open just enough to see the edge of the stack. He still didn’t know the answer.

Micah turned back to the TV and watched ESPN with the mute button on and thought about Cannon Beach. He loved the annual sand castle contest. His brother and he came in second place in the seven-to-eleven age group the year they built the dragon. That was their last trip. Two days after the contest . . . He didn’t let himself finish the thought.

He looked over at The Fellowship of the Ring novel on his end table. He’d been meaning to read it for two years. “I’m taking you with me.”

Saturday morning he rolled out of bed at seven, whipped up a bacon-bits-and-kalamata-olive omelet, and called his dad. Talking to him more than twice a year was too often, but if anyone had a clue why Archie had left him a house, it would be his father.

The phone rang three times. “Taylor residence. Daniel speaking.”

His dad had answered the phone that way for as long as Micah could remember. Sounded like it was straight out of a 1950s textbook on manners. Probably was.

Micah rubbed his forehead. He had to stay focused. Get the info and get off the phone. And try not to loathe the man more when he hung up than when he started.

“Hey, Dad.”

“You’re eating while you’re talking to me, son.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you eating?”

Micah pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. As usual his dad was in fine drive-you-crazy form. “Why does it matter?”

“What are you eating?”

“Just my special scrambled eggs and toast, coffee. Nothing fancy.”

“Get some fruit in your diet, son.”

Micah rubbed the scar on his left hand. “I want to talk to you about Archie’s letter.”

“I thought I explained my position in my message last night.”

“You did.” Micah rubbed his neck. “But I hoped I could get you to—”

“Fine. Read me the letter.”

Micah read it and waited. Three seconds. Five. His dad broke the silence at seven.

“Stay away from Cannon Beach. Why would you consider going back there even for one second?” Micah knew he’d have a reaction to where the house was located. Just as he knew his dad would fail to address the accident in any direct way. And Archie was a character straight out of Looney Tunes. How do you know the letter is real? It’s probably from a competitor trying to distract you.” His dad coughed. “You’ve accomplished a tremendous amount in the business world.”

“Thanks,” he sputtered. It was the first time his dad had mentioned RimSoft’s success. Ever. Micah looked at the Inc. picture of Julie and him on his wall. He’d sent a copy to his dad when it came out. His dad never acknowledged it.

“Also, what makes you think a house is really there? If there is, it’s probably no bigger than an outhouse and doesn’t smell much better. Leave it alone, son.”

His dad rarely called him anything but son, and Micah had grown up longing to hear his name spoken every now and then. “Thanks for the thoughts. I’ll think about ’em.”

“They’re not just thoughts; they are facts. What are you going to do?”

“Think about it!” Micah instantly regretted raising his voice. But every conversation with his dad was like talking to Spock. All he wanted was a little emotion from the man.

“I’ve obviously said too much. I’m not trying to tell you how to run your life. But you asked for my opinion and—”

“I’m sorry. I just want—”

“—I know I’m not good at these . . . um . . . and in the past I’ve done . . . I’m just not . . . You’ll make a good choice, I’m sure.”

Micah hung up and looked out the window of his twenty-first-floor penthouse overlooking Seattle’s Elliott Bay. It was a radiant spring day, the sun in full bloom, casting long morning shadows on the tiny grass park just north of Pike Place Market. A man lay in the center of the emerald carpet. His arms and legs were spread out, as if he’d stopped in the middle of making a snow angel.

The scene sparked a memory of himself when he was seventeen, eyes closed, lying in the center of a park near home.

“Hey, Micah, what are you doing?” a friend from his basketball team had asked, interrupting his daydream.

“Not thinking.” Micah opened his eyes. “Do you ever have so many thoughts of what you have to get done that you want to escape from your own mind?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“I do. Never want to be one of those fame or power players so wiped out from racing through life and trying to keep what they have that they never get a chance to enjoy it. I’m going to enjoy being alive every day.”

“You’re weird, Micah.”

A conversation from another lifetime. Micah opened his eyes as the memory faded. He was a pretty naive kid back then. The life he’d created had perks he never dreamed of. But when you get to the top of Everest and it’s not all that great, what do you climb next?

The guy sprawled out on the lawn was still there, undoubtedly thinking about nothing. Or more likely stoned out of his mind. Whatever the case, the guy wasn’t trying to climb a molehill, let alone a mountain. Micah shook his head and tried to smile.

Resistance is futile. Life changes people. It changed his dad. Turned him into . . . something else.

And it seemed life had turned Micah into Sir Edmund Hillary. Accept it. Twenty minutes later he stood at his front door, black leather Vaqueta briefcase in one hand, a Nike gym bag in the other. Anything else?

Yeah. Grab some sunflower seeds for the trip down to the beach. He set his bags down just inside his front door, then trotted down the hall toward the kitchen. Wait. Something was wrong. Out of place in the hallway. Micah stopped and did a slow spin. Not out of place. Missing.

Where was it? He looked down, expecting to see it lying on the ginger-colored carpet. Nothing.

Waves of heat washed over him. Impossible. He’d glanced at it forty minutes ago while talking to his dad.

The framed Inc. magazine cover on his wall had vanished.

CHAPTER 3

Showtime. Time to find out how fully his great-uncle Archie had abandoned his rocker.

Just after three o’clock Saturday afternoon, Micah took the first Cannon Beach exit, lowered his window, and breathed deep. The tang of the ocean air filled him. In it he tasted gut-wrenching memories and, for reasons he didn’t understand, hope.

The odds of the house being real were zero, but he had to see the dirt. It was the fastest way to get Archie’s letter out of his head. Micah had pulled up the satellite photo once more before leaving Seattle, hoping to answer the question before he left. It still showed the outdated patch of open land where Archie’s house now supposedly sat.

If it did exist, the place would be four miles south of Cannon Beach so he didn’t need to go through town; but since he hadn’t been there in more than twenty years, he wanted to see the changes.

It wasn’t the real reason he pulled off Highway 101.

Part of him desperately wanted a house to be standing at the address on the card. He wanted to believe someone was crazy enough—or maybe cared enough about him—to build him a home on the Oregon Coast. But a bigger part didn’t believe, and driving through town would delay the inevitable disappointment.

He turned onto Main Street, and a few seconds later Osburn’s Ice Creamery filled his vision. Still there! His family used to camp up and down the Oregon Coast every summer. And every trip ended at Osburn’s for two scoops of whatever flavor his brother and he wanted. The two scoops were never sweet enough because they meant a summer of adventures had ended, and the bittersweet taste of fall and a new school year would settle on his tongue during the cheerless drive back to Seattle.

But those drives ended when the accident shattered his life.

South of town he took the winding road fifty feet above the beach. Micah slowed his car to a crawl as he watched seagulls pirouette in the cobalt sky above Haystack Rock. A few minutes later he pulled back onto 101 and swallowed hard. Then again. There was no reason to be nervous. The thought didn’t help.

His GPS showed the house would be just south of Arcadia Beach State Park. As the park came into view, he slowed to five miles per hour, pulled onto the shoulder, and studied the numbers on little posts till he found 34140. He tapped on his brakes and took furtive glances up and down the highway.

Micah’s heart quickened as he turned right and his tires crunched slowly over the gravel driveway. It curved to the right, enough to block a view of where the house might be. A faint briny smell seeped into the car, and as he lowered his window, the roar of a thousand waves filled his ears. He stopped his car before the view in front of him could answer the question pounding through his mind.

“C’mon, God, let something be there. And let it be more than an outhouse.”

The words spilled out before he could stop them. Where did they come from? Prayer wasn’t part of his to-do list. Or at least it hadn’t been for eons. Opening his eyes Micah looked up at the sky and let the prayer linger, watching the thought of it float up into nothingness. Then again, maybe God was still up there, even after all these years.

The pace of his breathing increased. Couldn’t put it off any longer. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead into his eye. He wiped it away and pressed the gas pedal, as if it were a feather.

His car scrunched forward, and a corner of the house appeared. He let out a long, low whistle as more came into view. First glance said it could compete easily with any of the mansions the Vanderbilts had ever constructed. He leaned forward over his dashboard. Whew. Top of the slate roof had to be twenty-five, maybe thirty feet high.

He got out of his car and walked under the awning that led to the front door, pausing to marvel at the flowering gardens on his right and left. They smelled like sunrise. A reflecting pool to his left showed the image of a stone chimney rising up along the east side of the house. The pool flowed out the far end in a cascade of water that rained down on mossy boulders before it settled into a pond dotted with lily pads. Probably filled with koi. Micah shook his head and chuckled.

Two magnificent stone columns ran up on either side of a solid fir door highlighted by a bronze knob that looked ancient and new at the same time. Two nineteenth-century gas lamps framed the polished limestone entrance.

As he slid the key into the lock, a severe case of déjà vu splashed over him. He’d seen this before. In a dream? A picture of a house just like this? Micah shivered as he turned the key.

The feeling intensified as he walked through the front door. He had been here, hadn’t he? No. Not possible. The thing had just been finished. Get a grip.

As he wandered forward, a puff of laughter escaped his lips and he grinned. Amazing. Four towering mahogany windows framed a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean. Huge cedar beams held up a ceiling at least twenty feet high. A fireplace made of river rock dominated the wall to the left. Along the right wall were built-in mahogany bookshelves, ten feet tall.

In front of the windows sat an oversized, overstuffed chair. A lamp next to it would no doubt cast a warm, golden light. An ideal spot to watch the waves.

Archie might have been a loon, but whoever built this place for him nailed it. Micah felt like he’d been coming here his entire life. How did Archie know? He and his great-uncle must have had identical tastes in style.

Micah studied a massive painting of Haystack Rock hanging over the maple fireplace mantle. Influenced by Monet, no question, with maybe a splash of van Gogh. Micah tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Peace seemed to flit about him like a barn swallow. An unexpected emotion. But very welcome.

His cell phone screamed at him, shattering the moment. He grabbed the phone. “What?”

“Wow, excuse me,” Julie said. “I just wanted to see if you were there yet. See if the place is real.”

“Sorry, deep in thought. You startled me. I got here two minutes ago. You should see it, Jules.” Micah spun on his heel. A spiral staircase wound up to what looked like a long upstairs hallway. Of course the staircase would be spiral. He’d always loved them. “It’s stunning and bizarre at the same time. It feels . . . familiar.”

“How can a place you’ve never been to before feel familiar?”

“No idea.” Micah turned and walked back to the picture windows to watch the surf. Could he kayak in it?

“But you like it.”

“Impressive, so far. I’ll take some shots, show it to you next week.”

“You mean day after tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah.” Micah hesitated. “Monday.”

After hanging up, he padded past the overstuffed chair that faced the window and thumped the armrest. “I’ll be back to you in a moment.”

French doors led to a massive deck above the beach. He swung them open, and the pungent ocean air rushed at him. He watched the waves pound out their mesmerizing pattern, and amid the roar of the water he listened to the solitude.

If only the waves could heal instead of stir up the past.

Yin and yang. He loved being here. He hated being here.

He closed his eyes and let the wind—which couldn’t figure out which way it wanted to blow—joust his face and hair before he stepped back inside and kept his date with the leather chair.

He propped his feet up on the ottoman and did nothing. Forced himself to think nothing. Looked at nothing but what was straight ahead. When the horizon faded to black, he was still in the same position. He believed people called this relaxing. He used to do it, eons ago, before RimSoft started sucking every minute of his time.

A few more minutes and he’d get up and explore the house, at least find the master bedroom. But that intent sank into the chair along with his last moments of conscious thought.

||||||||

Micah woke the next morning still in the leather chair. Remembering where he was took a few seconds, but the stunning ocean view that greeted his half-open eyes did wonders for his memory. He spent the night in the chair? How could he fall asleep before seeing the rest of the house? Time for a self-guided tour.

The rest of house didn’t disappoint with its fully stocked kitchen, complete with an indoor grill and subzero freezer and granite countertops.

Game room with foosball, pool table, and darts.

Colossal media room with maroon movie theater chairs and a screen at least eight feet by five.

A study with dark built-in bookshelves, wireless router, and a teak desk.

The guest bedrooms were themed, one with sports, one for thrill seekers, and one for history buffs. This place just kept getting better. Just like the living room, the home was how Micah would have built it.

He reached the master bedroom, and his palms started sweating. The entire house was exactly as he would have done it. It was laid out as if someone had been inside his head and picked his favorite colors and styles and dropped them perfectly into place.

His dream home, straight out of his dreams.

He didn’t like the idea of someone he had never met knowing his tastes with this much precision. His mind spun. The construction had to cost millions, let alone the cost of the land. Add the home’s contents and it was probably one of the more expensive homes on the Oregon Coast.

Why spend that kind of money? And build it for anyone, let alone him? It didn’t compute. Micah returned to the main floor, walked out on the deck, and looked up at the house. Rough guess, it was nine thousand square feet. And it was his. Unbelievable.

That was the problem. The home was not believable. There had to be strings. They had to be attached somewhere.

Good thing he wouldn’t be around to find out.

Micah glanced out over the ocean. He was going to sell the place. As soon as possible.

His stomach growled and he glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock. He walked back inside and grabbed his keys off the granite countertop with the intention of heading to town. Just before stepping outside, he stopped himself. A door at the end of one of the ground-floor hallways was slightly open, a shaft of bright light spilling out of the room onto the carpet.

A feeling washed over him. The feeling of a string about to be pulled.

CHAPTER 4

The door hadn’t been there the day before. Had it? Micah pushed his front door closed with a soft click, never taking his eyes off the one at the end of the hall.

He’d done a full tour of this part of the home the day before and didn’t remember a room even being there, let alone leaving a light on. He hung his leather coat on an oak peg near the staircase, then eased down the hall toward the open door.

He pushed it open the rest of the way with two fingers and peeked inside. It was well lit. Too well lit; so bright he had to squint. At least twenty spotlights drilled down on a variety of magazine covers sitting on glass pedestals. Other pedestals held plaques; still others had laminated newspaper articles on top of them. Even before Micah’s eyes adjusted enough to see clearly, he knew what the room was.

How could—? He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, he half expected the room to be gone.

It was a shrine to his meteoric rise in the world of software. Micah and Julie were on the cover of each magazine displayed: Forbes, BusinessWeek, Wired, Fast Company, and more, as well as newspaper articles from The Wall Street Journal, USA Today, and The New York Times.

The plaques were awards RimSoft had won, from their first up to an award from last month. Whoever collected them hadn’t missed a thing. Micah shook his head.

Wow.

Weird.

He gazed at the walls filled with photos of Julie and himself, pictures from the earliest days of the company up to the present, just the two of them along with movie stars, athletes, and leaders in the world of software.

It must have taken months to dig all this up.

As Micah contemplated how they’d done it, he noticed a small door at the back of the room, only open an inch or two. He walked over to it and pushed, but it scraped to a halt after a foot and a half. He leaned his shoulder into it, and the hinges squealed in protest but opened enough for him to enter. For a new house this door was decidedly out of place.

The room was dim, and Micah couldn’t find a light switch, but his eyes slowly adjusted from the glare of the room he’d just left. The only light came from an oil lamp sitting on an oak nightstand in a corner.

More oil lamps circled the room, all sitting on oak stands, all unlit. Their charred wicks were evidence they’d burned once, but all were now out of oil. He turned back to the still-burning lamp. Next to it rested a Bible covered in a fine layer of dust. Beside the Bible were two pictures. Micah was in both of them.

In the first picture five kids and he handed out egg salad sandwiches at Seattle’s Union Gospel Mission. In the second his arm was around his best friend from high school youth group. Micah smirked. He was really into religion back then.

Almost against his will, he approached another lamp stand. On it was a sheet of paper. He held it up and squinted at it in the dim light.

Micah gasped. Impossible. Where would Archie have found it? It was a flyer for a concert—the concert—the one he’d gone to on a whim. The one where he’d decided to follow God.

Sweat covered his palms. This was beyond strange. It was bizarre.

There’s no way Archie’s builders could have gotten that flyer.

The pulse in his neck beat double time. He’d never understood people who had panic attacks. How could they go from feeling normal to expecting their body would explode any second? Now he knew.

He slowed his breathing. No help. Goose bumps broke out on his skin.

Archie wanted to highlight his career? Fine. Nice display. But the other room? Why dig so deep into his past? Who cares?

Archie. The words in his letter rang in Micah’s head. “Time to face your past. It is time to deal with it.”

He rubbed the scar on his hand and made himself breathe slower. Pulling up long-dead memories that were none of anyone’s business. Why go to this much trouble to weird him out?

His body yelled run, and his mind joined the chorus. But where? Out onto the beach? The highway? Nothing was attacking him. Nothing was after him. So why was he trembling?

Get control!

He ground his teeth as he forced himself out into the hallway. He closed the door, and Micah stared at the knob as if the door might open and suck him back in. Make him face—no!

His breathing calmed but his hands still shook. He shoved them into his pockets. It helped. Slightly.

What was wrong with him?

Micah jogged into his living room and burst through the French doors onto the deck. As the ocean wind whipped through his hair, his dad’s comment about the precarious condition of Archie’s sanity came back to him. Which meant one of two things to his father—either Archie was consumed with God, or he had never made any money. The building of the house ruled out the latter, so Micah assumed Archie was, in his dad’s words, a Jesus-freak.

His dad believed all Christians had a serious crack in their psyche. He wasn’t vindictive about it. To Daniel Taylor it was fact. When Micah started following Jesus during his sophomore year of high school, his dad wanted to send him to a psychiatrist. In the end they agreed to make it a taboo subject, which pushed them even further apart if that was possible.

During college the world of software captured him, and the whole God-thing had faded. It wasn’t overt, just a slow slide onto the back burner of his life and then off the back of the stove to sit with the dust and grease spots where Micah didn’t miss it.

But obviously not missed by everyone. Archie had built two shrines. One to Micah’s worldly success, one to his God-stuff past. God was fine at one time. But that time was over. Whoever pulled off this stunt for Archie had stepped over the line. Micah grabbed one of the Adirondack chairs on his deck and tossed it against the railing. The idea of someone digging up his ancient history felt like someone had broken into his mind.

Micah stumbled down his deck stairs till his feet thudded onto the wet sand. He plopped down on a battered rain-soaked log, not caring about the dampness seeping through his pants.

In his mind he slapped a roll of crime-scene tape across the door of the shrine room. He’d slaved to create his software empire. He wasn’t going to let some crazy great-uncle slam him for it.

That night he had a double bacon cheeseburger at Bill’s Tavern & Brewhouse. Afterward he drove up to Astoria and plunked down money for a raunchy comedy he almost walked out on. Just like he’d done in Seattle the week before.

Why did he watch those things? He always felt like he wanted to take a shower afterward. Simple answer. They were the best way he’d found to keep from thinking—about the past, about the ever-pressurized world of software, and at the moment, the two rooms in Archie’s house. Both screaming at him. One screaming louder than the other.

He woke Monday morning as gray gave over to the light of day. Only a few lazy clouds hung over the ocean. Micah walked out to sit on his deck but his feet kept moving, and shortly the waves sent ice pricks into his feet and ankles. He stared at the ocean, and it stared back with no expectations, no pressure, no stress from frantic employees or clients pounding on his brain. Heaven.

So what if Archie was a little eccentric and had given him a blatant message from beyond the grave? He’d junk the stuff in both rooms, keep the door shut, and let the questions they asked die a quick death.

He turned back to Archie’s gift. A thread of light pushed over the mountain ridge to the east and lit up the top of his roof like gold. He faced the ocean and drew in its pungent smell. This had been his favorite place in the world before his mom died. Before his sand-castle world was washed away with one massive wave.

Maybe part of him did belong here.

No, it didn’t. Sorry, Archie. The past will stay there.

No question. He’d sell the place.

He strode through saltwater swirling around his ankles back toward the stunning house.

But maybe not right away.

After breakfast Micah pulled onto Highway 101 and headed for Seattle. Traffic was light and he made good time, even with the rain that pelted down as soon as he hit Olympia. In less than four hours he crossed the Seattle city limits; twenty-two minutes later his tires squealed as he pulled into his parking spot in his condo garage. He’d take a quick shower, then head for the office.

Micah pulled out his cell phone to record his mileage, a habit held over from the early days of RimSoft. Eat Top Ramen six days a week, never turn on a light unless forced to, and record everything possible for write-offs on the ol’ tax return.

He squinted at his odometer and looked back at the file on his cell. Strange. Didn’t seem right. Micah did a quick calculation in his head. It couldn’t be. Again he looked at the odometer and the total on his cell phone. Too weird. One of the two machines was wrong. Had to be.

Or he’d just driven 16,341 miles in the past two days.

CHAPTER 5

Isn’t this energizing?” Micah asked Shannon on Tuesday morning. “Seeing all these people streaming through the doors, ready to conquer new worlds?”

She stood next to him in RimSoft’s foyer, her ever-present notepad and minicalendar in hand. He’d bought her an iPhone the previous Christmas, but she’d never taken it out of the box. They watched the lobby become a river of workers.

“Energizing? Not really. Does it energize you?”

He hesitated. “Most of the time it still does.”

Shannon stared at him. “Most of the time?”

“Life at the speed of light, three thousand miles wide, a millimeter deep.”

“You’re not getting philosophical on me, are you?”

He ignored the question. Micah spotted Brad, his racquetball partner, across the lobby. Brad’s crew cut and horn-rimmed glasses made him look like a blond Buddy Holly, but he played racquetball like the Tasmanian devil.

“Hey, Bradley, get over here.”

Brad sauntered over. “You want another beating like last month, huh?”

“What? Can you say delusional? I can, and you should. I took you down three of the four games last Wednesday, the fourth game fifteen to zee-row. Memory okay, my friend?”

A few people chuckled as Brad came to a stop in front of Micah. “Nice try, boss man. Maybe in your dreams. It’s been a month since we played. I admit, you sliced and diced me the first game but lost the next three straight. Would’ve been four if we’d played another.”

“Ignoring the fact you were beat like a rug won’t change history. After that session last week, I even had to go to the bone crusher to straighten my spine. Remember?”

Brad’s grin drained from his face. “We didn’t play last week.” He blinked.

“You okay, buddy? Of course we played.”

“No, I was in San Fran last week. The whole week.”

“So, your twin stood in?” Micah laughed. “That’s your excuse for losing!”

Brad reached into his briefcase and pawed through it. He pulled out a rumpled piece of paper and held it at his side. “Tell me you’re kidding, Micah.”

“About?”

Brad held up the paper. It was an Alaska Airlines itinerary. “Take a look at my flights. What’s the first date?”

“April 6.”

“And the second?”

“April 10.”

“So blow my brains out and tell me how we played racquetball on Wednesday, April 7, if I was in San Francisco?”

Micah stared at the paper.

“CAT scans are amazing these days. Check it out maybe?” Brad tapped his head. “When you’re stressing, the memory always goes first. I’ll beat you again Friday morning if you’re free.”

A shiver sprinted down Micah’s spine. He stared at Brad, then Shannon.

“Micah, want to play?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Micah turned to Shannon. “Am I open?”

“Let me look . . . yes.”

He flashed a thumbs-up as Brad walked away. “Shannon, what did I do last Wednesday?”

She licked her finger and pawed through her calendar. “Conference call at nine, a quick meeting with the bank at ten fifteen, then you got ready for an afternoon board meeting.”

“No racquetball?”

She studied her calendar and smirked.

“You find this amusing?”

“Only a little.” She spun toward him. “You have to admit, Mr. Never-Miss-A-Beat, Always-In-Control, missing a beat and being out of control is slightly comical.”

“Hilarious. But that’s the point. I don’t ever miss a beat. There’s not a sliver of doubt in my mind that Brad and I played racquetball last Wednesday. But apparently my memory is the only one in which it exists. That’s more than missing a beat.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to take a day off.” She adjusted her glasses.

“I just did take a day off. Last weekend. Cannon Beach?”

“Oh yes, that’s right.” Shannon grinned. “Did it help?”

Micah glared at her. They walked toward the elevators, their tennis shoes squeaking on the polished faux marble floor.

“So tell me about the place at the beach. Like it? Don’t like it? Somewhere in between?”

“I like it slightly more than I hate it.” He punched the button for the top floor.

“That makes no sense.”

“No question about that.”

Shannon tapped her lip with her forefinger. “Julie tells me you’re going to sell it.”

“Yep.”

“You want me to find a real estate ag—?”

“Nope.”

“So you really don’t want to sell it.”

He watched the elevator numbers light up from 16 to 17 to 18. “I do want to sell it. But I need to get a better feel for the area first, get a feel for what it would go for.”

“Isn’t that what an agent does?”

Of course it was. It wasn’t rational, his wanting to go back down. But something about the house felt so . . . He couldn’t name the emotion.

“Do me a favor okay? The next four Fridays, can you clear my schedule?”

“Interesting.” She raised an eyebrow. “You do like this place.”

“No.” Micah looked at the ceiling. “I’m intrigued.”

He walked into his office and pulled up his appointment calendar on his computer. He stared at it for more than a minute as a thin layer of perspiration grew on his forehead. He swallowed twice and kept his eyes riveted on the screen. But it didn’t matter how long he stared.

The racquetball games he knew he’d played with Brad had vanished.

||||||||

Two hours later Micah stood at his office windows and studied the ferryboats chugging across Puget Sound’s dark green waters. The same ocean lapped at the sand at Cannon Beach. Thoughts filled his mind of snow-white sand dollars, sand squeaking under his shoes, and those massive picture windows perfectly framing the surf.

If only Archie could have built the house in Lincoln City or Newport. Then he’d keep the place forever.

But he didn’t need Cannon Beach reminding him of the day that ripped his life apart every time he stepped onto the sand.

Shannon stood in his doorway. “Julie’s meeting starts in five minutes.”

“What?” Micah blinked and spun toward her.

“Welcome back to Earth.” Shannon pointed down the hall. “Julie’s meeting.”

“Right.” He left his office and met Julie at the conference room door. “You ready?”

Julie smiled. “Completely.”

For the first few minutes of her marketing presentation to their board of directors, Micah listened intently. But as Julie moved into the breakdown of their ad budget, his mind wandered. Three minutes later a sketch of his house at Cannon Beach and the surrounding mountains appeared under the rapid movement of his mechanical pencil.

“. . . and RimSoft’s logo will get an overhaul . . .” Julie’s voice droned.

Need to put a sand castle in there. A few more turrets on it. Perfect. Maybe a few kites in the sky. That’s an idea. He should buy one of those high-tech stunt kites. What a kick to learn to fly—

“Micah?” Julie’s voice cut through his moment of admiration. She and the board stared at him. “You with me here, partner?”

The lead at the tip of his pencil snapped off as he looked up. “Yeah. Sorry.” He set his pencil down and folded his arms. Resist. Julie needs the support. He glanced down at the sketch. It begged for a golden retriever. As Julie turned to her left to answer a question, Micah picked up his pencil and clicked twice. The lead leaped out as if at attention, ready for orders. Micah stopped drawing the instant Julie finished giving her reply.

When the presentation was over, he mouthed, “Nice job” to Julie, who shook hands with board members. She frowned at him.

As he strode out the door, his stomach alarm clock went off, and he shut it off with a Diet Coke and a turkey sandwich—extra mayo—from the company deli. When he got back to his office, Julie was leaning against his desk, arms crossed.

“I know you like doodling sketches when you’re in meetings, but this time was a little much. I think you caught two minutes of my presentation, max. Was your mental sabbatical to anyplace interesting?”

Micah ripped his drawing from his notepad and held it up. “Hmm?”

In the foreground was the ocean, then the beach with two sand castles, a stunt kite, and a golden retriever leaping for a piece of driftwood spinning through the air. His home was the focal point of the drawing, framed by trees on both sides, the picture windows in perfect proportion. Smoke curled out of the chimney.

“I take it that’ll be part of the brochure to get the thing sold?” Julie pulled her arms in tighter and leaned back.

“Hadn’t considered that. Yeah, maybe.”

“Don’t tell me you’re starting to like the place.”

“No way.” He stared at his drawing. He couldn’t keep his mind off Archie’s house. It drew him like a magnet. Yes, Cannon Beach was laced with razor-sharp pain from his past. But now, in some strange way, it filled him with anticipation. And that weird familiar feeling in the house continued to pull at him.

“I need to ask you something.” Micah laid the drawing on his desk and smoothed it out with both hands. “I want to make the next three or four weekends long ones and hang out down there. Be all right with you?”

“Wow.” Julie tried to laugh. “I’ve been ditched for another woman before but never a house.”

“Come with me.” He kissed her on the cheek.

“Do you want me to?”

“Sure. Yes.” Micah turned back to his drawing. “Of course.”

She shook her head. “Nope, sorry.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you. You want to be there.” Julie walked over to Micah’s windows and tapped on the glass. “But you don’t want me to be there with you.”

Micah coughed out a laugh. “I just said come with me.”

“‘Come with me’ is very different from saying ‘I want you to come.’ ”

Micah slumped into his chair. “Do we have to play the semantics game every time we talk? It’s exhausting.” He leaned forward and waited for her to answer. She didn’t.

“Fine. I want you to come.”

“Why do you let things come out of your mouth that your eyes tell me are a lie?”

Micah snatched his cedar letter opener off his desk and tore into the pile of envelopes sitting next to his laptop. “I thought you said you didn’t like the ocean.”

“I don’t, but I still wanted to see what you’d say.”

Micah slapped the letter opener down on his desk. “Do you think you could serve me up a nice slice of guilt pie with that side of manipulation?”

“You don’t get it, do you, Micah?”

He sighed. “What do you want from me?”

“You really want to know?” Julie leaned in till their faces were inches apart.

“Yes.”

“A decision. Take your next three or four weekends, fine. But when they’re over, you’d better be able to tell me if there’s a ring in my near future.”

CHAPTER 6

Freedom. Sweet freedom. Micah walked out of his office Thursday evening at six thirty and took a deep breath. Free of having to give Julie an answer he wasn’t ready to give, free of the grind. He used to love the rush of RimSoft—seventy-hour workweeks were never a problem. Were, past tense. He could get used to a forty-hour workweek.

Plus it would feel good to get away from what had become Seattle’s version of Bizarro World. The missing racquetball game and the cross-country trip his car took by itself gnawed at his mind like a gopher on steroids. Not to mention the framed Inc. cover that decided to do a Houdini vanishing act. Wait. Houdini was the escape artist. Perfect. That’s exactly what Micah would do. In the morning, when he woke up to the roar of the ocean, his escape from the unexplained weirdness in Seattle would be complete.

There was no plan for the weekend. His Seattle life was so scheduled and under such control, having no agenda unsettled him for a moment. But as his car chewed up the miles with Jack Johnson’s soothing guitar and vocals purring in the background, he allowed himself not to know what the next three days would bring.

When he reached Astoria, he shot up a quick prayer. Couldn’t hurt. The first two times it stuck in his throat. The third he said, “God, I don’t know if You hear me anymore. But this house . . . it draws me. It scares me. Both at the same time. Can You explain why Archie built the place there? Plus the strange stuff going on in Seattle . . . I . . .”

He didn’t know what else to say. “I hope You know what I’m trying to tell You. Amen.”

God was silent, but Micah had expected Him to be, so it was all right.

When Micah arrived, he set down his bags and went straight to the master bedroom and crashed. He didn’t move again till just after seven the next morning.

As he sipped a cup of dark roast coffee from his French press, he watched seagulls dive through the air like Star Wars tie fighters. To fly. What a rush that would be. The thought gave him sudden inspiration. Running. Back in high school he’d flown, running the eight hundred meters faster than anyone in his school ever had. His senior season he finished first in state, which the paper deemed extraordinary since it was only his second time to compete in the event.

But it didn’t impress his dad. Not even when KING 5 TV did a feature story on Micah. His dad didn’t watch when the piece aired.

He hadn’t run consistently for years, not from lack of desire but lack of time. Now, at least for two days, he had an abundance.

He threw on a Windbreaker and headed south toward Hug Point. He’d discovered the spot on the Internet the week before. The tide in front of the point never got low enough to allow people to walk around it on the sand. In the late 1800s settlers working their way up the coast solved the problem by blasting out a massive section of the rock that jutted into the ocean. They paved it with concrete, smooth enough for their wagons, and for the first time they could bring supplies as far north as Cannon Beach.

The road was still there and could be walked on. But only at low tide. The rest of the day waves crashed onto the ledge and caught uninformed tourists in a saltwater bath.

Micah wanted to see the pieces of concrete the sea hadn’t yet claimed, and according to the Internet, there were caves and a waterfall worth seeing just past the remnants of the old road.

In less than thirty minutes, he reached Hug Point State Park. He imagined kids playing in the waterfall or in the three caves during the summer. Perfect for families. Not today. It was a dreary April morning that had reserved the entire beach for Micah.

Or so he thought.

An unexpected burst from above sent rain pelting down so hard he headed for shelter in the biggest of the Hug Point caves.

The cave softened the crash of the surf, and the rain offered no noise to prove its existence. It felt like someone had muted the world. Micah saw no movement from his vantage point. He could be the only one left on Earth, and he wouldn’t know it.

The cave walls were almost black and slick with moisture. A crack ran along the ceiling, widening as it zigzagged toward the back wall. Nothing to worry about. It would take an earthquake to make this thing collapse. Micah took two steps toward the entrance.

Ten seconds later a man in a baseball hat, blue sweatshirt, and black workout shorts half ran, half walked toward him.

“Wow!” The man yanked off his St. Louis Rams cap and threw the rain from it onto the sand. “Makes me think of the ark.” He turned to Micah with a huge smile. “Rick.” The man extended his hand.

Micah fixed his gaze on Rick’s eyes. A shifting shade of sea green, they were intense and gentle at the same time. He was a bit taller than Micah, maybe six foot two, with thick hair the color of sandstone just starting to go gray. Micah liked him immediately.

He introduced himself and shook Rick’s hand. After they both commented on the forecast for the next few days, Micah asked Rick if he was a local.

“Lived here for a little over a year.”

“What do you do?”

“Oh, take walks on the beach, read good books, love watching old movies on rainy Saturday nights. And I still run or mountain bike three times a week, even at my age.” Rick stood up straight and pulled his sweatshirt tight against his stomach and smacked it twice with his palm. “Have to fight to keep this thing under control.”

Rick didn’t look like he was rolling in cash and couldn’t be much past fifty. “You’re retired?”

“No, still gotta work for another decade at least. I own the gas station in town. Mostly I bang away on the cars in back while the kids out front pump the gas. We’re one of the few stations that still actually work on folks’ cars. But I get out front every now and then to squeeze out a gallon or two of the octane. Can’t pump your own fuel in Oregon. Gives me a chance to see friends and meet the tourists.” He squinted at Micah. “You haven’t been gassing up in Seaside, have you?” His eyebrows furrowed in a deep, mock frown.

Micah chuckled. “Not anymore.” He glanced at Rick, then turned back to the sheets of rain sweeping over the waves. “Um, when I asked you what you did, I meant . . .” He stopped. It was obvious Rick knew exactly what he’d meant.

Rick dug a trench in the sand with his shoe. “Pretty sad that we define each other by what we do to put bread on the table rather than what makes us come alive.”

Come alive? What was that supposed to mean? It sounded like a line from one of those self-help gurus he was always being subjected to at national software conventions. Micah was silent as the rain continued to hammer the sand in front of the cave. Good thing Rick didn’t ask what made him come alive.

How would he answer the question? No idea. In that moment he realized something inside was very, very dead.

Rick broke the silence first. “So you here on vacation or a new resident?”

“Neither. I inherited a house. I’m kinda blown away. Nine thousand square feet, right on the ocean. I’m here to check it out, check out the area, then get the thing on the market. Should get some decent coin for it.”

“You don’t like it?”

“Love it.” Micah coughed. Where did that come from? He’d never even admitted it to himself.

“But you’re selling it?”

Micah wiped the combined sweat and rain off his forehead. “Probably going to. Haven’t made the final decision yet.”

“Ah.” Rick took off his Windbreaker and tied it around his waist. “It’s a wonderful house.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“If I’m thinking of the right one, I watched it being built. Just a few houses south of Arcadia Beach State Park, right? Finished a month or so ago?”

“That’s the one.”

Rick smiled without a hint of jealousy. Intriguing. Micah had gotten used to those around him smiling on the outside while the green monster of envy inside them snapped at his money and fame.

“I’ve looked forward to meeting the owner.” Rick smiled his massive grin again, his eyes almost disappearing. “Small-town ocean life agreeing with you so far?”

“It’s turned out better than I thought it would.” Micah rubbed his cold arms and gazed at the surf. “Even with this kind of weather.”

Rick nodded. “There’s a saying around here about the beach:

Where ocean breezes storm the soul,

Where love of strife grows quickly old,

Where the touch of God is beheld in power,

Where the spirit finds rest, in its darkest hour.”

Micah wasn’t into poetry, but that one struck a nerve. Rest. Simple word. So elusive. And his hours? They certainly seemed to be moving his spirit toward darkness, thanks to Uncle A.

Silence.

He looked at Rick out of the corner of his eye. There was an intimidating confidence about him, and Micah was never intimidated. He easily spotted people’s insecurities hidden under their posing and posturing. Most of the CEOs he dealt with, no matter their age, were scared little boys inside who covered themselves with a false confidence. Rick? His self-assurance was genuine.

Three minutes later the rain stopped. Rick shook Micah’s hand, said good-bye, and ambled down the beach. Micah walked five paces in the opposite direction before he turned back.

“Hey, Rick! I’ve got a car mystery for you. Mine gained sixteen thousand miles overnight. That possible without someone messing with it manually?”

Rick’s eyes shifted from playful to serious. Intense. A moment later they shifted back. “It’s rare, but yes, I’ve seen it happen.”

“What’s the cause? Bad odometer?”

“A much deeper issue than that.” Rick turned to walk away. “Maybe we’ll bump into each other again, and I’ll have a chance to explain it.”

CHAPTER 7

Micah arrived at RimSoft early Monday morning with Rick’s enigmatic response still swirling through his mind. Deeper issues? With a car? Explain it when? Maybe next weekend he’d try to find Rick’s station and get an answer.

Micah pushed the mystery out of his mind for the moment and booted up his computer. Getting to work at five o’clock meant he could get a majority of his work for the week finished before the inevitable fires started.

By the time Shannon arrived at eight, he’d plowed through all of his work slated for Monday and Tuesday.

He stretched, stood, and strolled over to his window to watch gray clouds roll in, painting a dreary ceiling for the ferryboats chugging across Puget Sound.

He returned to his desk. Next on his to-do list: Call Rafi Cushman about the phone system. After twenty seconds of listening to an instrumental song that should have been shot, Rafi came on the line.

“Hi, Rafi, Micah Taylor. Wanted to follow up on our talk at J. B. Olson’s party two weeks back.”

“Uh, I remember John having a party, but I don’t remember meeting you, Micah. I mean, I know who you are, of course, but—”

“We talked about both graduating from UDub the same year. And we both played Les Paul guitars back in high school.” Micah whistled inwardly. Did the guy want RimSoft’s business or not? He should have had Shannon call him. This was a waste of time.

“Wow, sorry, it’s just not clicking for me. You’re sure it was me?”

“You probably met a lot of people. I just wanted to see your proposal for a new phone system.”

“Sure, I’d love to develop a plan for you.”

Micah wrapped up the conversation and shook his head. Unbelievable. The guy couldn’t remember a conversation from two weeks ago that could result in a sizable account. Must have been drunk.

By the time six o’clock rolled around on Wednesday evening, the week was wrapped, delivered, and under control, so he left for the beach a day early.

||||||||

Thursday the sound of the surf woke him at seven-thirty. He rolled out of bed, grabbed coffee, and took a long look at the waves as they tossed milk-bubble foam up on the beach.

After firing up his laptop and checking RimSoft’s stock price, he pulled up his e-mail and breezed through fifty of them in half an hour. Then he answered Julie’s three e-mails. Done in two minutes. He probably should have taken more time, but he signed each one with “I love you.” He hoped that would be enough but knew it wasn’t.

After checking ESPN for anything interesting, Micah headed into town for groceries. He glanced at his fuel gage. Almost empty. Perfect excuse to stop by Rick’s gas station to pick up on last week’s conversation.

Rick’s Gas & Garage stood out in forest green letters on top of a building that looked its age, even with the fresh coat of paint, which tried in vain to hide decades of soggy Oregon Coast winters.

He got out of his BMW and watched a towheaded kid, who couldn’t have been over five foot two, pump his gas.

Micah wandered into the garage and found Rick underneath a late-model Lexus. Before he could say hello, Rick rolled out from under it and announced to the vehicle in his deep baritone, “Done with you forever.”

Micah started to reintroduce himself. “Hey, Rick, we met last—”

“Great surprise to see you, Micah!” Rick sat up with a grin. “What are you doing right now?”

“Right now?”

“Yep, right now.” Rick yanked a clean rag from his back pocket and wiped the oil from his hands.

“Grocery shopping.”

“Starting or finishing?”

“Finished.”

“Excellent.” Rick waved his thumb at the Lexus. “Now that I’ve got this emergency handled, I gotta make a quick trip into Seaside. Wanna come?”

“Well, I, uh . . .” Micah almost laughed.

“Sorry, gotta go now. You coming or not?”

Rick’s piercing eyes were hard to resist. Plus it was a chance to ask about deep odometer issues. “Why not.”

“Terrific.” Rick finished cleaning his hands and strode out of the garage, hardly looking as he tossed the rag twenty feet through the air into a large, rusty drum filled with oil-covered cloths. When he reached his ’89 Ford, he gestured toward it. “It’s not luxury like yours, but I guarantee it won’t break down.”

As they pulled out, Rick called to the gas-pumping kid. “Devin! You’ll let the Petersons know their Lexus is ready? And if Micah’s keys are in his ignition, could you move his car away from the pump?”

Devin flashed a grimy, grease-covered thumbs-up.

Micah opened his eyes wide.

Rick winked. “Don’t worry; he’ll clean up a bit first.”

As they pulled onto Highway 101 and headed north, Rick said, “So is romance a part of Micah Taylor’s life these days?”

Too big of a part. Too much complication. Too many questions with no answers. Why did Julie have to put the full-court press on him? He loved her. She loved him. Couldn’t it stay that simple for a while longer?

“Yeah.”

“Care to expand on that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sorry if I hit a nerve.”

Micah rapped his knuckles on his knee. “Been going out for a year, been business partners for six. Great business partner.”

“You see a long-term future together?”

Wow. The guy didn’t mind going for the throat à la Barbara Walters. “Not sure. I was handed an ultimatum ten days ago. She wants a ring.”

“Do you want to give her one?”

“I love her.”

Rick adjusted his Rams hat. “That’s not what I asked.”

“I’m not sure.” Micah shifted in his seat. “That’s a lie. I am sure. I’m positive I’m not even close to ring-ready. I want to be. Part of me, at least.” Micah loosened his seat belt. “I should be ready. But the idea of getting engaged makes me . . .”

Micah stared at the yellow lines in the middle of the road as they zipped under Rick’s truck. Strange. He barely knew the guy, yet here he was spilling out his Julie problems all over the front seat of Rick’s Ford.

“‘I feel as if I’m in a room screaming and no one even looks up,’” Rick said.

“What?”

“It’s from Titanic. Kate Winslet describing her life before Leonardo DiCaprio frees her. You feel like Rose?”

Micah turned toward the passenger-side window. He wasn’t ready to spill everything. He turned back to Rick. “Pretty good quote. Where’d you come up with it?”

“I’m a bit of a movie-trivia buff.”

“Really. Want to take me on?”

“Absolutely.” Rick grinned. “Ready?”

“What decade should we focus on?”

“How ’bout the one you were born in?”

“Fine.” Micah nodded.

“Top-grossing movie of ’86, and you’re only getting one clue.”

“I don’t need one, Maverick.”

Rick burst out laughing. “Impressive! All right, name two movies Tom Cruise made before Top Gun sent him into the stardom stratosphere.”

Micah tapped his forehead in mock concentration. “Wait, wait. How ’bout The Outsiders and All the Right Moves.”

“Not bad.”

Micah volleyed back. “Staying on the same path, name at least three actors or actresses in The Outsiders who went on to stardom other than Cruise.”

Rick turned left into the parking lot of an auto parts store that looked even older than his garage. He hopped out with a quickness belying his age and linebacker-sized body. “I’ll just take five minutes to get these parts.”

“Whoa. Sorry, Charlie, no tuna for you till you answer the question.”

“No time-out to pick up the parts?”

“No way. You might pull up IMDb on the computer in there,” Micah said.

“IMDb?”

“The Internet Movie Database. Playing dumb doesn’t work with me.”

Rick laughed, propped his elbows up on the open window, and stuck his head inside. “Okay. Would you count Diane Lane, Patrick Swayze, Rob Lowe, and Matt Dillon as having had a little time in the sun?”

Rick slid into the parts store and Micah shook his head. He was drawn to the man, as if he were at the end of a bungee cord stretched to its limit. Confident. Well spoken. Intelligent. Why did this guy run a gas station in a tourist town? Every ounce of him spoke of more than oil changes and alternators. Micah suspected his list of accomplishments went beyond working on cars. And yet as much as he searched, he couldn’t find an ego hinting at hidden fortune or fame.

As they pulled onto Highway 101 and headed back toward Cannon Beach, Micah said, “You want to tell me about the deeper issues of life surrounding odometers that gain sixteen thousand miles?”

Rick stayed silent for more than a minute before he spoke. “In every moment we make choices. Those choices ripple out and affect every area of our lives. A butterfly flapping its wings can cause a hurricane thousands of miles away.”

“I understand the Butterfly Effect, but, uh, what are you talking about? Isn’t this about my car?”

“Not really.”

“Okay.” Micah stared at Rick. “What is it about?”

“Your life.”

“What about my life?”

“Choices.” Rick kept his eyes on the road. This time the silence was only ten seconds. “More to come later. Give it time, okay?”

It wasn’t a question; it was a command.

The guy was magnetic, but Micah couldn’t get rid of a wariness that flitted around the corners of his mind. More a feeling than anything concrete. Until now. Talk about cryptic. Something about the man made Micah feel like he was immersed in an episode of LOST.

The rest of the way back they talked sports, local politics, and Cannon Beach history. When they shook hands good-bye, Rick said, “Can we connect up again soon?”

“Sure. I’d like that.”

“Me, too.” Rick clapped Micah on the back and strode into his gas station. “Don’t worry.” He turned back to Micah. “Answers will come.”

||||||||

Back at the house Micah lost himself in The Fellowship of the Ring so thoroughly that by the time he stopped reading, the sky had turned from misty gray to the sooty blackness of a foggy April night. He headed toward the master bedroom more relaxed than he’d been in years. Despite the unanswered questions and being within miles of where his heart had shattered, he felt at peace.

He didn’t wake on Saturday morning till nine. When was the last time he’d done that? Too long. His RimSoft life never allowed it. But didn’t he own the company? He could choose to get off the hamster wheel. Was he running RimSoft, or was RimSoft running him?

||||||||

Taking the next three Fridays off turned into taking the next six Fridays off, which followed a consistent routine. He worked ten to twelve hours a day Monday through Thursday, made a late-evening drive down to Cannon Beach that night, then spent the weekend exploring the area, running, and having breakfast on Saturdays with Rick at Morris’ Fireside.

Sunday afternoons he filled up at Rick’s before heading back to Seattle. His quick stop to refuel always turned into an hour plus of conversation about the ups and downs of RimSoft, his relationship with Julie, and the lure of Cannon Beach. Rick always listened with genuine interest, quick to clarify a comment to make sure he understood the situation, slow to give advice unless Micah pressed him.

After Micah’s final, “I gotta go,” they each tried to stump the other with a new movie-trivia question. It never worked, but they promised next week they’d find one that would.

Rick had moved into a position in Micah’s life that few people occupied: friendship with no strings attached. It felt wonderful. Pursuit not because of his money or fame but simply because Rick enjoyed knowing him.

It only bothered Micah slightly that Rick somehow seemed to know him much more thoroughly than Micah knew Rick.

||||||||

During the week at RimSoft, work was packed with meetings on the new beta version of their flagship product. It was a roller-coaster time, not knowing if the testers, and by association the critics, would go into rapture over the new software or try to bury it, and Micah loved every second of the ride. It was RimSoft’s Super Bowl, and it never failed to give him a rush.

Julie and he had dinner on Tuesday or Wednesday night each week, but her frustration at his new weekend life grew.

The Wednesday after his sixth weekend in Cannon Beach, they went to Palisade, the lights of West Seattle blinking at them from across Puget Sound. As soon as they were seated, Julie folded her arms and tossed Micah on the grill.

“So what’s your answer?” she asked.

“About?”

“Don’t insult me.” Julie smacked her menu against the table. “You said this dinner was about our future.”

“Can’t we order first?” Micah studied the restaurant’s specials.

“No.” She waited till he looked up. “I asked for an answer in four weeks. It’s been six. That place has you hook, line, and heart.”

“So does Seattle.”

“Seattle includes me. Cannon Beach doesn’t.”

“It could.” Micah slid his finger down the side of his water glass, then wiped the moisture on the tablecloth.

“Do you love me, Micah?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to marry me?”

Micah sucked in a deep breath and held it. Five seconds passed. He knew it was far too long. That question required an instantaneous answer. “Yes.”

Julie folded her russet cloth napkin into a neat triangle, set it on her plate, and pressed down the crease with two fingers. Then she stood.

“What are you doing?”

“You can’t have both.”

“Both what?” he said.

“Don’t play dumb.”

“It’s just a beach place.” Micah motioned for her to sit back down. “I won’t be spending a bunch of time there much longer. Things will get back to normal. I’m going to sell the place like we talked about. Seattle’s where I belong.”

“You’re obsessed with the place. You said you couldn’t stand Cannon Beach even though you won’t tell me why, but you keep going down there. It makes no sense.” She put on her coat and buttoned it all the way to the top. “I need you to decide. Very soon.”

A rush of heat filled his face as Julie strode away from the table. Micah wasn’t sure if it was from the stares of the people sitting around him or the lie he’d just told her about wanting to get married.

After insisting on giving Palisades money for occupying a table for ten minutes, he got in his car and stared out the window seeing nothing.

Maybe he’d head for the beach a day early.

It was becoming his sanctuary.

As long as he could continue to keep his childhood memories at bay.

And if no new room popped into existence to scramble his brain.

CHAPTER 8

Julie was right. He had to decide if his future had her in it. Soon. For both of them.

Saturday morning Micah sat in his overstuffed leather chair and watched the Pacific’s horizon through a pair of Steiner binoculars, wishing the choice were simple.

Part of him wanted to be with her forever, but if the proverbial gun was pressed to his temple, he would probably decide on a life without her.

What a mess.

No question. The house was monkey wrench central. It would be a lot less complicated to dump the thing, marry Julie, and get on with RimSoft’s conquest of the world.

Leave this place? It was the logical choice. But the right choice? No clue. It felt like he was playing tug-of-war—RimSoft, Seattle, and Julie on one end; the house, Cannon Beach, and Rick on the other. He was the rope.

A cool May wind swept through the open doors that led to his deck, dousing him in the chilled outside air. He grabbed his empty Tigger coffee cup and shuffled toward the kitchen. As he looked up, his fingers went limp and the mug slipped out of his hand and made a thunking sound onto the carpet. His knees weakened, and he almost joined Tigger on the floor. At the back of the kitchen was a doorway and beyond it a hall.

A hallway that had not been there before.

Micah staggered through the kitchen, through the doorway. At the end of the hall was a door. Not again.

Breathe.

He leaned into the wall as his legs bounced like jackhammers. Sliding down the wall to the floor, he squeezed his head with both hands.

Think!

Maybe it had been there. He thought back to his last visit. Was it there? No. Not a chance. He’d either lost his mind or someone had added a sizable addition to his house in four days.

He fought down the impulse to run. He knew he wasn’t going crazy, knew the hallway wasn’t there before, and knew this addition couldn’t have been completed during the week he’d been in Seattle. But there was no fourth answer to defer to. He rubbed his face with both hands, stood, and gripped the dark chocolate brown, semishag carpet with his toes, as if to anchor himself to reality.

The walls of the hallway were painted in a faux gold parchment. They led to a dark, six-panel door with a brass knob. He crept toward the door. When he reached it, he inched his shaking hand up to the knob, then pushed with his pinkie finger.

The door swung open on silky hinges, and Micah let out a low whistle. The ceiling and walls were made of glass giving a 180-degree view up and down the coastline. Two chairs made from Brazilian tauari hardwood faced the front windows, and a bookshelf set along the back held what looked like picture books.

In the middle of the small room an easel held an oversized canvas. Next to it were a myriad of brushes and oil paints along with sketches and photos of ocean landscapes.

Micah stared at the canvas. A stream meandered down an ocean beach through logs rubbed smooth by winter storms, and the artist had started creating jade ocean waves. Mountains shot up in the distance, and the rough outline of trees along the shoreline had been started.

The painting exploded out at him. He could almost hear the gurgle of the stream running over sand and rock and see the wind weaving through the trees. Micah traced the edge of the beach with the tip of his finger, feeling the undulation of oil paint on canvas, imagining the soft, grainy feeling of running his hands through warm sand.

The shadows cast by the mountain felt cool, seagulls crying overhead filled his ears, and the ocean thundered, explaining everything and telling nothing.

This was creation. No photo could ever capture the emotion of a painting like this. This was legacy. It stirred a longing to create more than software. This was art worth devoting a life to. Pinpricks of joy fired off inside as he took it in. The painting wasn’t even a third complete, yet it captivated him.

After twenty minutes he left the room, trepidation and pleasure filling him simultaneously. This room? Impossible. Yet it was here. He closed the door, then stood gazing at its surface. This room was a treasure. He placed his fist on the door, then slowly opened his fingers, stretching them to the point of pain, as if he could cover the whole door with his hand. The finish on the wood felt like cool silk.

This house held secrets. He shuddered and eased away from the door without taking his eyes off it. As wonderful as the painting room was, Micah had to get away, try to put the room out of his mind. One strange room he could handle; two was over the edge.

Sending him to the funny farm was apparently Archie’s primary objective.

He took a spin through the rest of the house with the hair on his neck at full attention. Nothing different. It didn’t help him relax.

A painting room. Okay. Yes, the painting was captivating. But what was next? A torture chamber? Worse, what if he walked into a room that was an in-living-color replay of what happened on this stretch of coast twenty years ago?

The memory flashed into his mind before he could stop it.

“Micah, Dad and Mick will be back from the store in a few, so we’ve got some time to play a just-you-and-me game.” His mom pulled down her pale blue sunglasses and winked at him.

“Beach Ball Bonanza!” Micah said.

“You start, kiddo.”

Micah grabbed the rainbow beach ball, set it up on a little mound of sand, and scuffed back ten yards, his brows furled in concentration. Then he sprinted toward the ball and kicked it hard, an oomph spurting out of his mouth as his foot connected, sending the ball over his mom’s head.

“Mom! Wind’s got it! It’s going into the ocean!”

“I’ll get it.”

“But those waves are big monster waves—”

“They’re much bigger to you than they are to me.”

“But what if—?”

His mom stopped and smiled. “I’ll be fine, Micah. Really.”

Micah yanked his mind back from the abyss and forced the memory down into the recesses of his heart.

No. He wouldn’t go there. Never. Nice try, Archie.

He grabbed a Diet Coke and paced through the living room, staring at the fireplace, out the windows at the storm clouds gathering over the ocean, at the hallway leading to the painting room.

Going crazy was not an option. He should get it over with, sell the place. Or simply leave and never come back. Push the house out of his mind. Get things right with Julie and move on with his life. She deserved a ring; he deserved his sanity.

He would do it. Put the house on the market and set a wedding date. Micah picked up his cell to call Julie; a second later he tossed it onto the hunter green couch in front of his fireplace.

Impossible.

Julie was right. In spite of what happened to his mom here, this place had a grip on him, and his heart was changing addresses.

Which would make their meeting on Monday a powder keg.

CHAPTER 9

Monday morning Julie walked into Micah’s office, looking like a tiger that hadn’t eaten in a week. Her countenance sent a clear message. He was dinner.

“Hey, how are you?”

Julie didn’t answer.

Micah pulled away from his computer and leaned back in his leather chair. She stared at him, her lips pressed together so hard they were white.

“I’m sorry.” He stood and hopped over to her. “I’ve blown it. I’ve been distant. Blah, blah, blah, okay?” He flashed a smile.

“Not funny. This is serious, Micah.”

“I know. Really. I’ve been emotionally absent these past few weeks and I’m sorry.” He ran his fingers down her arms and slid them into her palms.

“A few weeks? Try six.” Julie yanked her hands out of Micah’s grasp. “What is going on with you? You’re my business partner. And my soul mate, I thought. Both of those relationships require spending time together, talking to each other. And I need an answer about our future, one way or another.”

“We have been talking.” He rubbed the back of his neck and walked toward the wet bar at the back of his office to pour a Diet Coke.

“E-mail is not talking. We haven’t had a conversation since our abbreviated dinner last week. Are you going to explain what’s been going on with you?”

“I’m . . .”

“I need the answer now. Is our romance on hold? ’Cause that’s the message coming across the line clear and sonic-boom loud.”

“No. Of course not. I don’t want to lose us. I’m just trying to—”

“To what, Micah? Break up gently?”

“It’s hard to explain.” He walked to his windows, turned, and scuffed back to his desk. “We’re not on hold. Really. But things are going on inside me.”

“What things? Tell me.”

What could he tell her? He hated Cannon Beach because it’s where his mom died? Sorry, no one knew that. But that he was also weirdly attracted to Archie’s house because it felt so familiar and even peaceful? That part of him would refuse to ever face his past, but maybe a part of him was willing? Tell her the man who was always in control and knew exactly what he wanted didn’t know anymore?

“I can’t, Julie. Not yet. But I will. Trust me. Please?” He touched the tips of his fingers to the tips of hers, and this time she didn’t pull away.

“You have to be done very, very soon, okay?” She nestled into his arms, and he held her tight.

A few minutes later Micah sighed as he watched her walk into the hall. He would be done with Cannon Beach soon. He just needed a little bit longer.

Yeah, as if all he needed was more time.

||||||||

He didn’t leave for the beach till Thursday night at nine for work-related reasons. But in reality they were flimsy excuses to delay arriving at a house that both drew and repelled him. No more new rooms, Archie. Please.

Friday morning he dropped in on Rick. Devin was out front wiping his palms on a rag dirtier than his hands.

“Anyone in the old guy’s office?”

“Nah, good timing,” Devin said. “Head on back.”

Micah opened Rick’s door and found him sitting in an ancient leather chair, head down. Indistinct mumbling came from his mouth. The sound was passionate. When Rick looked up, tears were in his eyes.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your . . . your, uh—”

“It’s called prayer, Micah.” A sigh and a laugh slipped from Rick’s mouth.

“You’re a full-blown Christian? You’re kidding me.”

The instant the words slipped out he regretted it. He’d known Rick was a Christian from the moment he met him. It burst out of him like a geyser. “What a crock. Of course you are. I see it all over you.”

“How are you, pal?” Rick stood, grinned, and smacked his open palm into Micah’s. “Feels like it’s been a year.”

“For me, too.”

He’d seen the man five days ago, but it seemed like five weeks. He had a connection with Rick missing from almost all his other relationships. Not true. Missing from all his other relationships. His other friendships were roles, acts he and they put on to cover up the truth: That they raced together on a treadmill with no finish line, too busy to really know the person running beside them.

It was that way with his board of directors, his employees, the friends he still saw, even with Julie. Everyone acted out his or her part in the play, recited his required lines, none of them knowing who the other was when the lines were gone. But with Rick there were no lines to recite. No masks to put on. Because Rick never wore one. Or did he?

Something about the man didn’t compute. Something was just . . . off. Everyone was flawed—had faults, blind spots, whatever you wanted to call them. But not Rick. No cracks in his veneer. He was kind. Strong. Wise. Had a good sense of humor. It scared Micah. He could always tell the TV evangelists who had the secret perverted life going on underneath because of their perfect hair. Rick’s hair wasn’t, but everything else about him was. Warning. Warning. Danger, Will Robinson.

Micah forced himself to let it go. The man was one of the greatest friends he’d ever had, and he barely knew him. Innocent till proven guilty.

“You pray a lot?” Micah said.

“Jesus says the Holy Spirit will guide His followers, and His followers will hear His voice. So I’m stocking up on wisdom.”

“Uh, yeah. Hope you get a huge store of it.”

“What about you?”

“Nah, not me.”

“You knew His voice, once. But your ears have filled up with other things. You just need to start listening again.”

“Relax, Rick. Maybe my faith’s cooled a little over the past few years, but I still believe God exists.” Micah flopped down into a wicker chair that screeched in protest. “There’s a lot more to life than reading your Bible and going to church. Worlds out there are begging to be conquered. I’ve just shifted my priorities around a little.”

Rick stared at him.

“Hey, if you think life is about other things, I’d love to hear it.”

“Really?” The corners of Rick’s mouth turned up.

“Really, really.”

Rick leaned forward, his eyes bright. “Jesus came to bring life. Full life. Make people whole. To break the chains wrapped around people’s hearts and set them free. It’s not about rules and regulations. That’s religion. It’s about freedom and friendship.” Rick leaned back in his chair. “How free are you, Micah?”

Micah swallowed. “Life is different now.” He sat up and patted his knees. “That was so long ago.”

“Oh no, son, it was just a moment ago.”

Micah looked out the window and searched for a response. There was none. Break the chains around his heart? He wasn’t even sure his heart still existed.

When he got home, he threw on a pair of sweats and went for a long walk on the beach. At the end of the walk, he sat on a log with deep scars caused by long ocean winters and closed his eyes.

“God, what are You doing to me? I thought we understood each other. You keep Your distance; I’ll keep mine. Why can’t You let the past stay buried fifty feet under where it belongs? You’re setting me up. Rick is setting me up. Archie is setting me up. What do You want from me? What does that house want from me? I have a life. One I love.”

He stopped. What was the point in lying to God?

“Fine. Maybe Seattle isn’t perfect, and maybe I have lost part of my heart, and maybe You’ve got something going on down here that will help me, but I don’t think I want it. I know I don’t want it.”

Enough introspection. He stood and jogged back to his house. Tomorrow he’d wander into town. Meet a few normal people. Have a few ordinary conversations.

At least that was the plan.

CHAPTER 10

Saturday afternoon Micah strolled into Osburn’s Ice Creamery on Main Street to order two scoops of frozen bliss.

The girl behind the counter dug out a double portion of Cookie Dough Hunk for the customer ahead of him as he breathed in the sugar-sweetened air and waited for his turn.

Micah glanced back and forth between the comics on the wall—some new, some faded from years of entertaining tourists with a taste for Rocky Road and Chocolate Chip Mint—and the girl with shoulder-length dark walnut hair. A wayward strand draped across her eye. Tiny dimples set off her genuine smile perfectly. Beautiful.

She was quick with the ice cream and quicker to share a smile with the tourists on their way to a cold sugar high. “Hi. What can I get for you?”

Micah gazed out the window and watched the tourists meander down the sidewalk, thinking about how radically different this world was from the one back in Seattle.

“Ice cream! Anyone up for ice cream today?” The girl pretended to call out to the whole crowd before turning back to Micah. Her smile filled the room.

“Sorry. Yeah, ice cream.” He looked into her eyes and saw laughter behind them, then glanced at her left ring finger. No gold.

“What flavor is calling to you today?”

“Pralines and Cream, definitely.”

“Ah, he goes for the slightly plain ice cream with just enough flavor to avoid the ‘vanilla’ label.” She brushed the hair away from her face, but it drifted back down.

“Do you always give personality profiles to people based on their ice cream choices?”

“Only when they’ve just returned from a foreign land in their mind.”

He smiled inside. This girl had wit.

She dug out a huge scoop of Pralines and Cream and packed it down tight. “New in town?” She handed Micah his scoop on a waffle cone and winked.

“Aren’t all the tourists?” He handed her a five-dollar bill over the top of the Plexiglas ice cream case. She took it, bumped the cash register with her hip, and the drawer opened.

“You’re not a tourist.” She gazed at him with the hint of a challenge in her double-shot espresso brown eyes. He waited for her to explain how she knew that, but she reached into a register overflowing with Georges and Abes and handed him his change without comment.

“And what, Ms. Sherlock, is your first name?”

“Watson,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes but no smile on her lips. “But I only let my friends call me that.” She turned to the next person in line and asked for his order.

Micah eased over to the side of the cash register. “So how’d you figure out I’m not a tourist?”

She started working on a triple scoop of Strawberry Cheesecake for the next customer. “Most of the tourists stay the weekend, a week, maybe even two. Then they go home. So since you’ve been frequenting these parts for six or seven, I figured you were down here for more than a few pictures.”

Micah blinked. “And you know I’ve been here off and on for seven weeks because . . . ?”

She glanced at him, one corner of her mouth turned up, but didn’t reply.

“You the owner?” Micah took the first bite of his ice cream.

“No, why do you want to know?” She looked away to make change for a Vanilla Fudge Ripple customer.

“Well, I feel I have an obligation to let him know—”

“Let her know.”

“An obligation to let her know her employee spies on tourists.”

“Wouldn’t get you anywhere. She’s a spy just like me.”

The girl didn’t smile but Micah grinned. He toasted her with his cone. “Touché.”

He turned and walked out of Osburn’s, the smile staying on his face. He put buying another couple of scoops at Osburn’s in the near future on his mental to-do list.

||||||||

Micah got back to the house at six-thirty that evening. After a quick run down to Haystack Rock and back, and an even quicker dinner of pot stickers and rice, he strolled toward the library. He never got there. Next to it was another new door.

Great, here we go again.

Micah paused, pushed open the door, and groped for a light switch. As he snapped it on, he eased inside. The room smelled like a winter morning and felt unnaturally still. More than the absence of noise, the silence felt like a panther ready to strike. In his peripheral vision he saw the far wall move. No. Did it?

Fear darted around the room like a bat. Micah walked in farther, refusing to lose his nerve. Against one wall from floor to ceiling were mail slots—the type seen in an old office building. Nothing else was in the room. Each mail slot was six-by-three inches, with off-white paint peeling from the edges. Each held papers. Most were crammed full; others held only one. All were yellowed, some stained with water, some with corners torn off.

The room was wrong.

When he reached the slots, his hand seemed to move in slow motion toward the first paper. Just before he touched it, something inside said stop.

Too late.

The instant his forefinger touched the parchment, his stomach twisted as if he were free-falling from ten thousand feet. He turned and looked at the door. It was shut. He knew he’d left it open, but it hardly mattered. Micah forced himself to stay calm as he opened the parchment. A series of headlines scrawled on the paper described memories of deep pain from his childhood.

His favorite Hot Wheels car getting smashed by his dad at age six.

His fourth-grade teacher joking that he was “Mindless Micah” almost every day during class for the entire year because he couldn’t understand the problems.

Headline after headline about what he had missed, lost, failed at, and what had been stolen from him—the sting as fresh as when they’d first happened.

Halfway down the page he pulled away and looked up. It would’ve been better if he’d kept his eyes on the paper.

The wall in front of him was covered with moving pictures of more disappointments. He spun to his right to avoid them. It was futile. Every wall—even the floor—played grainy, mini-film scenes from his life, as if an old Super 8 camera had recorded every emotional scar from childhood and was replaying them all at once.

A girl promising she’d go with him to the seventh-grade dance then dumping him for his supposed best friend.

Being bullied on and off by Brandon Kopec during his freshman year of high school.

Dropping the game-winning touchdown pass in front of the whole school in tenth grade and getting ridiculed by his teammates for weeks afterward.

He dropped the parchment, tried to steady himself against the wall to his right, and fought the vise grip clenching his stomach. Micah stared in fascination and fear as the images came faster, now covering the ceiling as well.

Cut from the basketball team his sophomore year because one of the coaches’ pet players spread the lie that Micah was smoking pot.

Chewed up and spit out by his boss for ruining a stack of wood at the sign company at sixteen. “You idiot! I should call you Scarecrow. Get a brain!” His boss swore for thirty seconds straight, jabbing his finger like a metronome into Micah’s collarbone.

Micah sank to the floor and gasped for air. He felt as if twenty-foot waves were pounding him into the sand. As the torrent assaulted him, part of his mind shouted, “This isn’t real!” But his body wouldn’t listen. He struggled to get to his knees. Not possible.

He wanted to strike out. At anything. Everything. Rage and rejection slammed into his mind.

Come on! He had to get control.

He raised his arm, as if he could block the hurricane of emotions.

Clarity. Have to focus. It . . . is . . . not . . . real!

But it was.

The memories jumped back and forth across the years and went faster.

“Leave him alone!” he shouted as he watched his fifth-grade basketball coach scream at his younger self for missing a free throw in the last game of the season.

Tears formed as he watched his three best friends from junior high go to the Alanis Morissette concert without him, laughing about how they’d been able to ditch Micah.

He lashed out with his arms. “Help me.”

No answer.

“If You’re here, help me!”

All the images vanished.

Silence.

It was over.

Wasn’t it?

An instant later a scene filled the entire back wall of the room. A nine-year-old Micah ran along the beach, stumbling, lips trembling, deep lines of worry etched into his face.

“No.” A moan escaped his lips and surged into a guttural scream. “Not this.”

“Come back, Mom! Come back!”

Micah leaped into the air, straining to see out over the ocean. The boy spun and screamed north up the beach, “Help her! Help my mom!” He turned south and screamed again. He started to run toward the row of houses behind him. Two quick paces before he stopped, turned, and ran back to where he’d started, his bare feet kicking sand onto a Spider-Man beach towel.

Then he froze, not knowing which way to go. What to do.

Micah’s mind continued to scream what he was seeing wasn’t real; his heart screamed louder it was all too genuine. “This will kill me. I can’t do this. Can’t see this. I need You, God.” The last part was a whisper.

The young Micah leaped into the air, legs shaking, eyes filled with tears. Micah now watched himself scream again and again and again.

He huddled on the carpet on his side, knees held up to his chest.

“God, help me!”

The room shifted. Hope appeared inside like a pinprick of light in a black sky. The pain receded somewhat. Breathing came easier. The tentacles of fear wrapped around his mind loosened. But not enough.

“Please help me.” He didn’t know if he’d said it out loud or only in his mind.

The struggle raged on.

The younger Micah knelt in the sand now, sobbing. A man sprinted past him into the waves. His father.

“Don’t make me face it!” Micah shouted at the scene.

He wasn’t going to make it.

Micah slid into darkness.

In that instant it came. A flash of light, then peace, and a sensation he hadn’t felt in years—the presence of God.

Silence. This time it remained.

The peace built till he was able to get off the floor and stumble through the door, through the house, into the star-filled night, onto the beach.

He reached the sand, collapsed, and let the tears come.

||||||||

When he awoke, the sun had climbed halfway to noon. He guessed it was as late as nine o’clock. He rubbed his eyes, stumbled to his feet, and eased toward the ocean.

People clad in bright jackets ambled up the beach. Three kids filled the sky with their multicolored kites, laughing as they kicked up little clouds of sand with their dark feet, racing to keep their flying machines aloft.

It made last night seem like a dream.

Maybe it was just a nightmare.

But he knew it wasn’t. God had rescued him. Right? Or was He the one who pushed Micah into that room?

But he’d felt God, just like he did back in high school. At least he thought it was God. Maybe it wasn’t.

Micah stood in the surf, and his stomach churned—maybe from hunger, possibly from the thought of going back inside. Probably a combination. The thought of facing that room again made hackles dance on his neck. He paced in two inches of water for ten minutes. But there was no way he would let one of Archie’s rooms have control over him.

As he trudged toward his house like a climber taking the final steps to the top of K2, strong gusts pushed gray clouds off the ocean, blocking the sun.

He stepped inside, his sight roving from the fireplace to the circular staircase leading upstairs, to the hallway, to the kitchen, back to the fireplace. Looked normal. Even felt normal. After grabbing a bagel and an apple, he stepped back outside onto his deck.

He needed a moment to settle his thoughts.

A gust of wind smacked into him, almost tearing the food out of his hand. Must be blowing thirty or forty knots. Rain swept in a few seconds later, pelting him with fat drops. Families and couples jogged off the beach, hoods pulled over their heads. A storm was brewing. Micah shook his head. Perfect metaphor for what was happening in his brain.

As bizarre as the room was, he wanted to fight. To conquer his fear of the past. He marched inside and headed for the memory room. A cold blanket of sweat broke out across his back.

“Don’t . . . back . . . down. You want me to face what happened here all those years ago, Archie? All right. Let’s do it.”

As he walked down the hallway toward the door, Micah bowed his head and wiped the sweat from his palms on the side of his jeans.

When he reached the door, he wouldn’t hesitate; he’d walk right in. But he didn’t get the chance. The door was gone. Where it had been was now smooth wall. No evidence it had ever been there.

It wasn’t a comfort.

He sucked in two quick breaths.

Micah tramped back down the hall toward the living room. When he reached the fireplace, he slumped to the floor, head in hands. This was not a dream. There would be no waking up. He checked his pulse with clammy fingers. Clammy? They were wet.

Yeah, maybe God had come through. Or Micah might simply be turning into a certifiable whacko.

A peal of thunder rolled over the house just before a flash of lightning filled the room. Micah didn’t bother to look up.

But it was over, right? He’d faced his mom’s death, and that was enough. Done. He’d never have to go there ever again.

If only more of him believed it.

He fumbled in his pocket. Yes. He pulled out his cell phone and called the one person who might have a clue about what was going on.

CHAPTER 11

Hello?”

“Rick, it’s Micah.” He stood with his forehead pressed against one of his picture windows and watched the ocean churn.

“Hey, buddy.”

Micah didn’t say anything. Telling someone his house was alive wasn’t something he’d been trained on in the corporate world.

“You there?”

“Yeah, I . . . need to talk.” Micah eased over to his river-rock fireplace and stared at the smooth stones. “About my house. And God.”

“Okay.”

Where to start? Not with the house or the memory room. He didn’t even want to talk to himself about it. Start with the God-stuff. “I think it’s time to check Him out again. Maybe. A little bit anyway.”

“Star Wars.”

“What?”

“Episode V, The Empire Strikes Back. Yoda. ‘Try not. Do or do not. There is no try.’”

“You’re quoting Yoda?”

Rick chuckled. “Truth is truth whether it comes out of the mouth of God or the mouth of Baal.”

“Pretty profound.”

“That’s not mine; it’s George MacDonald.”

“Who?”

“Not important. Want to tell me what happened?”

“Yeah. But not sure how much I want to tell.” Micah glanced at black ashes in the fireplace hearth. Good time for another fire.

“Say as much as you want to. But don’t say less than that either,” Rick said.

By the time flames dodged around three red cedar logs up the chimney, Micah had told his friend every detail except the scene with his mom. About the shrine room, the painting room, the memory room, his crying out to God and how it ended with God’s presence surrounding him.

“What’s going on with me?” Micah said.

“You really need me to answer that question?”

“Yeah.”

“God is grabbing your heart, drawing you back.”

“Not sure I want to be drawn back.”

There was only silence on the other end of the phone.

“So, was the memory room my imagination? I went back the next day, and it wasn’t there. C’mon. Am I having hallucinations or just losing my mind?” Micah stood and walked back to the place in the hall where the memory room had been. “God might be in this, but I don’t want to be in my own house anymore.”

“Einstein felt, at most, man had attained 1 percent of the possible knowledge of the universe. Do you think it’s possible God is able to do unexplainable things with the 99 percent we don’t understand?”

Micah sighed. “Maybe.”

“Then trust Him.” Rick cleared his throat. “But I will admit, if that room was for real, it sounds like you have a fairly extraordinary house. And I’d guess this is just the beginning.”

“Great.”

Micah hung up and threw a few things into his Adidas tote bag. He wasn’t going to spend the night. The house was extraordinary? Try freak show. It was time to head for Seattle. Get back to a world of sanity and order. A world he could control.

||||||||

The next week at RimSoft proceeded like clockwork. Every meeting. Every phone call. Every software test.

Late Thursday afternoon he went to his office window and watched little beads of rain scurry down the pane like ants on their way to a picnic. His team was working like a Swiss watch—precise and efficient. It was the best of times. RimSoft had just announced a 23 percent rise in sales for the quarter. The week before a vendor handed him a Seattle Seahawks suite. Another gave him an Italian cruise for eight friends and him aboard the Wind Surf anytime he wanted to go. And market share for each of their products was climbing.

Micah paced in front of his desk and tried to feel like a little kid at Christmas again. These were grown-up presents few ever found under the tree. He should be thrilled. He sat at his computer, and a few seconds later a satellite image of Cannon Beach filled his screen. After a few minutes of staring at his house from above, he shot an e-mail to Shannon giving her the Italian cruise. She would enjoy it much more than he would.

He scratched the back of his head and stood, then continued pacing. What was wrong with him?

That weekend he stayed in Seattle to break up his routine. That’s what he told himself. Reality was the house had spooked him into staying in town. Maybe Rick was right; God was in it. But maybe his dad was right, and Archie had built a haunted mansion that would eventually kill him.

Micah played basketball on Saturday, then took himself to a movie that night. He should have seen it with Julie. Why didn’t he ask her? She was smart, beautiful, and perfect at those cocktail parties where she always seemed to meet just the right people to bring them more contracts worth millions. An ideal business partner in the boardroom and on the schmooze circuit. They were perfect for each other. And they looked great together on the cover of Fast Company. Perfect couple. Perfect life.

Next month they’d be featured on the cover of Wired.

He tried to care about being on top of the world, but the emotion flitted away like a startled hummingbird. His life with RimSoft and Julie was a movie set. Picture-perfect buildings from the front, every blade of grass in place; but when you went around the back, there was nothing but two by fours propping up a facade.

||||||||

Monday morning Micah walked through Schmitz Park, a lush green paradise even longtime Seattle residents sometimes weren’t aware of. Earmarked in the early 1900s for preservation by the city, it boasted long, winding paths running from the north side of Alki Point almost two miles south into the heart of West Seattle’s residential district.

In the center of the park, he sat down and gazed at the massive maple tree above him. A seedling whirled slowly down, back and forth like it was on an invisible string, till it landed on his knee. A feeling of peace flavored with hope and adventure settled on him. An emotion he never felt in Seattle anymore. One he felt almost constantly in Cannon Beach.

After roaming the trails for a few more minutes, he called Shannon.

“You’re not at the office,” she said.

“I took a walk.”

“A what? A walk? You took a walk?”

“Yeah. In a park.”

“Instead of coming in to work?”

“Yes.” Micah ambled toward his car.

“The temptation to ask why is bubbling out of me.”

“Don’t.”

“Then at least tell me if you came to any great conclusions about life, liberty, and the pursuit of software.”

“Actually, I did. And because of those conclusions, I need you to check and see if Julie’s free for lunch today. Or for an afternoon meeting. And if that’s booked, then dinner or breakfast and so on.”

“My internal radar says big change is coming.”

“Yeah.”

“Should I notify a disaster cleanup crew about the meeting?”

“Not a bad idea.”

||||||||

At one o’clock he walked toward Julie’s office with his heart ticking at least a few beats faster than normal. It wasn’t every day you dropped a nuclear bomb on your partner’s desk.

She didn’t look up as he walked in.

“We need to talk, Julie.”

“Okay.” Her eyes stayed riveted on her computer screen. “Are we still on hold? Or are you ready to give me an answer?”

“That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

“So this is the official breakup?”

“Not exactly.”

She stood and walked toward him, drumming her fingers on her arm in a staccato rhythm.

“I’m going to start working from the beach for a while.”

“You’re what?” Julie’s eyes narrowed. “One more time, please?”

“I’m going to split my time between working down there and working up here, mostly down there. Work fewer hours.”

“You are not seriously saying this.”

He leaned in toward her. “Yeah, I am, Julie. I am seriously saying it.”

She stalked to the window, then whirled to face him. “You’re insane. Look around you. It’s not the time to kick back. You think you’re going to telecommute? Yeah, that’ll work great. It’ll infuse the stockholders with massive confidence. Once the press gets a hold of it, I’m sure our sales will go through the roof. Plus it’ll suck the last breath of life out of our relationship.” Julie turned back to the window. “All I wanted was a ring.”

“I’m not breaking up!” Micah said louder than he intended. He rubbed his hands on his pants and glanced at the ceiling, as if it would give him the right words. “I just need to get away from here, do some thinking down there.”

“What will you think about? This company is your life.”

She was right. His entire identity was wrapped up in the company, which made his choice both crazy and exhilarating. What did he have in Cannon Beach? Memories he didn’t want to face, a seriously bizarre house that nearly killed him, and a friend twenty-three years his senior. Where was the draw in all that? Yet there was a draw. Deeper and more alive than anything he’d felt in years.

Julie lifted her palms. “Let’s pretend I agree to something that idiotic and pretend you’re not breaking up with me. What would you do with your extra time? Learn to fly a kite? Start painting again? Cook?!”

“Maybe.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

What would he do down there? He could only take beach runs and hang with Rick for so long. Three weeks and he’d go nuts. His life had been so ordered and driven for so many years he wasn’t sure what to do next. Free time? What was that? His iPhone was almost grafted onto his body. Between his to-do list and Shannon’s reminders, every moment for the past six years had been filled with goals, appointments, setting vision for the company, and worlds to conquer.

Julie sighed, walked over to Micah, and took his hands. “It’s just me. Let’s talk. No partnership. No RimSoft. No stock options. Just me before we gained the world.”

They stared at each other, Micah trying to tell her with his eyes why he needed this. Julie asking with hers how he could put the kingdom they’d sweated blood for on hold.

“I need to be there. Stay a while. Figure some things out.”

“Figure what out?”

“I don’t know. God maybe.”

“God? Are you kidding?” Julie pulled away and scowled. “I thought you gave up the Jesus-freak thing back in college.”

“This place, it’s . . . I’m drawn to it. I need to . . . I want to, find out . . . Come with me to Cannon Beach.” He looked into her eyes. “See what God is up to down there.”

“Wow. The ‘God told me to go’ argument. Insurmountable. And completely whacko.”

“Come with me.”

Julie closed her eyes. “You know that old Robert Frost poem about two roads diverging in the middle of the woods? You’re going down one road; I’m headed down the other.”

“Julie, no.”

She leaned toward him and kissed him on the cheek. “Good-bye, Micah.”

||||||||

Micah made it to Cannon Beach by five o’clock, the emotion of his talk with Julie completely faded by the time he arrived. He stopped at Rick’s to gas up before heading to the house. As Devin stretched his undersized dough-boy frame over Micah’s BMW to clean the windshield, Micah snuck up on Rick who was bent over the engine of a late-model Nissan.

Micah slapped him on his side and kept moving around to his right. “Hey, buddy!”

Rick straightened, almost whacking his head on the car’s hood. “What’re you doing here this early in the week? RimWare handing out sick days?”

“RimSoft.”

“It’s not RimWare? That would be a great name for your company. Rimware, software. Get it? You’re sure it’s not RimWare?”

“Pretty sure. Always been, always will be RimSoft.”

Rick stared at him for a few seconds. “Right.” He motioned up the street, and they walked onto the sidewalk and strolled toward a small park fifty yards north of his garage.

“Made a decision,” Micah said once they reached the park and could see the ocean.

“Yeah?”

As Micah explained his plan to work part time from Cannon Beach, a smile formed on Rick’s face.

“You’re not surprised.”

“The draw of this place can be powerful.” Rick’s grin grew.

“Tell me how you knew. I’m serious.”

“So am I. This place can be a magnet for certain kinds of people at certain points in their lives.” Rick folded his arms and turned toward the sea.

“There’s more to it than that.”

“You’ve got it all—looks, youth, money, fame, career.” Rick motioned wide with his arms out toward the water. “But a long time ago you had more. A lot more. You had the Lord. So much of Him in fact, you knew the other things on the list didn’t matter. Maybe He’s torching the list.”

“Maybe I don’t want it torched.”

“Your choice. Choose wisely.”

Micah gave him a crooked smile. “C’mon, Rick. Don’t hold back, no time to be shy here. Say what you really think.”

Micah laughed, and Rick joined him as they trudged back to Rick’s garage.

“Breakfast at the Fireside on Saturday?” Rick asked as Micah got into his car.

“Absolutely.”

||||||||

Rick watched Micah’s BMW till it crested the hill and vanished from sight. “And so, Mr. Micah’s even wilder ride begins.”

CHAPTER 12

On Friday, Micah grabbed his mountain bike and rode north toward Cannon Beach. He took the Cannon Beach Loop Road exit and rode past fifty or so gray houses, none with the view their richer brothers west of them had of the ocean. He rode on, past the Tolovana Inn, then past the Ocean Lodge and the Stephanie Inn, luxury hotels just steps from the sand.

The sun poked holes in the fog, warming him inside and out. Perfect day for riding. Perfect day to run into that girl from the ice cream store. He laughed at himself. Couldn’t fault a guy for dreaming.

He wound up the hill that overlooked Haystack Rock, where houses were separated by inches, perched on the cliff leading down to the beach like rabid fans looking for a movie star’s autograph.

The Sand Trap Inn—with the picture of a B.C. cartoon character swinging a golf club—whizzed by on his right, and then he was down the hill onto Cannon Beach’s Main Street, with shop after shop filled with trinkets and books and art for the coffee table or wall back home. Some wonderful, some that would end up on a garage sale table ten months later.

The town blurred by in thirty seconds. A minute after that, he rode over Ecola Creek, took a right-hand turn, and started up the winding mile-and-a-half road that led to Ecola State Park.

As he leaned into the first corner, his peripheral vision caught something up ahead. Fifty yards in front of him the sun flashed against another bike, and dark chestnut hair swirled against the wind as the rider’s head turned for an instant.

Looked like the girl from Osburn’s.

Micah squinted and called out, “Hey, Watson!”

She didn’t turn.

He put his head down and strained to catch her. But Micah didn’t gain an inch as he pushed through the canopy of Sitka spruce trees lining the road.

When the park entrance came into view, he prayed she wouldn’t ride another two miles to Indian Beach and was rewarded as she swung left down to Ecola. He coasted down the gradual decline into the parking lot and found her sitting on a picnic table, arms wrapped around her knees, looking out toward Tillamook Rock Lighthouse.

She glanced back as his bike brakes squealed, announcing his arrival, but didn’t say anything.

“Hey.” Micah approached her with stutter steps, his legs still straddling his bike. “We met the other day at Osburn’s.”

“Mr. Pralines, if I remember right.” She spun to face him and flashed a smile.

“Good seeing you again, Watson.”

It seemed funny before it came out of his mouth. But it fell flat when she simply said, “Thanks.”

“You ride up here often?”

“Mostly during the off-season. Too many summer seekers driving this road during this time of the year, and it’s a narrow road.”

“I noticed.”

“So, are you staying right in town?”

“No, a little bit south,” Micah said.

“I’m Sarah Sabin.”

“Micah Taylor.”

Sarah nodded.

They looked at each other a moment past awkward. Micah got off his bike, leaned it against the picnic table, and shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

“Want to walk down to where the trail washed out?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“Sure.”

From the look of Sarah’s long, muscular legs and her gait, he guessed her athleticism wasn’t limited to biking.

When they stopped, Haystack Rock, three miles south, filled their view. Below them a beach stretched a quarter mile before it stopped at a small cape jutting out into the ocean. Four otters ducked in and out of the swells one hundred feet down.

“Crescent Beach,” Sarah offered. “You used to be able to walk down there from here. Not anymore. A winter mud slide washed out the trail back in ’94, and they never rebuilt it.”

Bits of the old wooden railing leading down to the beach were still visible. They walked in silence until they found a flat spot of grass to sit on with a perfect view of Haystack Rock and Cannon Beach in the distance.

Sarah rubbed her left knee, and when she took her hand away, it revealed three small scars, two on either side of her kneecap and one in the middle.

Micah nodded at her knee. “That’s from?”

“ACL surgery.”

“How’d the injury happen?”

She took so long to answer Micah wondered if she’d heard him. When she did, it was in a whisper. “Olympic trials in ’02.”

“Winter Olympics. Skiing?”

“Yeah.”

“Wait a minute. You’re that Sarah Sabin? Cover of Sports Illustrated, supposed to win more gold than any other American female in history?”

She turned to him with a small smile and nodded. “After two surgeries and three years of trying to come back, I decided it was time to start another life, so five years ago I came here.” She ripped up tufts of grass, threw them up, and let them float toward the ocean in the light breeze. “Got away from the sport, the pressure, and the guilt people loaded me down with for ruining their dream.”

“Shouldn’t it have been your dream?”

She laughed. “It was, but others wanted to jump on board and do that whole live-vicariously-through-me thing.”

“Your dad, right?”

“With him, just the opposite. He was one of the few who truly didn’t care how I did on the slopes. He taught me to ski, was my coach for most of my career. He believed in me, was my champion but never once pushed me to be something I didn’t want to be. Dad loved me fiercely.” Sarah turned her head away. “I miss him so much.”

Loved fiercely by your dad? He had no clue what that would feel like. Miss him? His dad had slaughtered any chance of having that emotion when Micah was a kid. Still, he blinked three times before he spoke.

“How’d he die?”

“Cancer. Four years ago.”

“I’m sorry about your dad. Sorry about the injury, too.”

“Don’t be. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder what might have been, but I don’t have the slightest regret.”

“How can you not have regrets?”

“God works all for good.” She looked out over the ocean. “If not for the accident and my dad’s death, I think I’d be in a radically different world. Not a good one. One without God in it.”

Micah shifted his gaze to three sea lions basking on the rocks below them.

He knew the radically different world she would have lived in. It was the one he lived in now. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea getting to know this girl. He didn’t need someone else needling him about the God-stuff.

“So that’s my dad; tell me about yours.”

“No.”

Sarah laughed. “No? Just no? You have a dad, don’t you?” She leaned back on her elbows and looked up at him.

“Yep. Still alive.”

“And . . . ?”

“Kind of an off-limits subject.”

“Got it.”

Great. First the God-stuff, now questions about his dad. Julie never tried to make him go deep like this.

He fished a twig out of grass and tossed it toward the ocean. “If you’ve been here five years, you must know everyone.”

“The locals still say I’m new in town, but they’re friendly, and yeah, I know most of them.” She pulled on the silver loop in her ear and smiled.

“Maybe you could introduce me around. Love to find out about the land my house is built on. Its history.”

“House?”

“I inherited a home just south of Arcadia Beach State Park.”

“There are six or seven homes along that stretch. Could you add some vagueness to your description?” She winked.

“It’s on the ocean. Does that help?”

“Oh, that one. Of course!” Sarah laughed.

“It’s kinda hard to miss. About nine thousand square feet.”

“Wow, that’s big. I’m not sure I know it.”

He couldn’t tell if she was teasing or not. She was bright and would know if a nine-thousand-square-foot home was built in a small town like Cannon Beach.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Micah chuckled. “It’s probably the biggest home from Astoria to Tillamook. And I mean right on the beach.”

“Does that make it tough when the tide comes in?”

“Are you always that literal?”

A grin broke out on Sarah’s face, and Micah matched it with one of his own.

“So how’d it wind up with you?”

She didn’t say this with envy or curiosity or even judgment. He suspected the answer wouldn’t matter to her either way. He liked that. “Long story.”

“I’d like to hear it sometime.”

It wasn’t a come-on. He knew it and she knew he knew it. Another friend in Cannon Beach. Hmm. Could be a good thing. As long as the conversations avoided God and dads.

“How ’bout dinner on Tuesday? No charge for a tour of the house or the story.”

“Tuesday nights I have a standing date with twenty-three men and women who aren’t as mobile as they once were.”

“Old folks home?”

“Mature folks home. I read to them, laugh with them.” She paused. “Sometimes cry. It’s cliché to say, I know, but I get more out of it than they do.”

Micah wondered if he should ask for another night, but Sarah saved him the trouble.

“Thursday night is open, if your invitation is still on the table.”

Her dark chocolate-colored eyes twinkled at him, and he assured her it was.

As he rode home, he thought about Julie. Was there any hope for them? Did she care anymore? Did he?

And what about this Sarah girl? He wasn’t ready for another relationship. Micah shifted his bike into a higher gear and bore down on the pedals.

What was he worried about? It was just one dinner.

CHAPTER 13

Thursday Micah woke early. He wanted the dinner to be perfect and gave himself the whole day to prepare. By the time the sun started its descent toward the sea, he was ready to entertain the mysterious Sarah Sabin.

At 5:57 p.m. the doorbell echoed through the house like a wind chime. Micah glanced in the mirror, smoothed his hair with both hands, clipped toward the door, and opened it.

“Hi, Micah.” Sarah smiled.

Wow. Beautiful. Remember, pal, you’re not 100 percent sure things between you and Julie are over. Just friends with Sarah, okay? The hint of her perfume made him repeat the thought.

“Hi, Sarah.” He tried not to stare. Radiant.

“Can I come in?”

“Oh, sorry.”

After Sarah stepped inside, she drifted toward the picture windows. “Wow. That’s an amazing view.” She gazed slowly around the great room. “I love this place already. You inherited it from your uncle?”

“Great-uncle.”

He took her coat and went back to the entryway closet to hang it up. He’d never opened it. The pegs by the front door had worked fine. His eyes narrowed. A stack of letters sat on the shelf, up against the right edge of the closet wall. He pulled them down. They were tied together with twine, and the edges of the envelopes went from yellow at the top to slightly faded on the bottom. The return name and address on the top envelope were Archie’s, but the letter was mailed to a Christopher Hale. In smaller print at the bottom was “Attention: Micah Taylor.”

His head spun. He riffled through the first five or six envelopes. Same mailing address, same return address. He drew in a sharp, shallow breath. Would these letters answer the house questions ricocheting through his head? They had to. Finally!

“Micah?”

Sarah’s voice broke through the world he’d fallen into, and he pulled away from the door.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that I found, well . . .” he trailed off, not knowing what or how much he wanted to say.

She graciously moved away from him, toward his picture windows. “You never knew him?”

“Who?” Micah was still returning to the present. He set the letters back on the shelf, then closed the door.

“This great-uncle of yours.”

“No. Even my dad doesn’t know much about him.” Micah paused. “Or won’t say.”

Sarah meandered over to the built-in shelves packed with hundreds of books on history, photography, art, fiction, and biographies, and tilted her head, probably to read the titles.

“You a book lover?” Micah asked.

She gave a slight nod. “If you gave me five thousand dollars to spend in any store, I’d head straight for Barnes & Noble.”

“Are you asking for my checkbook?”

Sarah glanced at him and laughed, then looked back at the books.

Micah moved into the kitchen, noticed a coffee stain on the counter, and licked his thumb. Sarah came over as he got the last of it off the granite.

“Nice clean-up method.”

“You don’t miss much, do you?” Micah looked up, his face warm.

“Sorry. I could be a little more tactful.” She sat on a maple stool next to the counter.

“Not a problem. Most women—”

“—are catty and smile at your face, then stab you in the back. It’s one reason why I’ve never had a lot of girlfriends. I had more friends in high school who were guys.”

“So you don’t believe in the WHMS Rule?” He moved over to the refrigerator and grabbed two Diet Cokes.

“You lost me.”

“The When Harry Met Sally Rule. That guys and girls can’t be friends. Never saw the movie?”

“Yes, I saw it. I never wanted to believe it, but I will confess most times it’s true.”

“You know this from personal experience?”

“All through high school and college, I’d ask the guy if we were just friends, he’d say ‘oh yes, friends only,’ and in the end he’d reluctantly confess he’d been secretly in love with me the whole time.”

“It’s the way guys are made,” Micah confessed. “They promise they want to be buds only, but they tend to be attracted to the girl from the beginning.”

“So where does that leave us?”

Micah fell back against the pantry doors as if shot and laughed. “I see what you mean about the tact thing.”

“You mean the direct thing?”

“Yeah, that’s what I meant.” He walked over to her, poured their Cokes, and sat on the bar stool next to her.

“So where does that leave us?” The laughter in her eyes disappeared.

“Simple. We’re not friends.”

“Really. Then please provide the definition of our relationship.”

Micah pretended to take out a calculator and punch imaginary numbers into it. After a few seconds he looked up from under his eyebrows. “This is our third meeting so we’re good acquaintances. I have a girlfriend back home. If a man has a girlfriend and the person of the opposite sex is informed of it within the first four meetings, he’s allowed to develop a strictly platonic relationship. Since I let you know this in only our third meeting, we’re ahead of schedule and off to an extremely good start.”

Did he have a girlfriend back home? No. Julie had made it pretty clear they were finished. He might as well admit it. But not out loud.

“Cheers then. To a fruitful acquaintanceship.” She winked and raised her glass.

“Is that a word?”

“As of now, yes.”

They smacked their glasses together just hard enough for a smattering of pop to spill over the sides.

Micah suggested they go out on the deck. Walking beside Sarah across the tan carpet, he easily fell into her rhythm and it stirred something inside he couldn’t put a name to. It wasn’t infatuation or a crush. He wouldn’t even call it romantic. Natural was the best word to describe it.

“How ’bout you? Have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

She looked at him without elaboration, so he asked the obvious follow-up question. “How long have you been broken up?”

“Why do you think it was recent?” She poked him in the side.

“A girl as beautiful and smart as you is simply not allowed to be single for more than six months. Eight months max. The rules won’t allow it.”

“Really?” Sarah folded her arms across her chest. “And what do the rules say about telling an acquaintance she is beautiful when the said prevaricator of the line has a girlfriend named Julie?”

“The judges allow it providing three things: It has to be true, it has to be said without any romantic atmosphere or intent clouding the issue, and finally, beautiful has to be said within the context of explaining a mystery, like why you aren’t with anyone right now. Not just said on its own for the sake of saying it,” Micah said.

“Ah. Thanks for the clarification. At least we met two of the requirements.”

“No prospects on the horizon?”

“I’ve sworn off guys.” She pulled her hair behind her ears. “I’m done with boyfriends for a long, long time. Finished. Over.” A defiant look filled her eyes, and she didn’t smile.

Micah tried to laugh, but it died on his lips as Sarah turned away. He didn’t expect such a vehement statement from her. Why send him the message with such force?

Silence stretched to an awkward twenty seconds.

“Uh, is that a subject you’d like to elaborate on?”

“Not even the hint of a chance.” Sarah walked over to the far end of the deck and leaned against the railing.

Micah waited a few seconds before easing over to her. “Listen, dinner won’t be done for another fifteen minutes, how ’bout a tour of the house?”

She faced him, smiled, and the somber feeling lingering in the air vanished. “I’d love to, but what if we took a little walk on the beach instead?”

“Sure, tide’s out, great time for a short walk.”

||||||||

The aroma of Cornish game hen and garlic mashed potatoes greeted them as they walked back inside ten minutes later. Pear and walnuts over greens was first, followed by artichokes with melted butter for dipping, angel hair pasta, and the hen. They topped the meal off with banana bread.

“Impressive,” Sarah said with the hint of a tease.

“Hey, c’mon now. Maybe I didn’t make the banana bread. Or the pasta. Or the salad. But I melted the butter and got the hen right.”

“It was a compliment. Seriously. Most guys our age wouldn’t have a clue about putting on a meal like this.”

“Well, thanks, but really I just got lucky. I haven’t done a lot of cooking, but I’ve been practicing. One of those ‘I’ll do it someday’ things. Being down here is someday, I guess.”

“And how long are you staying ‘down here’?”

“That is indeed the $64 million-dollar question.”

They walked into the great room toward the fireplace. He motioned to the couch, but she chose the floor in front of the river rock so he did the same and built a fire while they talked.

“I’m working from down here for a while. Seattle is my permanent home, so I go back every couple of weeks to make sure things are running smoothly.”

Their conversation turned to high school, college, sports they’d played, and favorite movies. They talked for an hour before Micah realized he’d been doing most of the telling.

“You’re good.” He laid his arm across his chest and bowed his head a little.

“At what?”

“Asking questions.”

Sarah smiled but didn’t comment.

“I’ve been talking. You have not been talking.”

“Is that bad?” she said.

“No, I’d just like to know more about your history. I already know my own.”

“But then how mysterious would I be?” She grinned.

Micah watched the flames of the fire shift and dance as he thought about the woman sitting beside him. She was smart and beautiful. Playful. And she was mysterious. Sure of herself but not in a cocky way. She knew who she was with no pretension. During most first dates—yes, he admitted it was a date—he watched women play a role, presenting as perfect a package as possible. He’d done the same.

Even Julie and he still jockeyed and positioned themselves. For power. For protection. Not this time. Sarah had somehow disarmed him, and he’d told more about himself than he wanted to. She’d told almost nothing about herself. Why the swearing off guys? What happened to her?

The glow of the fire streaked her walnut hair with lines of gold, and he let himself go to merely enjoy the moment.

After dessert they walked out onto the deck, and a rare coastal treat greeted them: the stars. Not all. Just a few breaks in the clouds. But enough diamonds on black canvas to be captivating.

Sarah glanced back to the house. “I can see why he gave you the home. It reminds me of you.”

“What?”

She gave him a light smile, as if it were obvious.

“I’ll admit whoever decorated this place found my style.”

“It’s more than style. It feels like you.”

His heart agreed, but his mind wouldn’t accept it. This wasn’t his place. “I don’t know. Maybe. But like I said, this stuff isn’t mine.”

“You don’t have to own something for it to be you. Haven’t you ever gone into a gallery and seen a painting and said ‘that’s me’? Or had a piece of music capture something deep down you didn’t even know was there? You realize it’s always been part of you; you’ve just never heard it before.”

Micah stared at her. She had just unearthed a place in his heart that said “you’re home.” Maybe he’d known it all along. Maybe that was the reason he hadn’t gotten around to selling the house.

He turned away. “Yeah, I know the feeling.” He didn’t add he was having the feeling right then. “Midnight beach walk?” It was late, but the words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them. He saw conflict in her eyes.

Sarah shook her head. “Next time.”

At her car Micah thanked her for coming. She returned the sentiment with her eyes. He stared at the road long after the bright red of her taillights disappeared down Highway 101.

She made him feel like he was ripping through the water on a slalom water ski on a Seattle summer morning, when the shade was cool but the sun would warm him in minutes; when the lightest of breezes darted through the air like sparrows playing tag; when the smell of western red cedar made him want to climb Mount Rainier or soak in a sunset over the Olympic Mountains.

Not exactly platonic emotions.

As he ambled back to his house, kicking a small round stone like it was a soccer ball, he tried to guess why she’d turned her back on romance. A broken heart? Too many Prince Dudleys?

And how was she able to see how well the house fit him? He hadn’t even seen it himself to the extent she had. But she was right. Sarah seemed to have more answers than he did. He’d listen to any insight she had about the house since ol’ Archie hadn’t seen fit to leave him any hints.

Wait.

Archie.

The letters!

He jogged toward the house.

Finally he’d get some answers. The letters were sure to give him at least a few clues he didn’t have to be Hercule Poirot to figure out.

CHAPTER 14

Micah stepped inside and strode over to the coat closet door. He yanked it open and pulled the stack down from the closet shelf. Yes! Answers. Right here. Right now.

A faded business card stuck out from under the first envelope—Archie’s. He pulled it out. A handwritten note was on the back.

Dear Micah,

Congratulations on finding the letters. Of course if Chris followed my instructions, it shouldn’t have been too difficult. There is only one guideline. Read them in order and only read one letter per week. Only one.

Your great-uncle,

Archie

Micah shook his head and smiled. The guy never failed to fascinate. The envelopes were numbered from 1 to 19 in the lower right-hand corner, almost too small to read. He trotted over to his overstuffed chair that faced the picture windows, settled in, and opened the first letter.

October 20, 1990

Dear Micah,

Our first letter together in the house has filled me with joy and anticipation. Some of my correspondence will be lengthy; at other times the letters will be much shorter. I dare hope all will contain encouragement for your journey now begun.

As I mentioned in my introductory letter, you will have to make a choice to face your past or not. And facing your past means more than just dealing with the memory of your mother’s passing. There is more to deal with surrounding her death. Much more.

More? No, he wouldn’t go there again. Ever. Hadn’t he finished that? But he couldn’t stop shards of the memory from bursting into his mind—his dad standing over him, screaming over and over, “What have you done to her, Micah? What have you done?”

Micah slammed the memory back into its dark corner. Get a grip! He pounded his leg with his fist. “C’mon, Archie I need something with a little more hope than that.”

I expect by this point you have begun to understand what the home is. If not, then I am afraid I will be spilling a bit of the proverbial beans.

The structure is far more than a home and will make a significant impact on your future if you allow it to. The home is a part of you, and you are part of it to a greater degree than you can imagine. I designed it this way with help from a close friend. His singular ability and assistance makes this home extraordinary.

Along with the healing of your heart and the trials that will entail, I pray you find rest as well. The Cannon Beach section of the Oregon Coast has always been a place of peace. I trust it still is. I counsel you to soak in the music of the ocean and the accents of the seagulls crying, and the hope of finding a sand dollar still whole.

Your great-uncle,

Archie

P.S. Remember, Micah, one letter per week. I look forward to being together again in seven days.

Micah set the letter on the armrest, tilted his head back, and let out a small groan. Answers? Archie raised more questions than he’d answered. The house is part of him? What’s that supposed to mean? Face more than just reliving his mom’s death? What, the memory room wasn’t enough?

Maybe the second letter would help. He smacked its edge into the palm of his hand three times in a quick cadence. One a week? Sorry. He wasn’t waiting another seven days for the next cryptic letter about the mansion and its secrets.

He slipped his forefinger under the top flap of the second envelope and stopped. Instantly he was seven years old again, sneaking out and opening his presents on Christmas Eve while the rest of his family was snug in bed. Shrugging off the feeling of guilt, he ripped open the envelope. He wasn’t a kid anymore.

He sucked in a quick breath, held it, and yanked out the letter. The paper scraping free sounded like firecrackers. He looked around the room and assured himself it was okay.

October 24, 1990

Micah,

I am in a bit of a quandary with regard to how I should start this next letter or what type of forewarning I should attempt to impress upon you before you read the following words. For no matter how complete my effort may be, you will likely be a mite traumatized at the message it contains.

Before I reach the portion of the letter I believe will elicit this reaction, let me assure you I am just an ordinary man; by the time you read these letters, I will likely have been with my Lord Jesus for many years.

Micah put down the letter. He wasn’t in the mood to be shocked. He’d had enough surprises since coming to Cannon Beach to last a year. But how could he stop reading?

I know you are reading this letter before I’ve intended you to. Please do not do this. Stay true to the schedule I instructed of one letter per week. I realize this might be difficult to adhere to. You will want to race ahead and receive answers to your questions right now. It is a strength God has given to you—to strive forward strongly in all that you do—but in this case, it is a weakness and a hindrance to truth.

Please allow the process of being in this home to take the time it needs, that you need.

Archie

Micah’s heart jackhammered. He thought little could surprise him after what he’d been through already, but this was over the top. How could a man back in 1990 know he would disregard his request and open the second letter early? There was no logical explanation. A chill swept through the room, and the ticking of the grandfather clock at the top of the spiral staircase sounded like gunshots.

He looked down at envelope number three. It mocked him—dared him—to open it.

It slid out smoothly till a corner of the envelope caught on the twine that held the bundle of letters together. He wrenched it free and ripped it open.

October 25, 1990

Dear Micah,

Stick with the order.

Archie

Heat flooded Micah’s body. He picked up letter number four and tore at it in sheer defiance. But his hands trembled, and it took thirty seconds before he read it. When his eyes dropped to the page his fear was confirmed.

October 26, 1990

Dear Micah,

One per week. Trust me.

Archie

Micah closed his eyes and took deep breaths. In. Out. This was beyond strange. First the shrine room, then the painting room, then the memory room, now this. How? The man’s been dead for twelve years!

Sweat squiggled down his forehead. He glanced at his watch. One in the morning. Too late to call Rick.

He was out of control again.

Once more Archie showed his penchant for the strange twist—not only with the house but now with the letters.

He rubbed his temples hard. What was the point of living in one of Rod Serling’s nightmares? Archie’s letters were the straw, he was the camel, and he didn’t need any crushed vertebrae. He should sell the place and get back to reality.

||||||||

A week later Micah strode toward his deck with letter number five grasped in his left hand. His right held his cedar letter opener like a sword, and his heart pounded.

He wanted to read the letter outside. For all he knew, reading it would suck him into another psychotic room. This way he could at least process the letter before facing any new, unwanted expedition. He knew God could not be put into the tidy box Micah had tried to squeeze Him into these past six or seven years. And this house certainly seemed to be the field of battle where that truth would be played out. So it was with expectation of the extraordinary that he opened the letter.

He was disappointed.

December 3, 1990

Dear Micah,

I pick up my pen again. It is indeed a strange sensation knowing if and when you read these letters it will be a long time into the future. Forgive me. I am rambling and promised myself I would avoid that.

Your heart is a sacred and magical thing, Micah. From it flows the wellspring of life. It’s why the wisest man who ever lived said we must guard it above all else. You won’t reach it by your intellect. The pathway to the heart is always by the Spirit, and the pathway to the Spirit is by the heart.

Are you wealthy, Micah? To acquire a significant amount of money at a young age, elements of life must be neglected. Often the heart. This is what I meant in my introductory letter when I said if you are not yet thirty-five, your heart has not been suitably guarded.

No matter your current age, I imagine you have already experienced a number of extraordinary things in this home—some potentially frightening—and yet if you’re reading this letter, you’ve made the choice to press onward in your journey. This indicates your heart is coming alive again.

Now I finally arrive at the lesson of this letter. It is impossible for man to serve both mammon and God.

With great affection,

Archie

Micah set down the letter and shook his head. Some lesson. He’d heard it since he first became a Christian. The love of money is the root of all evil and all that stuff. What did it have to do with him? So he’d made some money. That meant he was serving it? No way. He’d made it too young? In Archie’s day he doubted IPOs could make a young company owner a multi-multimillionaire overnight the way it could today.

He sighed and walked back inside. Might as well pack for the trip back to Seattle even though he didn’t have to leave till the next afternoon. It had been fifteen days since he’d started working from the beach, and he was scheduled to show up for a day full of meetings on Friday.

Traffic on I-5 was light on Thursday evening, and he clipped off the miles back to Seattle at seventy miles per hour without having to change lanes. By the time he reached Tacoma, the music on his CDs had grown stale, and he was tired of the late-night radio talk-show hosts who all droned on about the same tired political issues.

His thoughts turned to Archie’s letter.

Guarding his heart? What did that mean? Against what? Ninety-nine percent of the world wanted the fame and fortune he had, so he must already be guarding his heart on a Secret Service level.

“The pathway to the heart is always by the Spirit, and the pathway to the Spirit is by the heart.” Archie’s line sounded like something Rick would say.

Micah rolled his eyes, pushed a button on his steering wheel, and let the sounds of classic rock drown out the questions that played big-time wrestling in his mind.

“God? I’m open to learning what I’m supposed to learn here. Wouldn’t want to give me some answers, would You?”

A thought lit up his mind like a flash of lightning.

Get ready.

CHAPTER 15

Well, well, well, Mr. Taylor, welcome to RimSoft,” Shannon said to Micah as he walked past her antique Georgian walnut desk on Friday morning. “So nice to have you come visit our little company during the month of June.”

“Hah.” Micah stopped and sat in the burgundy leather chair next to Shannon’s desk and fumbled for the right words. If God had really talked to him and made the “Get ready” comment, it had to be about RimSoft. And if anyone knew about strange events inside the company, it would be Shannon.

“Anything unusual been going on around here? Rumors I should know about?”

“No, why?”

Micah shrugged. “No reason.”

Shannon turned back to her computer and squinted at the screen. But her right ear slowly rose a quarter inch, telling Micah she wasn’t seeing anything.

“You want to know the reason.”

“Only if you want to tell me, boss.”

“This place down in Cannon Beach is making changes in me. Maybe good ones.” Micah shifted in his seat and smoothed out his pants. “But I can’t lose any control of my world up here. And, uh, I think . . . I mean I had a feeling there might be some different things going on. Just need to make sure we’re smooth up here. Understand?”

Shannon tapped the watch on Micah’s wrist. “A Corum doesn’t run any smoother.”

“Thanks.” Micah stood and winked at her before heading into his office.

||||||||

At noon Micah’s laptop chimed twice. Time to check and see if RimSoft was playing nice with all the other kids on the NASDAQ. He pushed the Federal Trade Commission papers needing his signature to the side. Get big and a company gets targeted whether anything illegal was done or not. Maybe RimSoft had skirted the edge of ethical but not so badly they deserved this current hassle.

Micah checked RimSoft’s stock price three times a day—at eight in the morning, noon, and at the market close. He told himself it was just a game, that it didn’t matter if he was up or down, and at first it had been true.

When RimSoft first went public, he checked twice a week—once on Tuesdays and at the close on Friday. But after the stock streaked heavenward faster than a bottle rocket—and his net worth went along for the ride—he started checking daily.

It became an obsession.

Micah punched up the stock on his computer. What?

He felt the blood drain from his face. He shook his head, as if he’d just woken from a dream. Or a nightmare. He slammed a button on his phone.

“Yes?”

“What is going on with the stock, Roger!”

“Hi, Micah. I heard you’re back for a few—”

“What in the name of all that is holy is going on with my stock!” Micah stood and paced behind his desk but didn’t take his eyes off the speakerphone.

“I’m not sure what you mean. We’re up a full point over last week and the volume’s been good. And long-term options on the stock indicate a—”

“Up a point from where? Thursday afternoon we closed at 83¼ and this morning we’re at 62¾? Did someone not tell me about a three-for-one split?”

Roger sighed on the other end of the line.

“Do I get an answer?”

“I don’t know what you’re after here, but—”

“What am I after?” Micah snatched the phone out of its cradle and growled into the phone. “I want to know why my net worth just dropped by almost fifteen million dollars! I want to know how it’s possible for the stock to drop 20 points between Thursday at 1:30 p.m. and Friday at 11:45 a.m. I want answers from my CFO on why millions of dollars have just covered themselves with magical invisibility powder and—poof!—disappeared!”

“I’m going to act for a moment like you’re serious.”

“O . . . kay . . .” Micah drew the word out as his knuckles turned white from his grip on the phone. “Humor me.”

“The stock has never traded for more than 74¼. Ever. Heck, we’re only off our three-year high by five points. And it looks—”

Micah hung up and clicked his mouse. A graph popped up on his screen showing him RimSoft’s three-year high was 72⅜; the low was 14.

He grabbed his temples and pressed hard. He tried taking three deep breaths but didn’t succeed. He buzzed Shannon. “I need the hard copies of our monthly statements on the stock price for the past six months. I’d appreciate if you could do it quickly.”

“They’re all in the compu—”

“The hard copies, Shannon. Right now!” He slammed the phone into its cradle. Fifteen million dollars. Gone.

Something smacked onto Micah’s desk thirty seconds later. By the time he looked up, Shannon had turned and was walking back to her desk without comment.

He dug through the reports knowing what he’d find. But he ripped through them anyway and finished by sweeping the pile off the edge of his desk. Terror hammered at his mind as they fluttered to the floor.

Micah picked up the phone. It slipped from his fingers and rattled on his desk. He picked it up again and hit six on his speed dial.

“Hello to you. Rick’s Gas & Garage.”

“Devin, it’s Micah. I have to talk to Rick.”

“Hey, Micah, good to hear from ya. What’s going on? How are—?”

“I gotta talk to him now, Devin!”

“Oh, sorry, he ran up to Seaside to pick up parts we need right away, you know, so, well, you’re gonna have to wait or talk to me, I guess.”

“Have him call me on my cell the instant he gets back, okay?”

“Sure.”

Micah rubbed his hands back and forth on his thighs as he stared at the ticker symbols that streamed across the bottom of his computer screen. Normal volume. Nothing unusual about the Dow or the S&P. RimSoft’s stock was steady, riding little waves up and down.

Micah pulled two Wall Street analysts’ predictions for the stock. All said RimSoft’s stock was a good bet even though it traded near its all-time high. Nothing indicated it ever traded as high as 83.

What was happening? He begged God to talk to him.

A bead of sweat meandered down his right temple. He wiped it away and stared at the moisture on his fingertips. After the third trickle of perspiration, he tried Rick again to no avail.

Micah grabbed his coat and walked out the door. “Shannon, I gotta go. I’m going back down to the beach.”

“You’re leaving? You just got here. What about this afternoon’s meetings?”

He was four steps toward the elevator when her question registered in his fog-filled mind. “What?” He turned and took a half step to the side to keep from stumbling.

“Are you okay, Micah?”

He swallowed and resisted the panic that pressed in. “No. I mean, yes, I’m fine.”

She pursed her lips as though she were about to whistle and squinted at him.

“I’m okay, really. I’ll be back up in a week, and we’ll do the meetings then. I’ll give you a buzz Monday. I just need to deal with something right now.” There had to be a reason for the stock drop. He would find it.

“The answer to your panic is at the beach?”

“It was after I read something down there that things got weird.”

Shannon frowned. “What’s been getting weird?”

“I’ll talk to you Monday.” He jogged toward the elevator, then reached for the button. He didn’t push it. Instead he walked back to Shannon. “Sorry for yelling when I asked for the stock reports. I’m . . . it’s just that . . .” Micah stopped his gaze from flitting around her desk and settled on her. “No excuses. I was a jerk. And I’m really, really sorry.”

He walked out of his building and looked to the left, then the right. Where should he go? Who could he talk to? Julie? No way. Not with the current tension between them. Besides, what if her response was the same as Roger’s? She’d accuse the beach of sucking away his sanity and want to get the board involved.

Talk to his dad? Uh, yeah, right. His dad would be convinced Archie’s house was making him dance on the tightrope of psychosis, and since he might be right, Micah didn’t want to hand his father additional ammo to knock him off the wire.

Other friends came to mind, but there were none he could truly open up to. How could he tell his basketball buddies he just lost more than fifteen million dollars with no tangible evidence to back it up?

He fired up his car and screeched out of RimSoft’s parking lot. As his BMW eased onto I-5, he reflected on how depressing it was that the only person he trusted was a man he’d met just eight weeks earlier.

When a person’s on top of the world, he doesn’t need anyone. But now Micah was sliding down the mountain and running out of rope.

Rick’s number lit up the caller ID on Micah’s cell phone just before he reached Longview. He threw his Bluetooth over his ear. “Finally! We gotta talk.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m heading down I-5 back to Cannon Beach and down the path of lunacy at the same time. Wishing I wasn’t taking the trip solo,” Micah said.

“Tell me.”

“When I checked our stock price yesterday, it was 83¼. This morning it’s at 62¾. And everyone at RimSoft thinks that’s perfectly normal.”

“No chance you’re wrong about yesterday?”

“No way.” Micah pulled into the left lane and kicked his BMW up to seventy-five.

“Hard copies?”

“They changed.”

“Changed? How could they change?”

“Exactly. I have no clue.” Micah veered right to pass a sluggish RV hogging the left-hand lane. “But I know the stock was in the low 80s yesterday and today it isn’t. I’ve lost almost fifteen million dollars in less than twenty-four hours.”

“That’s some serious coin.”

Something in Rick’s tone caught Micah’s ear. “You know what’s going on, don’t you?”

Rick stayed silent so Micah asked again.

Silence.

“C’mon, Rick! If you know something, talk to me. What is going on? I’m not crazy. But this isn’t the first—” Micah paused and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

“The first what?”

“Weird things have been happening, quirky things.”

“Like?”

“Like my car gaining an instant sixteen thousand miles, which you say we’ll talk about someday. Like a couple months back my racquetball partner completely forgets a match we played—claims it never happened. Like calling a guy I met at a party to talk business and he forgets meeting me. We talked for fifteen minutes at that party. I’m not that forgettable.”

“No, you’re not.” Rick chuckled.

“Two different guys forgetting being with me is odd. My car gaining mystery miles is bizarre. But seeing my company’s stock drop twenty points in one day and no one knows it but me is not odd. It’s The Twilight Zone and The X-Files in a double pack, up front in living color.”

“Here’s what I know for certain,” Rick said. “God is sovereign. That’s an intellectual way of saying He’s in control and knows what He’s doing.”

“Not the answer I’m looking for.”

“I know. You’re used to having complete control and all the answers to your life in an instant. This time the answers will flit just beyond your fingertips. It will take time to catch them.”

“That’s it? I need more than that, Rick.”

“One more thing that’s pretty obvious. The Lord is a better choice to talk to than me.”

“Yeah.”

Their talk helped. Not near enough, but enough. The rest of the drive he alternated between trying to pray and keeping a lid on his imagination. On one hand he believed God was in control. On another, if his net worth changed that quickly, what else could be turned on its side over a weekend? And would God be the cause of it, or just allow it?

He had to get control of this. Had to keep eyes of an eagle on that stock. The coming week would be a monotonous marathon of tension.

CHAPTER 16

Forty-five million reasons woke Micah early on Monday morning.

When the market opened at six-thirty, Micah walked in from his deck, the smell of his self-made espresso in his hand still filling his senses. He grabbed his laptop, pulled up the Internet, and locked his gaze on a chart showing RimSoft’s stock price. He’d set his laptop to refresh once every fifteen seconds so he’d know almost instantly if there was an abnormal drop in the price.

An hour passed before he moved and then only to grab a bowl of Banana Nut Crunch. He brought it over to his desk and slurped it down while he watched his monitor. Another hour with no change. When the market closed at one-thirty, he slumped backward and closed his bloodshot eyes.

Exhausting.

Tuesday the stock was down two, Wednesday up three, Thursday down a half, and Friday up a quarter. When the market closed Friday afternoon, Micah snapped his laptop shut and sighed. A headache throbbed in his temples and radiated down his neck. Finally over!

It was more than the money. It was his company’s clout in the computer world. With the stock in the low 60s, RimSoft wouldn’t be as influential, making key alliances harder to secure.

But it was more than even that. He’d invested his life in the company. Blood, tears, and gallons of sweat had been poured into it. Even a sliver of it slipping away ripped at his heart. RimSoft gave him identity, a reference point for his entire life. He was RimSoft; RimSoft was him. Sure, maybe Cannon Beach was changing him, drawing him to a deeper identity and things eternal, but it didn’t squelch the sinking feeling inside of losing his world in Seattle.

Saturday morning he guzzled a cup of Seattle’s Best Coffee, wandered out onto the deck, and watched the seagulls canter back and forth on the wind. He worried. Not about his sanity. Not really. He knew he wasn’t losing his mind. It was the daunting images that darted through his mind of other things that might change in an instant.

Time for a run.

On his way to change clothes, the painting room popped into his mind. Yes. Just the thing to take his mind off the madness. After he opened the door, he didn’t know whether to feel fear or joy. Significant changes again. He felt light-headed and teetered on his Nikes.

Lush Douglas fir trees now covered the hills, emerald carpet at their feet. The sky was a brilliant sapphire blue, with cotton candy clouds peppered sparsely through the heavens. The artist had started the ocean, but it was too early to tell if the waves would play or rage.

He studied the painting for half an hour. Where the artist would take it next fluttered at the edges of his heart like a riveting dream that fades upon waking. The artist could put people in the painting, a sand castle, kites . . .

When he finally left, he walked toward his bedroom to get ready for his run. The plan was abandoned a moment later when he spotted another door down the hall he’d never seen. It was framed by ornate carvings of trees interwoven with otters, wolves, and eagles.

This, he would have remembered.

The door was cracked open, the inside tar black. He peeked through the narrow opening. Light from the hall spilled onto the first few feet of carpet in the room and stopped abruptly. Odd. Micah eased the door open halfway.

There was no furniture in the few feet of the room he could see—nothing but carpet washed into the darkness. There was no sound, although it felt like there should be. The room was too still. Too silent. Images of the memory room filled his mind.

A faint rustle came from the back of the room.

“Hello?” Micah called out.

“Hi, Micah,” came a voice out of the stillness.

Micah’s heartbeat jumped from 65 to 180 in an instant. He staggered back across the hall and smacked into the wall behind him. But he stayed there and didn’t run. Something about the voice riveted him to the floor.

“Who are you?”

“Come in,” the soft voice soothed.

“Who are you?” Micah shouted.

“Hey, get in here.” The voice laughed easily. “Come in.” The tone was light and welcoming. “Don’t freak out on me.”

The voice was familiar, as if he’d heard it many times before. He hesitated. There was no reason to go in. That wasn’t true. There was every reason to step inside. Everything in this house was somehow related to his spiritual condition. Archie had virtually told him that in his first letter.

But this was different. It was the first time an audible voice had spoken to him without being part of a contained scene or a dream. And instead of being a scene from his past, this was in the present and in the house. This wasn’t a changed painting or a room of memorabilia; it was a real, live voice.

He shuddered, once, twice, then moved forward. He inched his foot over the threshold and set his foot down like a dandelion spore settling on the grass in spring. His other foot remained in the hallway.

Laughter again. Warm. Comforting. “Come in, Micah. All the way. I promise, I am a friend. More of a friend than you can imagine.”

He eased into the room another step and then stopped. The room felt familiar. Even more than the rest of the house. It was like hearing a phone number and realizing it was attached to someone he knew but not remembering if the person was from the present or a past long forgotten.

“Now that your heart rate has returned to normal, why not come in a little farther so we can talk? There’s a chair to your right as comfortable as a big cotton ball.”

Micah took slow steps to his right, and his thigh bumped up against the chair. The darkness kept him from seeing even its outline but he felt supple leather. “That’s okay; I’ll stand.”

“I understand,” the voice said. “I knew it’d be quite a shock the first time we actually talked to each other.”

“Who are you?” Micah squinted into the inky darkness.

“A friend who has been with you since the day you were born.”

“Why have I never heard you before?”

“You’re kidding, right?” A smile sounded in the voice. “All your life I’ve been speaking to you. You know my voice.”

It was true. He did. More than familiar, it felt like a part of him. But just when he thought he had placed it, the memory raced into a corner of his mind where he couldn’t follow. Micah spoke just above a whisper. “Yes, I’ll say there is something about your voice I recognize. But I don’t know you.”

“Yes, you do. You know me intimately. Just as I know you.”

“Then who are you?”

“Let your imagination go for a moment. Archie built a truly astonishing house. A home where things that only happen in dreams happen every day. A house so deeply spiritual, miracles happen in every moment.” The voice paused. “You know who I am.”

Micah knew. But part of him couldn’t believe it, and another part didn’t want it to be true. It was too strange, too unnerving. And yet a third part desperately wanted this impossibility to be possible for him. Finally he answered.

“You’re me.”

“Yes.”

Micah held his breath. Then he sipped in a swallow of air and spoke. “You’re my own thoughts, my own voice, my own impressions.” Micah paused, realizing the significance and utter strangeness of what he was about to say. “I’m talking . . . to myself.”

The voice chuckled. “Strange yet wonderful, isn’t it?”

Of course. It made so much sense. This was why the voice was so familiar. He had been hearing it all his life. “Why the dark?”

“You got me. Guess it makes it easier to talk to each other. It blocks out the distractions. Like when we’re praying. It’s the same way here. Rather than focus on anything visual, you can—or maybe I should say we can—focus on the words we speak to each other instead of the weirdness of staring into each other’s faces.”

“How can I hear you audibly here but not outside this house? All my life I’ve heard you through thoughts and impressions and ideas but never like this. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense. In this house you’re becoming more attuned to the spiritual realm around you. That alone would make me easier to hear. And you’re hearing the voice of God again, so why shouldn’t you hear more clearly the voice of yourself?”

“Last time I heard God’s voice, He said ‘get ready’ and I lost fifteen million dollars.”

The voice didn’t respond.

“I gotta think this through.” Micah turned to leave.

“Great finally talking to you like this,” the voice said.

Micah made sure the door was shut tight.

That night he stood on the deck outside his room at the Ocean Lodge, campfire smoke drifting up from the beach. He couldn’t believe he was so scared of his own voice he wouldn’t go to sleep in his house.

But c’mon. How often did a voice come out of a dark room claiming to be his own? Then again, maybe it was a gift beyond imagination he needed to accept. Yes. An incredible gift. He would simply accept it and the next night sleep back in the house.

Someone down on the beach waved a tiny fireball through the air. Probably a marshmallow that got too close to the campfire. He wished his biggest mystery in life was how to evenly brown a marshmallow.

Rick. He’d talk to Rick about the voice. Tomorrow night.

CHAPTER 17

But Micah didn’t tell Rick about the voice. He went with him to his church the next evening, and afterward the mechanic suggested they grab a late dinner at the Lumberyard. Micah avoided the question. He was still thinking about church.

Every time during the service Micah had thought about describing the voice to Rick, dread washed over him. Twice when he turned to tell his friend, a palpable tension shot through his back, leaving the instant he decided not to tell. How much clearer could it get? It wasn’t the right timing. No question. And Micah didn’t feel like making small talk.

The rooms, the weird things disappearing in Seattle, even the stock dropping was strange, but talking to yourself? He needed to call it what it was. He was hearing voices.

Maybe he was losing it. Archie could have been schizo and somehow rigged the house to trigger the same thing in Micah. Maybe it was time to sell the place and get back to reality.

But there was Sarah. And maybe God was in control. As long as Micah could avoid facing whatever was more painful than the memory of his mom’s death, he’d stay.

“So you going to join me?” Rick said.

“Nah, early day tomorrow.”

“Getting up with the market, eh?”

“Does anything get past you?” Micah shook his head and smiled. “I just want to keep an eye on the stock tomorrow.”

“Last week wasn’t enough?” Rick threw his arm around Micah’s shoulders as they walked through the syrupy fog toward their cars. “I’m just teasing. I’d feel the same way in your shoes.”

But Rick wasn’t in his moccasins. And Micah didn’t like the idea of going through his life barefoot.

||||||||

Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday all followed the same pattern. Stress about the stock price. Check it incessantly. Check the charts one more time to confirm it never traded as high as 83. Stress some more.

On Wednesday his computer chimed three times with a reminder message. TASK: READ ARCHIE’S NEXT LETTER

Yes! Time for his weekly blast from the past. Micah flopped down on the couch in front of his fireplace and opened the cherry-red shoe box in which he’d placed all Archie’s letters. He lifted the next envelope off the top of the stack and tore it open. February 10, 1991. He was ten years old when Archie wrote it. Still too weird.

Dear Micah,

I hope you are liking the house. Perhaps that is not the correct word. More accurately, I pray the house is making you face yourself and that you are on the path toward restoration. I pray you are allowing this to occur. The home will challenge, encourage, and stretch you to your limits. In all probability this comes as no surprise to you; however, if you think you have encountered a number of strange and unexplainable incidents up until this point, it would be less than fair if I did not alert you that stranger things are still forthcoming.

Great. Bizarro home gets even stranger. He could hardly wait.

With that admonition in the forefront of your mind, let me also assure you once again that God is sovereign and in control and I have prayed for and about this home for many years. However, this does not mean there are no dangerous places within the house. There are. This simply illustrates the truth that from time to time we have to be placed in precarious places to learn the lesson God is teaching.

Your great-uncle and fervent supporter,

Archie

He put down the letter. Why couldn’t Archie write a letter simply saying, “God is good, the past is over, the future is bright, and it’s going to be a fun week”? Micah’s nerves were ready to snap from watching the stock bounce up and down all week. He didn’t need another lesson right now. He needed to relax.

That night Micah sat on his deck trying to take his mind off the house, the stock, where his life was headed, and lingering thoughts of Julie. He had to talk to her.

She answered on the second ring. “Hi.”

“What are you doing?”

“Why are you calling, Micah?”

“I want to know where we’re at.”

“Shouldn’t that be my question?”

He leaned his head back and clacked the front of his teeth together.

“I hate it when you do that.”

“Sorry.” Micah stared out at the ocean. “I can’t imagine a business partner who would be better for me. Your intuitive business sense makes mine look like a first grader. You don’t let relationship get in the way of our making money, you—”

“Shut up, Micah. Why don’t you just say it?”

“That we’re over? You’re the one who said good-bye.”

“I still had a tiny bit of hope. Now you’re going to snuff that out, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I am not.” Micah ground his knuckles into the deck’s railing.

“Fine, so you tell me where you want us to be.”

“I don’t know. But that doesn’t mean we’re over.” Micah closed his eyes. “We’re on hold.”

“On hold? Still? Maybe you’re on pause, but I’m not.”

“I just need—”

“Listen. I’m done with us. For good. Since you don’t seem to have the spine for it, let me do the honors. It’s over.”

The line went dead.

Perfect. That would make life more fun. Micah stared at the waves trying to figure out if what had just happened was good, bad, or somewhere in between.

Micah headed for the media room. He needed something to get his brain off everything. He clicked through his cable choices and settled on an R-rated movie so full of violence and gore that it probably should have been rated NC-17. Yes, it was garbage. But he didn’t care. The escape from his anxiety was worth it.

He went to bed the moment the movie finished and lay rubbing the back of his neck till his fingers ached. Maybe not worth it. His legs twitched, and the blankets pressed down on him like thin sheets of concrete. All night he wrestled with troubling dreams.

Friday morning a light flicked on in his head as he realized how to remove his worry over the stock. Stop orders.

He would put a stop order on all his shares at 10 percent less than their current trading price. If the unexplainable happened again, the stop order would execute and instantly he’d have all his shares in cash—with a drop in value, but a 10 percent drop wins over a 25 percent loss, or who knows how much more, every time.

By 11:00 a.m. he finished entering the stop orders. Good timing. At 11:15 his computer’s reminder alarm chimed. Bike ride with Sarah. His heart rate picked up. And that was before he got on his bike.

||||||||

They met in front of Osburn’s and headed north. They’d decided to ride up past Ecola to Indian Beach to watch the surfers navigate the North Pacific swells. By the time they got to the T in the road that would take them farther up to Indian Beach, Micah was sucking in deep gulps of air. Not Sarah. If she’d lost any of her Olympic-athlete conditioning, he couldn’t see it.

After they arrived and picked a spot on the windswept bluff overlooking the waves, Sarah said, “What are your plans once you’re done down here?”

“I don’t know when I’ll be done.” Micah plucked some of the long grass around them and threw them like darts.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Yes, I know.” Micah smiled but she didn’t return it.

To buy time, he got up, walked back to his bike, and grabbed his water bottle. He took a deep draw of water and squinted at the sun playing hide-and-seek with the clouds. Just before he sat next to Sarah, the sun jumped out, as bright as it had been so far that day.

“Want to walk to the beach?” Micah asked.

“Sure.”

They wound their way down to the little beach, full of boulders the size of Volkswagen Beetles. The tide was out, but even so, there was little room to maneuver around them.

“Ever done a long bike ride?” Sarah asked.

“Define long.”

“More than one hundred miles in a day.”

“No.”

“We should do the STP together.”

Micah raised both eyebrows as he stepped over a cluster of small rocks.

“The Seattle-to-Portland bike race. One day, two hundred miles. ’Course a lot of people split it into two,” Sarah said.

“And we’d do it in one or two?”

Sarah waved her index finger in front of her face.

“Oh, wow. You mean I’ll have to get in shape?”

They padded farther down the beach. “Sorry for avoiding the question earlier,” Micah said. “I don’t have a clue what my plans will be once I’m done down here. I suppose I’ll go back to Seattle and come down here three or four times a year for vacation. Relax. Get perspective. You have any better ideas?” He said it with a light-hearted spin, hoping to bring a bit of playfulness to the conversation. It didn’t work.

“You wouldn’t like my suggestion.”

“I’d love it.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” He wiggled the fingers of both hands, inviting her to ask the question.

“You’re sure?”

Micah nodded, even though he wasn’t sure, a queasy feeling growing in his stomach.

“I think you should start a plan right now.”

“To?”

“Get things right with your dad.”

Oh, boy. Here it comes. “How is that supposed to work? I have no relationship with my dad. I don’t want one. He doesn’t want one. Done. Over. End of plan.”

Sarah put on her sunglasses. “You don’t need a relationship with him to take care of what you need to take care of.”

“Oh, really? So tell me, Watson, what this mysterious thing is I need to fix.”

Sarah gazed up at him. “Forgive him, for whatever it is he’s done.”

Micah rolled his eyes. He ought to write a book: Cannon Beach Conspiracy. How an ordinary software businessman was ambushed into dredging up his dead-and-buried past.

The problem? It was still very much alive.

Micah sidestepped a wave the incoming tide sent farther up the beach than its cousins.

“I’m sorry, I said too much.” Sarah pivoted and shuffled down the beach.

Bull’s-eye. Way too much. But he’d asked for it.

She stood twenty yards away, the wind ruffling her hair, obscuring her face, then blowing it free a second later. As he approached her, Sarah turned toward the sun, and tears trickled out from under her sunglasses.

Micah didn’t speak till seven waves had rushed up the sand, then retreated back into the surf. “You okay?”

She didn’t respond.

“Want to talk about it?”

She sniffed and laughed at the same time. He reached into his shorts pocket, found the softness of a light blue tissue, and pulled it out.

She took it from him. “Why am I crying, right?”

The question wasn’t directed at him. But the answer was. She glanced at Micah before turning back toward the white-flecked waves that pounded the sand. “Because I’ve been praying for you and your choices for many years.” She walked back toward their bikes.

As they ambled down the sand together, the rays of the late-afternoon sun danced on her hair, turning it golden. He knew she meant months, so he waited for her to correct herself. But she didn’t.

“Months,” he said softly, “you meant many months.”

Her face flushed. She stopped, looked at him for a moment, then hiked away. “No,” she called without turning around, “I meant years.”

CHAPTER 18

Micah tried to resist, but Saturday afternoon he called Sarah to ask about the “praying for years” comment. He’d asked her about it on Friday as they rode back into Cannon Beach, but she deflected the question. If she was home now, she wasn’t answering, and by midday on Monday, she still hadn’t returned his call. He needed someone to talk to.

An idea flashed into his mind. A way to get answers to the two questions bouncing around his brain. After checking in with Shannon to make sure everything was running silky smooth at RimSoft, he closed his laptop and headed into town to find a hardware store.

By one o’clock he tromped through his house lugging a massive Black & Decker light-up-the-universe flashlight under his arm. He’d talked with the voice three more times since his first encounter, but Micah still wasn’t convinced it was himself. He wanted to do more than hear the voice, especially if he was going to talk about sensitive subjects. He wanted to see it. It wasn’t a Wizard of Oz voice that echoed throughout the room; it came from the center, fifteen or twenty feet back.

The voice said it had to be dark, that seeing each other would make it too difficult to focus on talking. Even if it were true, it didn’t explain why the room was pitch black.

He lugged the flashlight up to the room, hid it behind his back, and grabbed the door handle. He eased it open.

“Nice flashlight, Micah.”

Micah could tell the voice was smiling. “How can you know that?”

“We’ve been over this. I am you. You are me.” The voice laughed. “You can stop doubting anytime, you know.”

“So you know I’m going to shine this into the room in about two seconds?”

“Yeah. But do it anyway.”

Micah shot the beam straight into the heart of the room. Nothing. The light stopped two feet into the room, as if hitting an opaque pane of glass. The light reflected back at Micah, and he saw a muddied version of himself holding the flashlight. He walked up to the reflection and lifted his hand, expecting to touch the surface of something. But his hand went through the point of reflection, as if it was dense fog, and it disappeared.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” the voice asked.

Micah didn’t answer and flashed the beam to his right and left. Same result.

“Here’s something you probably didn’t realize or expect,” the voice said. “I can’t see you, either.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. It works both ways. As weird as it would be for you to see me, it’d be that weird for me to see you.”

“Then explain how you know things I don’t. If I’m you, I should know them, too.”

“I can see how you’d think that,” the voice said. “But it doesn’t play out that way. The whole point and gift of us being able to talk to each other is we get to vocalize and discuss things we do know deep down but haven’t voiced even to ourselves.”

“So you’re a deeper version of me?”

“I don’t know exactly, possibly, I suppose. But you’re just as deep in different ways. Think of me as the feeling, has time-to-mull-things-over, emotional Micah. A Micah outside the constraints of time.” The voice cleared his throat. “Here’s another way to think of me. I’m more the right brain and you’re more the left. Science tells us the right brain is incapable of putting feelings, thoughts, and intuition into words, but for the here and now, in this situation at least, I can. The right brain—me—talking to the left brain—you.”

For the first time, it made sense, and Micah realized why it was such a gift from God. Micah had allowed the left side of his brain to dominate his life for so long that the right side of his brain—the creative, feeling, intuitive side—had gone into semihibernation. Now, thanks to the power of the house, it had emerged and spoken to him in a way more influential than ever.

“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. Absolutely.” Micah sat in the chair in the room for the first time. “I just wish I could take you around with me everywhere.”

“Are you kidding?” The voice laughed. “I am with you all the time. You just need to clean out your ears so you can hear me better. In here I speak in words, out there in impressions and feelings.”

“All right, I have my ears on now; I’m tuned in.”

“We’re locked and loaded,” the voice said.

Micah laughed and stood. “Just let me know if you figure out what this home is all about.”

“Don’t worry; that mystery is at the forefront of my brain as well.”

“Oh, can we talk about Sarah?” Micah said. “About the ‘praying for years’ comment?”

“Oh yes. At some point we will most definitely talk about Sarah. In detail. But not quite yet. Not quite yet.”

||||||||

Micah woke up Wednesday morning with one thought on his mind: Archie day. After grabbing a cup of coffee full of crème brûlée creamer and two slices of multigrain toast smeared with boysenberry jam, he settled down on his deck. He saluted the kite surfer slicing through the waves in front of his house, then pulled out letter number seven and was lost to the world.

May 31, 1991

Dear Micah,

In Psalm 37 David says: “Delight yourself in the LORD; And He will give you the desires of your heart.” King Solomon says: “What the wicked fears will come upon him, but the desire of the righteous will be granted.” Isaiah says it this way: “And the LORD will continually guide you, and satisfy your desire in scorched places.” In the second century Saint Irenaeus wrote this sentiment: “The glory of God is man fully alive.”

I could go on, but that will suffice. Our heavenly Father is the Creator and Giver of every perfect gift; gifts that could be described as the talents, attributes, and personality traits unique to each of His children. He delights in observing our growth in these talents. Not for the attainment of fame or fortune, as that focus gives opportunity for the dark areas of our souls to be fed, but for sheer pleasure of taking a gift bestowed on us by God and returning it to Him. This He delights in.

What father would not love to see his son or his daughter attain a gold medal in the Olympics? I believe it is the same with our heavenly Father. He desires us to reach glory with His gifts so we can share in it together with Him.

The thief of our souls is vehemently opposed to this. He will distract or convince us that seeking excellence is bringing glory to ourselves or, most insidious of all, lead us to counterfeits, occupations, or activities that seem to fill us with life but in reality only distract from the genuine gifts our heavenly Father has placed within us.

In an effort to be clear, let me address the issue in a more practical manner. Is there anything you used to deeply love but have not undertaken in a significant period of time?

Take it up again. A number of interests probably fit that description, but I suggest you start with the one that came to mind first. It is likely the one that needs releasing in greatest measure.

Yours always,

Archie

Micah threw his head back, looked up at the sky, and laughed. This one he didn’t have to think about; the answer popped into his mind like neon. Get in the car. Head for Seaside or Astoria. Buy a guitar.

Back in junior high and high school, he’d practiced two to three hours a day. He’d been in countless bands, none of which amounted to much, but it never diminished his love for the instrument and his drive to get better. But during college he drifted away from his music, and by the time Julie and he started RimSoft, he’d packed his guitars away for good.

But now he had the time and money to indulge, and the idea certainly fit Archie’s criteria.

He grabbed his keys and looked in the entryway mirror to make sure he didn’t need a quick shave. He stopped cold. A reflection behind him was out of place. He spun on his heel. A new door.

Rick said God was in his home. He believed it, but it didn’t mean he was excited about checking out the new room.

He walked toward the door on his toes, drawing short sips of air as if a deep breath would alert whatever was in the room to his presence. Micah’s temples throbbed; adrenaline surged through his body as he turned the knob and pushed open the door.

His heart leaped. Twelve acoustic guitars lined the back wall: Martins, Taylors, and Ovations. Among the nine electrics along the side wall were a 1959 Les Paul Sunburst and a 1969 Stratocaster. Along the back wall was enough recording equipment to produce any sound a heart could desire.

Micah wandered over to a Martin D12-20 twelve string, picked it up, threw the strap around his neck, and let the guitar settle down on him. He looped his left hand around the neck and soaked in that old familiar squeak of fingers sliding on strings. As he strummed the first chord, he closed his eyes and let that deep, rich Martin sound resonate through the air.

After playing his version of the Beatle’s “Blackbird,” he set the Martin aside, picked up the Les Paul, plugged into an amp, and cranked the volume.

The riding-a-bike principle applied. It had been at least four years since he’d picked up any guitar, let alone his own, but this felt like it were yesterday. The Crate amp pumped out a warm stream of sound with just a hint of distortion, and it was high school rock ’n’ roll all over again. He lost himself in it, closed his eyes as the music washed over him, and remembered all those licks he’d learned through endless repetition. When he finally stopped, his eyes lasered in on the recording equipment. Why not?

He roamed around the mixing board and played with the digital editing software, trying everything. Amazing. The learning curve was phenomenal. Not how hard it was but how easy. It was instinctual, as if the room itself guided him along on two separate waves of intellect and inspiration.

By seven o’clock he’d made a CD of four instrumental pieces, with bass, drums, and a piano section to accompany his guitars. He took the CD with him to the kitchen and listened to it as he mashed up avocados for guacamole.

Was he hearing the music for the first time? His head knew he wasn’t, but his emotions didn’t. The soaring guitar solos ripped open his heart, and he wept. He fell back and caught himself on the kitchen counter. A thought filled his mind.

Songs from the deepest part of you: your heart. So many good things are trapped there. So much of My glory. Your good heart cries for that glory. Remember, Micah. Remember who you are.

He went for a long walk on the beach that night. The talk with God was even longer.

||||||||

The next morning he stopped for gas, and Rick stepped up to the pump.

“Wow, out among your adoring public this morning, huh?” Micah said.

“Yeah, gotta press the flesh every now and then. And give the paparazzi their weekly chance for a photo op.” Rick winked. “Still got the Washington State plates, I see.”

“I’m not down here permanently. Plus I’ve only been around for three months.”

“Really? Seems like more, ya know?”

“Actually I’d have no way of knowing that since I’m not you,” Micah replied, with what he hoped was a crooked smile on his face.

Rick pulled back his grease-smeared Rams cap and squinted at him through the morning sun darts. “But you’ve been here long enough for me to know I wouldn’t get an acerbic comment like that from you unless something, or someone, poured oil all over your Wheaties this morning.”

“I need to talk.”

“In my office?”

“My midsection says the Fireside.” Micah patted his stomach.

“Mine agrees. Meet you there in twenty.”

Micah walked toward Morris’s Fireside and debated how much to tell Rick. He still wasn’t ready to talk about the voice.

||||||||

“How do you stay so clean working on cars all day?” Micah said as Rick slid into the seat across the table.

“I’m an angel. We stay clean automatically.”

They both laughed.

“So talk to me. What’s going on?” Rick said.

“I think I’m losing it. Hold it. Make that past tense. I’ve lost it.”

“The insanity hasn’t reached your face quite yet.”

“Good sign, huh?”

Rick stared at Micah, his arms resting on the table, head tilted slightly to the side. Micah decided to start with a shocking statement.

“I think my house is alive. And getting bigger.”

Rick didn’t give him a strange look or pretend he didn’t hear right. “Tell me about it.”

After the waitress took their order, Micah told him about the new room—the music room—and reminded Rick about the memory room and the shrine room.

“Why do you say the house is growing?”

“The shrine room might have been there before I saw it, but the memory room and the music rooms definitely weren’t.”

Rick’s eyes widened. “Weren’t there?”

“Exactly.”

Rick glanced around the restaurant and leaned forward. “You’re saying the rooms weren’t there one day and the next day they were?”

“I went through the whole house the first time I came. They were not there. They are now. I wouldn’t have missed them.”

“Whew. You’ve got my attention.”

“And get this. The music room isn’t the only new room. Now there’s a painting studio in the house. It wasn’t there the first walk-through, either. On top of that, every time I come back from Seattle, there’s more done to this painting.”

“You’re saying—”

“Someone has to come and work on the thing when I’m gone, or the thing paints itself. I’m not that easily intimidated, but that is more than strange. I don’t care if you say God is in it, I lock my bedroom door at night.” Micah paused. “As if it would do me any good.”

Rick looked more intrigued than surprised. “So why don’t you just throw away the key and have the thing boarded up? Or sell it?”

Micah’s eyes snapped up from his coffee. “No way.” He surprised himself with how forceful he answered.

“Why not?”

He stared at Rick. He didn’t know why. Why was he subjecting himself to a modern version of The Twilight Zone? He didn’t have to stay here. He could walk away right now and never come back. Or sell it like he’d been saying all along and buy another home somewhere farther down the coast wherever he wanted. Or give it to Rick.

Also, the longer he flirted with the spiritual hinterlands in Cannon Beach, the more it seemed to seep into his life in Seattle. Not in a good way. He could make it all stop—the strange lapses in Seattle; dealing with the past; and the intense scrutiny of his spiritual life from God, or Archie, or whatever force was behind the whole thing.

But as strange as the past three months had been, it stirred something inside he wasn’t ready to give up.

“Because I’m on the edge.” Micah leaned in on his elbows pushing his silverware to the side. “More alive than I’ve felt in years.”

Rick’s right ear raised, and he gave the slightest of nods.

“It’s like being in the deepest parts of my own soul in those rooms,” Micah continued. “Buried in ripping pain or drenched in joy and freedom. The pain is hell, but the joy is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Stuff that happens only in dreams. I’m getting close to God again, and it seems so real. . . . But I don’t know if it is real or if I’m going insane. Seriously, I think I might be slipping off the—”

“Insane? No. And you don’t need me to tell you it’s real. You know. Have you told anyone else about this?”

“No.”

“Not even Julie?”

“I haven’t seen her for more than seven weeks.”

“Not what I asked.”

“I told her we’re on hold, and she broke it off for good.”

“Hmm.” Rick stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth and looked straight into Micah’s eyes. He didn’t need to tell Micah what he was thinking. Micah knew.

“You’re right. I need to talk to her. Do the closure thing. Soon.”

CHAPTER 19

Micah met Julie early Saturday evening in Chehalis—midpoint between Seattle and Cannon Beach. Neutral ground. This wouldn’t be easy.

He got out of his BMW and scanned the windows of the Halfway Café. She was already sitting at a table toward the back, next to the window.

The Halfway Café was old but clean—except for one table full of plates with half-eaten cheeseburgers still on them. A few coffee stains had made permanent residence on the dull maroon carpet, but the windows looked recently washed, and Micah guessed at one time it was a hot spot for casual dinners.

Julie had to hate the place.

“Are You Lonesome Tonight” played on an ancient-looking jukebox. The 78s were lined up like kids on the bench in Little League waiting to get into the big game. Still just twenty-five cents to spin a dream.

What record would be appropriate for him to play as he stared at Julie? Elvis was in fine form but didn’t stir any emotion in Micah, happy or sad. Maybe that was the key. Just keep emotion out of it.

As he walked over, Julie looked up right on cue. The hazel eyes were just as beautiful; the long blonde hair just as golden.

“Hi.” Micah slid into the booth.

“Hey. Nice place,” she said with a smirk. “Couldn’t find anything less formal?”

“Yeah, they almost made me put on a tie when I came in.”

A waitress with a pile of big hair straight out of 1986 sauntered up to the table. “Can I getcha something hot to drink?” She talked like she had gum in her mouth.

“Diet Coke, please,” Micah said.

“Classic Coke okay, sweetheart?”

“Sure.” Micah smiled.

Julie ordered the same.

“I’ll getcha your drinks and be right back atcha.” The waitress winked at Micah.

“Haven’t lost your touch, have you, Micah?” Julie opened her menu and studied it.

“What touch?” He tried not to laugh.

Julie dabbed her napkin in her water and wiped off her side of the table. “You’ve never been one to just hang out somewhere since I’ve known you.”

“True.”

“Let alone hang out in a place as laid back as the beach. It’s been more than three months with no end in sight. What’s going on? You act like you want this work-from-the-ocean charade to go on forever.”

“It’s growing on me.”

“What’s her name?” Julie spun her knife on the table and watched it twirl.

“There’s no name.”

“What is her name?”

“It’s not a her.” He looked out the window at a gray ’66 Mustang and folded his arms. Maybe there was a her. But he wasn’t ready to think of Sarah in that vein, and it wasn’t why he was drawn to Cannon Beach. Maybe a partial reason but certainly not the main one.

The waitress returned with their drinks and took their order. Micah was grateful for a break in the conversation. But it was a short respite from Julie’s cross-examination. Up till then, she’d asked questions with a smoldering burn. Now flames leaped from her eyes as she leaned in and spoke in a jagged whisper.

“If it’s not a her, then what is it? Our lives were on track. We’ve pegged off every goal we set for the business, and we finally took our relationship to the next level!” Julie fell back in her chair. “Now you’re hanging out at the beach and telling me our relationship is ‘on hold.’ You wanted to figure things out. You said, ‘Six, maybe seven weeks tops, Jules!’”

She pushed her silverware to the side and leaned back in. “Explain to me what is so captivating about a home on the beach that convinces you to spend 90 percent of your life there?”

“You haven’t been to the place.”

“I don’t want to go to the place.” She took a sip of her Coke, then smacked it back down on the table.

Micah grabbed a handful of Sweet’N Low packets and built a little wall. A moment later their food came. Both picked at their meals.

Micah felt Julie’s eyes on him, studying him as if they were in a deep negotiation.

“You’ve changed.”

She was poking him, trying to provoke him and hear him defend himself with cries of “Not true.” But it was true. “Yeah, I have.”

It stopped her.

“Come see the house, Jules.”

“Come back to your life. Our life.”

“It’s not over yet.”

“What’s not over? The house is helping you ‘rediscover yourself’? Figure out ‘who you are’? Are you kidding? I played along when you first said it, but now that three months have skated by, it’s a wrinkled, old excuse.” Julie waved her hands in the air. “Find yourself. Find yourself!”

“I’m not the same person.”

“Whatever you think you’re becoming isn’t the real you. The real Micah is conquering the world, on his way to becoming one of the youngest billionaires in the world. Trips to the Alps. To Saint-Tropez. Parties in Hollywood every other weekend. Hardware companies begging to ally themselves with RimSoft.”

Something stirred in Micah. Something saying with deep conviction Julie was right.

“The real Micah is confident, knows where he’s going, and is in love with me. You can’t keep living in both worlds. You’re going to have to choose one way or the other. Not next week. Not tomorrow. Now.”

The two worlds flashed into his mind at the same time. The world of the house, Rick, and Sarah, and the world of Seattle, RimSoft, and Julie. For an instant both worlds lingered. Then something snapped.

Business jaunts off to Italy, to Australia, and to New Zealand, being invited onto movie sets whenever he wanted, suites in Las Vegas thrown at him, multimillion-dollar software deals, the magazine covers and TV profiles—he missed it. How could he stay in Cannon Beach? Too small. Too confining. What had he been thinking? For a weekend. Yes. For a life? Impossible.

He was at a decision point. A crossroads.

He looked up at Julie. Gorgeous. Sharp. A remarkable business partner. She’d been on edge lately, but that was his fault. He was the one who had withdrawn to Cannon Beach and snuffed out the candle of their romance. Not her.

It was time to go back to Seattle. Cannon Beach could still happen. God was doing things. But it could be done at a jog instead of a sprint. These past three months he’d played at the edges of his company—not truly involved.

And he missed the world’s thunderous applause. He missed the kick of meeting his software heroes he’d grown up reading about, getting box seats comped at any sporting event he wanted to attend, the penthouse suite in every hotel in Europe when he traveled overseas. The rush of the kill filled his imagination. He hadn’t given it up, but it had certainly been on hold. An urge deep down demanded he dive back in.

“You can’t tread water in this business,” Julie continued. “It moves like lightning. You know it. Stay where you are, competitors catch up and you’re headed backward.”

“I’m that important?” He smiled.

Julie didn’t smile back. “Micah, this is serious. In another two months the stockholders won’t understand this extended working from the beach. The board already questions your new work ethic. Our employees are spreading rumors about your mental health, and your partner and soul mate wonders if there’s any future in the relationship.”

It wasn’t a threat. She had every reason to make the statement. Plus, she was right. He had to choose.

“You’re right.” Micah spun his knife counterclockwise. “It’s decision time.” He rubbed the back of this neck. “Time to get back to life in Seattle.”

“Yes!” Julie slapped her hand on the table. “When?”

“A few more days. By next weekend at the latest.”

He would throw off this bizarre life he’d been living. And he wouldn’t wait till next weekend. His spiritual fantasyland had gone far enough. He’d stride out of the café, leave his car in the parking lot, jump in Julie’s, and be back in Seattle tonight. The kingdom there pulled at him. And he wanted to be pulled back into that intoxicating world. It was a drug and he wanted—needed—a fix.

Micah grabbed Julie’s hands, pulled them up to his face, kissed them, and told her he’d go back with her that night.

But the moment he promised his return, his body went cold. It was a lie. Seattle wouldn’t last. A verse Sarah had quoted the week before surfaced in his mind like a dolphin breaking free from the water.

“If any man builds on the foundation with gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, straw, each man’s work will become evident; for the day will show it because it is to be revealed with fire, and the fire itself will test the quality of each man’s work. If any man’s work which he has built on it remains, he will receive a reward. If any man’s work is burned up, he will suffer loss; but he himself will be saved, yet so as through fire.”

Was RimSoft gold and silver or wood, hay, and straw? If he was taken through the fire right now, what would remain? If the here and now did echo in eternity . . . what echoes had he created?

The rest of their meal was filled with talk about new products and what part of Europe they’d explore during their next vacation. Micah played along, a sick sensation growing in his stomach. By the time he paid the bill and they stepped outside the restaurant, he felt ready to vomit.

“I’ll set up dinner for us at Toro’s to celebrate your coming home.” Julie bounced on her right leg. “Saturday night work for you?”

“Perfect,” Micah replied with as much emotion as he could fake convincingly.

They walked to their cars. The crunch of the crushed red rock under their feet screamed at him to tell Julie the truth. That he wouldn’t be back Saturday night. Or the next. Or the next.

Micah stopped and watched Julie take four more steps before she turned.

“What is it?”

He stared at her, looked away, then looked back. A part of him would always be with her. “I’m probably not coming back to us for a long time, if ever.”

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back. “I know.” Then the tears came. He watched her cry for what seemed like hours. When she looked at him again, her eyes were sad. Tender.

Suddenly Julie kicked the gravel at her feet. “I saw it coming. Religion rears up and roars.” She paced in front of her car. After the third pass she stopped. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve bought into the whole Jesus-thing again, lock, stock, and Bible.”

Micah walked over to her car and leaned against it. “What about you?”

“Don’t even try. I have nothing against God. I’m sure he’s great for kids and little old ladies who like to make quilts but not for people like us.” She kicked the gravel again. “Why are you doing this to us? Come back to Seattle!”

“He’s real.”

“I don’t care!”

Micah pleaded with his eyes, but she was shutting down. He had no clue what to say. “Julie, if you would just—”

“No. Let it go.” She stood with arms folded, shoulders tensed, and foot digging a hole in the tiny stones at her feet. A sigh. Her shoulders sagged and her arms untangled. She eased over to him.

“Don’t try. It’s okay.” She stepped closer and kissed him on the cheek. “Remember me.” She walked to her car without looking back.

He’d lost another part of Seattle, this time by his own choice.

||||||||

A thick fog hugged the coast as Micah arrived back in Cannon Beach, the fog even thicker surrounding his house. Midnight. Too late, too late to talk to anyone but himself.

“How do you think it went?” the voice asked.

“Running the company together is going to be awkward.”

“Not really. It’s been years since you really ran it together. You do your thing; she does hers. And if you want hard, cold reality, Julie could disappear at this point. While it would create a momentary buzz on the radar screen, RimSoft would survive just fine.”

“True. Probably could survive without me too, based on the question she raised.”

“Which is?”

“That I need to choose that world or this one. Think she’s right?”

“No. I think we can do, should do, both,” the voice said.

“Really?”

“Absolutely. We should start brainstorming how we can use our software talents to advance the Kingdom of God.”

“Love it. Let’s start storming our brains.”

“First, I want to talk about the music room and what we created there.”

“Not bad was it?” Micah smiled.

“Incredible.”

“And what about the thoughts that popped into my head? My Rip van Winkle heart is waking up.”

“I think the thoughts were from God, but they definitely didn’t come from your heart,” the voice said. “We must be so careful when something powerful comes from God that we don’t listen to the voice of the enemy alongside it.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You lost me. What part of that experience was from the enemy?”

“A small part, Micah. But much truth mixed with a small lie makes the lie so much easier to swallow.”

“What part?” Micah folded his arms and leaned against the back wall of the room.

“Jeremiah tells us the heart is deceitful beyond all wickedness.”

“Okay.”

“And God forgives. But to entertain the idea that our heart is good and there are more good things to come out of it? No. Sorry. The Word is clear on that. Why does the psalmist sing ‘Create in me a clean heart’ unless it’s unclean? Don’t misunderstand; the Bible says our sins are washed white as snow. But to describe our hearts as good and holy? No. That’s where the subtle lie slipped in.”

“Interesting.” Micah nodded.

“God gives us a moral code we must follow,” continued the voice. “We have the choice to follow it or not. When we choose not to follow it, we sin and He forgives. But to live by the heart is a dangerous thing. We were given the Word so we will not be taken in by the deceptions of the heart.”

“I’m not sure you and Archie would see eye to eye on that.”

“Man can be deceived, Micah. The Word can’t. This is why we need to operate from the mind and not the heart. Now if we could come up with a piece of software that could help us do that 100 percent of the time . . .”

The room went silent. Micah stood. “Wow. That is something to give serious consideration to. Let’s figure it out.”

“More tomorrow. It’s late and I’m wiped.”

“Me, too. Talk to you soon.”

“All right, pal,” the voice said. “Sleep well.”

Before sleep buried him, Micah had worked out the basics for the software. He had to tell Rick about it.

CHAPTER 20

Software that would change the Kingdom of God. Rick would love the idea.

On Sunday afternoon Micah walked north on Main Street toward Rick’s gas station full of inspiration. Before he reached the garage, he spotted Rick’s Rams hat as it bobbed above the crowd half a block ahead.

When Micah caught up to him, Rick said, “I was hoping to bump into you today.”

“Really? That was going to be my line.”

“Why, you gotta another house story?”

“No, I’ve got an idea that will revolutionize people’s relationship with God.”

“Really. Gotta hear about this.” Rick motioned them toward the beach, and they turned left at the next corner. Three minutes later Haystack Rock towered in front of them.

“I want to hear your idea,” Rick said as they headed south. “But first tell me about your talk with Julie.”

“Tough. Glad it’s over.” Micah paused. “For a few minutes I seriously considered going back to Seattle for good.”

“The pull of two different worlds, huh?”

“Exactly, which is what gave me the inspiration for a new piece of software.”

“That’s what gave you the idea?”

Micah imagined Rick was staring at him but didn’t turn to find out if he was right.

“That and a few other things . . . but let me describe it.” Micah kept staring straight ahead, concentrating on the gray sand stretching out in front of them.

“If we’re constantly pulled in two different directions, if we’re constantly trying to figure out the right path, why not give people the answers to every situation they ever come up against? I’m going to develop an intricate set of biblical principles to live by based on Scripture. A set of guidelines that will be the heart of the software. You have a problem? A situation where you don’t know what action to take? Plug it into the program, and it’ll give you the right thing to do. Even show you a verse that backs up the answer.”

“You’re serious.”

“Yeah, I’m serious. God has given me talent in the world of software. Maybe I’m supposed to use that ability for His good. It would sell.”

“I’ll bet.” Rick’s face looked like he’d swallowed a slug.

“It would help people.”

“Maybe you’re right. Sounds absolutely wonderful. Stellar. Stunning. Magnificent.”

Micah frowned. “You’re mocking me.”

“No, I love it. With a program like that, who needs their heart? For that matter, who needs a relationship with God?” Rick picked up a piece of driftwood and hurled it into the churning surf.

“I’m not saying do away with God. I’m just saying why not use the wisdom in the Bible and modern technology to systematically point people in the right direction?”

“What about deeper relationship with God? Intimacy with Him? His heart knowing ours. Ours knowing His. Hearing His voice and following it?”

Micah watched two kite surfers launch themselves high enough into the air to become silhouettes against the late-afternoon sun. “God gives us a moral code we must follow. To live by the heart is a dangerous thing. We were given the Word so we will not be taken in by the deceptions of the heart.”

“Who’s been telling you that?” Rick’s voice took on a sharp edge.

A wave of heat passed over Micah’s face. “No one. Just talking to myself about it.”

“Really.” Rick stepped in front of Micah and looked him in the eye. “Just yourself?”

“Yeah.”

Rick nodded, turned, and trudged down the beach. “So we live only by the Word?”

“Man can be deceived. The Word can’t,” Micah said as he caught up to Rick. “We need to follow its guidelines.”

“So what do the Christians all across the world today do who don’t have Bibles? Are they living in less truth than you and I?”

Micah was silent.

“The Word is our foundation. It’s what we test everything against. But during the first fifteen hundred years of the church, there were no Bibles in the homes of the people. Not until Gutenberg invented the printing press. Who led them? How did they know truth?”

“You’re saying we don’t set up principles to live by?” Micah asked.

“I’m saying Jesus is our example and He was never led by rules or set formulas. He was led by the Holy Spirit. Period. And the Spirit rarely did things the same way twice. You can’t plug things into some formula and get the answer. Man would like to reduce walking with God to some rule book of pat answers. But that’s not Christianity. Man has turned Christianity back into Mosaic Law. Don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t swear, and don’t go to R-rated movies. Bingo. You’re a Christian. Most churches use those four unwritten rules to judge whether someone is saved or not. But I don’t think any of those things have a lick to do with true relationship with God. Do you?”

“I’d think more than twice about a guy who smokes, swears like a trucker, drinks like a whale, watches NC-17 movies, and then tells me he’s a follower of Jesus.”

“Me, too.” Rick leaned down to pick up half a sand dollar and slipped it into his pocket.

“You’re just going to let that little contradiction hang in the air?” Micah asked.

“The Pharisees were the ultimate followers of principles and rules. Jesus called them whitewashed tombs. Look the right way. Say the right things. Do this; don’t do that! Jesus blew their minds. He said the wrong things, hung out with the wrong kind of people: prostitutes and tax collectors. Ate the wrong kind of food, healed on the wrong day, sat down to dine too many times with the wrong kind of people.” Rick grabbed another half sand dollar off the beach.

“So they branded Him a drunkard and a glutton. A friend of sinners. But He only cared about one thing—setting something free that you abandoned and buried a long time ago.” Rick stared into Micah’s eyes. “The treasure of the Kingdom.”

“And this treasure is?”

Rick leaned in and smiled. “Your heart.”

“Jeremiah says the heart is deceitful beyond all wickedness.”

“Really?”

“You know this, Rick! God forgives us and washes us from sin. But our heart is good? Sorry. Why would David say, ‘Create in me a clean heart’ unless it’s unclean? To describe our hearts as good and pure and holy? It’s just not biblical.”

A wave of anger and concern passed over Rick’s face so quickly Micah wasn’t sure he’d actually seen it.

“You can’t change a man from the outside in. And to transform a son of Adam from the inside out, Jesus must go deep into the core and change the heart. Then the outside will change. It’s called the new covenant. All things, even your heart, become new.”

Micah’s head felt like it was full of molasses. Rick was as convincing as the voice had been the night before. “Let’s say you’re right. How do I change my heart?”

“Allow it to surface. Then invite Him in to do some fixing.” Rick turned to Micah, grabbed him by both shoulders, and smiled. “And guard it with everything in you.” Then he strode back the direction they’d come.

Micah stood watching the kite surfers free themselves from gravity for an hour before he headed back to town.

Pulling into his driveway, he thanked God that Wednesday—Archie day—was only three days away. Rick. The voice. Confusion. Maybe Micah would get some clear direction from Archie’s next letter. He needed it.

CHAPTER 21

Archie time would come early on Wednesday. Micah would make sure of it.

Tuesday night, before crashing into bed and crawling under his navy blue comforter, Micah set his cell phone alarm to go off at 12:01 a.m. Archie wanted him to wait a week before opening each letter? No problem. 12:01 Wednesday morning would qualify as a week. And Micah needed answers.

He’d avoided the voice room the past few days and Rick as well. Too much conflicting advice. He hoped Archie’s next letter could slice through some of the fog filling his brain.

July 13, 1991

Dear Micah,

As children we were told of the Big Bad Wolf and were introduced to the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz. In The Lord of the Rings Frodo faces the evil Lord Sauron. Luke Skywalker must face his father Darth Vader in Star Wars.

In every comic book there is a deadly foe the hero must vanquish.

Why does every story contain a villain? Because within yours one will most certainly be present as well.

Satan and his emissaries war against God and His angels, and if we are followers of the Savior, this war is directed toward us as well. While on Earth, villains are set in our path to distract us from the destiny that God has written for us from before the foundation of the world.

Unfortunately I cannot tell you who your villain is. But I can say his goal will be to kill, steal, and destroy.

The target of the assault will always be our heart. And clarity on where the truth lies will be elusive.

Wonderful. Micah tightened the blanket wrapped around him as he sat downstairs in his overstuffed chair in the great room. The low hum of the ocean sneaked through the walls of the house, but it still felt silent in the room. The view out the picture windows was black, the clouds not letting the moon or stars make even the hint of an appearance over the sea.

He put down the letter and let out a sigh. When he talked to the voice, it seemed to be truth. When he talked to Rick, his words rang true. When he read Archie’s letters, they seemed full of truth. So where was the sliver of a lie coming from?

Then again, maybe he was Luke Skywalker and his villain was the obvious choice: his dad. Micah continued reading.

At this point, five weeks have transpired in our journey together so my guess is you’ve already met this foe.

Wait. The letter seemed to imply he’d meet his villain during his time in Cannon Beach, not before. Did that rule out his dad?

Micah set the letter down again and stared at the dark-paneled ceiling. It was a strange thought. He’d jumped ahead of Archie already and assumed that this foe would of course look like an angel of light and not like a villain at all. It would be one of the people he least expected. Sarah? Hardly. Archie? Yeah, right. Rick? Impossible.

But then Micah’s talk with Rick on the beach returned to him and he wondered. He toyed with the idea for an instant, then pushed it to the back of his mind. No way. He knew Rick too well. Didn’t he? But if not Archie or Rick or Sarah or his dad, then who? He read on.

I am speculating, but I surmise you will be predisposed to trust this villain almost automatically, that he will find a way into your heart that you would not expect and therefore have not built a guard against.

And of course this person will not look evil, instead appearing as an ally. But, Micah, no matter how he appears or how smooth his tongue, if his counsel does not line up with the Word of God and the wisdom of the Holy Spirit, you must not let him into your heart.

Be wary, be cautious. Test the spirits.

Nothing can separate us from the love of God through Christ Jesus.

Archie

Micah glanced at the clock on his coffee table. 12:20 a.m. He was wide awake now. Getting back to sleep would be a jousting match with his mind acting as the lance. A cold shiver raced down his spine. The letter pushed the idea of talking to Rick or the voice further down the list of options. Next step?

Sarah. She never confused him. That’s who he should talk to.

What would she be doing when the sun rose in five hours?

CHAPTER 22

Sarah strode across the sand at a brisk clip. It was her alone time, her God time. She wore two T-shirts and a hooded sweatshirt. Being hungry she could tolerate. Tired? Doable. But cold? No.

The tide chart said a sliver of gold light would peek over the eastern foothills at 5:48. Sarah looked at her watch. Four more minutes.

Her eyes opened and closed every four or five seconds in rhythm to the light melody sneaking out of her mouth. It was a time to sing, to think, to pray, to listen. It startled her when a voice slightly louder than the waves called out from behind her.

“I don’t see many people out here this early.”

She turned to see Rick twenty yards behind her. Sarah smiled. “That’s why I come this time of the day. No one to disturb the quiet. It’s a good time to connect with God. And you?”

“For the same reason.” He took half-a-dozen long, loping strides to join her.

The slightest hint of wind swirled, as if it couldn’t decide which direction to blow. Sarah turned her face to where in seconds the sun would crest the horizon and cast gold on the beach. She glanced at Rick. They went to the same church and talked, often at length, when she filled up her Subaru or when they bumped into each other in town. Yet the way Micah talked about Rick gave her a deeper, richer perspective on the mechanic, and she had enjoyed their little conversations more and more over the summer.

As they strolled down the beach, a wave broke free from the others and sprinted toward their shoes. They stepped back in unison, then watched the water recede into the sea.

“Can I ask you something a bit personal?” Rick said.

“Sure.”

“I was hoping we might have a conversation about our mutual friend.” Rick pulled off his Rams hat and rubbed his graying head.

“Micah?” Sarah’s face warmed, and she replied without looking at Rick.

“You thought I might be talking about someone else?” Rick laughed.

“No.”

“I care for him, Sarah. I’ve seen a lot like him over the years. But not a lot like him.”

“Care to explain?”

“Not really. You probably know what I mean.”

She knew exactly what he meant.

They walked out among three lone rocks the outgoing tide had left naked. Sarah bent down and touched the back of a burgundy-toned starfish that hid under an outcrop of rock.

“I see amazing gifts in him.” Sarah watched the sun sparkle on the waves. “I also see a man in chains of his own making, and he doesn’t even know he’s bound by them. Someone who deep down wants freedom. Who doesn’t know who he is. I see the man he could be. Most of all I see”—she looked up at Rick before finishing—“myself.”

“Before your injury.”

“Yes.”

The wind picked up and Rick zipped up his bottle green Windbreaker in protest.

“What do you see in him?” Sarah said.

“The same. So I’m praying for him. Being a friend. Jesus invited me into his life so I answered.”

They eased farther down the sand alone, only spotting an occasional early morning jogger.

“Can you trust me?” Rick asked softly.

She said nothing.

“You can trust me.”

“And if I do?”

“You’re asking yourself, ‘Could I fall in love with Micah?’ And you’re scared of getting hurt because of things you know.”

She turned away and begged the wind to dry her tears quickly. Love? How could he know that? Was it that obvious?

“You have to be strong, Sarah. Be true to what God has spoken to you about Micah. Don’t push it, but don’t hold back, either.”

Rick stopped walking. Sarah didn’t. How could Rick know what God told her? He probably wanted an indication that she’d heard him. She swallowed and put her head into the wind. She had heard. She had definitely heard.

||||||||

As she flipped through a mystery in the Cannon Beach Book Company late that afternoon, a muted voice behind her said, “While we don’t mind a small amount of browsing, we have a strictly enforced time limit on how long someone can look at the books without actually buying one.”

Sarah didn’t turn and said in mock whisper, “Then arrest me, and throw away the key.”

She turned to face Micah and tried to keep her heart from leaping ahead of her mind. It had been almost two weeks since they’d seen each other, and she admitted it—she missed him. Badly. She hadn’t returned his phone calls about the “praying for you for years” comment. What would she say? She couldn’t tell him. But she’d hoped to run into him every day since.

Sarah gazed into his baby-blue eyes and admitted Rick was right. Her feelings went deeper than missing. She was falling in love. A shopper next to them dropped her book, and Micah stooped to pick it up. It was a welcome distraction, giving Sarah a few more seconds to collect her thoughts.

God was drawing Micah, leading him. But he still had to make the choice to follow or not, and it frightened her, because she could tell he was resisting God’s pull. Micah had even told her he was. So much of his heart was still wrapped up in Seattle. What if his final choice was not her and Cannon Beach?

“Hey, you, how’s life?” Micah stood and brushed a strand of her brown hair back from her face.

“Always fascinating. And you?”

“Same.” His warm eyes invited her, drew her in.

“Beach walk?”

“Sure.”

After reaching the beach, they headed north toward Ecola Creek. A mild wind tickled their faces as the sand squeaked under their feet, but the breeze had only a hint of coolness. The coastline was nearly empty. Three kites struggled to rise in the soft wind, and in the distance two young families poked in the tide pools at the base of Haystack Rock.

They ambled down the beach and talked about nothing. The waves lulled them into silence until Micah brought up the subject she didn’t know how to respond to.

“I need to ask you something. It’s not a big deal.” Micah kicked the sand. “Actually it is, but it’s a weird question, and I don’t know where to start.”

Here it comes. Sarah clenched her hands. She’d suspected he wouldn’t drop the question till he got an answer. “The beginning always lends clarity,” she finally answered, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

“When you came over for dinner, I said you were beautiful. Your answer flew by me at first, but the next day it smacked me like a wave in the face.”

She stared at the gray sand, her heart pounding. It wasn’t the question she expected. It was worse. Sarah knew exactly what he was about to ask. That night at dinner she’d let it slip. She thought she’d gotten away with it. Obviously not.

“Okay,” she whispered.

“It was your response to me saying ‘you’re beautiful.’ You remember?” Micah stopped walking.

She stopped as well, dropped her head, and pushed up a little mound of sand between her feet and Micah’s. “Let’s say I don’t.”

“You asked about Julie and me.”

Sarah nodded, watching the sand at her feet.

“I hadn’t told you her name.”

Sarah started walking again.

“How did you know her name was Julie?”

A tinge of warmth blossomed in her face. She felt Micah following her. A flock of gulls soared overhead and squawked at her—as if on cue—demanding she speak. But Micah broke the silence first.

“And the day we rode up to Indian Beach together? The ‘praying for me for years’ comment still has me curious, too.”

Great. A double shot of as-awkward-as-they-come questions. Sarah kept walking as she looked out over the gray waves toward Tillamook Rock Lighthouse sitting a mile offshore. To be that isolated right now would be heaven. She stopped but didn’t turn when she spoke. If there was any hope of a future with Micah, she had to tell him, but she didn’t have to watch his reaction to her outlandish reasons.

“Five years ago, right after I came to Cannon Beach, I stood alone at Hug Point and watched the sun drop into the ocean. This indescribable peace settled around me, and in that moment I felt like God told me something. Something I’ve believed at times with everything in me and other times thought I made up inside my own head.”

She hesitated. Should she drop it or plunge in all the way? She plunged. “He said one day I would fall in love with a man I barely knew down here in Cannon Beach. He’d be on a journey back to God and I’d be part of it. Then, clear as a flash of lightning against a black sky, I saw the name Julie in my mind. It didn’t take much to realize there would be a Julie somehow connected to this guy. So I’ve prayed for years . . .” She trailed off. What more could she say? Silence surrounded her as she steeled for Micah’s reaction. Had she said too much?

Since that dinner at his house, Sarah had known it was Micah. She was drawn in, without logic or explanation. Oh, the man he could be if he would choose life!

He was bright, funny, handsome. But what drew her was more. Deeper. It had God’s fingerprints on it. Rick said not to push it and not to hold back. Which one had she done by answering Micah’s question? She feared the former.

Tears pooled in her eyes as she stopped walking and fixed her gaze on the horizon where the ocean and the sky met. The waves were too loud to tell if Micah was still behind her or if he had walked silently away.

The next moment his arms slid around the sides of her waist from behind and pulled her back gently into his chest. He nuzzled her hair away from her cheek and kissed her there like the first ray of morning sun.

She turned, and this time his kiss was on her lips. Warm. Tender. Lingering. A long embrace followed that wrapped around her like a waterfall of comfort, drowning out the sound of the ocean, the wind, and everything else in her world. She was home.

A moment later her tears spilled onto her cheeks. If only it could last.

CHAPTER 23

Over the next week Micah took Sarah on two mountain bike rides and out to dinner three times. They watched Singin’ in the Rain, Casablanca, and Pride & Prejudice in his media room, followed each time by a walk on the beach and kisses that probably would have made anyone watching blush. He talked with her for hours about the house, not everything but enough to clear his head and hear her always-wise insights.

They talked more about their plan to do the STP bike race together next summer and maybe a triathlon as well. They definitely would hit the slopes as soon as Mount Bachelor opened their full set of chairlifts.

“You’ll make me look so bad on the snow,” Micah said as they strolled through the soft sand.

“Yep, I sure will.” Sarah laughed, grabbed him around the waist, and pulled him to the ground. “I’m kidding, it’s only July. There’s five months for me to teach you the secrets of skiing before we hit the snow.”

Was he in love? Not sure. But he was definitely in heavy, heavy like.

Although Sarah seemed to feel the same, there were times he spotted sadness in her eyes. Or fear. He couldn’t tell which. Maybe both. When he asked about it, she said it was nothing. He knew it wasn’t. And it felt like the sadness was directed at him.

But overall, by the time next Wednesday rolled off the calendar, he felt at peace. Nothing strange had happened in the house, and Shannon assured him daily that RimSoft was under control.

Maybe his life had stopped to catch its breath. Even Archie’s letter was positive and intriguing, in a good way.

July 22, 1991

Dear Micah,

I feel compelled, at this point in our journey together, to give notice of a particular room within your home. It is priceless and beyond the confines and restrictions of imagination. It is a room truly too wonderful for me to attempt description.

There is no need to try in any case, as I believe after reading this letter, you will find it soon. Remember the purpose of man: To know God intimately and enjoy Him forever.

In awe of the King,

Archie

P.S. Psalm 16:11: “You will make known to me the path of life; In Your presence is fullness of joy; In Your right hand there are pleasures forever.”

Micah found the room just after seven o’clock that evening. The smell that came from under the door intoxicated him—a potent mixture of roses and apple trees in full bloom. Light streamed out from under the door and made the hallway dim by comparison.

There was no knob, so he reached out to push open the door. But before his hand touched the wood, he stopped. Heat or coolness—he couldn’t tell which—radiated off the door. He touched his finger to the wood and yanked it away. Was the door scorching or refreshingly cool?

He touched it again. Longer this time. It was cool, like an alpine lake on the hottest day of summer. Micah put his entire hand on the door, but he forgot to push as an overwhelming sensation engulfed him.

It felt like a waterfall bursting open in the middle of his soul, then racing to see which end of his body it would reach first. Neither won, as they tied in drenching him in a thundering wave of joy. He fell back from the door breathing hard.

Whatever was behind there could kill him. But he wasn’t sure he cared.

He eased forward, closed his eyes, placed his palm on the door again, and pushed. Once more wonder swept through him as the door moved inward, achingly slow. Then it stopped. He backed up and stared at where his hand had been. Where he’d pushed was a perfect imprint of his hand, an inch deep into the surface of the door. He could make out his fingerprints. As he stared, the imprint of his hand moved back into place.

Unreal.

His eyes dropped to the brilliant light that streamed out from under the door—almost liquid. He stepped backward, bumped into the wall behind him, and slid slowly down it. He watched the light till sleep stole over him. When he woke, the light was gone, and he tried pushing on the door again. Unyielding, ordinary wood. And it still wouldn’t open.

||||||||

On Saturday Sarah and Micah drove south to Heceta Head Lighthouse, took pictures, toured the Sea Lion Caves, and munched on fish ’n’ chips at Mo’s chowder house. Sunday was a bike ride down to Oswald West State Park, dinner and laughter that night at the Fireside with Rick, where for dessert the three of them demolished a chocolate torte in less than two minutes.

That night Micah sat on his deck and watched the stars vanish behind a shroud of clouds rolling in off the ocean. He closed his eyes and smiled. Heavy like was over. He’d fallen in love with more than just Cannon Beach. Sarah had taken up residence deep in his heart.

RimSoft’s stock had risen two points over the past two weeks, and e-mails between Julie and him—while not exactly warm—were polite.

But an e-mail arrived Sunday night that promised all in Seattle was not well.

CHAPTER 24

Micah slammed the snooze button on his alarm Monday morning and groaned. Still nighttime! The e-mail from the night meant getting up at 4:30 so he could get to RimSoft in time for a 10:00 firing.

He showered with his eyes shut but was wide awake by the time he reached his office and growled at Shannon. “I should still be in Cannon Beach. Why do I do this to myself?”

“Good question, boss. They would have taken care of it for you.”

Micah shook his head. “With Federal Trade Commission on the attack? No, I need to do this. Make sure there are no mistakes.”

“He’ll be in your office in ten minutes.”

Micah made a half turn to walk toward his office, then spun back. “It’s the only solution, don’t you think?”

Shannon didn’t answer. Her expression said more clearly than words could that he was about to do something wrong.

“I need to make a quick phone call. Soon as I’m done you can send him in.” He walked into his office.

“Have fun letting him go,” Shannon said.

At 10:15 Micah walked out of his office behind the man he’d just fired. He stared at Shannon as he tried to push down the guilt that churned inside.

“How’d it go?” Shannon asked as soon as the man walked beyond earshot.

“Fine.” But Micah’s conscience screamed for attention. He kept telling himself it was just business, but his heart wouldn’t let him believe it. On his way to his condo that evening after work, he called Sarah.

“How’s Seattle?”

“Empty without you. I’m ready to come back.” Micah lowered his windows and let the soft coolness of a Seattle summer evening fill his car.

“And that will be?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. I’ve got two more meetings to slog through. Just thought I’d call and say hi.”

“Hi.”

They laughed softly.

“So anyone fascinating drop by today for a Double Fudge Rocky Road?”

“Actually a couple of movie stars came by.”

“Seriously?”

“No.”

“You are funny,” Micah said.

“I try not to bore you. Like your meetings. So any major moves in the world of software today?”

The firing flashed into his mind. “Well, not really, but since I’ve got you on the phone, let me run a hypothetical situation past you. To test your business acumen.”

“Ready.”

“You might have to fire a guy to solve some problems unrelated to him. Has to be done quick. It’s the only answer. But he does a pretty good job.” Micah pulled onto Denny Way and headed west.

“Pretty good?”

“Yeah, not great, not horrible. Let’s call him a B worker.”

“Is he dishonest? Reliable? Is his effort a B or his work a B?”

“No to your first question, yes to the second. Work is a B, effort an A.”

“So he’s honest, reliable, and hardworking.” Sarah snorted. “You’re kidding about firing him, right?”

“No. Why?” Micah switched his Bluetooth to the other ear.

“Because it’s obvious.”

“No question, you’d keep this guy?”

“In this hypothetical situation, what makes him worthy of getting fired?”

Micah went silent.

“You’re playing with someone’s life.”

“Before you condemn me, get a few more details. We had to do it to get the government off our back. FTC claimed we violated a bunch of monopoly rules, all garbage. This appeases them, problem solved. And believe me, this guy will be taken care of. We’ll give him a huge severance package, plus I’ve already called a friend who has promised he’ll hire him. He’ll make more money than he did here.”

“So you make him feel like a loser, but since he gets another job and makes more, it’s okay?”

Micah took a right and drove up toward the entrance to Seattle Center. “There’s a bigger picture to look at. The reasoning is right.”

“I don’t care if the reason is perfect, Micah. It’s wrong.”

“The reason is perfect, Sarah. We fire this guy, and a significant legal and PR problem goes away. And the guy gets more than taken care of financially.” He pulled into a parking lot near the Children’s Museum, threw his car into park, and yanked the key out of the ignition.

“Ninety-nine percent truth mixed with 1 percent lie is still 100 percent lie. Always.”

“So you won’t let me explain why it won’t upset the guy in the least?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re not dealing in truth. Every choice we make takes us farther down one of two paths. Both paths lead to a kingdom, Micah. You have to decide once and for all which kingdom you want to live in. Because eventually one of the kingdoms has to—and will—disappear. You’re still living with a foot in each world. God gives only two choices: hot and cold. Living in the world of lukewarm gets you spit out.”

Micah bit into his lower lip. “I know your vast experience in the business world gives you the right to judge me. So while we’re at it, do you have any other great moral teachings? Like a holier way to brush my teeth?”

“This isn’t like you,” she replied just above a whisper. “I don’t need your sarcasm right now, and you don’t need to give it. I’m not teaching morality here and you know it. I’m talking about the heart. Yours. What is the Holy Spirit that lives in that heart telling you? Did you ask Him?” She sighed. “I’ll see you when you get back down here.”

“Sarah!”

The line was dead.

Micah ripped off his Bluetooth and hurled it onto the passenger seat of his BMW. What a wi—! He stopped himself, shocked at the anger that wrestled to get out.

He was not an angry person. Wit, humor, maneuvering situations with the power of persuasion were his weapons in controlling his business and his life. But anger? It never advanced anything. He’d buried his anger and his pain a long time ago. Micah rubbed the scar on his left hand. This wasn’t about his father and what he’d done to Micah after his mom died. He wouldn’t let it be.

A moment later he got out of his car and walked toward the fountains in the middle of Seattle Center. As they shot water fifty feet in the air, kids played in the spray raining down, dodging, ducking, laughing. He slumped onto a bench and took Sarah’s advice.

“God, I want the truth. What’s the right move with this firing? There has to be . . .” He didn’t finish. No need to. He sighed, jammed his hand into his pocket, and grabbed his cell phone.

“Yes?” his senior VP answered.

“It’s Micah. When are you doing the exit interview?”

“Ten tomorrow morning.”

“Cancel it.”

“What?”

“We’re not letting him go. Call him. If he wants to stay, tell him we want him back. We’ll figure another way out of this.”

“That is a surprising decision. You do realize you’re running the risk of losing a significant portion of what we’ve gained over the past two years?”

Micah tapped the bench he sat on with his car keys. “Get the team together tomorrow morning at 9:00 so we can put together a strategy.”

He hung up and stared at the wooden bench, faded almost white from years of being doused in Seattle’s winter rains, then baked with July and August sunshine. He watched two seagulls scream at each other as they fought over an abandoned bag of popcorn and a tourist—probably from the Midwest—take pictures of them.

As he alternated between watching the people and the almost cloudless sky, peace settled over him. A few minutes later a couple rode by with crimson helmets that matched their bikes. Micah pushed a button on his cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Me again.”

“Hey,” Sarah said.

“I think we’re due for some mountain biking.”

“Mad still?”

“I’m sorry.” Micah clamped his lips together for a moment. “Thanks for having the guts to speak truth.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So you want to ride?”

“How ’bout Friday?” Sarah said.

“Perfect.” He lowered his voice. “I miss you. Love you.”

“Me, too.”

He walked back to his car, planning to go straight back to his condo. But by the time he started the engine, he decided to find a distraction. No doubt he’d made the right decision about his employee; however, it didn’t make the frustration—and necessary strategizing that went along with the problem—any easier to deal with. Maybe a movie—no, he didn’t need to ingest another helping of his usual high-octane violence or blue comedy flicks. You are what you eat. Maybe he’d just find a restaurant with a game on.

Like he used to do with . . . Julie.

That morning Shannon had said she was doing fine. He hoped it was true. He should at least tell her what’s going on with the firing, or nonfiring. Besides, it would be good to touch base, see if she’d talk to him through more than just e-mail.

He raced down Mercer, then pulled onto I-5 and headed north. It had been more than two weeks since he’d met Julie at the Halfway Café. Time to break the face-to-face ice.

Six miles up the concrete river, he took the 85th Street exit and headed west toward Green Lake. A world he’d pushed out of his mind rushed back: Julie; her neighborhood; her house; the mountain of hours they’d spent planning RimSoft; the good, the bad, and the wonderful. Micah looked at his watch: 6:50. Probably should have called first, but he was already here.

He rang the doorbell and waited. The door swung open and revealed Julie’s familiar face—the striking looks, intelligent eyes, the softness of her blonde hair. Romance might be gone, but he didn’t want to lose the relationship. They’d been through too much together, accomplished too much, held too much of each other’s history in their heads and hearts to let it all slip away. If she was willing, he wanted friendship.

“May I help you?”

“Jules, listen, sorry to pop in without calling first, but it’s been a couple of weeks. I was close by and thought we should touch base.”

“Who—?”

“I meant it about being friends. And we own a company together. We should talk every now and then.”

She frowned and finished the sentence she’d started five seconds earlier. “Who are you?”

“All right, point taken.” Micah smiled. “I know I’ve been completely incommunicado the last three weeks other than e-mail, so I deserve that. But I want to start fresh and—”

“Listen, pal, if one of my friends set you up to do this, the humor part isn’t coming through.” She started to close the door, but he blocked it with his foot.

“What are you doing?”

“That’s it. If you don’t vanish off my porch instantly, I’m dialing 911.”

Micah removed his foot and his stomach jumped, as if on a roller coaster at full throttle. She wasn’t kidding. Julie pushed the door hard, but he threw his hands out and stopped it before it slammed shut. “Why are you doing this?”

“Jake! I need you here.” She turned her head. “Now!”

Micah didn’t know whether to shout or turn and run. He probably couldn’t have done either, even if he’d wanted to. The shock of what was unfolding froze him in place. Three seconds later Jake and his Popeye-sized forearms stood at the door. He didn’t look like a light joke would loosen him up.

“You got a problem, buddy? Need some help?” Jake’s tone of voice made it obvious he wasn’t about to help anyone.

“No, I’m fine thanks.” Micah steeled himself and turned to Julie. “Really sorry. Got the wrong house. But it’s weird how much you look like my old . . . an old friend of mine. You could be twins.”

Micah turned and left. The only sound behind him was Julie’s door slamming shut and Jake swearing at him from behind it.

He staggered down the steps and nearly crumbled face-first onto the sidewalk. As he dug his keys out of his pocket, he steadied himself with one arm on the roof of his car. Once inside he let his head smack against the steering wheel. He gripped the wheel to keep his hands from shaking.

There had to be an explanation.

After a few minutes he glanced up at Julie’s house again. Jake stood in the window with his finger pointing down the street. Micah pulled away from the curb.

||||||||

Heading back to his condo, it took three tries before he succeeded in dialing the right number on his cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Rick, it’s Micah.” He swallowed hard. “We gotta talk.”

“What’s going on?”

“She’s gone!” He slammed his fist into the steering wheel. “Julie is gone.”

“You mean she moved? She’s leaving the company?”

“I went to her house to touch base, and she acted like we’ve never met.”

“Was she joking?”

“No way.” Micah rubbed his face hard as he took the Mercer Street exit off I-5 and screeched up to a stoplight.

“How do you feel?”

“Feel? Are you kidding? She was an intricate part of my life for six years. We built an empire together. Talking to you right now is the only thing convincing me I’m not going insane.”

A horn behind Micah blared. He glanced at the green light and crunched the accelerator.

“God is in this.”

“I’m on the edge, Rick. I’m right on the edge here. During the past four months I’ve accepted a lot of weird scenes, but this one takes the cake and swallows it whole.”

“God is in this,” Rick repeated.

“In what? Systematically stripping me of my entire life?”

“You can make it stop.”

“How?”

“You know how.”

“I don’t need cryptic clues right now. I need hard-core answers.”

“Then choose which world you want to live in.”

“What?”

“You’re living two lives, Micah. God is showing you what is and what could be. Not in your imagination but in real life. Your choices in every moment affect both worlds. You can’t step into freedom in Cannon Beach without it affecting the world of slavery back in Seattle.”

“Slavery? What are you talking about? Seattle represents more freedom than most people will ever imagine.”

“So why not stay there?”

Seattle Center blurred by, and Micah glanced at his speedometer. Twenty-five over the limit. He stomped on the brakes. A conversation with a cop wouldn’t be good right now.

“Both worlds can’t survive,” Rick continued. “At some point you’ll have to fully embrace one or the other.”

“Why can’t I have both?”

“When will you be back down here?”

“I have to meet with my senior VPs tomorrow morning,” Micah muttered. “So tomorrow, late afternoon,”

“Fine. Take the evening to settle back in, and we’ll meet first thing Wednesday morning.”

Micah hung up and tried to smother the turmoil that pinballed around his stomach. His mind spun—not only from the terror of what had just happened but also with chaotic scenarios of what else he might lose. Sure, he’d secured his stock with the stop order, but if he’d lost Julie, why couldn’t he lose his entire company? Could God simply wipe RimSoft out of existence?

Of course. Micah snorted. With God all things are possible.

His meeting in the morning to address the Federal Trade Commission quandary shouldn’t take more than an hour. The instant it was finished he’d head for Cannon Beach. No matter how evasive Rick was, Micah would get answers.

CHAPTER 25

The instant Rick sat down Wednesday morning at the Fireside, Micah fired his first question. “What is God doing to me? I’m trying to follow Him, trying to change, and then yesterday I lose my temper like I’ve never done in front of my entire team of VPs.”

“You did?”

“At one point I took off my shoe and hurled it against the window.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I was over the edge and halfway down the cliff.”

“What about getting some food?” Rick took a long sniff. “I love the smell of bacon in the morning.”

Micah waved his hand. “I’ve already ordered for both of us. Should be here by now.”

“You’re not going to comment on my subtle Apocalypse Now reference?”

“Sorry. Not in the mood. And it wasn’t subtle.”

“So what happened?” Rick dumped two packets of sugar into his empty coffee cup. A few seconds later their regular waitress scuttled by with their order and coffee for Rick.

“What happened?” Micah said. “I honestly don’t know. All of a sudden this volcano explodes out of me. I was a certified platinum jerk. I chewed out the entire team because—get this—they wanted to protect me from the FTC. And I cannot figure it out.”

“Figure what out?”

“I never get angry. Not that kind of angry. The last time I lost my temper, I was in third grade. I might get sarcastic, zing someone with a verbal barb, but I don’t get tomato-face angry. But I lost it with Sarah the other day on the phone, and then yesterday it came out of nowhere—again! It was like the TV had been turned on at high volume in an instant and I couldn’t pull the plug. The scene played out like an episode of How-to-Be-a-Class-A-Pinhead, and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it.”

“Like a running back reacting without thinking to avoid a tackle?”

“Exactly, only after it started I was thinking. Part of me shouted, ‘What are you doing, get yourself under control,’ and part of me had cruise control set at 120 miles an hour, hitting everything on the road. And liking it.” Micah added more coffee to his cream. “So I repeat, what is God doing to me?”

“He’s going deeper after your heart,” Rick mumbled through a bite of his ham-and-cheese omelet.

“By making a temper tantrum worthy of a five-year-old come out of nowhere?”

“That kind of anger doesn’t come out of nowhere.” Rick took a slurp of his coffee.

“What’s that mean?”

“It means over the years you’ve become extremely proficient at keeping your anger buried—through sarcasm, witty banter, or dry, cutting remarks—while all the time, deep down, you’re seething.”

“Seething about what?”

“I don’t know. But the Holy Spirit, who does, is causing these things to surface.” Rick drained half his orange juice and started in on an English muffin dripping with honey.

“Enlighten me as to why He’s doing that.”

“Did you ask Him to?”

Micah stared at Rick as he realized the answer. “I didn’t think this would be the response.”

“Most people don’t.”

“What comes next?”

“He wants to fix the broken places in your heart.”

“Okay, still lost. Need the fog lights here, not real clear what you’re saying.”

“To heal a wound the Lord needs to bring it to the surface. I’d say He showed you a symptom today. He’ll show you the cause if you’re willing.”

“Willing to what?”

“Well, something inside caused that outburst. As you said, a part of you couldn’t keep from exploding. So you have to be willing to go deep into your heart with the Counselor and uncover the cause.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“You don’t have to.” Rick smiled.

“This is about my mom dying, isn’t it? About what my dad did afterward.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’m not God.”

||||||||

When he got home from breakfast, Micah grabbed a fruit punch Powerade, flopped onto an Adirondack chair on his deck, and thanked God it was Wednesday. Archie letter day. He needed answers.

August 11, 1991

Dear Micah,

Have you considered what the strongholds are Paul talks about in his epistles? A friend recently presented me with this explanation: A stronghold is anything that keeps us from the freedom of being in Christ Jesus.

The Gospel of John tells us if we know the Son we shall be free indeed. The apostle Paul says it was for freedom’s sake that Christ set us free. He didn’t set us free for duty or obligation but for freedom itself. This is indeed a staggering and amazing thought. With that in mind, we must ask what the strongholds are that Jesus wants to set us free from.

The answer is not overly complex. They are anything we’ve given room to in our lives in an attempt to cover up our wounds from the past; be they from friends, family, coaches, or teachers.

Or parents.

Great, Micah thought. Here we go.

If we do not face the wound, we will fabricate a variety of salves to dull the pain and thus bury it. The relentless pursuit of money, the quest for fame, the approval of men, drug abuse, illicit sexual relations, movies of a degrading nature, even an addiction to food. The list is long, but the reason is always the same.

We try to forgive those who wound us, but this only deals with the symptoms. The wound remains like a field of dandelions with their tips cut off. No, we must always go after the root of the tree and remove it completely so there is no opportunity for the stronghold to return. Only then can we truly forgive.

So he had to forgive? Easy. He would. And he didn’t need to go into some wound to forgive someone. As long as someone didn’t include his father.

I pray you have the strength to go to the root.

Across time,

Archie

P.S. Psalm 51:6: “Behold, You desire truth in the innermost being, And in the hidden part You will make me know wisdom.”

Micah sighed. He felt it. The Counselor wanted to uncover some causes.

He tossed the letter aside. No thanks. Rick always said he had a choice. This time he would choose no.

||||||||

That evening he sat in the chair facing his picture windows and numbed his mind with a mystery novel in an attempt to distract himself from the loss of Julie, his outburst at RimSoft, and whatever Archie meant by “going to the root.” His escape was interrupted after seven pages when he stretched and a flash of color to his right caught his attention.

Up on the bookshelves surrounding the fireplace sat a picture he’d never noticed. A Little League team looked down on a Seattle Mariners game, all of them in uniform. The backs of their heads were to the camera. He turned it over to look for clues. “Wildcats ’91” was scrawled across the back. That was the name of his team when he was a kid.

He slipped the photo into the back pocket of his 501s, sank back into his chair-and-a-half, and eased back into his novel. He refused to focus on any unsolved mysteries for at least a few hours.

Micah didn’t think about the picture again till he stripped off his clothes for bed. He pulled out the rumpled photo and stared at it. It could be a picture of any Little League team in the Puget Sound area, out to see the big boys play. Twelve kids, some too big, some too little for the uniforms that united them for a spring of dreams. But something about the picture tickled the back of his mind. He propped the picture up against his nightstand lamp, buried himself in his comforter, and disappeared into sleep without another thought.

Until the dream started.

He stood in a hallway. His house? Micah wasn’t sure. Dim light floated in through the windows telling him the last black shaving of night was about to give over to the rush of dawn. He walked down the hallway slowly, feet padding without noise on the thick tan carpet.

Light spilled into the hallway from the first door on his right. A muffled sound came from behind it. Micah pressed his ear against the six-panel door. Yes. Someone inside the room was crying.

He touched the door and the crying stopped, like the mute button being pushed on a TV remote. Micah pushed open the door and stepped inside. Daylight splashed all around him, and he threw his hands up till his eyes could adjust. The smell of overcooked hot dogs swirled around him along with shouts of, “C’mon, need a hit now!”

Sitting. He was sitting somewhere. He lowered his hands and looked around. Third base was right in front of him, stale popcorn at his feet, a crowd of more than fifty filled the faded bleachers.

Little League baseball. He gazed at the scoreboard. Bottom of the ninth with two outs, the team at the plate down by one run, the count two and two with one man on second.

Classic. The glory every kid dreams of.

The terror every kid dreams of.

The kid at the plate was average size. Eight, maybe nine years old. His back was to Micah, dark hair jutting out from under the kid’s helmet. He gripped and regripped the bat, as if he could strangle it into getting him a hit.

“You gotta knock this one out!” the third-base coach screamed. “There is no choice. Now is the time. Now!”

The pitcher dragged the toe of his cleat across the rubber on the mound, set, wound up, left leg kicking high, and threw a lightning fastball.

The kid lunged toward the ball but didn’t swing.

“Ball!” the umpire shouted, and the pitcher feigned disbelief.

Three and two. The next pitch would tell the story.

Another windup. Another pitch. Fastball again.

Another lunge.

The pitch smacked into the catcher’s glove like a firecracker and sent a tiny dust cloud into the air.

“Sttteeeeeeeerike three!” the umpire yelled. “Yer out! This game is over!”

But not for the kid at the plate. He dropped his bat to the ground and turned to face the third-base coach. The man strode toward him, shouting through his teeth.

Micah gasped. His throat felt like it was in a vise grip, and the blood drained from his face. He should have seen it coming, but it had been buried so long. This was the day it happened. Six weeks after his mom died.

“You idiot! For the love of Babe Ruth, what were you thinking? You didn’t even swing! Do you have any idea what’s inside that skull of yours! Do you? Well, I do! I know exactly what’s in there. So I’m gonna tell you. Absolutely nothing. Zero. Zucchini. Nada! Just like you!”

The coach took off his hat and spiked it to the ground. “Where’s your heart? I’ll tell you—you don’t have one! You could’ve at least stuck your bat out there. What a waste. What a complete waste.”

The coach reached for the kid and grabbed his jersey at the collarbone. It tore as the coach yanked at it, sending the kid to his knees.

“I’m sorry—”

“I can’t believe you’re my son. Unbelievable.”

The kid’s face was ashen. He again tried to say he was sorry, but the coach told him to shut up. A third apology, a second shut up. When the kid started to say he was sorry the fourth time, the coach swung his clipboard and whacked him over the head with it. The clipboard snapped in two with a sickening crunch. The boy crumpled forward onto his knees and elbows and gasped for air.

“You killed this game. You single-handedly killed it.” The boy’s dad spun on his foot, took two steps away, then turned and pointed at the boy. “Just like you killed your mom.”

An instant later it all vanished: the coach, the people in the stands, bats and balls, the popcorn, everything. Even daylight.

A full moon of silver lit up the infield, lit up the grass, lit up the boy sitting in center field fifty feet from where Micah braced himself against the bleachers.

Micah eased off his seat and walked toward the boy. This was just a dream. Not real. Couldn’t be real.

The boy sat just beyond second base, where the grass met the dirt infield, his back to Micah. The torn jersey lay to the boy’s left, his glove resting on top. If he heard Micah approach, he didn’t show it.

Micah slumped to a squatting position next to the kid and took a deep breath. He knew he was about to look into the eyes of someone he knew intimately.

“Hey. My name is Micah. What’s yours?”

The boy turned.

Wake up! He did not want to go through this.

“My nickname is Flash. I guess ’cause I run fast.” The kid stared at the grass as Micah sat next to him.

“It’s a good name.”

They sat together not speaking, just sitting on grass so short and smooth it looked like a fairway.

“I saw the game.”

“Yeah,” Flash said. “I didn’t even swing.”

Micah felt a presence inside him speak. I am here.

“Why did You bring me?” Micah asked.

You know.

“To bring healing?”

Yes. To bind up a broken heart and set a captive free. Do you want to be free?

“Yes.” Micah watched Flash loosen the thin brown laces on his glove, then retighten them. “I’m sorry about what happened today.”

When Flash spoke, Micah strained to hear. “I don’t really want to live anymore.” Flash picked at his shoe.

As the words rang in his ears, the dream faded, as if something was pulling him awake. Part of him wanted to give in, get free of the pain. Just wake up.

“I’m so all by myself. Have been since Mom went away during Memorial Day weekend.”

Wake up!

No. He had to face it, finish it.

In that instant every infinitesimal detail of the day erupted out of the deepest vault of his heart. Not the day he was seeing now, the day the horror started.

The baseball diamond vanished, and he stood on the beach watching his nine-year-old self beg his mom to save his beach ball.

“Mom! Wind’s got it! It’s going into the ocean!”

“I’ll get it.”

“But those waves are big monster waves—”

“They’re much bigger to you than they are to me.”

“But what if—?”

His mom stopped and smiled. “I’ll be fine, Micah. Really.”

They ran up to the edge of the water as the wind shoved the ball farther out into the ocean.

Micah tried to smile.

“Don’t worry, honey, it’s just a few strokes away.” His mom jogged into the water, and the waves were soon up to her waist. “Stay there; I’ll be with you again in two shakes of Peter Rabbit’s fluffy tail.”

But she didn’t come back. Ever.

“No,” Micah whimpered as his mom struggled against the riptide that dragged her out faster than he could believe. “Mom, where are you going? Mommy, come back!”

Once more Micah watched himself scream up and down the beach, “Help her! Help my mom!” He took two halting steps toward the houses behind him. A step north. One south. Then he froze, not knowing which way to go. What to do. He stood on the beach shaking, moaning.

Time seemed to slow as his dad appeared over the crest of the tiny dune his brother, Mick, and he had parked behind. A moment later his dad dropped the bag of groceries and sprinted down the sand, past Micah, out into the surf.

Micah bounced on his toes, trying to keep the sound of his whimpers inside his throat.

Faster! Why couldn’t his dad get to her faster? She’d be okay. She’d be fine. She’d promised.

Twenty-five minutes later paramedics carried his mom’s lifeless body off the beach toward the ambulance parked next to his dad’s car, the gray blanket they’d placed over her fluttering in the breeze.

His dad turned to him, his face white and full of disbelief. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me!”

“Mom and I were playing and . . . my beach ball . . . it went into . . .” Micah looked at the sky, the sand, back to the sky. “And . . . and . . . and I asked Mom if she could get it, and she said . . . so she went into the ocean . . . and—”

“Why didn’t you—?”

“I didn’t know what to—”

“Why didn’t you go for help?”

“I tried to, Daddy, I tried, but . . . I was scared.”

“You should have found someone!”

“I wanted to . . . but I couldn’t move . . .”

“What have you done?” His dad took Micah’s shoulders and shook him hard. “What have you done?”

Tears rushed up, filled his eyes, and ran in little rivulets down Micah’s cheeks.

A few moments later his father turned and walked away.

“Daddy?” Micah stumbled after him. “Daddy!”

“Leave me alone.” His father didn’t look back; the only sound was a slight swish of his feet through the sand.

Micah ran; it didn’t matter where, tears blinding his vision.

His foot caught on a twisted piece of driftwood just below the surface of the sand, sending him hurtling through the air. A lone cluster of jagged rocks stuck up a few inches out of the sand.

He threw out his hands to break the fall and was silent as the sharp point of one of the rocks sliced into his left palm.

The scream came an instant later as pain surged into his hand and blood oozed into the miniature canyon that started at the base of his forefinger and ran down his palm to the start of his wrist.

He found his father ten minutes later, sitting with his back to the front tire of the family van, his eyes vacant.

“I hurt myself, Daddy.”

His father looked at Micah’s hand for a long time. Thirty seconds, maybe a full minute, then out toward the ocean. “Sorry, but you’ll have to figure it out yourself.” He stood and opened the van door. “I’m going to the hospital.”

Micah sat and watched his dad and brother drive off, the blood on his hand drying, along with the tears that covered his cheeks.

In that moment his heart changed.

Six weeks later on that baseball diamond, it had shattered. “Just like you killed your mom.”

“I’m so sorry, Flash.”

The boy didn’t speak.

At nine years old he was alone in the world. No one would love him, no one would guide him. From then on he’d taken control of his life: the good, the bad, and the hideous parts.

“You think there’s no one who loves you,” Micah said.

“There isn’t.”

“You feel abandoned, totally alone.”

Flash nodded. “I am.” The words were a whisper.

Tears flowed from the boy and turned into racking sobs. Micah grabbed Flash and pulled him close, and they cried together.

The tears eventually slowed, and a strand of hope weaved its way into the pain till it overshadowed the sorrow. Healing.

“It’s better,” said the young Micah. “But I probably won’t forget.”

Micah hadn’t forgotten. How could he ever? As hard as he’d tried, that day at the beach had caused this day on the baseball field and so many other memories like it as he grew up under his father’s loathing.

Are you ready? the Voice inside said.

“Yes.”

Let’s bring the broken part back to where it belongs.

“Flash?” Micah said. “Jesus is going to talk to you now.”

“Okay.”

I will never leave you, Flash. Ever. You are not alone. I’m here now. I’ve always been here, and nothing can separate us. Nothing. Do you know that?

Flash nodded.

And I love you with a love that nothing can stop. Do you believe this?

Flash nodded again. Huge tears dropped from the boy’s eyes as he crawled up on Micah’s lap and wrapped his thin arms around Micah’s neck. He held his younger self for ages.

Your turn now, Micah.

“What? Mine? I can’t forgive my dad.”

I’m not asking you to. That will come. You must first forgive another that will bring great healing.

“Who?”

Yourself.

“For what?”

You did not kill her. It is a lie you have believed for too long. There is nothing you could have done to save her. We must break the lie now.

“I know I didn’t kill her; I was nine when I believed that.”

Your mind knows the truth, but your heart still believes the lie. In this area of your life, you are still nine. We must heal that part of your heart. Are you willing?

In the dream Micah began speaking.

||||||||

The next morning at 6:30, Micah woke with only a slight recollection of the dream. But the dream didn’t slowly fade from consciousness as most did. It went the opposite direction. After two minutes every nuance of the encounter with the younger Micah was etched into his mind.

The healing he’d experienced in the dream went to his core. But was it real?

He mulled it over as he walked toward his weight room. He was up. Might as well get in a workout.

On the way there he stopped by the library to pick up a book on kayaking. Perfect way to stave off boredom in between sets. He stepped toward the bookshelf but stopped cold. Something was definitely out of place. One door was all the library ever had. But now, in the far wall, was a new door.

He inched toward it as his heart pounded. No doubt. It was the door from his dream. He didn’t hesitate. He had to know. The door opened without a sound.

There was no baseball field, no grass. Just a small room with a single spotlight shining on a Wildcats baseball jersey. Number 11. His.

His fingers barely touched the jersey as he slid them slowly down its surface. The tear down the middle was gone. No evidence it had ever been torn.

As Micah sank to the floor, a peace he’d never known swept over him. It billowed around him like a space heater pumping out warm currents. He opened his left palm and pulled his finger across it like he was touching a newborn’s cheek. He gasped and a puff of laughter escaped his lips.

For the first time in twenty years, it didn’t hurt to touch the scar.

He looked at the clock on the wall: 6:45. At 6:48 he was speeding down Highway 101 toward Rick’s garage.

CHAPTER 26

Micah was convinced Rick was an iceberg, that he knew far more about the home than he’d ever revealed. It was time to throw on some scuba gear and get to Rick’s hidden knowledge, especially about the Wildcat room.

At 7:05 a.m. Micah watched Rick’s truck pull into the gas station, Carrie Underwood blaring out the windows. Micah chuckled. Country? Was he kidding?

“You’re late,” Micah called out to Rick as he eased out of his truck.

“For what?”

“Breakfast. Can you?”

“If we keep hanging out together, I’m going to need a new belt,” Rick said.

Their usual waitress stood ready with pad and pen moments after they sat down.

“French toast scramble please. Link sausage and—”

“—over medium on the eggs. Got ’er, Rick. Micah?”

“Eggs Benedict. Thanks.” Micah smiled. “There are things on the menu other than the French toast scramble.”

“What menu?” Rick raised his coffee cup and looked over the top of it. “How’s Sarah?”

Micah couldn’t keep a grin from rising to the surface. “Having lots of dinners together. Movies. Walks on the beach. Running together. We’re going to do a triathlon. Spending a ton of time hanging out. Plus lots of phone time.”

“Have you mentioned the L-word yet?”

“Yeah, most definitely.” Micah laughed.

“And the latest on Chateau Taylor?”

When Micah finished telling him about the Wildcat room, all Rick said was, “Sounds good,” and stirred his coffee.

“Sounds good?” Micah snorted. “Don’t you mean sounds bizarre?”

“How so?”

“Are you kidding? Anyone else would think I’m ready for a white-coat fitting. When’s the last time you heard about someone having an encounter with themselves from childhood?”

“Does that make it bizarre?” Rick cocked his head. “Or just rare?”

“Both, maybe. I don’t know. I had things happening to me that would never happen in real life. Time to tell me what’s going on, Rick. I know you know more than you’re telling me.”

“How do you know it wasn’t real life?”

“I was dreaming.”

“So was Joseph when an angel appeared and told him not to divorce Mary. And what about the repaired jersey?”

Micah just shook his head and took a bite of his sourdough toast.

Rick continued. “As you’re wrapping your mind around this latest room and trying to decide if it’s good or bad, be sure to remember the fruit test.”

“Fruit?”

“Jesus says you’ll know them by their fruit. What is the fruit that’s come out of this? Are you more free?”

“I’ll give you that at least.”

“When Jesus said He came to heal the brokenhearted, He meant it literally. We talk about people with broken minds wandering around our streets pushing shopping carts full of aluminum cans or sitting in institutions counting ceiling tiles. Their minds are literally broken. So when we say, ‘It broke my heart,’ we need to realize our hearts are truly broken.”

“So that explains why parts of me—”

“—have been broken off and never fixed.”

Rick doused his French toast in maple syrup, careful not to let it touch his sausages. “You wondered why you lost it in front of your VPs? Now you know. You wouldn’t ask an NBA basketball pro to dunk on a broken leg that had never healed right. All humans have buried wounds that need mending.” Rick paused to take a swig of coffee. “Explains a lot, doesn’t it?”

“Let’s say you’re right—and I’m not saying you are. What other parts of me need fixing or healing or whatever?”

“How would I know?” Rick laughed. “The Counselor does the counseling.”

As Micah drove home he threw a prayer up, only half serious. “All right, Lord. You want to do more work on my heart? Have at it.”

||||||||

The next morning Micah walked down the hallway to his bedroom and noticed a new door just past the linen closet.

Another room. He was almost getting used to it.

Micah was positive it hadn’t been there before, yet it was so small there was the ever-so-slight possibility he’d overlooked it. Yeah, right. As if telling himself that would make him feel better.

It was hardly a door, about two-and-a-half-feet tall by two-feet wide, curved at the top with no trim and no doorknob. But still a door. There was nothing to pull, so he dropped to his knees and pushed it open. He ducked his head inside but saw nothing. After a few seconds a sound like a giant lawn mower straining to get up a steep hill roared toward him. Then came voices, men by the sound of it, shouting to be heard over the din.

“Hello!” he hollered into the shadows. No response.

He crawled forward. The instant Micah’s head popped through the door, he found himself staring at the interior of a small plane with no seats. A large, dark-haired man, who looked to be in his early sixties, bellowed at him over the roar of the screaming plane engine. “Ready?”

The man had a massive grin and amber eyes that bored into Micah’s head. A harness dug into his shoulders, and he reached up to feel goggles on his head.

Skydiving.

Micah glanced around at the other faces staring at him. No question. They expected him to jump. He scooted backward into the hallway of his house, but his heel smacked into something hard. He turned and stared at the cold gray steel kissing his Nikes. The door he’d come through had vanished.

“What’re you looking at, mate?” the big man roared, his Australian accent thick.

“The door where I came in! Where is it?”

The Aussie laughed and pointed to the open door across from them. “That’s the door we all came in, and that’s the door we’re all going out!”

Micah pressed himself into the steel of the plane, and his body went numb. Heights and he refused to dance. He’d fallen out of a tree at eleven and been in the hospital for five weeks. To imagine jumping out of this airplane was to contemplate the impossible.

“No way. Indulge your lunacy if you want to. I’m staying here.”

“Suit yourself, mate. But paying $325, then backing out at the last second, that’s what I call crazy.”

A crystal blue sky framed Mount Rainier shimmering in the distance. Ten thousand feet below cars moved like ants in slow motion along pencil-thin roads. No way. If he jumped, there would be no control, no influence on whether the chute opened or not. But a protest started deep down inside.

Do it.

“Well, mate? Ya coming?”

This wasn’t happening. He was still in his house in Cannon Beach. But his head lost out to his heart, which screamed it was most assuredly real. The plane, the sky, the danger, the fear—all sickeningly genuine. Then another impression fluttered up from his heart.

Let’s do it. Risk it.

His legs ached above his knees, and he looked down. His fingers were white where they dug into his thighs like iron claws.

The big man watched him intently. “Hey, get some blood back into those hands of yours and give your legs a break. No pun intended; you’ll need them when we land.” The Aussie looked at him with a kind, knowing expression.

Micah loosened his grip as he watched the other obvious first-timer get ready to jump. The man turned to Micah. “Why are you jumping?”

“I have no idea.”

“Exactly!” The other jumper laughed. “Seriously, I just think it’s something I gotta do. My heart’s pounding like a jackhammer, but it’s one of those life things. Big risk, big reward, you know?”

Micah knew.

The man and his tandem-jump instructor scraped along the bottom of the Cessna, then eased up to the edge of the door.

“Ready?” his tandem partner said.

The man nodded, a wild look in his eyes. “Tell me it’s going to be okay!”

“It’s going to be okay.”

“No! Tell me over and over again!”

His tandem instructor laughed. An instant later they plummeted toward Earth. Despite his fear, Micah’s morbid fascination compelled him to look, and he watched the pair shrink from life size to a small dot, like an old TV being shut off, faster than he’d thought possible.

“All right, mate, we’ve rumbled up to the crossroads. Gotta jump within the next fifteen seconds or it’s too late. We going?”

Micah closed his eyes and pressed himself for a decision. Every fiber shrieked no. Why risk something that wasn’t even real? What would he prove? He would tell the man no, hope that ended this nightmare, and be out of this “room” and be back in the more normal places of the house.

“Ten seconds. We going?”

He turned to say no but the words stuck. And his head nodded yes.

“You’re gonna love it.” The big man slapped him on the back.

Micah eased over to the door. “Whether it’s real or not, Lord, keep me from dying.”

“Good prayer, mate!” the Australian yelled, all his teeth showing. “All right, I’m going to count to three and on three we jump. I want you to push off with everything you have. Then arms out, legs out, and we fly like a gonzo eagle shot out of a cannon.”

Micah nodded. He imagined hearing his heart over the roar of the engines, pounding out a beat in triple time.

“One. Two. Three. Go!”

He pushed off hard. In that instant his heart changed. Control vanished. Only faith remained; faith that the rivets securing him to the Aussie would hold, that the parachute would open. That jumping was the right choice.

The world turned upside down like being on a monstrous roller coaster somersaulting through the sky. The wind tore into his face and clothes, and his stomach surged with a double shot of adrenaline as the ultimate thrill ride started.

Fear vanished. There was no room for it. The speed intoxicated him, and the rush of nothing above or below for thousands of feet grabbed him, shook him, then released him only to grab him again seconds later harder than before.

“Whoooohoooo!” He let the scream out with abandon. Micah flew 120 miles per hour straight down.

The chute snapped open, and he floated down with nothing but three thousand feet of empty air between the soles of his Nikes and the lush green carpet of spring wheat below. He gazed at Mount Rainier lying before him like a gigantic, white mud pie.

He had done it.

The quietness surprised him—the noise of the airplane, the rush of the wind now gone.

“Well?” His instructor clapped him on the shoulder.

“Never felt more alive.”

“Chuting will do that for you. What else makes you come alive, risk it all?”

Coming to Cannon Beach made him feel alive. Starting RimSoft had made him come alive. That had been a huge risk. Actually it wasn’t true. He’d been young with nothing to lose. Now? He had everything to lose. And he had little desire to risk what he’d gained.

“You’re not taking anything with you, so you might as well store up some treasures in heaven,” the Australian said. “Gotta risk your life to save it.”

A parachuting preacher, Micah mused.

“Enough theology, Micah. The ground is coming up quick to say hello, so let’s get prepped.”

After landing they joined the other jumper for a group picture, then walked toward Micah’s car. The Aussie threw his arm around Micah’s shoulder and squeezed hard. “I’m proud of you. You did well . . .”

During the last three words the Australian’s accent faded, and Micah turned to face the man. He was gone. The only thing around his shoulders was a heavy blanket as he sat in his leather chair in front of the Mariners game that played softly on the big-screen TV in his bedroom.

He threw the blanket aside and raced back to the little door. It opened on silk hinges. There was no plane, no roar, nothing but a small closet with a cloth wrapped around something rectangular. Pictures wrapped with a rubber band. He gasped at the first one. A group of men stood in front of a plane holding a sign that said: WE FLEW LIKE EAGLES! September 2, 1996. Micah was one of the men.

He looked down at the T-shirt he had on right then and grabbed a handful. It was the same shirt as the one in the picture. A memory flooded his mind. A few months before his sixteenth birthday his three best friends bought him an early present: a skydiving certificate. But when the day came, his fear of heights emerged victorious and he’d stayed home. He’d always regretted it.

Now, somehow, the house had made the day happen.

This room brought a different kind of healing, a wound of lament healed through the idiotic act of jumping out of an airplane. But it wasn’t idiotic. It was the physical form of a long-buried desire.

It was time for another jump.

He walked into the mahogany-rich den that served as his office in Cannon Beach and called Shannon at home. He asked her to put together a meeting with the board as soon as possible.

Micah was about to jump out of another plane.

CHAPTER 27

Four days later, on Tuesday morning at 10:00, Micah cleared his throat and looked around RimSoft’s conference room at the members of his board. This could get rough.

“Friends, even though Julie isn’t here yet, I want to get started. You’ll have questions and I don’t want to go past noon. So let’s—”

“Who’s Julie?” Shannon said.

Micah’s stomach felt like it had spent three hours on Disneyland’s teacup ride. For the past few weeks whenever Julie had popped into his mind, he’d strangled the thought into silence. And now via Freudian slip, he’d set the problem front and center, making him face the loss in front of his board of directors.

Julie had been a friend and confidant since college. They’d built a company together, had shared years of laughter, sorrow, and success. She would always have a piece of his heart. But he wasn’t even the smallest piece of hers anymore. Another part of his Seattle world sliced off and melted away.

“Who’s Julie?” Shannon repeated.

Micah’s face warmed, and his mind raced for an answer.

His oldest employee rescued him. “I think he’s joking. His original partner in the company was named Julie. She hung on for about two years before she bailed. I started a few weeks before she left.” He turned to Micah. “I’m probably one of the few who even remembers she exists, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, just you and me.” Micah coughed and pushed out a weak laugh.

His head swirled. So Julie had been part of his life for a time and part of RimSoft. So why didn’t she remember him when he went to her house?

“Micah?” Shannon said.

“Yeah, sorry, mind is wandering.” He paused and rested his hands on the conference room table. “That’s one of the reasons for this meeting. I’ve been creating, driving, and sustaining RimSoft for six years now. I’ve taken a total of three weeks of true vacation during those six years. By my choice I admit, but that’s not enough. I need a break where vendors or partners are not along for the ride. A long break.”

He took a long swig of coffee.

“Working from Cannon Beach these past two months has helped me find out what I really value. Now I want to take this exercise a step further. In the end it will make me a better leader and make RimSoft stronger than ever before.”

For the next hour Micah answered questions about his sabbatical.

“How long?” asked one board member.

“Do you realize how this could impact the stock?” another said.

“Software moves too fast for you to take a sabbatical,” protested a third.

“This is not a good move. Shannon, talk to him,” chimed in one of his VPs.

In the end he quelled the board’s concerns and established the parameters of his time away. His two senior vice presidents and Shannon would handle the day-to-day operations. Once a month the three of them and Micah would have a conference call to discuss any major decisions needing his input. Other than that, he would be absent from any and all operations of RimSoft. No phone calls, no e-mail, no communication except through Shannon, and then only if the emergency was significant.

||||||||

He crossed into Oregon at 5:30 that evening and stopped off at Fort Stevens State Park to walk the beach and think before arriving back in Cannon Beach. It had been years since he’d seen the wreck of the Peter Iredale. Had the ship sunk any further into the sands of the North Pacific shoreline?

Not much as it turned out. He found a secluded spot to watch the sun seep into the ocean and ask God for desperately needed guidance.

He’d told the board he would be taking a break, but he wondered if God would let him. Micah had been running an emotional marathon in both Cannon Beach and Seattle, and he was exhausted. Weren’t the miles up yet? Couldn’t he give his mind and heart the chance to snooze, even for a day?

After praying for ten minutes, he gave up. God was on mute.

When he opened his eyes, a glossy piece of paper caught his attention. It stuck out of the sand to the right of the log he sat on. It was a magazine cover: Coast Life. The weather had beaten it up, but it was the July-August issue from a year ago.

He started to toss it aside when a name in the lower-left corner caught his eye. Taylor. He looked more closely. The first name was smeared, but he could still make it out. Micah. Underneath, even more clearly, he saw the sell line: Talent rising. An Exclusive Interview.

Micah knew every magazine he’d ever been interviewed by, and Coast Life was definitely not one of them. He jogged back to his car, got in, and headed for the Seaside library.

His life in bizarroland had added another chapter.

||||||||

“Good magazine,” the Seaside librarian offered when Micah asked about the publication. “Just not enough readers. Went belly up nine months ago.”

“Do you have any back issues?”

“Maybe.” The librarian chuckled. “Problem is, a lot of people don’t realize when you check a magazine out of a library, you’re supposed to bring it back.” He stamped the inside of a book with almost enough gusto to break the spine, and Micah gave him a courtesy smile. The librarian stepped away from the counter. “Let me do a quick check.”

When he returned, Micah knew the answer before he spoke. “None right?”

“Sorry, good magazine, you know.”

Too many questions. Not enough answers.

The marathon continued. At a sprinter’s pace.

He needed explanations, not a slew of more questions.

As he drove back toward 101, he pulled up Astoria movie theaters on his cell phone. Bingo. Time to catch a flick and get his mind off the insanity.

||||||||

After the film was over, Micah took one step outside the Astoria Cineplex and yanked his Seattle Mariners baseball hat down over his face. He rubbed his hands on his shorts and glanced up and down the street twice before jogging across the lot to where he’d parked.

He scrambled into his car and hunched down in the seat. What was wrong with him? For crying in the ocean, was it a crime to go to a movie?

He turned the key and his car purred to life. As he pulled into the street, Micah tried to loosen his grip on the wheel. Boatloads of Christians were going to movies like this one. So it was a little raunchy, the humor a deep shade of blue, and they showed a little skin, but so what? All comedies these days were rated R. He was living for God again; it didn’t mean giving up everything.

How else was he supposed to get a moment’s escape?

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just stolen something and couldn’t return it. When he got home, he went to talk to himself about it.

“How are you?” the voice said as Micah stepped into the darkness.

“Saw a movie tonight.”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“We blew it again,” the voice said.

“Bad choice.” Micah slumped against the wall next to the door. “I knew it and did it anyway.”

“Will we ever stop?”

“God keeps forgiving, right?”

“Hebrews worries me.”

“What?”

“Chapter 10 says if we go on sinning after receiving the knowledge of the truth, then there no longer remains a sacrifice for sins.”

Micah leaned forward. “What does that mean?”

“Maybe just what it says. We know it’s a movie we shouldn’t see, but so many times we go anyway. So maybe for those times we’re not covered. I don’t know. It just worries me.”

Anxiety rose in Micah. The promises he’d made not to touch another movie he wouldn’t be proud to bring God to roared through him. Promises he kept breaking.

“I’m scared He’ll finally leave us forever.” The voice breathed hard. “I’m an idiot.”

“You’re right. You are. We are. A follower of Jesus? Sure. The straight and narrow? I’m on the highway to hell.”

A deep sigh floated out of the darkness. “We’re not overcoming anything down here. Seattle’s not perfect, but parts are pretty awesome. I think it’s time to go home.”

“You’re right.” Micah nodded. It felt good to say it. Less failure. Less pressure to be good. Less facing all the painful issues from his past. A world where his relationship with God didn’t pour so much guilt on his head.

He walked out and pulled the door hard behind him. No matter how many times he talked to himself, it was still a little strange having his own voice come out of the heart of a tar black room.

Tomorrow morning he would find a way to get control and fix this vice forever.

CHAPTER 28

The next morning a ray of August sunshine woke him at 6:30. The movie from last night splashed into his mind, and he groaned. Guilt peppered his heart as he threw on his sweats, laced up his shoes, and shuffled out the door to make himself pay.

He ran north toward Haystack Rock and pushed himself. Hard. He gasped for air within a few minutes but refused his body’s plea for relief. It was a self-inflicted penance he often performed after one of his “movie nights.” But it was a sponge in his ocean of guilt.

After a shower and breakfast, he started a biography of C. S. Lewis. No help. He picked up his Bible and through sheer willpower stayed with it for more than an hour. It was hot sand through his brain.

“You’re blowing it” pounded through his mind, and he knew it was true. Prayers sent skyward just bounced off the ceiling like racquetballs. He needed to give himself a break. All this guilt was a little over the top.

It was just a movie.

He walked out on the deck, down the stairs to the beach, and followed the tiny stream to his left that carved its way to the sea.

But still, why couldn’t he get control over this thing?

Micah drove down 101 all the way to Newport and spent the day poking through kite shops and art studios, looking for something and nothing, anything to divert his mind.

By the time he got home, it was late and he headed straight for his bedroom. That’s when he discovered the new hallway. It was short, maybe five feet long. A thick mahogany door stood at the end with detailed carvings on it, almost a language.

He started toward it, then hesitated. Although by now he fully believed God was in control, it still unnerved Micah every time he found a new room.

Fascinating.

Frightening.

Just because God was in it didn’t mean it was safe.

He inched toward the door and guessed the language was Hebrew. There was no doorknob. He pushed the door. It was like rock. “Lord, if You hear me, do You want me to get in?”

Nothing.

When he fell into bed a few minutes later, he tried reading, but the book slithered out of his fingers almost immediately, and sleep buried him.

When the dream came, he stood in front of the new door wondering how to get in. Then his surroundings went Dalí, and the door, carpet, and walls melted into each other. When the swirling stopped, he stood in a dimly lit room staring at the back of a door.

He instantly knew where he was—on the other side of the door, now inside the room. A small TV threw off a greenish tint, enough light to see the room was crammed with piles of something. As he groped for a light switch, a soft light streamed under the door from the hallway, enough to show him what the piles were made of.

DVDs, from floor to ceiling. All labeled, all in alphabetical order. Movies and TV shows from as far back as twenty years ago, right up to the movie he’d seen the night before. Every questionable show he had ever allowed to sink into his soul.

The ceiling of the room looked as if thousands of cigarettes had been puffed in it, a dull haze hanging in the air, as if the smoke had never fully dissipated.

A knock at the door stopped his heart. With the sound the brightness along the bottom of the door increased like a dimmer switch being turned up to its highest setting.

“Who is it?” Micah eked out.

“One who would help.” The light under the door grew even brighter.

A wild fragrance seeped in, full of oak and the smell of a surging river in the heart of summer.

Micah’s pulse raced. “You don’t want to come in here.” He used both his hands to push against the door.

“Why not?”

Silence.

“If you are from God, you know why.”

“If I know, why not let me in?”

“Because this is a room of . . . that I’ve . . .”

“I know what is in the room. It has been forgiven.”

Micah’s hands shook. Only One could forgive.

He whirled back toward the DVDs. Shame flooded through him. He loathed the idea of opening the door. It didn’t matter that the Lord knew about this room. It didn’t matter that he was forgiven. But there was nowhere else to turn.

“All right!” He pulled his hands off the door, as if they were smeared with rubber cement.

“The door doesn’t open from this side. You must let Me in.”

Micah reached for the door and froze. Images of the anger about to lash out at him flooded his mind, the disgust and disdain that would be hurled his way. The crushing disappointment in His eyes. Micah dreaded the discipline he knew must come. The thoughts bounced around like a pinball as he steeled himself, closed his eyes, and wrenched open the door.

The Lord burst into the room and strode for the back wall without even looking at Micah. Before reaching it, He drew a sword that radiated light like the mirrors of a thousand lighthouses. He brought it down on the stack of DVDs along the back wall so fast Micah couldn’t follow the arc. Light exploded as the sword struck and the DVDs vanished, revealing a door. It was shackled with thick iron chains, each link dense and rough. Six ancient-looking bars across the door guarded it from entry.

The Lord’s eyes sparked as He turned and winked at Micah. He raised His sword and brought it down like a flash of lightning. The iron bars, the chains, the locks, all shuddered. As the second blow fell, faint lines formed in the bars and the chains. At the third strike of the sword, another flash of light exploded, and the iron bars and chains shattered. A pungent odor accompanied their destruction, but it faded, and the fragrance of pine needles filled the room.

“Ready?” The Lord motioned toward the open door.

Micah dropped his head. “I am so ashamed . . . the shows . . . I’m so sorry. I just . . .”

“I don’t care about the shows, Micah. I care about your heart.”

He stared in bewilderment. “But those shows—”

“Are garbage.”

Micah waited for the rebuke to come. But it didn’t.

“They are full of death,” the Lord said. “To your heart, your soul, your mind. But do you need Me to tell you that? The critical issue is why you watched them, not what they contain.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I desire truth in your innermost being, Micah. There are broken places to fix. Because there is lack of truth there and a choice you must make.”

“Yes, but—”

“We must go in.” The Lord motioned again to the open door.

Fear surged out of the room. “What’s in there?” Micah took a step backward.

“Come and see.”

“I can’t.” He stared at the opening. He was certain facing it meant massive pain.

“You can.”

Only a dream. This was only a dream.

Micah stepped through the dim opening, the Lord beside him. They stood in a hallway at least fifty-feet long. A movie screen covered the far end. As they walked toward it, the screen flickered to life.

A young woman lay in a hospital bed, her ivory arms wrapped around a newborn. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

“Perfect,” the man said.

The woman laughed as she looked down at the pink face buried in the blue cotton blanket. “You’ll be more in love with him than me before the week is over.”

“I’ll love this Micah kid crazy fierce, but I’ll never love him more than I love you. Not a chance.” The man ran his forefinger over the woman’s cheek. “Never more than you.”

“So what should we have next?” the woman said. “Another boy, or should we have a girl this time?”

“Do we get to choose?”

“Sure.” The woman handed the baby to the man who rocked it gently.

The scene faded as another one filled the screen.

A little boy tried to climb a Douglas fir tree in a backyard drenched in sunshine. His father sat in a white-and-green striped chair, strawberry lemonade in one hand, the day’s newspaper in the other.

“Daddy, Daddy!”

“Hmm?” came from behind the paper.

“Do you think I can do it?”

The paper snapped down. “Do what?”

“Climb it! Climb the tree!”

The father folded the paper and tossed it to the ground. “Not only do I know you can do it; I know you will do it. But we need something first.” His dad picked up the camera sitting next to the chair. “We need to document this moment, don’t you think?” His dad winked and held the camera up to his eye. “Ready!”

The boy strained for a branch just out of reach until the twig underneath his foot snapped, and he spilled onto the concrete patio. Hard. Tiny streaks of scarlet sprang out of both knees.

“Micah!” His dad leaped toward him and yanked a paper towel from his pocket. “Here, let’s take care of that.” He rubbed the boy’s back. “You okay?”

The boy nodded as his dad wiped the blood off his knees.

The scene faded but the screen didn’t go black.

Sounds of hammering rang out before a scene of a boy building a tree house came into focus. The floor was done and one of the walls was in place. A twelve-year-old Micah jumped down from the eight-foot-high floor and walked over to a second wall lying on the grass.

The sun glinted off his father’s pitching wedge as he chipped foam golf balls at a bucket ten yards in front of him.

Micah hoisted the wall and strained to shove it up the side of the tree into his brother’s wanting hands.

As it wobbled, Micah said, “Dad, some help here maybe?”

His father kept chipping as he said, “You get hurt, son, and you’ll have to find your own way to the emergency room. Stupid idea, building that thing. Once again you’ve proven you need a microscope to find anything going on inside that brain of yours.”

As the scene faded to black, Micah’s face went cold. His long-buried pain rushed to the surface as more memories like the one he’d just relived filled his mind. The screen shifted again.

A 1985 Toyota Celica screeched around a corner and sent autumn leaves swirling into the air. The car pulled into the driveway of a modest house too fast, but the man standing with his arms folded didn’t budge as the driver screeched to a halt, then popped out of the car.

“Hey, Dad, I got it. Whaddya think?”

“How much did you pay, son?”

“Seventeen hundred. He asked for $1,950 so I think I got a pretty good deal. And, man, does this thing move!”

“No, son, $1,575, maybe even $1,625 would have been a fine price. But $1,700 for this car is overpriced. I studied the blue book value and local ads and that is the truth.”

“But it’s my first—”

“Son, you made a stupid mistake. Again. But not much harm done. You’ll have other chances.”

The scene faded and lit up with a new scene for the fifth time.

On-screen rain blanketed a stadium filled with blue and red umbrellas. Athletes huddled in small bunches around the track, white towels over their heads. Small numbers pulled sweat suits off or on, getting ready for their race or having just finished.

Around the far corner of the track came nine runners: the three in front synchronized stride for stride, the rest scattered in behind. Two of the leaders started their kick at the same time. The third waited an instant longer. Micah knew who would win: the one who started his kick last. It was himself, at the Washington state high school track finals, in the eight hundred meters. The finish would be excruciatingly close. They went to the photo in the end to be sure. But he had won. State title in the eight hundred meters.

Dread hit him like a sledgehammer. He knew what came next. The scene shifted, and he watched himself walk into his childhood home, Mick bouncing out from the kitchen with a big grin on his face. “Hey, bro. Not bad. You smoked ’em all.”

After giving Mick a high-five, Micah turned to his father.

His dad sat in his twenty-five-year-old beige Barcalounger with no shred of emotion on his face.

“I had it today, didn’t I, Dad?”

“It was good, yes. However since the state record remains unbroken, it is apparent that you did not have quite enough. Might even describe that as losing.”

Part of him regretted what happened next. Part didn’t. His eyes watered as he gave his dad the finger and stormed into his bedroom. It was the day he vowed to leave home as soon as possible and never look back.

Micah collapsed to his knees. The dam burst and pain poured out of him.

The Lord knelt beside him, strong arms pulling him in tight. “Let it out, all of it.”

Wracking sobs spilled over as the grief hit Micah full force.

“What have you longed to hear since the day your mom died, Micah?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you know. I’ve had you live the wounds again for a reason.”

“He took care of us after mom died. We always had a roof over our heads and food on the table, and he even bought me things I didn’t need.”

“What did you need to hear?”

“He was always home from work by 5:30; he bought me decent clothes; he—”

“What did you need to hear?”

As Micah tried forming the words, a surprising emotion arose: anger. Unbidden. Unexpected. And unstoppable. “I hate him! He destroyed me. He abandoned me! Why was it so impossible for my dad to love me after she died? Even for a moment? Couldn’t he care about me at all? Would it have killed him to say ‘nice car’? I won state in the eight hundred meters! I beat everybody. But it wasn’t good enough. Listening to him you’d think I’d been tearing the livers out of neighborhood dogs.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Why couldn’t he have loved me just a little?”

“Your success will never answer the question.”

“I just wanted him to say, ‘I’m proud.’ That I have what it takes to be a man.”

“You’ve numbed the pain with TV shows and movies that scintillate and tease, but they’re cotton candy. You’ve hidden your shattered heart behind money and fame.”

The tears kept coming.

“Your heart broke again and again, and you tried to fix the pieces with the salves of the world. But they can only dull the pain; they cannot heal. You have been chained. You’ve hidden your heart in the dark places. But I came to heal the brokenhearted and set the captives free.”

“I’m not worthy of You.”

“That’s a lie from the enemy of your soul.” The Lord smiled. “You are more than a conqueror, and you are worthy because I am inside you. It is time to believe it. I am proud of you, Micah. I am proud.”

The words sank into his heart and grew like seeds shown in time-lapse photography, growing so fast he wondered if he could contain the emotions pushing to burst out. He was a son of God, adopted into His family, Kingdom, and glory. Loved. And forgiven. For all time, all eternity. Astonishing.

The Lord held him tighter. “The treasure of My Kingdom are the hearts of the ones who are Mine. Let it sink in to the innermost parts. Listen. Your heart is the treasure of My Kingdom. And I have done everything to set it free. And I love you with an unfathomable, unquenchable love.”

“Now, it is time to let go of your anger toward your father.” The Lord swung around till He knelt in front of Micah and held out His hands.

“I can’t.”

“You can. You must choose.”

“No.”

“Time to let go of your anger.”

Micah rose to his knees.

“Time to forgive.”

Micah reached out and placed his palms in the Lord’s and opened his heart to the fire that swept through him.

When it was finished, the Lord said, “Now come.”

Micah slowed as they approached the DVD room.

“You have a question?” the Lord said.

“What about the DVDs?”

“Ah yes. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

As he stepped through, Micah stared in amazement. All except seven DVDs were gone. The Lord walked over to the shelf and pulled one off, tossing it to Micah. “That’s a good one.”

Time slowed down and the DVD floated toward him. Braveheart. Micah looked up at the Lord, but He was gone. Micah looked at the DVD again, and it dissolved along with the room.

He woke with a start. His eyes flew open and looked out the window. Daybreak. The dream!

He rolled out of bed and caught his foot on the covers. Yanking his leg free, he dashed toward the hallway from last night. The door was still there. Still shut. But it had changed. The Hebrew inscription was translated.

I will go before you and make the rough places smooth;

I will shatter the doors of bronze and cut through their iron bars.

I will give you the treasures of darkness

And hidden wealth of secret places,

So that you may know that it is I,

The LORD, the God of Israel, who calls you by your name.

(Isaiah 45:2–3)

Micah lifted two fingers to the door and pushed. It glided open without sound. He walked straight for the door at the back of the room. It was gone, no evidence the door or the room behind it had ever been. Movie posters covered the walls, depicting epic battles and tender love stories, and the shelves were filled with the movies promoted on the walls and many more.

The tears came again. Of joy. Of freedom.

The bars had been broken, the treasure of the Kingdom released.

He had to talk to himself about the freedom. Micah let out a whoop and raced toward the room that contained his voice.

CHAPTER 29

As Micah opened the door to the room, the voice spoke. “Hey, buddy, I was hoping you’d come to debrief. That was quite a ride.”

“Unbelievable.”

“From the beginning. All the details.”

“But you know all the details. You, we, were there together.” Micah laughed. “Why hear it again?”

“Because this way I can just soak it in and not have to think about it. And after it’s spoken aloud, we’ll both know it and remember it better.”

So Micah told the story about the door, the dream, the healing of the wounds, the waking up and discovering it was all real. How mountains of chains had been conquered, demolished in his heart.

After he finished, the voice stayed silent for a long time. When it spoke, it was just above a murmur, the tone tentative. “I have a thought. Something I think we should consider.”

Micah was taken off guard. He expected excitement, joy, even laughter as they celebrated together. Instead he sensed discouragement and even a hint of desperation in the voice.

“We must be exceedingly careful with these ‘healing-the-wounds’ experiences we had in the Wildcat room and the one last night. Who knows when it might happen again,” the voice said.

“Why wouldn’t we want it to continue till we’re set free of every chain?”

“Maybe we should; maybe we shouldn’t. We have certainly slipped over into an area graciously described as the unknown. An area of confusion and speculation. And even possible deception.”

“What are you talking about? There’s no confusion.” Micah made tiny, involuntary shakes of his head. “I’m freer and more in love with Jesus than I’ve ever been.”

“There are all kinds of dreams, Micah. Most of the time dreams are the subconscious trying to make sense of the conscious world. It’s usually simply the brain processing the events of the day. And sometimes it can even be a dark area where the enemy is trying to deceive us.”

“You’re saying these experiences are deception? No way. God spoke through dreams and used dreams in the Bible—”

“Yes, absolutely true, and I’m not discounting it. But over the thousands of years in which the Bible was written, how many times did God talk to people in dreams? Eight? Nine times? And each time they were major events. I’m not saying God can’t talk to us in dreams. It’s possible even in this day and age. But isn’t it presumptuous to say He spoke to us in a dream when there’s really no proof? Taking dreams at face value without really examining them is inviting a potentially deadly ruse from the enemy.”

“Hold on.” Micah stepped forward. “The day before, I can’t get into the room. Now I can and everything has changed inside. Drastically. You’re saying that’s not genuine?”

“Do you hear what you just said, Micah? The room changed drastically in the dream. You hadn’t been inside it before the dream. The reality is the room has always been the same. The only difference is that before you weren’t able to get in. Now you are. Just because it changed in the dream doesn’t mean it changed for real.”

“But the change inside me is real.”

“I’m not saying there’s been no change. I think our mind did a wonderful thing for us by telling us a story as we slept. But we have to examine what happened in light of the Bible and not in light of our emotions.”

“You’re saying my emotions aren’t valid?” Micah said. “That they aren’t evidence things have changed inside my heart?”

“God is not a God of touchy-feely pop psychology but a God of truth and moral action. We are to be outward focused, not inward focused. This preoccupation with self and self-freedom that has crept into the church is dangerous. The story of life is not about you; it’s about God. And any time we focus our energies on anything other than the advancement of the Kingdom, we advance the kingdom of the enemy.”

Micah sat stunned. What he had gone through in the movie room was without question the most powerful spiritual experience of his life, and his own inner voice was questioning if it was from God.

“So you’re saying freedom is not worth pursuing? That Jesus didn’t come to bind up the broken hearts and set the captives free?”

“Freedom is most worthy of pursuing. But we don’t attain freedom by turning inward and focusing on fixing ourselves and trying to feel good inside. It comes from reaching outside ourselves to those who do not yet know the Father. When Isaiah says set the captives free, I seriously doubt it means we are to be freed of any and all the tiny hurts from our childhood. We are new creatures; the old has passed away. That is the truth we must cling to and stand on.”

Micah threw back his head as a tiny moan of laughter escaped his lips.

“We must leave those hurts behind and press on to the upward call. Not muddle around in the past. As the Bible says, I am no longer a child so I put away the childish things. Setting the captives free means we can be free of sin and the devil, and we are free from having to spend eternity apart from God. Amen and amen.”

“Rick says—”

“We both agree that Rick is kind and often wise. But he is a mere man. He doesn’t have all the answers any more than any man does. His opinions are interesting and sometimes true. But the real answers are always in the Word of God. Show me in the Bible where we go into our past and heal personal wounds and, my gosh, let’s do it more and more. I don’t think you’ll find it because it’s not there.”

The voice stopped, and Micah didn’t know where to start.

“But the verse on the door—”

“Easily taken out of context and often distorted. Those verses are talking about Israel and God’s people taking the land and God subduing the nations. It is not a personal message to those of us who have hit some bumps along the road of life. I’m sorry. I wish it was a message the way you’ve interpreted it, but it isn’t.”

Micah’s mind spun as confusion poured down on him. It felt as if the air in the room had thinned, the remaining oxygen refusing to enter his lungs. The dream had brought him more freedom, built more faith, and given him greater hope in the love of Jesus than he could have imagined. And it was wrong?

“You’re saying we shouldn’t feel at all? C’mon.”

“No, no, no, of course we should feel.” The voice laughed. “All I’m saying is we need to admit feelings are what they are. Just feelings. Not reliable, solid evidence of God. As it says in the Word, we have been given a sound mind and must live out of that sound mind. We take ‘every thought captive’ with our minds, not our emotions.”

Micah sighed and turned to leave.

“You’re going so soon?”

“There’s a lot for me to think about.”

“I love you, Micah.”

Micah slammed the door to the room and walked down the hall.

He was beginning to hate himself.

||||||||

Late that Thursday afternoon Micah took a long run to clear his head. Turmoil over his conversation with the voice still swirled in his mind, and he played both sides of the argument back and forth without resolution.

The evening, however, held a ray of hope. He’d intentionally not read Archie’s letter the day before. Now he was glad he’d waited. He needed a good one.

August 28, 1991

Dear Micah,

Today I must let the Word of God speak for itself so this will be a brief correspondence.

“Look among the nations! Observe! Be astonished! Wonder! Because I am doing something in your days—You would not believe if you were told.” (Habakkuk 1:5)

He is beyond imagination, Micah, and He is drawing you to Himself.

Trust Him. Seek Him.

Archie

Instantly the confusion from his talk with the voice vanished like fog retreating under a blazing morning sun. Peace rushed in, and an image of what he called the brilliant room—where light seemed to pour out from under the door—filled his mind.

Yes. Time for another try.

He took his spiral staircase two stairs at a time and in seconds stood before the door. He sat on the other side of the hall and closed his eyes. Peace floated off the door like snow slightly heavier than the air around it. It settled on him and eased into his heart.

Images filled his mind—times as a child playing in a park full of lush maple trees with his mom somewhere nearby, allowing him to soar with no cares, no worries except for how high he could swing or how fast the merry-go-round would spin.

Sunshine streamed through those maples, making the emerald leaves of summer a more vivid and striking green than he thought possible. The image shifted and he stood in a cathedral of towering redwoods, a deep cold river sliding in between them, dwarfed by their silent majesty.

Every time he came to the door, the same stunning sensations surrounded him, and every time he’d tried to enter without success.

Micah stood, reached out, and pushed on the door. He jerked back. Astonishing. There was no resistance. After recovering he pushed again and watched as his entire hand eased into the door till the wood surrounded his wrist, as if the door were water. He laughed.

He moved his hand all over the door but couldn’t push in any deeper than his wrist. As he moved it, sweet freedom swept through him.

Seconds later the door changed into ordinary wood again, and Micah’s head rested against it. He longed to enter. “When, Lord?”

Soon.

||||||||

The next evening around 10:00, Micah met Rick at Haystack Rock, and they headed south down the beach, watching the glow of August campfires and breathing in the smell of burnt marshmallows. He desperately wanted to tell Rick about the dream, but it meant telling about the voice as well, which he still wasn’t ready to do. Instead Micah asked his friend for his latest theory on what was in the brilliant room.

“In trying to get to the bottom of what the brilliant room—and for that matter, what the entire home—is all about, I think you’ve overlooked a fundamental question,” Rick said.

“Which is?”

“The history of the house.”

“What history? The thing is barely six months old.”

“I mean, who built it.”

“Archie, you know that.” Two runners, a guy and a gal, whizzed past them heading north up the beach. Micah needed to go for a run with Sarah. They’d gone for one a few days before, but he felt like he hadn’t seen her in months.

“Archie built it? Fascinating. You’re saying a man dead for twelve years built a home nine months ago? Now that’s what I call strange.” Rick winked at him. “Sure, Archie left the money and instructions on how it was to be constructed, but if he wasn’t alive, someone carried out his guidelines. And unless that person died in the last six months, it’s a pretty safe bet you could track him down.”

“Agreed. But the title and escrow records don’t give a clue. So how do I find this mystery man?”

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

Micah shook his head.

“You said the letters were mailed to a Chris Hale, right?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I’m guessing Archie wrote the letters and mailed them to this Chris character so he would dump them in your house when it was finished. So since Archie’s gone, I’d sure be looking up ol’ Chris Hale to see if he’s still alive. If he is, bet he could shed some rays of light on the whole thing.”

Micah tilted his head back with what he imagined was a stunned look smeared all over his face. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

The next morning, as soon as the clock crept past eight, Micah would try to get Chris on the phone and find answers to why this home had buried his world in an ocean of chaos.

CHAPTER 30

The phone rang four times on the other end of the line Saturday morning, and Micah readied himself to leave a message on Chris’s voice mail. But on the fifth came an answer. “Hello, Chris here.” The voice was relaxed, warm, and just a notch above deep.

It put him at ease immediately. “Hi, Mr. Hale. My name is Micah Taylor, and I think we have a mutual friend. My great-uncle was Archie Taylor.”

“Hello, Micah. It’s wonderful to hear your voice.” Chris didn’t sound surprised.

“You expected my call?”

“Well, I can’t say I was expecting it. But I hoped you would call one day.”

“You knew Archie.”

“Ah yes, knew him well. And he knew me. One of the best friends I ever had, without a doubt. He died not long before my wife did. Whew, was that a year. By far the toughest one of my life.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was more than twelve years ago.” Chris chuckled. “And odds are I’ll be joining them soon. Some days I still miss Archie terribly. Sarah even more so.”

“Your wife’s name was Sarah?” Micah choked the words out.

“Yes, is that unusual?”

“No, it’s just that I . . . Mr. Hale, could we meet?”

“I’d enjoy that. As long as you can refrain from calling me Mr. Hale.”

||||||||

Three days later Micah stood on the porch of Chris’s North Seattle colonial home. The chime of the doorbell had long since faded with no answer, and Micah looked at his watch. Four o’clock. Right on time. He reached up to ring again when a voice inside called out, “Thanks for your patience. Almost there now.”

Chris greeted him with a broad smile and grabbed Micah with both hands. “Welcome, Micah! Welcome.” He looked like Norman Rockwell. He even had a pipe.

“Thanks for having me over, Mr. Hale.”

“As much my pleasure as hopefully it will be yours, Mr. Taylor.”

“Right.” Micah grinned. “Thanks for having me over, Chris.”

Chris guided him into the sitting room of a home old enough to have one. The wicker chair Micah sat in was aged but restful, and the black-and-white pictures on the walls and old books that lined the shelves made him comfortable immediately.

Chris excused himself to the kitchen and returned with two glasses of iced tea along with more in a pitcher. After a few minutes of banter, Chris raised his voice a pinch. “Well, I can see you have the personality to make small talk as long as necessary, but why don’t we get to it since you’re probably bursting with questions about your great-uncle.”

“Yeah, I have a few.”

“A few?” Chris raised his eyebrow, a mock frown on his face.

“A few dozen. Three or four dozen.”

“I’ll answer as many as I can, but before that, tell me about your experiences in the house so far.”

Although he trusted Chris instinctively, Micah wasn’t sure how much to tell. He decided to touch on some of the supernatural aspects of the home without telling too many of the details. When he finished, the sunlight on the old leather couch had moved more than two feet. It made him realize how significantly life had changed since the day Archie’s letter showed up.

When he’d finished, Chris merely nodded his thanks.

“So what’s the secret of the house . . . my house?”

“Secret?”

“Why is it so supernatural? What’s the connection between it and me? Why did Archie have it built for me? Did he know strange things would happen there?”

“First question: God is God. Second question: everything. Third question: because God told him to. Fourth question: yes.”

“Touché.” Micah laughed. “All right, I’ll put the question-six-shooter away.” He mimed placing a gun in a holster at his side. “How ’bout starting with how you and Archie met?”

“Fine.” Chris patted down the tobacco in his pipe with his pinky finger, lit it, then settled back in his chair. “I met Archie in the navy. He was the most popular aboard ship, even though no one could figure him out. He told jokes with the best of them. When the other guys brought out the jokes with a blue tint to them, Archie didn’t laugh, but he didn’t condemn those that did.

“He wasn’t the best at the physical demands of being on a naval vessel, but no one ever tried harder, and of course most of his shipmates respected him for that. I was pretty shy then, so I was taken aback when he sat next to me one day in the mess hall. He looked me straight in the eye and asked, ‘You want more out of life?’”

The smoke from Chris’s pipe curled toward the ceiling, and Micah watched Chris relive the memory.

Chris chuckled and gave a little shake of his head. “I stared at Archie. It was pretty forward, and I wanted to laugh but was too self-conscious. There was no, ‘Hello, how are you doing, my name is Archie.’ The first thing out of his mouth was, ‘You want more out of life?’ A lot of answers popped into my mind, but I decided on the simple truth. ‘Yes, I do,’ I told him.

“So right there in the middle of a mess hall full of guys, he starts telling me Jesus came to Earth to bring me back to God and to set me free. ’Course I’m staring at him like he’s just come out of the loony bin, but I can’t help asking the follow-up question, ‘Free from what?’ And you know how he answered? He didn’t. He just smiled at me. Archie probably knew I already had the answer. There were so many things I needed to get free of I didn’t know where to start. My chains had chains.”

Chris paused and looked right at Micah. “You know what I mean, don’t you? Archie worked on me, and I guess I helped him a bit, too. During the four years we served together, we became best friends. More than best friends. Brothers.”

Chris’s eyes moistened a little. “But I have monumental doubts you came to watch me get sentimental.” He patted the arm of his chair. “Archie carved out a solid career in architecture. Did very well. They still use a couple of his designs at the University of Washington to show students how to infuse a sense of freedom in the structures they design.”

“Everything about Archie pointed toward freedom, didn’t it?”

“If you’re going to focus on one thing, it’s a pretty good choice, don’t you think?” Chris leaned forward and clasped his hands. “And he loved to show people how to live for something bigger than the next ball game or vacation. Help them find their destiny and glory.”

“I wish I’d known him.” Micah let the regret settle. “So, if it wasn’t Archie, who oversaw the construction of the house?”

Chris smiled and realization washed over Micah. Why hadn’t he figured it out sooner? He shook his head. “You did an awesome job.”

“You like it?”

“Feels like it’s part of me. I’ve never felt so at home anywhere.”

“Ah, I’m glad. Archie would be so pleased. These days, Hale & Sons Construction is 99 percent Sons, but I got pretty involved with your home.”

“It’s perfect for me.”

“Good, good, good.” Chris gazed at Micah for ten seconds before continuing. “Archie never had kids of his own, as you probably know. Just didn’t work out that way, although I know he wanted a wife and children. But this life isn’t perfect, is it? So when your dad married and had you, Archie prayed in earnest. Couldn’t talk about much more than you most of the time.”

Chris repacked his pipe and lit it again. “Don’t exactly know why, but God built quite a love inside Archie for you.”

Micah shifted in his chair. “It doesn’t make sense. If Archie had this great love for me, why didn’t I ever meet him?”

“You did. Only once though, shortly before he died.”

“What?” Micah lurched forward in his chair.

“Regretfully, the time you met, he didn’t tell you who he was as he wanted to see you again. He feared you might tell your dad about it without thinking. And you know how your dad feels about followers of Jesus, and especially about Archie.”

“I asked my dad once what he had against Christians. Last time I made that mistake.”

Chris pulled off his glasses and rubbed them on his pants. “After your mom’s accident, some religious acquaintances of your dad invited him to an evening Bible study. Out of respect for your mom’s beliefs, he went. At first it was okay. They let him talk through the pain, but soon they started asking him for money to support their church. He said no, but they argued with him, telling your dad if he gave a certain amount, he’d meet God and it’s what Jesus would want him to do, what your mom would want him to do. Not exactly true Christian behavior.” Chris sighed.

“That incident soured him on Christians. Then it got worse.” Chris held up his glasses and squinted through them. “Yep, clean. You want to hear this, Micah?”

“I need to.”

“Shortly after that, Archie made a trip back from Europe—where he was living at the time—to see if he could do anything for you, your dad, and your brother. Well, he came to one of your baseball games—”

“Not that game?”

“Yep, one and the same. The next day Archie confronted your dad about how he treated you. About the choices he was making. Then they talked about the Lord, your dad saying God had stolen your mom and Archie trying to explain that that wasn’t God’s heart, along with a lot of other things. Suffice it to say, it didn’t go well. Your dad hated Archie for speaking the truth and has despised all Christians ever since.”

Micah sat squeezing his knees, trying to assimilate the revelations Chris had just given. It explained so much. And Archie had tried to rescue him from his dad.

“You knew my dad?”

“No, no. Only through what Archie told me. Now you know why anyone who walks with God is on Daniel’s do-not-disturb list.” Chris leaned over and refilled Micah’s glass of iced tea.

“The puzzle pieces are falling into place.”

“That’s why your dad never let Archie near you once he moved back to the States. Shame. Shame.” Chris sighed. “If he had found out Archie was spending time with you, your dad would have made sure it didn’t happen more than once.”

“But you said Archie did meet me one time.”

Chris sat up and nodded. “One day Archie said, ‘I’m going to do something crazy and try to meet Micah.’ I said, ‘How?’ and he didn’t really answer. Just said God would help him with it.”

“How old was I?”

“Oh, you must have been around sixteen or seventeen. Archie came back and said he knew you had it in you, whatever it was. He was proud of you for taking the risk. Said you talked about laying up treasures in heaven.”

Micah’s heart pounded as a question sputtered out of his mouth. “What did Archie do in the navy?”

“Oh, he was in communications so he worked the radio and helped with letters and memos; he was a pretty good writer.”

“Did he do anything else?”

“Not for the navy.” Chris looked at the ceiling. “Only other activity of note during those years was his jumping out of all those airplanes, doing that parachuting thing with his buddy in the army. He loved it, got pretty good.”

“Did Archie ever speak with an Australian accent?” Micah felt like his heart must be hammering away at two hundred beats a minute.

Chris’s face lit up. “Now, Micah, tell me, how in creation did you know that?”

Micah’s mind reeled. So what really happened in that room in Cannon Beach? Was the skydiving real? If so, when did it happen? Did he go back in time when he went into that room, or did it all happen in the Spirit and Archie had experienced it outside of time as well? Certainly God is outside of time, but . . . Just when Micah thought nothing else could shock him about this journey he was on, something did.

Chris’s voice brought him back to the moment and forced Micah to squelch the questions sprinting through his mind. “You know, I am truly sorry to say this, but I think I’ll have to call it a day.”

Micah reluctantly agreed. “I’ve got more questions than when we started, but I appreciate the time so much.”

“You’re welcome, Micah. And we’ll do it again sometime. I know Archie would be immensely proud of you. It sounds like you’re going down the narrow path few choose.”

“I think it’s the only path without a dead end.”

“Yes, yes it is.” Chris grabbed both of Micah’s hands and smiled widely. “Thank you for coming by.”

Micah approached the front door, then turned and gazed at Chris’s sitting room once more. A series of black-and-white photos lined the back wall. One of Archie on a fishing boat—looking younger than he had on the plane—grabbed his eye. Chris stood next to him along with another man. It couldn’t be. The haircut was different, and he had on wire-rimmed glasses, but the man looked almost identical to . . .

“Who is that next to Archie?” Micah sputtered. “It looks like the twin of—”

“Let it go, Micah.” Chris took his arm and led him to the door. “Someday all the questions of this life will be answered. But not yet. If they were all answered right now, we’d forget how to be curious. And how much fun would that be?”

Driving away from Chris’s house, Micah mused on their conversation. Now he understood Archie’s motivation for building the home, even though it didn’t explain how he anticipated Micah’s every choice or how the supernatural aspect of the house worked.

Micah eased onto I-5 and merged into the flow of cars. Part of him wanted to head farther south, but the more practical side of him won out, and twenty minutes later he reluctantly took Seattle’s Union Street exit and headed toward his condo.

The familiar buzz greeted him as he swiped his key and walked into the lobby. Right choice, he thought as he trudged over to the mail slots. He was wiped. Head for the top floor and crash.

Micah had purchased the penthouse suite as they were building the condo so they’d offered him the choice of where his mail slot would be. Normally it would be in alphabetical order, but since they asked, he told them far right. That way he could get his mail even in a blackout.

It had become so automatic over the years he hardly looked anymore. Key in. Open slot. Take mail. Close slot. Except this time, it didn’t work.

Micah sighed, tried again, looking intently at the keyhole this time. No problem. The key went in like velvet. It just wouldn’t turn. All he could get the mailbox to do was rattle. He bent forward to read the name on the mailbox. Where it should have read Mr. Micah Taylor, it clearly read Mr. & Mrs. C. Murphey.

Tendrils of panic crept into his mind and heart, and perspiration dotted his forehead.

There had to be a logical reason for this.

But he knew there wasn’t.

He snatched his cell phone and dialed the building’s super. Five rings. Six. C’mon.

“Hallo.”

“Phil!”

“Yes. You have reached me.”

“Micah Taylor.”

“Mr. Micah. Always good to hear you! What can I do for you on a Tuesday night?”

“You can tell me what’s going on with my condo!”

“What is wrong, Mr. Micah?”

“The name on the mailbox for the penthouse suite.” Micah closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

“Yes?”

“It’s not mine.”

“Yes?”

“Doesn’t that seem a little strange to you, Phil?”

“No, but what are you saying, Mr. Taylor? You want that you should move up?”

“Move up? What are you talking about? Move up where? How do you get higher than the twenty-first floor when the building only has twenty-one floors?!”

“So you want up to the penthouse, eh? Well, when Mr. Murphey bought the whole twenty-first floor; he say he will never sell. I know you are much rich now with your company and big dollars are with running software, but I do not know, you know? I believe that Mr. Murphey has pleasure with owning the whole floor, yes?”

Micah tried to stop from hyperventilating.

“But, Mr. Micah, there is nothing wrong with the nineteenth floor. View from there is fine too and it is available. I call Ronie for you, and she will see if you can move there. The nineteenth floor, right away you know, if you want. Two thousand square feet, just like you have now. You think that would work for you? In the morning I will call her and—”

“Where do I live now, Phil?”

“I do not understand.”

“Please. Just tell me where I live.”

“In your condo, Mr. Micah, of course.”

“Which floor?”

“Eighth floor like you always have. You feel okay?”

“Fine. Thanks.” Micah snapped the phone shut and ran his finger down the mail slots. Saxxon, Swenson . . . Taylor.

He opened the slot and yanked out the contents. Three pieces of mail scattered to the floor, but it didn’t matter. He looked at four different envelopes in rapid succession. It was the same on each of them: Micah Taylor, 4210 2nd Street, 8th Floor, Seattle, WA 98717.

He slid down the wall like syrup on a cold day. When he reached the floor, he took his head in his hands and held it for a long time. When he finally rose, he got in the elevator and punched the button for the eighth floor. He had to sleep somewhere.

Entering the condo he took a slow look around. Bizarre. Nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing except for the fact he now resided on the eighth floor instead of the twenty-first. Same furniture. Pictures. Books. Same coffeepot with the tiny chip in the glass on the right-hand side.

Sleep came slowly and ended early. He looked at his bedroom clock: 5:43. Too early to call and repeat the same conversation with Rick he’d had multiple times. At least it was Wednesday. Archie day.

He took his coffee out onto his veranda along with the envelope containing letter number twelve. He could see the shimmering waters of Puget Sound. When he sat, the building directly across the street blocked his view.

“C’mon, Archie.” He needed something solid, some light for his future from the archives of Archie’s past. He gritted his teeth and opened the letter.

September 2, 1991

Dear Micah,

As you are aware, Jesus says we must make the decision to give up our lives. However, as you are no doubt discovering, this is easier to execute in theory than in reality, is it not?

Your old life is crumbling out from underneath you, and there is no hope or promise of anything else to fill its place.

I am sorry. I wish I could tell you this journey you’re on will come out perfectly in the end. But it usually does not. This is most often due to the propensity inside each of us to imagine different definitions of perfect than the Father defines for us.

Also, bear in mind this is a process. A process you have the ability to slow down or speed up by your choices.

I am praying you choose wisely,

Archie

Micah sighed and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he stared at a billboard below advertising a new exhibit at Seattle’s Art Museum.

Archie’s letter slid from his hand and fluttered to the floor. That was it! That was the connection. It had been in front of him the whole time.

Twenty minutes later his BMW was chewing up the miles back to Cannon Beach.

The painting in his house at Cannon Beach was the key.

CHAPTER 31

The gravel groaned as Micah pulled into his driveway Wednesday afternoon and stomped on the brakes. He didn’t bother to shut the car door as he marched toward the house, and he ignored the stinging rain pelting his face. His mind was fixed on one thing: get to the painting.

When he flung open the door to the painting room and strode in, he saw the changes immediately. The small cliff was now fully developed, and the home sitting on it was starting to take shape. The gold and russet hues of the beach were now flawlessly intertwined with each other, and the last touches on the sun were finished.

As Micah took it in, he realized his revelation that morning was right. How simple. How obvious. When a piece of Seattle falls apart, the painting gets closer to completion. Two worlds. Like a scale adding weight on one side making the other side go up.

Micah desperately wanted to see the finished painting. He was more than drawn to it; he felt like part of him was contained in the painting. But how much did he have to lose of Seattle before this vision was complete?

||||||||

“You there?” Micah said as he strode into the voice room.

“I’m always here,” the voice said.

“What is going on? Any clue? I gotta get some perspective on this.”

“I think we should talk to Rick.”

“Why? Would he say anything different from what he’s said before? ‘Stick it out. Stay strong. God is in this.’ ”

“God is in this, Micah.”

“I know. All I’m saying is Rick will just spout some line about God being in control and He knows what He’s doing. I’d like some concrete, hard-core answers.”

“But then where does hope and faith enter into the equation? Romans says if we see what we’re hoping for it’s not hope. But if we eagerly await it—”

“The problem is not that I went from the penthouse to the eighth floor,” shouted Micah.

“Really? What is the problem?”

“That I have no idea where it’s going to stop.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I don’t know.” Micah took two steps left, spun 180 degrees, then took two steps right.

“Then we need to start using logic,” the voice said.

“Like?”

“It’s obvious that if something significant happens here, then something significant happens back in Seattle. We gain something here; we lose something there.”

Micah nodded and kept pacing.

“So if we want to stop the happenings back home, we have to stop what’s going on in Cannon Beach.”

“All right, Einstein, how do we do that?”

“You know,” the voice said.

“I go back to Seattle and stay.”

“Yes.”

Micah stopped pacing and looked straight into the darkness. “And let the journey down here end?”

“No. Who says you have to stop coming here altogether? No one. Why can’t we just come down here every now and then? Once every five or six weeks?”

“But what if that slows down the discoveries, the changes in my heart, the completion of the painting?”

“So things go a little slower. So what? Progress will still be made on the painting. We’ve accomplished the important part already. We’ve come back to God and are with Him again. Does it matter if the rest of the journey comes a little less rapidly?”

Micah rubbed the back of his neck with both hands.

“Let’s get our life in Seattle going again,” the voice said.

“I don’t know. What if God is saying stay here?”

“Staying here while our world in Seattle falls apart? For how long? Till everything we’ve worked for is gone? How does that glorify God? We need to go after God’s will, but it’s rather difficult steering a parked car.”

“But what if God is saying park for a while?” Micah turned and walked to the door. “Thanks for the confusion.”

As he walked out, the voice sighed.

Welcome to my world, Micah thought.

||||||||

The next morning Micah called Shannon to check in.

“Hey, stranger. How’s the surf?”

“White, how are you?”

“Things are fine,” Shannon said. “It’s nice to hear your voice, but you’re not due to touch base for another week and a half. Are you missing us already?”

“Missing you?” Micah paused. “Yeah, actually I am. You’re a good friend, Shannon.”

As the words escaped Micah’s mouth, it surprised him. Surprised he’d said them and surprised it had taken him this long to say it. She was a good friend. Like an older sister and a mom wrapped up together. “But not missing much else. I like it here. Good changes going on.”

“I’m glad for you. You sound well.”

After a few routine questions about the company, Shannon assured him business continued even smoother than expected, and everyone would be ready to talk with him during their scheduled conference call on Thursday next week. As Micah hung up the phone, he let out a sigh. Maybe Seattle had stabilized.

Relief swirled through him.

As he laced up his running shoes, he thought back to his talk with the voice. He might be right. Why not drop in every five or six weeks? Or even once a month? God could still work in him. This wasn’t a race.

If choices and actions in Cannon Beach affected Seattle, why not spend more time there and make sure those changes weren’t out of his control? Sarah could come up and spend a few days in Seattle in between his visits to Cannon Beach. Yet at the same time, Shannon said things were fine. So did he have to go back right now?

He walked onto the beach and glanced at the sky. Rain threatened, but he didn’t mind running in the rain, even if it did let loose. Would keep others off the beach and leave him alone with his thoughts.

He considered the other side of the coin. This was the first time he’d had any real break from the company since its inception. As long as the board had given him the time off, Micah might as well take it. What was the worst that could happen? He might wind up on the ground floor of his condo, but he’d still have a minimum of $45 million dollars of stock ready to be exercised almost instantly.

He’d stay in Cannon Beach a few more weeks, announce to the board during the conference call what he was doing, and try to relax and enjoy his time at the ocean.

After making the decision to stay, a dull ache shot through his left ankle. Dull but still severe enough that he stumbled and wound up in a heap on the sand.

He sat up and rubbed the ankle with both hands. He rotated it clockwise, then counterclockwise. It wasn’t excruciating, but his run for the day was finished.

He favored his left leg on the way home. Old age would take at least another twelve years to settle in; this had to be something else. After icing it for just under an hour, Micah wrapped the ankle in an ACE bandage and rested it the remainder of the day.

He went to bed early that night. The ankle would be fine by morning. It was. The problem came when he tried running Friday afternoon, and the ankle flared up again, much worse than before.

This time it wasn’t better the next morning. Or the next. Sunday night Sarah and he were heading back to his car after dinner and a movie when she said, “Want to tell me about it?”

“What?”

“The limp you’ve been trying to hide all night.”

“I took a run on the beach the other day, and wham, it just hit me.”

“You twisted it?”

“No, it came out of nowhere.”

“Well, I know this will fly in the face of macho-acting males everywhere, but why don’t you see my doctor about it? I promise he’ll only poke and prod a little.”

“Thanks for looking out for me, Sarah.”

“Always.”

He pulled her close for a long soft kiss. As she lingered in his arms, he frowned and tried to ignore the feeling his visit to the doctor wouldn’t be as comforting.

CHAPTER 32

Monday morning at just past eleven, a doctor walked into the waiting room of Cannon Beach Medical Clinic that looked like Foghorn Leghorn in human form. He smacked his clipboard against his hand with a sharp pop as he grinned at Micah.

“Howdy! Chart here tells me you’re Micah Taylor, friend of Sarah’s. Nice to meet you and all that stuff.”

Micah smiled. Sarah hadn’t mentioned her doctor’s robust personality. “Hi, Dr. McConnell.”

“Why don’t you ease on back to my office, Micah, and we’ll do the ol’ look-see.”

When they were both seated, the doctor asked for “the lowdown.”

“I started a run a few days ago when this dull ache in my left ankle came out of nowhere. No big deal; I gave it a few days, figured it’d get back to normal.”

“And it didn’t.” Doctor Foghorn nodded and looked at his clipboard. “When were ya born?”

“1980.”

“Almost thirty and old age is already kicking in.” The doctor laughed. “Ever felt anything like this before?”

“Never.”

“You didn’t smack your foot into anything lately, fall down, twist it, something like that?”

“No.”

“All right, partner. We’ll fire some X-rays through those bones of yours and see what turns up.” The doctor walked to the door, then spun on his heel toward Micah. “Give us about an hour, and we’ll have some fine shots of that ol’ right wheel of yours.”

“You mean my left whe—ankle.”

“You’re sharp, partner.” The doctor pointed at Micah and laughed again. “I see why she likes you.”

As he waited for the X-rays to develop, Micah walked gingerly up and down Main Street twice, stopping in two art studios, Geppetto’s Toy Shoppe, and the Cannon Beach Bakery without seeing anything inside them. He returned to the doctor’s office, and ten minutes later the doc stepped into the waiting room.

“Well, no great mystery here. But let me ask a quick question first to make sure I’ve hopscotched to the right conclusion about that ankle.”

Micah nodded.

“You been working the wheels pretty consistently, haven’t you?”

“Four or five times a week down on the beach.”

“There you go. Mystery solved, case closed. Elvis, you can now leave the building.” The doctor smiled, as if he’d been bestowed a fellowship at Scotland Yard.

“So are you going to let me in on the details of the case?”

“Good one!” The doctor slapped Micah on the back too hard and laughed. “The X-rays say you tore up your ankle pretty good a while back, broke it in two places, might’ve torn a ligament down there, too, from the looks of those two little metal screws there. See ’em right there?” The doctor tapped the X-ray with a mechanical pencil. “Can’t really tell for sure with only an X-ray. You’d need an MRI to be 100 percent sure, but if I were a betting man, I’d lean that direction.”

As the doctor pointed out where the screws were on the X-ray, heat filled Micah’s body, and he felt ready to faint.

“Whoever worked on ya did a good job, FYI. So anyway, you’re just getting a little aching from working the ol’ ankle more often than normal down here where the moist air works its way in there and stiffins ya up a bit.”

As the doctor talked, the heat continued rising into Micah’s face. He’d never had an injury to that ankle in his life—ever—let alone had surgery on it. But he stared at an X-ray clearly showing the break and the two screws in his foot. Either this wasn’t his ankle, or something extremely strange was going on.

Again.

“You’re sure that’s my ankle?”

“Pretty sure!” The doctor chuckled.

“Is there any way to find out when the surgery was? And where?”

“You okay, boy?” Dr. Foghorn’s perpetual smile vanished. “You seriously don’t remember this?”

“No.”

The doctor started to say something else but stopped. Micah watched him study his notes but knew the doctor wasn’t reading anything. The perspiration under Micah’s arms trickled down the sides of his torso, and a drop splashed onto his stomach.

The doctor sat in front of Micah, his hands crossed and his elbows on his knees. His jovial delivery disappeared. “Look, Micah, you seem like a bright, articulate kid, but to entirely forget this part of your life is pretty unusual.”

Micah blew out a long breath. “I’ve never had amnesia; I’ve never had any kind of memory loss. And I swear to you, I’ve never had surgery on this ankle, let alone any kind of injury on either foot.”

The doctor stared at Micah for ten seconds without speaking. Finally he stood and clasped his hands behind his back and returned to his buoyant disposition.

“Okay then. Now, if you want to poke around at the bottom of the well on this one, let’s jump on the Internet and pull up buckets of info.”

The doctor led Micah down a short hall into an office dominated by pictures of the doctor, his wife, and two college-age girls. He directed Micah to the leather couch along the opposite wall.

For all of the doc’s down-home country persona, it was obvious he knew his way around a computer. After asking Micah for his Social Security number and middle name, his fingers flew, and the mouse clicked like popcorn popping. Within five minutes he’d found exactly what they were looking for.

“All right, here we go. Everything you want to know about the health, wealth, and stealth of Micah Taylor, except for the wealth and stealth parts.”

The doctor’s eyes shrank into a slight squint as he studied the screen, then leaned back and let out a whistle. “Woowee, I can’t say I blame you for trying to forget this one. That break was a whopper, plus you ripped a ligament for good measure. Ouch on steroids.”

The doctor turned to Micah. “You know, the PTs would’ve been working you over every few days for at least three or four months. You still telling me you remember zilch about that?”

“Nothing.” But then a wave of nausea hit him. In that instant Micah did remember. At least a part of him did. Small streaks of memory circled the edges of his mind. He knew but he didn’t know, as if it were someone else’s life he’d heard vague, scattered details about.

“Where was the surgery?” Micah said.

A second later he knew the answer. Before the doctor could tell him, he said, “Portland, wasn’t it?”

“Starting to come back to you, eh?”

“I never lived in Portland. Why would I go there for surgery?”

“But you remember it?”

“Yes. No.” Micah held his temples. “I don’t know.”

“None of my business, partner, but I’m wondering if you need a little help with the ol’ cranium to go along with your ankle. I know some good docs in that department.”

Micah tried to smile and shook the doctor’s hand. “If I go that direction, you’ll be the first to know. Thanks for all the help on my ankle.”

||||||||

When Micah got home, he headed for the voice room. “All right, tell me, do you remember us tearing up our ankle?”

“No and yes. I remember bits and pieces just like you. Nothing more.”

“We have to figure this thing out.”

“Meaning?” the voice said.

“Meaning if we’re both getting flashbacks of something happening to our ankle, then maybe something really did happen to our ankle.”

“Well, certainly the physical evidence is there.” The voice chuckled.

Micah paced just inside the door; three steps to the right, turn, then three steps back. “But whose life is it? Not ours. Not when the operation happened in Portland and we never lived there.”

“But when we feel our ankle—?”

“—we know something tangible happened at some point in our life that produced evidence on the X-rays and caused this pain.”

“Exactly,” the voice said.

“So where is that other life coming from? If it’s just in my head, then I’m crazy and we have our answer. But the physical evidence keeps piling up.”

“Like the magazine cover.”

Micah stopped pacing, closed his eyes, and sat down, back against the wall. “I’m sitting in his office with no memories of an ankle injury. Then right before leaving, I start seeing little fragments, like half a second of physical therapy, then a flash of a pickup football game where I think it happened. But I can’t tell you where or when. Then I get an image of maple wood crutches in my hands but only for an instant. Then it’s all gone, and I can’t tell if I’m remembering real memories, or if I’ve made it up inside my head to keep myself sane. You know, we have to consider the very real possibility we’re losing it.”

“We’re not.”

“Really? Are you saying people who go insane are fully aware when it’s happening to them?”

“Trust me, Micah. We’re not going insane.”

“So what’s the solution?” Micah sighed.

“Simple, as I’ve said before. We land on the side of wisdom and make sure things are okay up in Seattle. We go up there and stay put for a while.”

“The Lord is becoming the most important thing in my entire life. I’m just supposed to leave that in a closet down here? And what about Sarah? We’re a little more than casual friends at this point.”

“Let me repeat what I’ve said too many times before. I’m not saying stop coming down entirely. I’m saying we take a break. Who cares if the board gave us this time? It’s killing us. Let’s go home, get things under control, make sure this parallel life stops sticking its head in where it doesn’t belong, and get settled.”

“And come back when?”

“When we’re ready. Maybe it’s a month, maybe two; we won’t know how long till we know.”

Micah shook his head and sneered. “It’s easier for you.”

“Really?”

“You haven’t bought into the whole heal-the-brokenhearted, set-the-captives-free thing like I have. You’re not feeling what I am. It’s easier for you to leave all this.”

“And maybe it’s easier for you to see our world in Seattle slowly disappear than it is for me,” the voice said.

“Neither place would be easy to give up at this point.”

“We don’t give up either one. We come down here every other weekend. Or every third weekend.”

Micah stared into the darkness. The voice clearly contradicted itself, and Micah didn’t know why. Maybe it was due to the bizarre fact the voice was himself, so his uncertainty was bound to make the conversation a bit schizophrenic. Whatever the reason, Micah was tired, and his ankle still ached.

“You know,” Micah called over his shoulder as he walked out the door, “sometimes the way you think pushes me to the brink of sanity.”

No answer.

Maybe he should stop listening to himself. Maybe he’d do what he wanted to. Maybe he’d stay in Cannon Beach forever.

Impossible. He couldn’t give up what he’d created in Seattle.

To stay. To go.

He needed a sign.

CHAPTER 33

When Micah stepped out on his front porch the next morning, he found a box wrapped in white paper with a bleached white sand dollar on top. He opened the small card attached to one side and smiled.

Micah,

For you.

Love,

Sarah

He took the box out onto his deck, the roar of the ocean providing background music as he opened it. Inside he found a dolphin carved out of teakwood. Micah smiled. Perfect. He carried it with him as he picked up the phone and dialed.

“Hello?”

“Can I come over?” Micah asked.

“You got it, hmm?”

“You’re amazing, Sarah.”

“Thanks, so are you. And yes, come over.”

They spent the day talking, laughing, strolling on the beach, then stopped at Morris’s Fireside for a quick dinner that lasted three-and-a-half hours. After that another walk along the beach at the edge of the water, counting the campfires; little orange markers for families making memories.

“I have two serious cravings,” Micah said as they walked hand in hand toward Haystack Rock.

“For?”

“S’mores and s’more of you.”

“Bad pun, bad, Micah. Really, really bad.” Sarah snuggled her head into his shoulder. “That doesn’t mean I don’t agree.”

Twenty minutes later they sat on the bluff in front of Micah’s house burning marshmallows and sticking them in between graham crackers and squares of chocolate.

“S’mores are better with dark chocolate,” Sarah said.

“Not a chance.” Micah stuffed the last of his third s’more into his mouth.

“So, if you get married someday, will you let your kids make their own choices? Whether to put milk or dark chocolate into their s’mores?”

Micah put another marshmallow on his homemade roasting stick and held it close to where the coals burned red. “How many kids do you want?”

Sarah stared into the fire and swallowed. “Who says I want any?”

“No one. But if you did?”

Sarah pulled off the shell of a burnt marshmallow revealing the pure-white sugar ball underneath. “Three. One boy, one girl, and one for chance to decide.”

“Sounds perfect.” Micah sat in the beautiful awkwardness of what they had just said to each other without really saying it and smiled. He wondered what Sarah was thinking. But not really. He knew. At least he hoped he did.

After he finished his fourth s’more, he pulled her close and gave her a kiss that lingered on his lips long after he pulled away. “Life would be utterly incomplete without you.”

“I agree.” She buried her head in his chest and held him tight.

||||||||

Micah went to bed that night feeling better than he had in days. Being around Sarah always settled him. He’d said life would be incomplete without her, but a more accurate description was she completed his life like no woman ever had. The next time he was in Seattle, he’d have to stop by E.E. Robbins. Just to see what kind of engagement rings were out there.

Sarah, his relationship with the Lord, his friendship with Rick, the beauty of Cannon Beach—RimSoft could wait. Couldn’t it? The problem was, there was no way to know for sure. Parts of his world up there could vanish without him knowing it till he got there. A sliver of fear worked its way into his mind.

He needed Archie’s next letter to be a good one.

September 13, 1991

Dear Micah,

Again I give you just one verse from Scripture today as the whole content of this letter. But it is a verse full of power and desire.

“God Almighty will be your treasure, more wealth than you can imagine.” (Job 22:25 The Message)

After you allow this piece of Scripture to sink down into your heart, I trust you will know which room you are to go to. Inside that room is the treasure of the Kingdom. Let me repeat myself: The treasure of God’s Kingdom is contained in that room.

Joining in His relentless love toward you,

Archie

Micah sat on his deck for a long time, meditating on the verse. He wanted to leap up and rush to the brilliant room, but he restrained himself, knowing the verse Archie had given him was not to be simply read but digested and savored before being acted on.

After an hour he rose from his chair, walked inside and upstairs to the door he longed to enter. The room had captured his mind, emotions, and deep parts of his heart. He had little doubt answers were inside.

Since his entry partway into the door two weeks ago, there had been no progress. He hadn’t even been able to get that far again, and the door remained ordinary wood. But now, with Archie’s letter and the verse as support, he held on to the hope that this time he would enter completely.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he saw movement on the surface of the door. Colors swirled like a slow-spinning galaxy of gold and silver. He pressed forward as if his feet were in honey. The instant the index finger of his left hand touched the door, he was caught up in a whirlpool of warmth, and his eyes closed involuntarily.

Peace consumed him. There were no cares, no worries, only an overwhelming sense of rightness and love—as if infinite joy surrounded him, reaching deeper into his body every moment. He moved forward, one step, two steps, three steps, as if the door were liquid. But he still wasn’t inside.

And he wasn’t in the hall.

As impossible as it seemed, he stood contained inside the door. The sensation was like being underwater, with the temperature a perfect balance between warm and cool. The door seemed to move around him, and although his eyes were closed, he sensed the light grow brighter with each step forward. There was no sensation of breathing, although he must have been, somehow.

He opened his fingers wide and waved them. Yes, the atmosphere was like water. He pressed forward again, but this time Micah couldn’t go any farther. Seconds later an ever-so-slight pressure built in front of him and nudged him backward out into the hallway, like a mother laying a sleeping child into its crib after holding it close.

He opened his eyes. The door was normal again, with no indication of what had just happened. An impression shot into his mind. Soon he would fully enter the room.

||||||||

As Micah walked out onto the beach, he made a decision. Cannon Beach was where he must stay. His voice was wrong. No matter what might be happening in Seattle, it was not worth leaving what God was doing inside him. Yes, he would go back to Seattle to check in on things soon, but this would be his base of operations for the foreseeable future.

That night Micah ate seafood fettuccine with smoked salmon while he told Rick in detail about the brilliant room.

“You know what’s inside there, don’t you?” Micah said.

“I think I might. But it would be a breach of our friendship to tell you.” Rick smiled. “It’s a discovery you need to make for yourself. Plus I could be wrong.”

Rick’s confidence was encouraging, but it frustrated Micah not being able to speed up the process. God was not someone you rushed. Got that. But how long would he have to wait? A week? A month? He wanted discovery now.

Driving home he tried to tell himself his world was perfect, but the fear needling the corners of his mind wouldn’t let him. Micah sensed something was coming. And it wouldn’t be anywhere near perfection.

CHAPTER 34

Micah was convinced Rick knew exactly what was inside the brilliant room. But how could he get Rick to tell him?

Thursday afternoon Micah shuffled down Main Street, brainstorming an answer when a voice sliced through his mind like a knife, spinning his thoughts in an entirely new direction.

“Micah?”

He knew that voice. Micah turned. Ten feet away a woman wearing khaki shorts and a blue tank top scuttled toward him. She pushed a stroller; the features of the child inside made it obvious she was the mother.

“It is you, Micah. I can’t believe it. Really, truly can’t believe it! I always wondered if we’d bump into each other again. I mean you said you’d probably settle somewhere up on the northern coast, but we never get up here, till now of course. And well, I thought if we ever did, wouldn’t it be a kick if I ran into you? But I never expected it to actually happen and now—”

The woman threw her head back and laughed, then threw both arms around him and squeezed. “I’m sorry, listen to me going on like a jukebox packed with quarters. Tell me about you. My gosh, how long has it been? Too long, of course. Wow.”

Micah stepped back, hoping the woman couldn’t tell the grin on his face was pure plastic. Did he know her? He knew the voice, but her? Wait. Maybe. As he stared into her eyes, shards of memories slipped into his mind like scenes from different childhood TV shows all out of context with each other.

The woman waved her hand in front of his face. “Are you okay?”

“No, I mean yes. Good.” He forced out a laugh. “It’s just a shock to see you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. After all this time, right? We promised we’d definitely stay in touch, didn’t we?” The woman held up her fist with her thumb and pinkie finger sticking out as if it were a telephone. “But nah, neither one of us. Well, that’s life. Wow, you look good. Catch me up! What have you been doing with your life? Where’d you go when we headed for different ends of the earth?”

More memories surfaced. Late-night walks with her somewhere, along narrow beaches? The ocean? Yes. How long ago? Seven, eight years ago? More? Less? “I live in Seattle. I started a software company.”

“You’re kidding. Software? Really? That tweaks my mind, I gotta tell you. Didn’t think you’d ever go that direction, not with the passion you had for your—”

“Wahhh!” The woman’s baby split the air with piercing cries in rhythm with the tapping feet of a man standing behind her.

One glance at the perfectly pressed maroon polo shirt, spotless tan slacks, and a frown line to match told Micah this guy was the jealous type and didn’t appreciate the enthusiasm this woman was pouring out.

“Uh, honey, more than two people here,” the man said.

A slight grimace ran across the woman’s face before she turned toward the man. “Right, right, right. Honey, this is Micah Taylor. We dated for a while years and years ago; I probably told you about him one time or another. Micah, this is my husband, and this is my little prince.” She lifted the baby out of his stroller and set him on her hip.

“Passion for what?” Micah said.

“What?”

“Passion for what?” he repeated.

“I’m sorry you lost me. What passion for what? You mean, what am I passionate about?”

“No, you said something about being surprised I started a software company because of my passion for . . .”

“Oh, right. Yes, yes, yes.” She laughed as she set the baby back down in the stroller and wrapped a dark blue blanket around him. “Don’t tell me you’ve abandoned it. I never saw you giving up your dream.”

The woman’s husband cleared his throat without much subtlety, and she whipped around to face him. “Honey, don’t get your knickers twisted into bunches. We’ll go in just a second. I just want to get Micah’s info so we don’t lose touch for another six years.”

They exchanged e-mail addresses as he tried to put the puzzle pieces together. He wouldn’t be able to question her in detail, not with Igor standing over them like a Puritan chaperone at a high school dance.

“Gotta run, Micah. Great seeing you. Don’t give up the dream.”

“What was the dream?”

“As if you didn’t know!” She laughed and clipped away.

Was it impossible for anyone to give him a clear answer? If not software, what was the dream?

||||||||

When Micah got home, he walked through the house not going anywhere in particular, looking for—hoping for—inspiration and answers. He wound up looking down the hallway that led to the painting room.

Good idea. Time to see if anything’s changed.

He eased open the door and the painting came into view. Definite changes; subtle, but significant. The outline of two people had been added at the left edge of the painting, and near the water it looked like a little boy would build a sand castle.

“Take me into that panorama, Lord.”

The next thought followed quickly. What had he lost in Seattle?

Micah called Shannon and made up a paper-thin excuse for checking in. Once again she told him things were fine at RimSoft. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe perfection had landed on him like a butterfly and would stay forever. He hung up somewhat reassured but still uneasy. No matter what he told himself, he couldn’t shake the feeling of disaster rumbling inside.

After dinner Micah sank back in his overstuffed chair in the great room and tried to drift off. He was tired of thinking, tired of praying, tired of trying to figure out what God was doing to his life.

To his lives, plural.

He’d almost slid over the edge into sleep when the phone rang. “Yeah?”

“Hey, you,” Sarah said.

“Hey back. I was just thinking about you.”

“Good thoughts?”

“Great thoughts.” Micah smiled, his eyes half closed. He stood and wandered over to his couch in front of the fireplace, letting himself freefall backward into the overstuffed cushions strewn on top.

“Wanna have some fun?” Sarah asked.

“Rhetorical question, right?”

“Yes.”

“The idea?”

“Nehalem’s Art Festival. How ’bout we go down and take a look this weekend?”

“You said fun, not shopping.”

“So that promise you made about seeing locally made crafts with me at least twice this summer . . .”

“Yeeeeees!” Micah stood and launched into his radio voice. “And that promise is about to come true! Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, can you think of a better way to spend your Saturday? No? Me neither! The Nehalem’s Art Festival. Yeehaw!”

“You think that’s amusing, don’t you?”

“Mildly.”

“How’s tomorrow, as long as you’re not previously engaged.”

“And if I am?” Micah wandered toward his kitchen.

“Tell her you’re utterly intrigued by another woman.”

“You’re funny—”

“Thank you.”

“—sometimes,” finished Micah. “Pick you up at eleven?”

“Perfect.”

Micah hung up the phone and smiled. Definitely in love. The wanna-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-you type of love.

||||||||

The Nehalem’s Art Festival boasted more than thirty booths, some stuffed to overflowing, others with just the right amount of merchandise, the artists manning them having figured out the fine line between having too much and too little space to display their treasures.

They wandered past dried-flower arrangements, handcrafted cribbage boards, and strawberry-scented candles before they stopped at a booth featuring paintings. The artist sat on a tall pine stool, her back to them. She was engrossed in the beginning stages of a new painting, a dried-out riverbed in the high mountains.

“You like these?” Sarah motioned to the finished pieces.

“Yeah, I do. And you?”

“Not really my style.”

“So what is your style?”

“I’ll let you know when I see it,” Sarah said.

Micah watched her move off, then turn back after realizing he hadn’t moved. He continued to study the paintings. Sarah eased back alongside him. “Why do you like them so much?”

“They make me think—create impressions in my mind. Her technique intrigues me.”

“You have thought for my painting, yes?” The artist spoke without turning as Sarah and Micah smiled at each other and mouthed in unison, “Good ears.”

“Yeah, I have a thought,” Micah said.

“You will share it with me, yes?”

“Your paintings remind me of LaQue’s work with your use of shadows and of Thomas Glover’s use of detail.”

“Good! Very good. I studied the work of both extensively. You are collector or studied art in college?”

“No, but I . . . I do like your paintings.”

The lady turned and looked at Micah with a quizzical expression. The right side of her mouth turned up in a tiny smile. “You are serious? You are not student of art? An artist then, maybe? You must be painter yourself.” She set down her brush, got off her pine stool, and walked over to them.

“No, not an art student. And no, I don’t paint.” Micah looked down. “Actually, I don’t even know where that comment came from. It came out of nowhere.”

“Thoughts must come from somewhere, yes? Among laypeople those two artists are known little. Their styles are far from each other. So your pickup on their influence is unusual. Your insight and appreciation of painting is deep, no?”

“Um, thank you. Best of success to you.”

They walked away, and Sarah poked Micah in his side. He jumped a foot and a half sideways.

“Hey! Do you have to keep doing that to me?”

“So do I need to add art critic to your list of accomplishments?” She laughed, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

“No.”

“What do you mean no? That lady was genuinely surprised. And impressed. Obviously you know quite a bit about art to name her influences.”

Micah rubbed his forehead and kept walking.

“Micah?”

“I don’t know where that came from.” He turned and rubbed his face with both hands. “Seriously. For some reason I just knew the names and saw their styles in her painting. But it’s gone now. I can’t even remember a word I said.”

“What?”

“One second I’m just staring at the painting like everyone else; the next this lightbulb goes off in my head and—bam!—I know who influenced her style and their names. As clear as I know software. A window opens and I see another world.” Micah snapped his fingers. “Then just as quick, the memory is gone, the window slams shut, and I’m back to being me.”

“And this has been going on—?”

“For three months.” Micah stopped and looked Sarah in the eye. “And it’s accelerating.”

“Accelerating?”

“It’s happening more often.” Micah walked toward the beach.

“Want to talk about it?”

Micah shook his head and stopped again. “Yes. I’m going to take a huge risk here and tell you in detail the things that have been happening, okay?”

Sarah nodded.

“Remember the other night when you asked me what was going on with my spiritual journey? How I was doing? Well, if your ears are still standing by, I’m ready to give you War and Peace.”

“Why a huge risk?”

“Because when I’m done, you’ll either think God is at work in a rather strange, beautiful, and incredible way, or I’m long overdue for a visit to the funniest of farms.”

Sarah touched his forearm. “I already know God is constantly working in strange and incredible ways, so you’ll have to make your story really weird to make me think you’re going insane.”

“This one might do it. You realize you’ve officially abdicated your right to come back to me when I’m finished and tell me I’m crazy.”

“Agreed. Now please begin, Weaver of Fantastic Tales.”

When they reached the beach, they sat on a mound of sand, and Micah told Sarah everything: from the day Archie’s letter arrived at RimSoft to the present. He described the memory room, shrine room, skydiving room, the painting, the movie room, the Wildcat room, even the brilliant room he couldn’t enter.

He told her about the Inc. cover vanishing, about not playing racquetball with Brad, and about not meeting a man named Rafi at a party. About how Julie vanished from his history, about finding the Coast Life magazine cover with his name on it, and how his ankle went from perfect to injured in an instant.

He talked about running into an old girlfriend, the fall of his company’s stock, going from owning his condo’s penthouse to living on the eighth floor, and how his car had gained a year of miles in a day.

When he finished, Micah kicked sand toward the ocean. “Do you think I’m insane?”

“I think God is in all of it. But I wonder if you feel the same.”

“Of course I think He’s in it. Why?”

“I know you believe it intellectually. But do you believe it in your heart?”

Micah didn’t answer.

“Surrendering to the Lord is winner take all. Ninety-nine percent isn’t enough. It’s all or nothing.”

“Your point?”

“That when I hear you talk about the things you’ve lost, like the stock, your condo, your car gaining sixteen thousand miles overnight, you talk like you’ve lost your best friend.”

“Well, of course I don’t like it.” Micah snorted and ran his hands through the sand. “Tell me one person who would. My life is a tornado, and I’m nowhere near the eye of the storm. I’m in the heart of two-hundred-mile-per-hour winds. I’ve lost specific events in my life I know have happened and gained others I know didn’t happen.”

“But those things did happen, Micah.”

“What do you mean?”

“How can you deny the physical existence of something like your ankle? Or the magazine cover?”

“I can’t.”

“So is it real? This other life?”

“I don’t know.” Micah rubbed his eyes and sighed.

“I’m going to really weird you out now.” Sarah sat forward and took his hands in hers. “But it might help you accept that this other life you’re getting bits and pieces of is real.”

“All right.”

“I remember you talking about it.”

“About what?”

“Your ankle. The original injury. How it happened.”

“Where was I during this supposed conversation?” Micah stared at her.

“We talked about it a month ago. You told me you messed up your ankle by landing hard on another guy’s foot playing touch football about six years ago. That’s why I noticed the slight limp and wasn’t surprised when you asked for the name of a good doctor in town.”

Micah smacked the sand with the back of his hand. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. As bizarre as my life has been the past four and a half months, don’t you think a sprinkle of terror is warranted?”

“I’ll admit it’s unusual.”

Micah stared at her in disbelief.

“All right, more than unusual, but God has done some amazing things in your life since you came down here.”

“Agreed.”

“So, do you trust Him fully or not? Are these bizarre changes part of His plan or not? Do you believe no matter what happens, you don’t have to control it because He’s in control?”

Again, he didn’t answer.

“I think the reason it’s so hard for you, Micah, is because you’re still hanging on.”

“To what?”

“Your life.” Sarah stood, brushed off the back of her 501s, and reached down to pull him up.

Micah stared at her. “I know you’re good for me, even though you drive me crazy sometimes.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Sarah smiled.

The car was silent most of the way back to Cannon Beach. Sarah was unusually silent. Perceptive as always. He needed time to process their conversation, and she was giving it to him. It might have been better if she had talked. In the quiet he had to face her words. As usual she was right. A wave of frustration swept over him.

He was getting tired of her pushing him, forcing him to wrestle with . . . Maybe he’d be better off without her. What? He blinked at how powerful the thought was. Dump Sarah? No way. Crazy thinking. He shook his head, as if to toss the idea from his mind.

As they drove through Arch Cape Tunnel, Micah held his breath, a habit left over from childhood. A perfect snapshot of his life. Feeling lost in darkness and holding his breath to see what would happen next.

Tomorrow he’d do something to take his mind off his dual existence. Something so engrossing he wouldn’t have time to think.

Something probably a little bit stupid.

CHAPTER 35

Micah woke Sunday morning still determined to take his mind off his two intertwined lives. Sea kayaking would be the perfect distraction. He’d read a book on the sport and decided it was the ideal day to forage the waves of the Oregon Coast. So he’d never done it. Big deal. Maybe it was a bit risky, but how hard could it be?

Ten minutes later he stood in Cleanline Surf Shop perusing kayaks. He’d need a wet suit, too. Even though it was early September, the water temperature wouldn’t be more than fifty-four degrees, and Micah had no desire to freeze out among the foam.

“You done this before?” the clerk said as he rang up the sale.

“Yeah.” Micah thought back to the time he’d paddled around the glassy surface of Lake Union up in Seattle during high school. “Sure. Why?”

“It can get a bit intense out there. I just don’t want people to be caught off guard.”

“I’ll be fine.” He wished he felt as confident as he sounded.

||||||||

He would put in at Oswald West State Park, a fifteen-minute drive down the coast from Cannon Beach. He’d heard it was optimum for sea kayaking. Indian Beach just north of Ecola State Park was closer, but the bay here was wider, had fewer rocks to negotiate, and hopefully fewer people would be there to watch his freshman attempt.

A fine, steady rain fell as he pulled into the Oswald parking lot. By the time he had his kayak off the car, the wind had kicked up to fifteen miles per hour.

The walk down to the beach was longer than he would have liked, but its beauty eased the fatigue the hike brought on. Massive Douglas fir trees almost completely blocked the rain, and the stillness of the forest brought a feeling of peace. The only noise was a river he crossed twice with the help of rough-hewn wooden bridges.

Just before he reached the bay, he stopped in front of a sign that said, “Unusually high sneaker waves, deep water, and strong outgoing currents. Use extreme caution.” Micah glanced at the bay, then back at the sign. No problem. He’d be careful.

By the time he reached the sand, the winds had picked up even more, but the rain was dying into a fine mist that swirled, then settled softly on his face.

He waited a few minutes to catch his second wind and watch the chaotic pattern of the roaring waves in Smuggler’s Cove. He smiled. He felt alive. And alone. Surprisingly there had been no other cars in the parking lot, and he’d seen no one on the hike down except for a squirrel that screamed at him when he sat on a log to rest.

Securing his hood, Micah watched a mixture of sand, water, and foam swirl around his ankles. The waves moved slightly north to south, so he planned to paddle out to the north end of the bay and work his way back in, letting the waves push him to the center of the cove.

Nice plan.

He sliced through the first attack of surf as if it was whipped cream, and a rhythm built in his arms and paddle, but Micah struggled with the second set of waves. They were stronger and fought to push his craft sideways. But he pushed through as his breaths deepened and his eyes went steely.

The rain picked up again, and the winds were in concert. The soft kiss of the earlier mist became stinging needles on his face and forearms. But he was caught now in a web of determination, and he ignored the distractions.

The final set of breakers loomed, and the salesperson’s words blistered his mind. “Just don’t want people to be caught off guard.”

Part of Micah wanted to make the intelligent decision, but a louder voice drew him deeper into the sea. He ached to recapture a life of living on the edge, with high risk and high reward. Like when he’d started RimSoft. He’d tasted it in the skydiving room, yes. But this wasn’t an alternate reality God had taken him into. This was here, now, in vivid living color. He wanted it. Needed it. It flicked at the edges of his heart and stirred something inside larger than himself.

A wave raced down. Above him. On top of him. Not one of the benign four-foot swells he had imagined, but the eight-foot wall he’d seen from shore but ignored. Micah strained to turn his kayak directly into it but was a few precious degrees off. Just a fraction, but it was enough, and the full weight of the water crashed down on him.

He sucked in a breath just before the ocean surged against his nose and mouth, pushing for a way in. Then a kaleidoscope of tumbling, shoving, and pulling as the wave ripped him from his kayak and shoved him to the bottom of the ocean.

Five seconds felt like fifty. He searched for sunlight—his only clue as to which way was up. The most powerful part of the wave moved over the top of him, and Micah fought to surface.

He was running out of air.

He broke the water ceiling and gasped.

Another wave broke, and he was plunged under the torrent again, somersaulting to the bottom where his foot ripped across a jagged rock. The thought of sharks leaped into his mind, then instantly took a backseat to simply surviving long enough to take another breath.

He surfaced again and swam hard toward shore. His hope was to keep breathing long enough to reach the smaller waves and bodysurf them to the beach.

Micah went under again but with less intensity. Hope rose.

He was going to make it.

Except for the rocks.

A jagged cliff lined the south side of the bay, and the wave pattern pushed him toward it, much faster than he’d anticipated from shore.

The beach was only fifty yards ahead, but the rocky crest was only ten yards away, the waves still five-foot swells—quite capable of depositing him wherever they liked. He’d been caught in an unrelenting progression that would end in bone quickly meeting rock.

Panic grabbed his gut, the mental battle now as fierce as the physical one. If he panicked, he’d have little chance of surviving. A voice screamed, Give up!

“No!” he raged back. “Lord, hel—!” Micah cried out, but the words were smothered as another wave shoved him under and closer to the rocks.

Suddenly the miraculous struck. The next wave drove him north instead of south. On his right a slick, jagged, black rock slipped by his face, inches away. It didn’t make sense. Then another wave pushed him north, away from the cliff and into shore. Peace washed over Micah more powerful than any of the waves that had vowed to take his life. From deep inside a different Voice said, Look up.

At the back edge of the beach, just in front of the tree line, stood a figure in an olive raincoat. Micah couldn’t make out the face within the shadows of its hood. He couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. The moment he looked, the person turned and strode into the trees. Micah’s view was swallowed by another black wall of water, and he was once more pushed toward shore.

After that he remembered nothing.

Micah’s eyes opened to the trees at the edge of the beach outlining the dark gray sky. Small eddies of seawater swirled around the side of his hood, but the waves were a world away now. The question of who was on the beach spun through his mind as he pushed up to his hands and knees, waited a moment, then sat back on his heels.

He knew there was a connection between the person he’d seen and his rescue. Without the hooded figure, he had little doubt his life would have ended on the bottom of the ocean floor.

He struggled to one knee, then stood and eased over to the spot where the person had been, hoping to make out a shoe print in the sand, a clue to the identity of the spectral observer of his near death. The sand was soft from the rain, and a clear impression of a boot or tennis shoe should have been easy to spot. But there wasn’t even the hint of a footprint.

||||||||

Less than a mile north of Ecola Creek a cape jutted into the ocean blocking the way to Crescent Beach except at extremely low tide, so the route wasn’t heavily traveled.

But Micah and Rick rose early enough on Tuesday to get around the point with only half an inch of water swimming up to kiss their running shoes. It had been almost a week since they’d talked, which was unusual, so a combination run and conversation was an excellent way to start the day.

The deep scrape on his foot Micah had gotten during his kayaking ordeal still stung but not enough to keep him from this run. It was good to be with the mechanic.

Micah glanced at Rick as they fell into an easy rhythm beside each other. He still didn’t know how to describe the man. A little too young to be a father figure; a little too old to be the wise big brother. Maybe he was simply a mentor.

Micah had had business mentors before, who had helped further his and their own careers as RimSoft grew. But his relationship with Rick was different. The taste of ulterior motive never flitted around the edges of their friendship. Rick never seemed to want anything from Micah, yet Rick pushed him, drove him, forced him to look at his life in ways he’d never considered.

He couldn’t see what Rick got out of the relationship and didn’t think about it too deeply. Micah didn’t want the illusion to be shattered that, for the first time in his life, someone knew about his money and success but couldn’t care less how either might benefit him.

They jogged around the point, and Crescent Beach opened up in front of them. It looked as if no one had stepped on it in months. With the old trail from Ecola Park above washed out, the only other way to access the beach was a much steeper and longer path from the parking lot above, which many people didn’t realize existed. So their indentations in the sand were possibly the first of early fall.

Micah challenged Rick with a smile, and they broke into a dead sprint across the sand. Even with the difference in ages, Rick wouldn’t give up without a fight.

Seventy yards down the beach, Micah glanced back. Rick pounded down the beach just three paces back. After about 150 yards Micah’s lungs won out over his mind, and he staggered to a stop. He bent over, hands on knees to catch his breath. Rick did the same not far behind him, both of them laughing between gasps for more air.

After their heart rates returned to normal, they found a log, long battered by the wind and waves into a functional seat, and sat down.

“You think about death?” Micah said after a few minutes of watching two otters joust in the water.

“Yep.”

“Yes? That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

Micah knew he was teasing and waited for the mirth to burst out of Rick’s mouth.

“What do you want to know?” Rick said after his laughter subsided.

“I went kayaking a couple days ago.” Micah paused as the emotion of the event swelled inside. “Nearly drowned. I was stupid. Thought I knew what I was doing. Wrong.”

Rick's eyes drilled into Micah’s, but he didn’t comment. Micah thought he didn’t understand.

“I’m not saying I got in a little trouble out there. I’m saying I truly came within a breath of dying.”

“What were you thinking as you were about to be smashed against the rocks?”

“I felt like an alarm went off and I was finally awake after years of sleep. I haven’t felt that alive in years. As crazy as this sounds, even though a big part of me was scared out of my mind, another part of me loved it.”

“On the edge of life.”

“Exactly.” Micah picked up a handful of sand and let it slide over his fingers. “Ready for the weird part?”

“Sure. After you tell me about the normal parts of almost dying.”

The comment lightened the moment just enough.

“At the point I knew I was going to bite it, the waves tossed me against the current. Makes no sense. Then I look up and someone’s standing on the beach. Two seconds later? Gone.” Micah glanced at Rick before continuing. His face showed no expression.

“The thought riveted itself in my mind that this person standing on the beach and the waves saving me were connected. But after I get to shore, when I look for tracks, nothing’s there. So was the person a ghost? A hallucination?”

“Was the sand too hard to take a footprint?”

“It took mine. In the same spot I saw the person standing.” Micah pulled a long sliver of wood off the log he and Rick sat on and pushed it into the sand at his feet.

“Your conclusion?”

“He wasn’t there physically.”

“You mean it was all in your mind?” Rick said.

“No, and that’s where it gets strange. I saw someone. No question. But maybe what I saw was a vision. Maybe whoever it was, he doesn’t exist on a physical plane.”

“Or he didn’t think you’d see him. Forgot to leave footprints.”

“You lost me.”

“Could have been an angel.” Rick stood and stretched his hamstrings.

Micah chuckled but Rick didn’t join him. He glanced at his friend to see if he was joking. He wasn’t.

“You’re serious,” Micah said.

“Get sappy, pop-culture angels out of your mind. I’m talking about the fierce warriors you find in the Bible.”

“Warriors?” Micah stood and joined Rick in stretching his legs.

“Read Daniel 10 or 2 Chronicles 32. Angels are intense creatures with battle on their minds. God gave them incredible powers, and they continually wield that power on Earth.” Rick began stretching his back. “The Bible tells of angels taking on human form and people not knowing it. So I think it’s possible what you saw on that beach was an angel, sent the instant you called out to God. Was it God, a weird current, or an angel? Don’t know, but it’s worth considering all possibilities.”

Micah stared at the sand crystals at his feet and thought back to the times over the past four and a half months he had called out to God and how the answers had come. Could Rick be right? Angels? Micah couldn’t get his mind around it.

“So let’s pretend for a moment it was an angel,” Micah said. “Why did it only come after I called out to God? Why not act before?”

“Ah, you presume to know more than you do.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re only looking through the eyes of your own experience. Your mind couldn’t contain all the times God or His angels have acted on your behalf when you had no clue He was doing it and you didn’t call out.”

“You got an example?”

“I don’t need to come up with one, just point out a few you know yourself.” Rick laughed. “Wake up, boy!”

“Fine.” Micah glared at Rick. “How ’bout telling me what I already know.”

Rick’s smile faded. “Has life changed since coming to Cannon Beach? Do you have more freedom? Are you closer to Jesus? Had any powerful experiences? Who got you here in the first place? Did you just up and one day decide, ‘Hey! I think I’ll take a little road trip to Cannon Beach?’” Rick finished stretching and jogged lightly in place.

Micah’s relationship with God, the healings in his soul, the painting, Sarah, all flashed into his mind. And yes, he was freer than he’d ever imagined possible.

“Micah,” Rick said softly as he stopped warming up and stood still. “Who guided Archie to write the letters and have the house built? Who set up our friendship or led you to meet a girl in an ice cream shop?”

Rick sat back down on the log, and they sat for five minutes saying nothing as guys are able to do. Micah was grateful for the time to reflect. The man he’d been when he first set foot in Cannon Beach was gone. He was more alive now than he’d ever been. Yet in some ways it was so far from the world he’d come from, he still felt the foreigner. Not exactly true. Here felt like home, but at the same time the days in Cannon Beach often came at him like an out-of-control freight train, and he couldn’t figure out how to get off the tracks.

Rick broke the silence with words that went to the heart of Micah’s condition. “The King calls us to a life of risk, adventure, and a continual journey into the unknown. The Bible says the Word is a lamp unto our feet. Not a lamp unto our head or a set of running lights where we can land our aircraft. So take one step at a time. Right now you’re desperately trying to figure out how your journey ends. But you must have faith enough to let it go and let Him unveil it in His timing.”

“So what do I do while I’m waiting?”

“Know Him. Grow in intimacy. Follow His voice, and in every decision make the conscious choice to take the narrow path.” Rick got up and walked to the edge of the surf. “Want to do a little wading? We’d better head south unless we want the tide to wash our kneecaps.”

They made it around the south point of Crescent Beach with only minutes to spare—their feet only slightly moist as they jogged back toward Haystack Rock.

As they parted, Rick looked back and gave Micah a cryptic smile. “If I were betting, I’d lay pretty good odds your kayaking beach buddy was indeed an angel.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“In time I have no doubt you’ll figure it out for yourself.”

Rick jogged off, his back to Micah. But Micah could still feel the smile on Rick’s face.

||||||||

The next morning Micah chuckled as he read Archie’s letter because the whole thing was redundant.

October 13, 1991

Dear Micah,

I have prayed for six days over this letter. I am still not convinced it is the time to explain how I have known so much about your present from my vantage point, which from your perspective is the past. However, I will sally forth nonetheless.

Five years ago I met a genuine angel of heaven.

He revealed to me that someday you would lead many to freedom through the abilities the Father had bestowed on you, and I was to have a role in making certain those abilities were used for God’s glory and not buried.

Over the course of a year, this angel revealed to me specifics about your life and instructed me to write them down. I was to then write a series of letters, which of course you now have, and convey to you the things he revealed. Whether you believe in angels or not, hopefully you have found wisdom in these letters and can see they are written with the hand of the Father on them.

My greatest prayer is wherever you are in your journey, you will continue to trust that God has designed this rather odd relationship between you and me and His plans are never wrong.

Across time,

Archie

For the first time in months, Micah went to bed feeling like a mystery had been solved. Finally! An explanation of how Archie knew the things he did. Micah still wasn’t sure he believed angels were popping up in Cannon Beach and other parts of the world to buddy up with Earth’s mortals, but Rick had made a pretty decent case for their existence. It was the best reason he’d found so far to explain Archie’s letters.

Angels? If they were real, he’d need them in the morning. Something told him his conference call with Shannon and his RimSoft VPs would be just as rough as his kayak adventure had been.

CHAPTER 36

Micah woke Thursday morning with a severe case of RimSoft on the brain. He couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong. Probably nothing. Just feeling a bit rusty due to lack of day-to-day interaction with the company.

He made himself steroid-strength coffee and pounded down two cups in six minutes. Being wide awake was essential. His sabbatical had been in effect for three weeks, and today was the day for a phone conference with his VPs to plow through everything needing his immediate decisions. He needed the call to go smoothly. He needed assurance RimSoft was still booting up without bugs. He needed a few days of normal life, please.

Shannon answered before the second ring. “This is Shannon—”

“Hey, it’s me. Everyone ready?”

“Who is this?”

“In other words, no one’s ready?” Micah chuckled.

“Who . . is . . . this?” she snapped.

“What are you doing? It’s Micah.”

“Micah Taylor?”

“Yeah. Hello. Remember me?”

“Well, hi, Micah. Good to hear from you. How’s the long vacation going?”

“It’s called a sabbatical.”

She cleared her throat. “Well, when the president of the company calls your time away a vacation, it’s a vacation.”

“Exactly. And since I’m not calling it a vacation, it’s not a vacation.”

No answer. Micah started to ask if she was still there when Shannon responded with cool professionalism.

“I like that. Ambition is an excellent quality. And if you are the president of your own company someday, you can call it whatever you like. But for now we’ll call it a vacation.”

Micah sighed and poured a little more coffee to go with his French vanilla cream. “Listen, Shannon. I’m not in the mood for a lot of humor this morning. I just want to get this conference call done and get on with the rest of my day, okay? So let’s get to it.”

Her tone changed from polite professional to ice. “Listen very, very closely. I appreciate the hard work you’ve given this company. I also appreciate that you’re one of its rising stars, but you keep acting like you own the place, and I’ll rip the remaining rungs on this corporate ladder out of your hands and put them in the shredder. Got it?”

Micah’s whole body was instantly hot. She was dead serious. There’d been another shift, and this time it was major.

“Who’s the president of RimSoft?”

“You mean RimWare.”

Micah’s head sank to the oak coffee table.

Not even the same name! RimWare? Didn’t Rick call it that a couple of times? “And my position with the company?”

“Now or before this conversation started?”

“Before.”

“When it started, I had you slated for vice president in a few years. Maybe less. But this display you just put on is not winning you any elections. I don’t have time for these games and neither do you.”

“Listen, I’m really sorry about this.” Micah swallowed hard and dug his knuckles into his forehead. “Just testing out some new ideas I read about on social, uh, trying out ways to influence people and—”

“You’re a strong asset to this company, Micah. But you keep trying that kind of nonsense, and you’ll have more time to relax than you want. Understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine. No harm done, but lay off the Carnegie crap and enjoy your vacation, okay?”

“Sure. Of course.”

“You’re back when?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Micah heard keys being punched through the phone. “Looks like next Tuesday. Have a different attitude when I see you next.”

Micah’s head reeled. “Can I take one more minute?”

“One.”

“I was just curious about RimSof—uh, RimWare’s stock options.”

“Who have you talked to?”

“No one.”

“Then how do you know I’m taking the company public?” He heard her tapping a pen or pencil with a rapid beat.

He slid to the floor. “I have no stock,” he whispered to the waves outside his window.

“No one has stock. Yet. But if the Wall Street rumors are true, the IPO could rocket out of the gate. The board could easily vote up to five thousand shares for employees of your level, which means based on conservative early estimates, on paper you could be worth as much as $550,000 instantly. You probably wouldn’t vest for a year or two, but that’s relatively quick.”

Micah had a hard time breathing and said nothing.

“Are you there?”

“Um-hmm.” He didn’t trust his voice.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I have to go. See you next Tuesday.”

The phone went dead. Setting it back in its cradle was like putting an octagon peg into a square hole. He finally got it in place and just stared out over the ocean. But didn’t see anything.

||||||||

“Am I losing my mind, Rick?”

“No.”

Rick worked on a breakfast fit for a ranch hand, even though it was past 1:00 p.m. Micah only had coffee, which he hadn’t touched.

“Then what is going on? Some kind of twisted cosmic joke God is playing on me to entertain the angelic host? The ultimate Candid Camera?”

Rick shoved the last of his eggs smothered in Tabasco sauce into his mouth.

“Are you listening to me?” Micah said.

“Yep.” Rick went to work on his sourdough toast.

“Do you hear what I’m saying? Two weeks ago everything at RimSoft ran like a Swiss watch. As of today I’ve gone from seriously rich to having virtually nothing. Not only am I no longer president; I don’t own a single share of stock. What’ll I lose next? My life?”

“Uh, maybe, I don’t know,” Rick said as if Micah mentioned it might rain.

“Are you hearing what I’m saying?” Micah popped his hand down on the table hard enough to rattle all the silverware. A few surprised looks came their way, and the waitress who was about to fill their water glasses did a 180 on her heel and skittered back toward the kitchen.

“Knock it off.” Rick looked up, his eyes dark and intense. “You know exactly what is going on here. And you’ve made the choice to make it happen every step of the way.”

“What? I’m living in The Twilight Zone, and you’re saying it’s obvious what’s going on? What choices have I made? Enlighten me.”

Rick stood, took wrinkled ten- and five-dollar bills out of his wallet, dropped them next to his plate, and looked down at Micah. “If you need it spelled out for you, it’s in Matthew in black and white. Chapter 13, verses 44 through 46. For you it’s jumped off the page and turned into real life. An amazing gift. But you have to make a final decision on whether it’s worth the price.”

When he got home, Micah slammed the door and screamed at the top of his lungs, “Lord, where are You? Why are You doing this to me?” He hurled his keys at the kitchen counter and watched them crash into the coffeepot, shattering the glass.

He knew he should pray but was exhausted. Tired of no concrete answers. Tired of trying to figure out which life was real and which one he wanted. Most of all tired of seeing his life disappear out from under him.

He glanced at his coffee table in front of his picture windows. Archie’s remaining envelopes sat there, mocking him. He glanced at the calendar on his refrigerator. Six days early. He didn’t care. Micah snatched up letter number fifteen and ripped open the envelope. With the fourteen previous letters, he’d shot up at least a quick prayer for wisdom and understanding. Not this time.

November 4, 1991

Dear Micah,

I have prayed before each letter written in an attempt to write only the words the Lord God would have me write through His guidance and the guidance of the angel I told you about in my last letter. However, in the end I am just a man, and it is only in Him and in His strength I can approach perfection.

That is a lengthy introduction to say I have most assuredly made mistakes in the letters you have read so far, and for that I offer my apologies and ask for your forgiveness. My prayer is that you are taking every scene, decision, and circumstance these letters stir up in you to deep prayer, that my mistakes might be filtered out, and the only remnant that remains would be pure truth.

In the end only one voice matters. Only one.

Micah set down the letter. Of course. In the end only one voice mattered. His own. And he hadn’t been listening.

The end of your journey is coming soon.

Seek Him.

For eternity’s sake,

Archie

Micah folded the letter, then slid it back into its envelope. A sliver of hesitation and apprehension had grown toward the voice, but he pushed through the emotion and strode down the hall. Archie was right. One voice mattered.

Micah pushed open the door and eased inside. “Hey, you awake?”

“If you’re awake, I’m awake.” The voice laughed.

“Yeah, okay. You’re me. I’m you, etcetera.”

Micah sat with the voice in silence.

“My life has disintegrated. Our life. But I’m going to figure this thing out. I refuse to let it beat me. I think the way—”

“The time for thinking and talking is over,” the voice said. “We have to act. Now. You know it. Look what’s happened since we hesitated.”

Micah ran his teeth over his bottom lip and paced.

“Talk to me, Micah.”

“What do you want me to say? Okay. I admit it. I was wrong. I should have listened to you. Archie’s letter spelled it out in black and white. There is only one voice I can trust. Myself.”

“Yes.”

“But if I’m really supposed to go back to Seattle like you say, two things make no sense.”

“What?”

“Those verses in Matthew. You’d have to be spiritually blind not to know what Rick was driving at.”

“What is that?” the voice said.

“Oh, c’mon. I’ll assume that question is rhetorical.”

“Let’s talk it out to be sure.”

“Hello? The pearl of great price? I have to give it all up. All of it. Everything I had, and have, in Seattle for the relationship I have with the Lord down here. That is the choice.”

“Do you want to give it all up?” the voice whispered.

Micah was silent.

“We must be careful not to take any verse out of context. The Christian life is a journey. We’re not instantly at the point of perfection the moment we start out—are we?”

Micah didn’t respond.

“I don’t think that’s what Archie was driving at or what those verses show us.”

“Your theory?” Micah said.

“Don’t misunderstand.” Light laughter floated out of the darkness. “I’m not saying we don’t need to be willing to give everything up and that we shouldn’t be working toward that attitude. We do, but we certainly don’t have to literally give up everything.”

“Maybe I do. This life or Seattle. Not both.”

“Look to the Scriptures, Micah. Zacchaeus, for example. He gave up half, not all, half of what he owned, and salvation came to his household. The question was whether he’d given up everything in his heart, not the amount of physical wealth he turned over.

“We cannot just sit back and let God’s blessings come to us. We must take part. We must take action. That is how to show we truly believe. Without action how can we pretend we have faith?”

“And going back to Seattle is a step of faith.” Micah coughed and settled to the carpet, his back against the wall next to the door.

“Yes. We don’t know what we’re going to find there. To leave all that is going on here, to see if what we’ve lost in Seattle can be salvaged, with no promise of any of it coming back? Yes, that is a step of faith.”

“Rick would say the step of faith would be to let all of Seattle go and trust God is in it.”

“Rick is an excellent friend. Wonderful and wise. But with all he is, Rick isn’t you, isn’t us. Don’t you realize how difficult it is to give someone advice when your opinion is skewed by your own life experiences and attitudes? Rick’s experiences taint his advice. It’s why we need each other more than ever. We have the same experiences, the same joys, the same hurts. We know what is right for us because we’re one and the same. What a gift to be able to plan the best course together.”

“And the best course?”

“Don’t you think those in Seattle need to see this new Micah as much as the people down here? The Micah deeply committed to his God again, who can now be an example to all at RimSoft? It just isn’t true that we have to choose one world or the other. I believe with every ounce of who I am that we can have both.”

“Stay involved in both worlds.”

“Cannon Beach is our spiritual escape, a place for renewal and relationship with Rick and Sarah and others. Seattle is for career, fulfillment of your dreams, and the godly influence you can have on so many more people than you can down here.”

Micah’s head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton candy. It sounded so right.

“We need to take action before—”

“Shut up and let me think.” Micah threw his head back and closed his eyes. “I can’t give up what I’ve found here,” he finally said.

“Neither can I. But we don’t have to. You’ve been given so many talents that can only be used in Seattle. Do not discard the gifts of God lightly. You’ve been given the best of two worlds, and to reject either one is to reject a great gift given from God’s own hand.”

“But Rick says—”

“Let it go, Micah. Stop fighting. Your striving won’t change things, make them happen faster or slower.”

“You’re saying I shouldn’t strive for freedom? And the changes God has made in my heart?”

“No, not at all. To want that is so good. But stop pushing so hard. Do you have God’s peace right now? No. Relax and let the changes take their natural course.”

“Rick would say we are in a battle and it won’t happen naturally.”

“Exactly. There is a battle going on in Seattle right now. We have lost almost everything we’ve created, and Rick is absolutely right. To sit here and wish for the things we used to have to return is futile. We must act now. The window of opportunity to get our old life back is closing. This is the moment to make your choice—the truth or a lie. There is a battle in this instant for your destiny, and you must decide who to believe. Now is the time to reverse this.”

Micah got up and paced for a full minute. Then he turned and spoke in complete confidence. “All right. We’ll go. Just give me a day to tell Sarah.”

“Even a day might be too late, Micah. We must hurry.”

||||||||

By 8:00 that night he’d called Sarah four times. He needed to talk to her. With a decision this monumental he couldn’t leave a message on her voice mail. Where was she? She always answered her cell if it was him, even at Osburn’s. Maybe he should drive down there. No. Being with her would shatter his resolve to head back to Seattle. It would draw the conversation out for hours. He needed to leave immediately.

As he paced on his deck, he watched a somber sky turn dark from gray clouds bunching up on the horizon like sheep forced up against the shearing pen.

He sat on his Adirondack chair, shook his head, and laughed. What was wrong with him? This was not a big deal. He’d be back down all the time. It wouldn’t change his relationship with Sarah a nanobyte.

As he picked up his phone to call her again, his hands began to sweat.

CHAPTER 37

Osburn’s was shutting down for the night, and the Saturday evening crowd had thinned down to two customers who meandered out the door. The ice cream machines were rinsed and cleaned out, but Sarah still needed to clean the tables, mop the floor, and wash the windows. Heading home for the night seemed years away.

“You okay?” asked the gal helping Sarah close up the store.

Sarah’s rag grew cold in her hand, but she continued using it to wipe up the tables stained with Chocolate Chip Mint, Oreo Cookie Crunch, and fourteen other flavors that had slid down customer’s throats that day.

“Yeah, good. And you?” Sarah answered without looking up.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” But she wasn’t.

It had been two days since Sarah had heard from Micah. It wasn’t normal. Eight hours without at least a phone call was unusual. Something was wrong. Twinges in her stomach said more than wrong.

She tried to ignore the feeling as she finished her cleaning and flicked off the store lights, sending Osburn’s into shadows for the night.

Ten minutes later the gravel moaned under her Subaru as Sarah pulled slowly into the driveway of her one-bedroom apartment. She threw the gear shift into park, turned off the car, but didn’t get out. She sat and replayed the conversation she’d had with Micah two days ago. It had just felt . . . off.

Finally she pushed open her car door and stepped outside. A brisk wind brought her the smoky aroma of a beach fire, and she wondered who sat around it. It should be Micah, waiting for her to join him.

As she opened her front door, her eyes jumped to her answering machine. Yes. The red light blinked. A beacon of hope? Or an emergency siren?

She walked toward the machine in slow motion, closed her eyes, then opened them to peek at the digital readout of the last call. Micah’s cell phone number. She reached out to hit play, and her arm froze. Part of her desperately wanted to play the message. Another part screamed, “Don’t!”

She released a tiny moan, walked to the refrigerator, swung open the door, and stared at the Crab Louie from last night. Her right leg twitched. Nerves were fraying and dread crept in for a visit.

In a daze she grabbed a quart of orange juice, poured a glass, then took a sip. She carried it to the kitchen table, wondering why it had no taste. Rubbing her eyes, Sarah stood, sighed, walked over to the machine, and pushed the button.

“You have one new message. Message sent today at 9:17 p.m.”

“We have to talk, Sarah.” Micah’s voice paused, and she sucked in a quick breath in concert with the one he drew on the other end of the phone. “I can’t expect you to understand this.” Another pause. “I don’t understand it myself. But my time here is done, at least for a while, so I need to go back to Seattle. I’m supposed to go back.”

She heard him pause once more, and seagulls out over the ocean filled the silence as if from a universe away. “There are some things I need to recapture. I wanted so badly to do this in person. I called your cell phone four times, but either you weren’t answering or you didn’t have it with you, and I didn’t want to leave a message on it, in case—”

Sarah looked at her cell phone, which had sat cradled in its charger for the past two days.

“—you weren’t going to get it for a while. I’m not leaving us. I’ll be back down again in four or five weeks at the most, and we’ll talk on the phone every day while I’m up there. Call me as soon as you get this.”

She should have been relieved. Micah wasn’t ending it—just taking some time up north to work through all the life changes he’d been through during the past four-plus months. He’d been through so much; of course he needed time. But her stomach still churned. This was not the right thing for Micah. For her. For them.

She pushed aside the orange juice, dropped her head to the table, and cried till no more tears would come. After the silence got too loud, she picked up the phone.

He answered on the first ring.

“Micah . . .” She hesitated. “With everything in me, I know this isn’t right.”

“It is.”

“Don’t go.”

“I need to do this. For me. For us. Please don’t try to stop this and make it harder.”

She closed her eyes. “It’s burned onto my heart like a branding iron that you should not go.”

“You’re acting like I’m moving to Siberia.” Micah gave a weak laugh. “We’ll see each other all the time. I’ll be back down in six weeks tops. Next time you get two days off in a row, you can come up. And by going back to Seattle, I’ll recover what I’ve lost. I believe I can get it all back. Believe with me it can happen.”

For fifteen seconds the only noise was the hum of the connection.

“Sarah?”

Silence.

“Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, they’ve got this great new invention that keeps people connected when they’re apart. In fact we’re using it right now. It’s called the telephone.”

She didn’t laugh. “It’s not about us being two hundred miles apart. It’s not about how often we’ll be talking. And it’s not about me coming up to see you. It’s about you going.”

“Then give me a reason.”

“It’s wrong.” Sarah sat slumped back, kneading the knots in her right shoulder.

“That’s not a reason.”

“Everything inside me tells me it’s wrong, that the enemy is in this, trying to make you take a path the complete opposite of the way you should go.”

He sighed. “You know I listen when God tells you something. What you feel matters deeply.” He paused, then whispered, “But this time, it’s not enough to keep me from going.”

Tears spilled onto her cheeks and collected on her chin.

“Sarah?”

“Don’t go, Micah. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose us.”

“You won’t lose me. Ever. I promise. I’ll call you every day.”

Sarah didn’t respond for a long time. “I gotta go.”

“I love you, Sarah.”

“Me, too, Micah. All of me.”

||||||||

The next morning just before sunrise, Sarah stood alone on the beach and watched little bubbles burst on top of the sand, indicating clams digging away from her probing shoes.

She wanted to believe Micah’s going back to Seattle was good. Why couldn’t it be? He could recover some of the life he’d lost and figure out the connection between that world and this one. But her heart was breaking because she knew the choice was wrong. She tried to convince herself she wasn’t living by faith, that she needed to trust God was in control. But the thoughts were hollow and slipped through the fingers of her mind like wind through the trees.

She staggered toward the waves and stepped into them till the water lapped around her shoes.

The first time Sarah had met Micah, her heart surged. She knew he was the answer to what God had spoken years ago. But the battle of how much of her heart to give him started the moment she handed him his Pralines & Cream ice cream cone four months earlier. Because she’d also known last night’s conversation would come.

She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Micah’s house. She had to try one more time. No answer. He was already gone. Must have left last night.

Sarah watched her hand drop to her side as if it were someone else’s. Her cell phone spun loose and dropped to the sand. Waves raced up and smothered the phone, and the icy September water found its way through her shoes and bit into her feet.

From the beginning she had feared he would choose the life without her. Despite their love, he would listen to voices other than the Holy Spirit’s, and it would take him away forever. She’d tried to steel her heart for the moment when he left and even believed she could change his mind, but none of her practiced anticipation prepared her for this kind of pain.

She slipped to her knees and dug her hands into the saturated sand, trying to hold on to the grains. But the water swirled around her and washed away her hold. And she continued to add her tears to the ocean.

Then she heard a voice. Soft. Strong. “Sarah?”

Hope against hope she turned and looked up. But it wasn’t Micah.

Rick stood ten yards down the beach at the edge of the waves. She stared at him, deciding whether to answer or get up and walk away. “Micah’s gone. Back to Seattle,” she sputtered.

“Yes, I know.”

“You’re not going to quote some verse about this being for the best for me, are you?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

Rick walked to her and pulled her up and into his chest like a dad. She shuddered as she fell into him and held on with everything inside. Again the tears came.

“Let’s get you into some dry clothes and grab some coffee. There’s some things we need to talk about.”

“Like?”

“Where you go from here.”

Sarah nodded and trudged alongside Rick, leaning into him, needing him to be a rock because she couldn’t be. Rick would try to speak words of comfort, would try to tell her it would be okay. But it wouldn’t. It just wouldn’t.

Because Micah was heading into a world where she didn’t exist.

CHAPTER 38

Micah stutter-stepped toward Shannon’s office on Monday morning and strained to keep a scream from bursting out. Calm. Composure. He was positive ripping the Andy Warhol pictures off the walls wouldn’t set the right tone for his return. But RimSoft was his opus. Was. Now he’d be proposing a plan to a woman who two and a half weeks ago had been his secretary.

That was a cheap shot. She’d always been far more than a secretary. If anyone was worthy of running the company in this parallel universe, it was Shannon. But that didn’t abate the strangeness of this role reversal, or his fear she would wrap an anchor around him and his proposal and drop-kick them into the Pacific.

He approached the woman who sat in the exact desk Shannon used to sit in. “I’m here for a 9:00 with Shannon.”

“Hi, Micah.” She flipped her red hair off her shoulders. “She’s running a few minutes behind. I hope your trip was a good one.”

Trip? He stared at her. Did he know her? Early twenties, slightly heavy, dark blue eyes. He would have remembered those eyes.

Before leaving Cannon Beach, he and the voice had formed their proposal. Although the players had changed, they reasoned that the basic direction of the company probably hadn’t. Micah would use this inside knowledge to impress Shannon and present the reasons he should get a shot at a vice presidency.

“Micah!” Shannon walked up and grasped both his hands. “Great to have you back. Let’s catch up.”

He walked into what used to be his office and tried not to cringe. It definitely had been given a woman’s touch. He sat in a taupe-colored leather chair in front of a coffee table that displayed two ornate miniature fountains. They circulated water over tiny river rocks in a never-ending cycle.

“All right!” Shannon clapped her hands three times. “We’ll talk business in a minute, but first you’ve got to tell me. Europe was wonderful, wasn’t it? You loved Spain, I know you did. I hope you went to Gaudi’s Cathedral. You promised you would. By the way, I applaud you for not calling in for the entire three weeks. I bet my husband you’d call. You cost me five hundred dollars.” She laughed.

As she talked, anxiety grabbed Micah’s stomach. Europe? Three weeks? He started to protest when shards of memories streaked through his mind. He saw himself standing in front of Gaudi’s Cathedral, then on the shores of Saint-Tropez, and after that Ibiza. The Eiffel Tower blazed into his mind and then a small village, where he sipped wine with a man and woman he didn’t recognize.

“I’ve been on vacation in Europe for the past three weeks.” Micah stared at her, his lips slightly parted.

“Well, I sure hope so.”

“No, I remember. I mean, yes. It was a great time. Really.”

“Dealing with a little jet lag?” Shannon frowned.

“Probably.”

“Well, I didn’t even expect you today. Flying in last night and setting up a time to see me? No one can say you don’t feel the need to succeed.”

“I think there’s more I can offer this company.”

“Really? More than you’ve already done?” Shannon leaned forward and folded her hands across her knees. “I’m all ears.”

Micah clipped through his proposal. Not so fast she would miss any of the nuances, but not so slowly her mind could wander.

When he finished, Shannon unfolded her hands and leaned even further forward. “Excellent.”

“If you give me the freedom to implement these ideas and they work—”

“Knowing you, I have little doubt they will.”

“Thanks. I’d just like to put a little carrot out there for myself.”

“Carrot?”

“An incentive plan. When these projects succeed, I want a promotion to vice president and be vested in fifty thousand shares of stock immediately.”

She stared at him, giving no clue whether he’d pushed too hard. A wisp of what Micah interpreted as concern passed over her face as she brought steepled hands to her lips.

“This is European humor, right?”

He’d gone too far. “No, I just think—”

“Micah.” She glanced at the walls, as if she was worried they might hear. “You’ve been a vice president at RimSoft for a year and a half. You’re vested in more shares than anyone but me. On the last report I saw, you have acquired at least three hundred and eighty thousand shares. But if another fifty thousand will make you happier, I’ll get them for you. Certainly.”

Three hundred and eighty thousand shares? And RimSoft? Not RimWare. Yes! He swallowed and tried to keep the rush of victory from taking over his face.

“But I have to say at this stage of the game, I didn’t think it was about the money for you. More the thrill of the kill, you know?” Shannon got up and walked over to her desk, her back to him. “You’ve got a little over $36 million in your portfolio. You want to explain why you think another $4 million will dot the i’s and cross the t’s in your life?”

She turned, arms folded tightly across her chest. “You and I have always played it straight. Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t go to Europe and somehow decide drugs is your new thrill-park playground.”

Drops of perspiration beaded on his forehead. He couldn’t lose it now. Stay calm. Hold it together.

“No. I’m fine. Really. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He ran cold fingers through his hair. “But now I’m realizing I should have taken one more day. To get back on Seattle time.”

Shannon nodded. He hadn’t convinced her. “The real Micah will be back tomorrow?”

“Guaranteed.”

He’d done it. He was back. He felt the voice inside him cry, “Yes!”

||||||||

The next morning confirmed his Seattle life was snapping back into place. After ten minutes on his feet making breakfast, his ankle still felt fine. More than fine. It was the first time in two weeks standing in one place for over a minute didn’t cause a dull ache. He bounced up and down on his left foot twice. No pain. He knew a new X-ray would show there had never been a break.

Unbelievable.

Thank You, God.

When he got to the office just after 8:00, Shannon stood on the lobby stairs, hands clasped behind her back, watching the employees file in as he used to do. She saw him, raised her eyes in acknowledgment, and motioned him over.

He took the stairs two at a time.

“Feeling better this morning?” she asked.

“Fantastic.”

“Good to hear it, partner. This week will be intense.”

“What did you say?” Micah spun toward her.

“Intense week coming. That’s a surprise? You thought you’d continue your vacation? Sorry.”

“No, the part before that.”

“Good to hear you’re feeling better?”

If she had said partner in more than a conversational way, then his life in Seattle had snapped back into place so completely it was unreal.

“You called me partner.”

Shannon stared at him for a full five seconds.

“What is it with you? Does your brain have permanent jet lag? Would you rather I say, ‘Good to hear it, fellow majority shareholder, cofounder, and owner in the corporation known as RimSoft?’”

Micah repressed a smile struggling to burst onto his face. “No, that certainly is a rousing bit of phrasing, but ‘partner’ will be fine.” He couldn’t suppress the massive smile any longer.

She glared at him. “Tell me you’re okay. We need to sit down and catch up. But I need you sane.”

“Two o’clock, your office?”

“Fine.”

Amazing. Micah strutted toward the elevator, flipped open his cell phone, and dialed.

“Phil, Micah Taylor. What floor do I live on?”

“What, Mr. Micah?”

“My condo. What floor is it on?” The silver elevator doors slid open; Micah stepped in and pressed the round button for the eighteenth floor.

“The same floor it has always been. You are on the twenty-first floor.”

“The penthouse.”

“Yes, Mr. Micah. Why do you ask this question?”

“I want to make sure all aspects of my life have shifted back into alignment.”

“I am not understand.”

“That makes two of us. But it’s all good, Phil. All good. Thanks.”

How could he start to thank God for this? Why hadn’t he listened to his own voice earlier?

The elevator doors opened, and he stepped onto the eighteenth floor. He walked toward where his old office used to be, which is exactly where it was now. A young man he didn’t recognize sat at the desk outside his door. “How are you?”

“Good, Mr. Taylor. Thank you.”

The young man stood and offered his hand. Damp. Micah shook it and tried not to grimace.

“I’m from Smart Temps,” said the young man. “I’m filling in while your regular executive assistant is on vacation.”

Micah turned and wiped his hand on his right hip.

“She’ll be back tomorrow,” the temp said.

Once inside his office he pulled a picture of Sarah out of his briefcase. So beautiful. Sarah sat on a small grassy dune in her black biking shorts and a dark blue Windbreaker, Haystack Rock looming in the background. Her windblown hair partially obscured the right side of her face. He stared at the picture, then kissed it.

He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

Picking up the phone, his hand danced over the buttons. After four rings her exquisite voice came on the line. “Hi, this is Sarah. You leave the message; I’d love to call you back. Bye.”

“Hey, beautiful. Me. Just checking in. I know you’re at work, but hearing your voice is better than nothing. Some fascinating developments up here. So cool. Way beyond what I could have imagined. Sorry to say it, but you were wrong. It was right to come back. Call me.”

Micah hung up and walked toward the awards that covered his walls. He touched the frame of the Innovative Software of the Year award. Part of him loved the software business, the financial freedom, the challenges, and impact his products had on the world. But more than all of it, he loved Sarah. And more than Sarah, he loved the Lord. All of the glory of his Seattle world was nothing compared to the healing and freedom he’d found in Cannon Beach.

It made sense. To gain Seattle back, he had to lose it first. His voice was right.

Now he had it all.

Micah booted up his computer and found four hundred-plus e-mail messages sitting like little penguins all in a row, insisting on a moment of his time. He smiled. It was nice being in demand again.

Before he dove in, he called his CFO to confirm the return of one final piece of his life. His CFO said he owned 725,345 shares in RimSoft. He punched up the share price and did the math. He felt the voice deep inside smile. Just over $60 million dollars. All was right with the world again. He wanted to tell Sarah immediately. Well, if he couldn’t share it with her, he could try Rick.

“Rick’s Gas and Garage.”

“Hey, Devin, it’s Micah.”

“Micah?”

“Micah Taylor.”

“Um.”

“From Seattle?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. How are ya?”

“How many other Micahs do you know?”

Devin didn’t answer so Micah asked for Rick.

“Out till Friday. Had some family business back east I think, not exactly sure where. Want me to give him a message?”

“Yeah, tell him to buy a cell phone.”

Micah hung up the phone and pored back and forth between e-mail and snail mail. Nothing unusual till two-thirds of the way down the stack. A letter from Chris Hale.

Hello, Micah.

I hope you are well as you read this.

Enclosed please find another letter from Archie. I must apologize. This letter was intended to be in the pile I left in the house, but I obviously misplaced it somehow and didn’t notice it missing from the original stack.

Please forgive my oversight. I’ve made copies of the letter and sent one to your Cannon Beach address and one to your work address.

I would have sent a third to your Seattle residence, but I don’t have that address.

Let’s connect again soon.

Chris

Micah opened Archie’s letter and sat down. It took all of three seconds to read.

June 23, 1992

Dear Micah,

Matthew 16:25–26.

With my great affection,

Archie

Micah looked at his bookshelves although he didn’t need to. If he was back in his old office, there was no Bible on them. He Googled the verses, and two seconds later they were on his screen:

For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it; but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it. For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul? Or what will a man give in exchange for his soul? (Matthew 16:25–26)

Micah fell back in his chair. Chris loses the letter, finds it, then sends it. And he ends up reading it on this specific day. Coincidence? No way.

But so what? Yes, he’d gained some of the world—his world—back. It didn’t mean he’d forfeited his soul. He was closer to the Lord than he’d ever been. Ever. Yes, he had some treasure here on Earth again. Big deal. It’s not where his heart was. At least not the majority of his heart. So why read something into the timing of this letter when there was nothing to read into it? But all of Micah’s mental machinations didn’t quench a gnawing feeling in his stomach that something was askew.

An impression formed in his mind. It was the voice.

Relax. As good as it’s been, the last two days have been pretty stressful. Don’t let your imagination take you somewhere we shouldn’t go.

That night Micah celebrated his return to the top with a longtime basketball buddy. They dined at Palisades in Seattle on porterhouse steaks accompanied by crab legs, Caesar salads, and a double portion of tiramisu. They watched the million-dollar yachts bob in Puget Sound and talked sports, business, and movies. To simply sit with an old friend and enjoy a fine dinner refreshed him. And helped Micah avoid feeling the tiny snag at the center of his heart.

As they ate, Micah spied a young man across the aisle chatting with a brunette. The man punctuated his story with light laughter, and she joined in each time. She leaned in, relaxed, with a smile that never faded. The man kept pulling his palm away in order to demonstrate his story, only to return it to her waiting embrace a moment later.

Micah’s gaze shifted to two men, one older, one younger at another table close by. Father and son? Looked like it. They interrupted each other, recalling a fishing trip up to Alaska where everything went wrong. But to hear them tell it amid their laughter, it had obviously turned out to be a trip they treasured.

It could have been Sarah and him at the one table, Rick and him at the other. His life before them, before Cannon Beach, only dabbled at the edges of God. It was a life devoid of freedom and healing, a life without true life.

Now he had it all. Riches. Recognition. And the deepest things: Sarah, Rick, and an intimate relationship with the Creator of the universe.

“Hello? Micah?”

“Yeah?” Micah dropped his steak knife on the table, and it rattled against his water glass.

“Hey, bud, where’d you go?”

“Sorry, took a little trip in my mind back down to Cannon Beach.” He lifted his glass to his friend and made a toast. “To Sarah, to Rick, and to my King, Jesus. May His freedom advance in my life and the lives around me.”

“Wow. Nice preaching. Sounds like you had quite a time down there.” His friend clinked his glass against Micah’s.

“You have no idea.”

As the last bite of tiramisu slid down his throat, Micah decided the time to head back down to Cannon Beach was not in a few weeks but in a few days. His voice had said take five or six weeks to get things settled. But things weren’t settling in Seattle; they were settled. Going back down every weekend would be much better timing. Without Rick and Sarah, Seattle was hollow.

After saying good-bye to his friend, Micah walked out on the dock in front of the restaurant and stared at the yachts and sailboats tucked into their slips like the fingers of an elegant woman inside a white glove. Two thoughts swirled like yin and yang through his mind. First, he always meant to buy one of those boats. Second, the desire had faded to a shadow of its former self.

He stared at the stars. Why had he been given the best of both worlds?

He closed his eyes as it once again felt like God had gone mute. He chalked it up to the intensity of the past few days and headed home.

Sarah! He grabbed his cell.

Again no answer on her cell phone. “Hey, it’s me. Missing Rick, missing Cannon Beach, mostly missing you.”

The next morning he got up at 5:00 to spend some time praying and reading the Bible to try to push through the distance he felt toward God. After an hour he gave up in frustration. It was so dry it was brittle. The only voice he heard was his own, and any semblance of peace had flown.

Where was God?

Heading into work, he pondered what he missed most about Cannon Beach. It wasn’t the house, the ocean, Rick, or even Sarah. God was in Cannon Beach. Micah had been set free of chains he didn’t even know existed. But up here God seemed to be on vacation.

He popped his steering wheel with his palm. His pipeline to the Lord had dried up like a valve being shut. As he pulled into his parking spot, he admitted it had closed the moment he’d stepped through the doors at RimSoft two days earlier. He’d just been too elated and busy to acknowledge it.

As he ambled out of the elevator a few minutes past eight, he remembered his regular assistant should be back. Sure enough, a woman with blonde hair sat with her back to him in the chair Perspiration Boy had occupied the day before. Would he know her? Micah started to say hello when she turned and pranced around her desk with tiny high-heeled steps. He was too stunned to move.

“Welcome home, stranger.” She threw her arms around his neck. “I had an awesome time on my vacay. Hope you did, too.” She pulled herself up to his ear and whispered, “I know we’ve only been going out for a month, so fire me if this is too forward, but I think we should take our next vacation together, don’t you?” She gave him a quick kiss, then flounced back to her chair.

Micah tried to find words. Only one came. “Julie?”

She laughed, cocked her head, and pointed a crimson fingernail at him. “Micah.”

“You’re not my partner.”

“No, not yet. You offering? All right, I accept.”

His mind spun on a merry-go-round far over a safe speed. “Why . . . uh, wha . . . Why are you . . . ?” He stopped and stumbled into the chair next to Julie’s desk. No question would make sense so it was impossible to finish the sentence.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, good. I just . . .” Just what? Just realized his world was still shifting wildly and he wasn’t in control of any of it? He gripped the arms of the chair and tried to stop the spinning sensation.

No, it wasn’t surprising Julie would be back in his life if the other things were back, but as his assistant? Why? He forced the thoughts pounding through his brain to stop, and he looked up at her. “Listen, it’s great to see you, great to be back, so let’s catch up as soon as I can get unburied from three weeks of work.”

“You’re thinking dinner tonight?”

“Yes. Love it. Perfect.” Micah smiled, hoping it looked real, stood, and turned toward his office door.

He staggered into his office and slammed the door. Not out of anger. Out of fear. He flung his coat and briefcase onto the chair next to his desk. The coat slid down the side of the chair and crumpled to the floor. Micah didn’t bother to pick it up. He was staring at the picture of Sarah he’d put up the day before.

She wasn’t in it.

CHAPTER 39

Micah weaved through Seattle’s late-morning traffic like Speed Racer as he sped toward the University of Washington’s arboretum. It had been his place of solace since high school. His spot to be alone. To think.

He had to calm down. Get a handle on the insanity that pulsed through his entire body. He felt his neck with his forefinger. Heart rate? Probably 140. Clothes? Soaked with sweat.

He looked down at the picture clutched in his hand. Haystack Rock in the background in the late afternoon sun gave everything a golden hue. But where Sarah had sat was now only sand. He’d called Rick four times over the past hour, as if logging multiple calls would bring his friend back from his trip faster. During the fourth call, Devin almost hung up on him.

Micah stood on a secluded bulkhead overlooking Lake Washington, trying to pray, but the prayers seemed to vanish into the charcoal skies. As he started back to his car, his cell phone rang. He fumbled in his pocket for it, fingers numb. Caller ID said Unknown.

Please be her!

“Hello?”

“Micah? It’s Sarah Sabin.”

“Finally.” A monsoon of relief landed on him. “I have missed you unbelievably.”

“Are you the person who’s been leaving messages on my cell phone?”

“Am I the person?” He laughed. “Yeah, what other Micahs do you know?”

As the words came out of his mouth, two questions struck like ice water. Why did she give her last name? And why ask if he’d left the messages? She knew his voice as well as anyone’s.

“You’re the only Micah I know, but I have to say your messages were a little weird.”

“Weird?”

“I enjoyed bumping into you up at Ecola and enjoyed our talk. And I was looking forward to dinner at your place next week, spend a little time together, get to know each other. But your messages made me think that’s not such a good idea.”

Micah’s legs went weak, and he crumpled onto the rough wooden planks beneath him. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe.

“Are you there?”

“I’m in Seattle,” he sputtered. “And it’s all back. I’ve got it all back.”

“Okaaay.” Sarah drew out the word. “Got all what back?”

He tried to think of an answer to stop this nightmare. A sense of low, smug laughter coursed through him. The phone slipped from his grasp and dropped over the bulkhead wall, crashing onto the smooth rocks twenty feet below. It bounced twice and then splashed into the dark green waters of the lake.

“Everything.”

||||||||

Sleep, and the dream, didn’t come till 2:00 a.m. Micah stood in the middle of a wheat field. Rolling hills swept out from him in all directions, the late afternoon sun turning the wheat into waving strands of gold. He did a full turn, squinting as he looked into the sunlight. Nothing but fields of gold . . . wait! A silhouette on the horizon. As Micah stared at the figure, he began floating toward it.

The man stood on a three-foot, splintered platform straight out of the late 1800s. Just like the man. He was tall, with white hair swept back till it touched the collar of his light brown, turn-of-the-century suit. A wide circle of lush, jade green grass surrounded the platform.

The instant Micah entered the circle, the man’s words rang out crisp and powerful. If the man noticed Micah arrive, he didn’t respond. The man fixed his gaze on the field, the heads of wheat like a vast audience hanging on every word. Perspiration trickled down his forehead into his eyes, but his focus was absolute, nothing distracting his fierce countenance.

“The fields are ripe for harvest! Beseech therefore the Lord of the harvest to send workers into the field to gather the wheat from the tares!” The preacher glanced down at the ragged Bible in his hands. “Now heed the words from the Revelation of John from chapter 3, verses 15 and 16.” His voice dropped to half its former volume as he read from the old Bible. “‘I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot: I would thou wert cold or hot. So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth.’”

The preacher looked up slowly and fixed his eyes on Micah and repeated the last sentence. “So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee of my mouth.”

As he repeated it a third time, the preacher’s face changed. All but his eyes, which only increased in intensity. This time the words were a whisper, and when he’d finished, the transformation was complete.

It was Jesus.

A moment later Micah woke, soaking wet. He looked at his watch. Already twenty minutes past noon.

After a quick shower Micah stepped onto the veranda of his condo to collect his thoughts before doing the obvious and heading for Cannon Beach. There was still hope. If the dream was only a warning, there was time to fix the mistake of returning to Seattle, and time to restore things with Sarah.

If coming to Seattle caused his life in Cannon Beach to vanish like a vapor, returning to the beach would restore it.

It had to.

As he packed, he considered calling his office to let them know he was leaving. But for what? By the time he reached Cannon Beach, his role with the company could be significantly different. A phone call now might not even exist by the time he got back to the beach.

He took one last look around his condo. Would he ever see the twenty-first floor again? What would he miss the most? His eyes swept over the awards and pictures lining the walls. Pictures of him standing next to the pretty and powerful. Trips around the world. Could he take the photos with him? Or would they just disappear on the way down to Cannon Beach, leaving empty frames crowding his backseat?

So what if he ended up as one of the up-and-coming computer programmers at RimSoft or RimWare or whatever it would end up being called by the time he got back up to Seattle. So what if his salary was only a quarter of what it had been and there was no stock?

He didn’t care. Nothing here mattered. Not anymore. He would still have gold: Sarah, Rick, and God.

Time to go home.

When he crossed the border between Washington and Oregon, a subtle pain brought overwhelming relief. His ankle started to ache.

At 7:50 that evening he parked on Main Street and headed for Osburn’s. Adrenaline pumped through him. He’d stood in front of some of the most influential men and women in the world of business, his neck tight and mouth dry. But as he stood on Main Street looking up at the Osburn’s sign, Micah admitted that butterflies had never attacked his stomach with this much force. His breathing was shallow as he watched the last few customers stroll out of the store. He glanced at his watch. Almost closing time.

Best-case scenario, Sarah and he would be right back to where they were before he’d left for Seattle a few days ago.

Worst case, they would have lost a few weeks, maybe even a month, of their relationship. But he didn’t want to lose even an hour. During the past four weeks their relationship had burst from deep friendship into full-blown love. He’d told her everything that had gone on inside the house during that time. Told her about living parts of two lives. And she’d all but said she wanted to spend her life with him.

He shook his head and ran both hands through his hair. Why hadn’t he listened? She’d been so adamant about him not going. She had been right. Now he would fix it.

He glanced inside. No one left but Sarah.

Micah stepped through the front door. The bells announcing his arrival sounded like the warnings of a five-alarm fire, and his heart pounded like the bass drum at a rock concert.

“Hi,” Sarah said without turning from her cleaning. “Five minutes to closing, I hope you’re not wanting a triple-decker four-fudge float.”

“Sarah.”

She looked up. “Hey. How are you? This is a nice surprise.” She smiled and tilted her head to the side.

His mind froze. He didn’t know what he’d anticipated, but it wasn’t this. He’d expected to know with one look what her heart did or didn’t hold for him. But he didn’t. As he studied her face, he saw recognition, but what kind? Anger from the cell phone calls? Concern? Was everything back to normal and she simply waited for him to make the first move, to admit returning to Seattle was a mistake? She obviously knew him, but how well? There were no answers, and he had no idea where to go with the conversation.

“I’m good. Hey, uh, first I just wanted to apologize for the weird messages I left on your cell phone.” He hesitated. If everything was back to normal, then maybe the calls wouldn’t have even happened in Sarah’s world.

“You left me a weird message? More than one?”

Yes! The calls no longer existed.

“Yeah, well, I . . . Yeah, I did and—”

“When?”

“A day or two ago.”

“Really? I must not have gotten them. Strange. Want to give them to me now?” She smiled but it didn’t reassure him.

Oh no. He saw it in her eyes. Uncertainty. Then an obvious clue he should have picked up on the moment he’d called her name. She still stood behind the counter instead of rushing over to him. Not a good sign.

“Instead of giving you the weird message, how ’bout I ask you a weird question?” He shifted his weight and tried to smile.

Sarah put down her towel, walked around the counter, folded her arms, and put a mock skeptical look on her face. “Ready.”

Micah inhaled slowly, then sighed.

Sarah winked at him. “Wow, this is going to be good.”

“When was the last time we saw each other?”

“What?”

“When’s the last time we talked?”

“Wow! I’m that forgettable?” She raised her eyebrows. “Three days is all it takes, eh?”

“No, not at all, I just—”

“Just what?”

“I’ve—”

“You’re serious.”

“Yeah.” Micah shrugged.

“I must be a pretty boring dinner guest.”

“Dinner? Which one?”

Sarah backed up and leaned against the ice cream display case. “Are you okay? Since we’ve only had one, it’s that one.”

This could not be happening.

He slumped into an oak chair against the wall.

“You’re spooking me a little here, Micah. You cooked for me at your house. We talked until 11:00 p.m. I think we both had a good time. You have to remember some of that conversation.”

“I remember all of it. It’s just . . .” Micah felt the blood rush out of his face.

“All right then, I feel better now. I think.” Sarah laughed. Micah could tell it was forced.

Sarah turned and walked back around the counter. “I hope you don’t mind my cleaning up while we talk.”

He swallowed hard. “If you’re kidding about this to say, ‘I told you so,’ now would be a great time to stop.”

“What are you talking about?”

Panic surged inside. She wasn’t kidding. There was no “I told you so” coming. The past four months with Sarah had disappeared.

He grabbed the sides of his jeans and squeezed so hard his fingers hurt. In that moment he lost control and blurted out, “You have to remember us.”

“Us?”

“You and I are in love. Three days ago the last thing you said to me was, ‘Don’t go back to Seattle’ because you knew in your gut it was wrong. Tell me you remember!”

Mistake.

Big.

A sliver of fear flitted in Sarah’s eyes, but he couldn’t stop.

“You said don’t go, that it would be a horrible mistake. I said it would be okay and obviously it wasn’t, but I won’t let that take away what we had. We’ve built so much—”

“Okay, you know what, Micah?” Sarah glanced at the people passing by Osburn’s windows. “I’m thinking we should postpone our bike ride out to Indian Beach next week, and if we’re ever supposed to do anything together again, we’ll let Providence handle the details.”

Micah held up his hands in protest. “I know it sounds bizarre, but listen! We’ve been seeing each other very seriously for almost five weeks. I went back to Seattle to . . . and . . . things changed down here because of it, but now I’ve left Seattle to get my relationship with God back. Get you back.”

Sarah stared at him, her eyes full of fire.

“But it didn’t get back to the way it was down here. I don’t understand why. But I know I love you. I know we’re destined to be together.”

Sarah let out a low whistle and shuffled backward till she reached the back wall. “This is a small town. So avoiding each other completely is probably impossible. But when you see me, you’ll cross to the other side of the street. If you’re out to eat, you’ll check the tables to see if I’m there. If I am, you’ll turn around and come back in an hour and a half. If you’re on the beach and you see me, you’ll pretend you forgot to turn off your espresso machine and head back home. Do we understand each other?”

“Don’t do this, Sarah. I can talk you through it, help you remember.”

“You need medical help.”

“No, I need you. And you need me.” He pursed his lips together and closed his eyes. “Think back to that person you went on the bike ride with. That’s me. And we fell in love. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

“And I’m supposed to pretend it did because you’re delusional? Maybe this fantasy stuff works in your world, but in mine two people actually have to get to know each other without acting like they came from Jupiter before they can fall in love. Get out. Now!”

Micah stood still as perspiration wound its way down his back while he pleaded with his eyes for her to believe him.

She walked to the windows. “There are plenty of people right outside who could make your life uncomfortable if you insist on making more of a scene than you already have. Unless you get out right now, I’ll shout loud enough to break the glass.”

Micah swallowed and left without a word.

The jingle of the bells on the door as he stepped onto the sidewalk seemed to come from a distance. He stumbled south down Main Street and turned right at the end of the block headed for the beach. Micah held it together till he reached the edge of the water, where he emptied his stomach onto the damp sand.

He’d given up Seattle, all of it, and returned to what?

He stood and staggered toward Haystack Rock. Enough twilight remained for it to stand out as a looming shadow against the sky.

“Where are You, God?” Micah yelled.

The roar of the waves was the only answer. Micah felt more alone than he’d ever been. God was more distant than before he’d first come to Cannon Beach, and Sarah was gone.

He dug in his pocket, wrenched out the new cell phone he’d picked up earlier in the day, and punched in Rick’s home phone number.

C’mon, be there!

Little hope remained as he listened to one, two, three rings. Even if Rick was there, how much of their relationship had been wiped out? Two months? Three? The whole thing? The fourth ring turned into Rick’s recorded voice.

“Hi, this is Rick, sorry I’m not here. But we’ll talk soon if you care to leave a message.”

“It’s Micah Taylor. Call me, please. The number is—”

“Hello.”

“Rick?”

“Yes?”

“Micah Taylor.”

“I think I know your voice by now.” Rick chuckled.

“So you haven’t forgotten me?”

“No.”

“None of it?”

“Nope.”

Relief showered him. To be sure, he asked when they’d talked last.

“The Fireside restaurant just a few days ago, and we talked about choice. You chose Seattle.”

“Sarah doesn’t remember any of it. Her last memory of us was our first dinner at my house!”

“You made a choice, Micah. You sowed, and now you’re reaping.”

“English. I need it in English.”

“No you don’t. As strange as the past five-plus months have been, deep down you know what has happened, what the King has been doing with the two lives you’ve been living. He has shown you the paths your choices will take you. The Seattle path and the Cannon Beach path.”

“I have chosen! I came back.”

“Now you face the final choice between the two worlds and the consequences of your final choice.”

“It’s not that simple. I need you to explain how I’ve been living the events of two separate lives. I remember parts of a life I never lived as clearly as the one I did live. I need you to explain how huge chunks of Seattle can be wiped out, then return, then disappear, then return in a mutated form! I need—”

“No,” Rick interrupted, his voice sharp. “You need to seek the King with all your heart. All your mind. All your soul. All your strength. He is sovereign, and He is most certainly in control.”

“That’s it? That’s what you’re leaving me with? You’re the only one who seems to understand both lives.”

“Seek the King.”

“I need more than that—”

“Seek the King, Micah.”

“That’s not enough!”

“Seek Him.”

Micah snapped his cell phone shut and filled the night with a guttural moan. He had never been so empty. Seek the King? He’d tried! No sense of God, no peace, only his shredded life for an answer.

When he got home, night had fallen. He hadn’t left any lights on, and the house felt like an ominous mountain he was about to tunnel into.

After flipping on lights all over the ground floor, he poured a Diet Coke, stepped out onto the deck, and replayed every moment from the past week as he stared at the stars. The voice told him he could have both Seattle and Cannon Beach, that he should go back to Seattle.

The voice.

His voice.

The bottom of Micah’s glass dented the redwood railing as he slammed his drink down. He strode toward the dark room, his heart pounding.

CHAPTER 40

Micah ripped open the door and leaped into the dark room. “I want answers!”

“Hey, buddy, how are you?” the voice said.

“Swell.”

“It is a time of turmoil.”

“Nice understatement,” Micah muttered. “You were so wrong.”

“No, Micah, you were. You made the wrong choice.”

“No kidding, Einstein. And you pushed me into it.”

“No, I didn’t. You’re talking about the choice to go to Seattle. I’m talking about the choice to return to Cannon Beach.”

“What?” Micah cocked his head. “Are you insane?”

“I said go to Seattle, get our life back, and stay there for at least six weeks! Not come back after three days.”

“Don’t use that against me. My relationship with Sarah vanished. My relationship with the Lord vanished—the two most important things in my life. And you’re telling me I should have stayed?”

“Yes.”

“This ought to be stellar.” Micah folded his arms.

“First, Sarah. You want to spend your life with her. Is that your plan or His? The Word says we must forsake mother, father, brother, sister. If Sarah is more important to you than following God, then you are not worthy to put your hand to the plow. We need to let her go.”

“Sorry, I don’t buy it. The Lord brought us together. Sarah even said the Holy Spirit told her about it years ago.”

“I believe Sarah was called into our life. But for a season. To give us the chance to choose God over her in the end. We are called to obey. Not to question. Remember, Micah, I’m you, so this is as painful to me as it is to you.”

“Where’s your pain?” Micah slumped against the wall and slid down to the carpet.

“I am you, but a different part. I more easily separate logic from emotion so we can see clearly.”

“I don’t see clearly?”

“When you allow fear to creep in, no. Like right now. The loss of Sarah is blinding you to the fact that God is in this. That He has another out there for you. Fear and faith cannot exist together. The questions and doubts always come down to faith in the end. And what good is our faith without sacrifice? And this is a sacrifice God has asked us to make in order to be fully His.”

“Sacrifice?” Micah slammed his fist into the wall behind him and stood. “I’ve given up my company, my career, my awards, my condo, my money, my fame, and you say that’s not enough? I have to sacrifice Sarah, the one thing left on this earth that means anything to me? And I have to sacrifice my relationship with God?”

Micah turned to walk out, then stopped. “The moment I crossed the city limits back into Seattle, God vanished. Since then my prayers have slammed into a ceiling an inch above my head. Yeah, sure, that makes perfect sense. The Lord is asking me to sacrifice my relationship with Him for Him!”

When Micah finished, sobs seeped toward him out of the darkness. “I know it’s hard, so hard. Feeling so distant from God. But we cannot rely on feelings, only on truth. He is taking us through a dry time now to see if we will still choose Him, still choose the hard path even when we can’t sense His presence nearby. This is our desert time, and we must not turn back to the pretend comfort of a mirage but keep walking the straight-and-narrow path through the wasteland to the true oasis God has designed for us.”

“You know, I’m finished with your ornate oratory. Just say what comes next.”

“Start over.”

“What does that mean?” Micah again sank down the wall into the thick carpet.

“Go back to Seattle. Stay this time, even if RimSoft is completely gone. Build another company, this time for the right reasons. Not your outcome but one with eternal impact.”

“Impossible. I’m done with that life.”

“With God all things are possible.” The voice paused and cleared his throat. “Besides, there is a small part of you that isn’t done with that life. That still wants it. We can fan that ember into a flame again.”

It was true. Images of the European and tropical trips filled his mind. The restaurants in Spain, the beaches in French Polynesia, the awards, the interviews on national TV, the money to buy anything he wanted.

“The world needs you to start that new company. Think of the lives you could touch with the message of truth.”

“This is where I want to be.”

“We are to deny ourselves and pick up our cross daily.”

“You exhaust me and offer nothing but confusion. I need clarity.” Micah stood and walked out, slamming the door with enough force to knock a picture in the hallway off the wall. He didn’t bother to pick it up.

||||||||

The next morning Micah ran down to Hug Point and back to clear the confusion swirling around him.

No help.

After he finished his run, he showered, then pushed through the first two chapters of Galatians in his Bible.

Dust.

As he finished cleaning up his breakfast dishes, he glanced at the cordless phone in the kitchen. What if the voice was right about RimSoft being completely gone? He had no delusions it would bring good news, but he couldn’t stop himself from dialing that familiar number.

The third ring had just started when the receptionist chirped, “RimWare, what can I do to make your day better right now?”

Micah rolled his eyes. He never would have let anyone answer the phone with something so trite. “Human Resources, please.”

“Of course. One moment, please.”

He started pacing after ten seconds. At a minute and a half a male voice squeaked, “May I help you?”

“Hi, my name is Allen Vorreiter from Norwest Medical, and I need to verify the employment status of one of your workers.”

“Norwest Medical? Yeah, okay. Who?”

“Micah Taylor. Just need to know what department he works in.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Uh, yeah, hang on.”

After an intolerably long forty-five seconds, Human Resources Guy coughed out, “You don’t happen to know what department he works in, do you?”

“That’s what I was hoping to find out from you.” Micah gritted his teeth.

“That’s right!” The guy snorted. “Sorry. Be back in a sec.”

Micah wandered into the living room and watched the waves thunder onto the beach as he waited for an answer. Two minutes later he had it.

“Sorry, I went through everything in the database, and then I even flipparooed through the hard copies. You sure he works here?”

Micah’s eyes closed as his head slumped onto his chest.

“Hey, are you there? Is that all you wanted to know?”

“That’s it.”

He dialed another number, then another. Seven minutes of calls confirmed there wasn’t a shred left of his Seattle life. He called his bank, his CPA, his insurance agent, his condo association. None of them had ever heard of Micah Taylor. Nothing was left. No home, no company, no money.

What remained? A gorgeous mansion on the ocean with huge yearly taxes and no way to pay for it. He had no income. No Sarah. No career. No direction. No relationship with the Lord. Nothing. Utterly and completely nothing.

Is this what God wanted?

Now what? If Seattle no longer existed, what life was he living? He slumped onto his couch in front of the fireplace and dialed one more number.

“Taylor residence. Daniel speaking.”

“Hey, Dad.”

“Well, hello, son.”

“I have to ask some questions about the past six years that might seem a little strange.”

“Since, in my opinion, many of your choices since college have been a bit off, I don’t think any question you pose will surprise me.”

Micah got up and walked over to his picture windows, head in hand. “What have I been doing since college?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question.” His dad sighed. “Aren’t you still trying to figure out a way to make a decent income?”

“I’m not in software?”

“Always thought that’s where you’d end up. And”—his dad cleared his throat—“and I, uh . . . when you didn’t, I . . . I just want to say . . . Well, I probably could’ve handled things a little better over the past six years.”

Micah slumped to the carpet. Was his dad saying he was sorry? Was it possible?

“Yeah, well I could have—”

“So were there any other questions?”

It was obvious from his dad’s tone that his landing on the tarmac of apology was only for an instant.

“I just want to get a handle on what I’ve been doing with my life and figure out what I’m going to do with this mansion down here and—”

“Mansion? Did someone buy you a winning lotto ticket?”

“I told you about this house six months ago.”

“Six months, eh? Let me consult my journal.”

As he listened to his dad turning pages, Micah’s fingers grew white due to the stranglehold he was giving the phone.

“No, son. If you’d inherited a home down on the coast, I would have made some notes about it.”

“C’mon, Dad. Your uncle Archie had it built for me.”

“Archie? Nuttier than a fruitcake.”

“We’ve been over that.”

“Is that all you wanted?”

“Where have I lived for the past six years?” Micah stood and walked out onto his deck and let the wind pummel his hair.

“You don’t remember where you’ve lived?”

Micah closed his eyes and lied. “I know where I’ve lived. I just want to hear you say it.”

“Strange question. I have to ask why.”

Micah stepped out on a plank he’d never been on before. “No, Dad, you don’t. You want to ask why because you have to have all the details of everything in the entire universe at your fingertips at every moment of your existence and under your control. This time I’m asking you to humor me and tell me where I’ve lived since college with no explanation of why I’m asking.” Micah swallowed. “Please.”

The only sound was the slight hum in the phone line and the swish of the wind racing through the trees.

“You’re right; I’m . . . I shouldn’t always . . . I’ve . . .” His dad clucked his tongue three times. “You lived with me for two months right after college. Then in Bandon, Oregon, for a year and a half. Then Newport, Oregon, almost four and a half years. Now Cannon Beach for just over a year.” He cleared his throat three times before going silent. “And, uh . . . I’m . . . What I mean is, I’m sorry for butting in and for . . . sorry.”

Micah’s body went limp. “Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. Really, I mean it. Thanks.”

Silence.

“You’re welcome, Micah.”

He hung up and plopped onto a deck chair, stunned. His dad had said the words. It wasn’t his imagination. He’d said it: “I’m sorry.” A miracle. Maybe not on the level of the loaves and fishes, but for him it was close. And he’d called him Micah. Not son. Micah.

A flicker of hope toward his dad darted through his heart, almost too ethereal to accept. He pushed the thought aside and wondered what he’d been doing in Bandon and Newport for the past six years.

His focus turned to the surf smattering around two towering rocks that sat a hundred yards offshore, a haven for seagulls and sea lions in repose. It reminded him of something. The painting!

He sprinted to the room, heart pounding.

When Micah reached the door, he hesitated. What if it hadn’t changed? And even if it had, it wouldn’t explain the madness blowing through his life. He’d prayed multiple times, asking to know the meaning of the painting and how it tied into his two realities. There were no answers.

But still, it drew him like a magnet, and he continued to believe it was the key to unlocking the ambiguity his life had become.

Micah stole a quick breath, stepped into the room, and gasped. He saw the change instantly: the home was just a few brush strokes from being finished.

It was his home, standing on his bluff, overlooking his stretch of beach.

Why hadn’t he seen it till this moment?

As the painting had developed, there had been enough similarities between it and his own stretch of beach to make him wonder, but not enough to be sure. Somehow the painter had used a perspective of his beach that didn’t make it obvious. Now he understood why. The image was reversed, a mirror of his house and the beach in front of it.

The edge of the bluff stood slightly higher and narrower in the painting, but it was his bluff. The mountains in the background were higher and held fewer trees, but they were his. The waves were thicker, richer, more powerful, but it was the surf he’d grown to cherish.

But there were no subtle differences about his home. The closer he looked, the more detail he saw. Even the way the light played on the windows was intricate and exactly the way it looked when he came back from his early morning runs.

He’d taken photos of the house from the beach, even enhancing the colors with Photoshop to make the picture more vibrant. But those photos didn’t touch the richness here.

Why had he been chosen as the one person to see this masterpiece?

An hour, maybe two, and it would be finished. When?

He longed to know the artist, be immersed in the knowledge of how waves could be made so lifelike, mountains so majestic, the home so lifelike.

For more than an hour Micah sat and soaked in the painting, until a melancholy feeling settled over him. The changes were exhilarating, but they revealed nothing as to why his life had disintegrated.

After dinner he sat in his favorite overstuffed leather chair, Archie’s next letter resting on his 501s. Micah had avoided reading the letter earlier in the week as the last few had been portents of devastating circumstances. But where else could he turn? Rick had all but abandoned him; Sarah and Micah didn’t exist in this current reality; and the voice? He sighed. The voice was batting below .100.

He held the envelope up to the golden light that came from the lamp next to his chair. “Lord, if You’re anywhere near Cannon Beach, have Archie give me some hope.”

CHAPTER 41

November 24, 1992

Dear Micah,

Soon it will be time for you to confront your greatest foe—your villain—face-to-face. It will be just you and him, confronting one another in a fierce battle for truth and freedom. Ah, but Micah, the good news is, it will not be just you and him. For as the Scriptures tell us, greater is He who is in you, than he who is in the world. In the strength you possess alone, there is no hope of victory. But with Him, as the apostle Paul says, we are more than conquerors.

The King of the universe is inside of you. You are in Him. As it says in the epistle to the Romans, if God is for you, who can be against you? Put on the full armor of a saint of God and swing the sword of the Spirit with all your might.

I am proud of you, Micah. Fight the good fight, and may the Spirit of the living God protect you on the right and on the left, as you come and as you go.

Courage,

Archie

P.S. If you have been counting, you must realize that at this point in our journey together, only two letters remain for you to read. Instead of waiting two more weeks to finish them, please open the next one the day after tomorrow and the last one four days after that. I will see you then.

Micah set down the letter. Was Rick the villain? C’mon. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling it was the mechanic.

And he had to fight? He shook his head and stared at the ocean. So much thunderous power in the waves, yet untapped. So much power in the Lord, yet untapped. But it didn’t give him any hope. He didn’t know how to fight this kind of battle.

||||||||

Micah woke at 5:30 the next morning and headed for Cape Lookout, a headland fifty miles south of Cannon Beach. There he would rip the emotions from his heart and lay them all out. He’d wrestle with the question of what to do with his life, away from the house, away from the voice, away from Rick—away from everything.

He’d heard the cape was spectacular. It jutted a mile and a half straight out into the ocean, five hundred feet above the waves. Apparently it gave dazzling views. Miles to the north, impressive Tillamook Head was visible. Looking south, the sand dunes of Cape Kiwanda could be seen on cloudless days. The Internet said massive spruce and hemlock trees hovered above an emerald green understory of salal, sword ferns, and salmonberry bushes.

He pulled into the parking lot a bit past 6:45. Not surprisingly his was the only car, and his shoulders relaxed. He didn’t want to meet anyone on the trail, and an early start would give him a sizable chunk of time alone, even if others started the hike after him.

A light mist drifted down on his windshield as he stepped out of his car and grabbed his day pack. When he reached the trailhead thirty seconds later, the rain came down in sheets. Micah smiled. Excellent. It would probably stop others from making the hike.

Fifty yards down the trail, the tree cover blocked out most of the rain, and his Mariners baseball hat handled the rest. The trail morphed from hard pack into black mud in spots but overall it was firm, and he clipped along at a fast pace.

He didn’t know why getting to the end of the cape in rapid fashion held such importance. But it did. So he plowed into the two-and-a-half-mile hike and only stopped once, to look at a memorial plaque commemorating the crew of a B-17 plane that crashed into the cape in 1943.

Three-quarters of the way into his trek, the clouds parted and the sun broke through with such strength Micah took off both his jacket and his sweatshirt. The sun shone through the raindrops hanging off the leaves, creating diamonds everywhere he looked. The steam rising off the fallen logs looked like tendrils of smoke and made it seem as if an unseen fire burned somewhere on the forest floor.

The beauty on the outside softened the turmoil inside, if only slightly.

Finally the thick Sitka spruce parted, and he stood five hundred feet above the Pacific Ocean. The coastline from where he’d come still sat in a shroud of fog right up to where the surf and the beach met.

It was as if Cape Lookout were singled out to receive the sun’s blessing while the rest of the coast was regulated to sit in the grayness of an encompassing cloud. It should have been a perfect setting to figure out where his life would go from here. But it wasn’t, because unbelievably, someone crashed down the trail behind him.

He didn’t expect to know them, let alone know them well.

Rick.

Loathing swept through Micah, and a thought slammed into his mind as clear as any he’d ever had.

Enemy.

Rick stopped twenty yards away and didn’t speak. His usual smile had flown, no hint of the typical laughter in his eyes. His being here was wrong.

Villain.

He glared at Rick, disgust joining Micah’s anger. There was no rationale for the feelings. Rick was the one person in the world who could help him work through the devastation his life had become. But logic had vanished. He could only react to emotions pumping through him.

Micah’s lips parted slightly, his teeth ground together, his eyes never leaving Rick’s.

Rick returned the defiant stare with an intensity Micah had never seen. And Rick’s body seemed different: taller, broader. The way the sun bounced off his clothes made it look like light came from inside him.

Micah couldn’t hold Rick’s gaze and dropped his eyes.

Rick took three strides forward and spoke with an authority that startled Micah. “Freedom is waiting to burst forth in you, Micah. You must not quench it.”

Anger surged like flashes of lightning inside him, and he had no idea how to rein it in. But he didn’t want to. It felt good. Very good.

“What gives you the right to tell me anything?” He hurled his pack to the ground. “You’ve done nothing but assist in destroying my life!”

“You’ve been listening to lies.” Rick took another step forward.

“Lies? Really? Your lies maybe?”

“You know what lies.”

“What are you talking about?” He turned his back and glared at the ocean.

“The voice.”

Micah whirled back. “I’ve never told you about—”

“The voice in your house? No, you haven’t.” Rick took another two strides forward. A large rock shattered into dust as his foot came down on it.

“You’ve been spying on me?”

“Why haven’t you told me?” Rick’s eyes flashed like steel.

“What gives you the right to demand that of me?”

“Why haven’t you told me?” Rick took another step forward.

“So that’s what our relationship is about? Me describing every intricate detail of my entire life? And what has it gotten me? Since I met you, my life has been destroyed. I’ve lost everything!”

Rick took another two steps forward, and the ground seemed to shake. “Ask yourself, why didn’t you tell me? So many times you’ve wanted to.” His voice thundered. “What held you back?”

“You know what’s going on with my life but won’t tell me. Now you show up here without warning and start attacking with some feeble courtroom cross-examination about what I have or haven’t told you.”

As Micah spoke, an invisible chasm split the ground between Rick and him. He couldn’t see it, but it was as real as the cape they stood on. Physically they weren’t more than five yards apart. In all other ways it was miles.

“You feel it right now, don’t you?” Rick said. “We can’t see it, but it is definitely there. Pushing us away from each other. Dividing us. Stirring up rage in you. You know in your heart I’m your intimate ally, but something is speaking to you right now, fanning the flame of evil emotion, telling you not to trust me. And you’re listening.” One more step toward him.

“You are the villain!”

“Now is the moment where you must make your choice. Right now. The truth or lies.” Rick took three more steps. His eyes never left Micah. Rick was now just six feet away. “There is a battle for your destiny in this moment, and you must decide whom to believe.”

“The same exact words my voice said to me!” Micah spat out.

“Yes, the exact words. Freedom is fighting for you, but you must make the choice. He cannot make it for you.”

“Why don’t you make it for me? The man with all the answers. The man with the truth.”

“Fight it, Micah. This is not you. It is the sin that dwells within you talking. Seek the truth!”

Micah heaved a tree branch over the edge of the cape and watched it float down toward the waves. It would be so easy to follow the branch down to the ocean.

“Don’t listen. The Lord is a sword and shield. Call on Him,” Rick said.

“I’m tired of it. Archie, Sarah, you, the voice—everyone has a different angle, a different spin for my life.”

“In the Truth there is no spin.”

“Whose truth? Tell me, O Enlightened One!” Micah spewed. “Which voice is the final voice? Which one is the authority over all the others, huh? I’m ready.”

If his attempt to goad Rick had any effect, it didn’t show.

“In the end only one Voice matters.”

“What a surprise. Exactly what Archie’s letter said. But wake up. When I listen to my voice, it contradicts everything you and Archie say. It sends me back to Seattle where I lose Sarah and even lose God. But a minute ago you slammed my voice and slammed me for not telling you about him. Now I’m supposed to listen to it? Makes perfect sense.”

“As bright as you are in your natural mind, the enemy has greatly dulled your wisdom in your spirit.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The voice in your house is not the one you must listen to.”

“What?” He stared at Rick.

“It is not a part of you in any way.”

Rage and fear had mixed inside, anger the more dominant emotion. But now fear grew exponentially as his anger seeped away like a retreating wave. In desperation he tried to recapture the fury that had fueled his battle with Rick.

“And where is the truth, O Great and Holy Rick? Where is this voice I should listen to?”

“In you.”

“Oh, really?” Micah locked his arms across his chest and kicked a rock over the side of the cape. “Inside sinful Micah, huh?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, son. Sin dwells in you, yes. If a man says he does not sin, the truth is not in him. But you forget, man is also the dwelling place of God. The heart is the temple of the Holy Spirit, the living God.”

Rick’s eyes bored into Micah’s. “You don’t have to go outside yourself to find the answer. You don’t have to listen to me, or Archie, or Sarah. And you don’t have to ask a voice living in utter darkness inside your house. You need to listen to the Spirit of God that makes His home inside you. That is the one true Voice. Go there now and ask the question. Now.”

Micah wanted to lash out at Rick with the last of his fading anger. A thought screamed through his mind: Push Rick over the side!

“You lie. My voice has been with me every step of this journey and has again and again given me perspective and insight I would never have seen without him.”

“He has deceived you. Time and again.”

Instantly the voice filled Micah’s mind: Everything with Rick ends in pain. He’s trying to control you, destroy you. Resist him!

Rick stepped forward. “The Word says, ‘Take every thought captive to the obedience of Christ.’ You have to fight the thought attacking you right now.”

Micah didn’t want to fight. Despair hammered him to his knees, and he pulled in ragged breaths.

Why fight this? He could just get out of here and clear his head. That’s what he came to do, not debate this clown.

The thoughts peppered his mind like machine-gun fire.

Get away from him! He is the villain. You know that!

He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and whispered, “Lord, if You’re here, I need help.”

Immediately the thoughts stabbing at him like a knife vanished. He leaned against a boulder and buried his head in his hands.

“It is time,” Rick said.

“For?”

“Surrender. Complete surrender.”

“I have.”

“No. Not all. You’ve never fully surrendered all that you are to Jesus. You must give Him everything. Nothing less is enough.”

“Tell me how,” Micah whispered.

“Seek Him now, in this moment, with all your heart, all your mind, all your soul, all your strength. Die to everything you’ve ever dreamed, ever wanted, ever hoped for. I’ll be warring for you in prayer as you seek the truth.” Rick walked fifteen yards back toward the trail and disappeared behind a grove of spruce trees.

The last bubbles of anger inside Micah popped as Rick’s footsteps faded. Micah was done fighting. But who was right? The answers were nowhere and everywhere.

What had Rick said? The answer was in his own heart because God’s Spirit was there. If only it were that simple. He sighed. Where else could he turn?

“Jesus, all of it. You can have all of it. I surrender everything I am or ever hope to be. My hopes, dreams, Seattle, Cannon Beach, Sarah . . . everything. Talk to me.”

Waves of peace filled him instantly. All doubt vanished, and he knew without hesitation, without reservation, that above all else God loved him with a passion he couldn’t comprehend. How long Micah sat in this tornado of love he didn’t know.

It stopped when a verse sprang into his mind like a lighthouse out of the blackest night. “The word of God is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit.”

Exactly what was happening to him right now. His soul, mind, will, and emotions knew what was happening while his spirit experienced a depth of union with God he had never encountered. Too deep for words.

“Show me the truth,” Micah said.

His body shuddered as the answer flashed through his spirit and his mind at the same time with such clarity it made him gasp. The voice is not you.

“Then who is it?”

The thief comes to kill, steal, and destroy, but I have come to bring life abundant.

A waterfall of joy pounded up out of Micah with such force he didn’t know if he would survive. Infinite power, yet only an infinitesimal amount of God’s strength.

I give streams of living water.

And still the waterfall grew in strength, overflowing into his soul, his mind, his body. He fell onto his back, his arms spread wide, immersed in love beyond words and too much to hold in.

“Abba!” Micah screamed. Then more words poured out of his spirit beyond his understanding, and the waterfall became an ocean, and he drowned in the love of the One who loved him. All sense of time vanished as he was buried in sweet freedom.

When he opened his eyes, the shadows told him his deep communion had lasted hours. He stood and wiped the last of the tears from his eyes.

Rick sat, elbows on his knees, on a slab of granite twenty yards away with a smile so wide it drowned out the rest of his face. His eyes burst with delight, and Micah broke into hearty laughter as he ran to meet him. Rick grabbed him in a massive bear hug that Micah returned with all his strength.

“Thank you, Rick. Thank you,” was all he could say.

They walked together in silence to the end of the cape and watched the white-flecked surf and the seagulls ride the currents hundreds of feet below. Micah wished he could freeze the moment. He was known by God, and this God—who had created the universe and all it contained, lived inside him.

On the hike back to their cars, Micah said, “I’ve gotta confront the voice.”

“Yeah.” Rick nodded. “You do. Now.”

CHAPTER 42

Micah touched the door to the dark room with his forefinger; it swung open silently. The same familiarity was there—and something else. A dense, palpable tension. Micah wondered why he’d never felt it before. There had always been a lingering doubt if the voice was truly himself. But never the fluttering sense of dread that poured out of the room now. Fear. Pungent. Dark.

“‘Greater is He who is in you than he who is in the world,’” Micah quoted. He stepped through the doorway. The blackness didn’t grow darker. It just seemed like it did.

“Hello, Micah.”

“Hello, voice.”

“You’ve been listening to lies.”

“Yes, you’re right. I have.”

“Ah, so you’ve come back to the truth. That is good. So very good.”

“I’ve realized something,” Micah said.

“What is that?”

“Many claim to have the truth. But there is only one Truth.”

“Go on.”

“I have a question.”

“Fine. That is why we’re here for each other. To ask the questions, find the answers, and press forward together, stronger and freer.”

“Do you acknowledge that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh and is from God? And is God?”

The voice didn’t answer for a long time. “We are the same, Micah. I am you, and you are me. You know this. Why are you testing yourself? Once and for all put the doubt to rest and let us embrace each other as the brothers we are. Are you not freer now? Have I not guided you and helped you in your journey?”

A small part of Micah believed it. Accepted it. Wanted it to be true. It seemed right, comforting. The voice spoke again, this time only in his mind as it had on the cape.

Rest, Micah. Put doubt and battle behind you. It has only served to weary you. Where is the peace of God in all that? Come away with me. Let us rest together. Rest. Sweet peaceful rest.

He knew this voice. He’d heard it as far back as he could remember.

It continued chattering in his mind, enticing him as it had his entire life. Micah lifted his hands to his head and massaged his temples. “Lord,” he whispered, “come into this. I need truth. I can’t do this. I need Your strength.”

The voice stopped, and a soft coolness washed over Micah.

Then another Voice came, gentle, powerful. Not from the room or inside his mind. From his heart. He gasped at the contrast. The distinction between his own familiar voice and this Voice was like white hot fire next to the coldest ice.

Go. Battle. I am with you.

Micah didn’t hesitate. He took two steps directly into the inky darkness and spoke with power. “Say it. Jesus Christ is the Son of God Most High and has come in the flesh. Say it.” Another step forward, now shouting into the ocean of darkness. “Jesus Christ is Lord!”

Immediately an intense heat filled the room, the smell of sulfur filled his nose, and a low buzz started directly in front of him. It changed to a guttural snarl almost too faint to hear before it abruptly stopped.

The fear in the room became physical, pounding him, intent on grinding him into the carpet. But it wasn’t carpet anymore. He stood on a floor of massive flat stones, ice cold, that reached out with tentacles of pain, piercing, winding their way into the soles of his feet.

Micah’s tongue was thick as he spoke again. “Jesus is Lord. His cross is between us. I bind you by His power. His authority. Given to me by Him and His Father, the host of angel armies.”

The snarl returned, louder, longer this time before it again snapped off.

A razor-thin beam of light passed in front of Micah like a windshield wiper across a dirty window. In that flash a silhouette materialized like a black panther emerging from the dead of night.

Utter evil.

The light grew.

He saw the outline of a chair, black wrought-iron with ornate carvings on it.

In it sat the demon, a pinprick circle of black in the center of its pure white, unblinking, dead eyes—its ashen gray lips turned up ever so slightly in a sneer of confidence.

Its face was stunning.

Beautiful.

And horrific.

Chiseled cheekbones and thick, pitch-black hair swept straight back from a perfect forehead, above a perfect nose.

Its skin was a pallid gray, lips a shade darker, eyebrows matching the midnight tone of his hair. Its grotesque beauty stirred something inside Micah—drew him.

Revolting.

Captivating.

“Jesus,” Micah whispered. As the word came out of his mouth, an intricate series of thin, black scars started at the demon’s hairline and spiraled down its cheeks, down over his perfect chin, twisting and circling along his throat till they disappeared into a black, skin-tight long-sleeved gauze shirt.

A second later the scars vanished.

Its rancid eyes flitted around the room as if its gaze could stop the darkness from lifting, then settled back on Micah.

Micah couldn’t move. The reality of a demon sitting only ten feet away paralyzed him. His mind froze, and blood pulsed in his head as the demon’s thoughts echoed in his head.

Death.

Excruciating pain.

“Lord, help,” Micah whispered.

A flicker of peace. Only a flicker.

“I will destroy you for presuming to challenge me, Micah Taylor.” The demon drew the words out, then licked his perfect lips with a black tongue. “To throw that name at me like a weapon? No mercy now. No mercy.” The demon sat back in its chair, and although its mouth didn’t move, a shriek rang in Micah’s mind, and his stomach felt like it was being torn by a jagged blade.

Micah cried out in pain.

“That is nothing compared to what is coming.” The demon crossed its legs.

“Jesus. I need You here. I need help.”

The peace increased, as did the demon’s attack.

“I will crush you. Destroy you and everything and everyone you hold dear.” The demon spoke each word slowly, quietly with a guttural voice, supremely confident. “Annihilation is your destiny now.”

Each word pressed into Micah’s chest and tunneled into his heart.

“Your supposed king will not, cannot, help you. You have built a fortress for me stone by stone that I will not leave. Ever. You have made agreements giving me the right to your very life. But I will give you one chance for survival. Surrender to me now and live. Give up your pretend religion, and I will show you true might, true power, true dreams.”

The demon breathed through its teeth, then silence. When it spoke again, its voice was honey. “Who do you think brought you your fame? Your fortune? The favor of the world? And what do you have now by following this pretend king? You said it yourself, not less than a day ago. Nothing. But surrender now, and I can bring it all back. All of it. You have my word.”

Micah’s mind flooded with images of the power and money he’d had and of the people who clamored for him. A life part of him longed for again.

“I can feel it. You want those things to return. Why wouldn’t you? You’ve not forgotten your dreams. You’ve tried to bury them, but they remain. Return to them. The tangible ones. Not some fairy tale, romantic religious fantasy hollow down to the core. And that’s not all. Far, far from it.” Its voice, so smooth, like water in a summer pond easing down into a stream, drew him in. “I can even bring back Sarah.”

Micah gasped.

“Yes. Yes. You’ll be with her again. All your times together back in her memory. It can be done in an instant. Just surrender. Sweet surrender.”

Could it be true? Could the demon make it happen?

“Yes, Micah. I can make it happen. Instantly. Surrender to me.”

He pictured her running up to him, burying herself in his arms. Yes. He needed her. With her back—

“No! You lie. Not even Sarah is worth turning my back on my King. Get out of my head.”

“So be it.”

Instantly Micah’s lungs felt like they were being squeezed in a vise. Tighter. Tighter. He couldn’t breathe. Stars swam in his eyes and his throat constricted. Laughter played at the corners of the demon’s mouth. In seconds Micah would black out.

“Yes, my dear friend. You are about to die.”

“Jesus, help me,” he rasped with the last of his air.

Immediately the pressure on his lungs and throat vanished, and the demon’s gaze shifted to something behind Micah. Recognition flickered in its eyes, and the quiet, penetrating cadence it had been using changed to a snarl.

“What right do you have to come here now?” the demon spat out.

Micah turned. Rick stood in the doorway, his face unmoving, as if carved from marble. He said nothing in response but stepped forward till he stood beside Micah. Rick stared at the demon and fear flashed across its face.

“Turn now, Micah Taylor, or the destruction promised will fall on you.”

“I’m scared, Rick.”

“Look at its wrists,” Rick answered softly.

Micah looked at the demon’s wrists lying on the armrests. Two white cords, thick and rough, cut into its skin. The demon strained against them, but there wasn’t the slightest flexibility.

“You know you did that, don’t you?” Rick said.

Micah stared at the demon’s wrists and then back at Rick. The realization staggered him. He had done it, through his words, through Christ’s power in him.

“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood. . . . The weapons of our warfare are powerful, for the pulling down of strongholds, of principalities, and demonic forces in high places,” Micah said.

“Yes,” Rick said.

Even in the midst of the revelation of what he had done, fear swirled, searching for a crack. For a way into his heart.

“One last chance before you die,” seethed the demon.

“How do we get rid of it?”

“Send it to Jesus,” Rick said without emotion.

“No. You will not. Not there.” The demon tried to steady its quavering voice. “Listen to me, Micah. We can go to heights you’ve only imagined. Will you throw it away for nothing?” It screamed; its back arched, straining to be free of the chair.

“Don’t answer him, just send it.”

The demon writhed in the chair, an inky blackness oozing from its eyes and its wrists where it wrenched against the cords.

“Finish it, Micah.”

Micah clenched his jaw and stepped forward. “It’s over. I will never listen to your lies from the pit again. By His blood and His glory, go. Now!”

Micah shouted the last word with everything in him, and before its echo had died, the demon vanished. A moment later the chair was gone as well. A stench lingered a few seconds more, and then light filled the room along with the scent of wheat fields.

He walked forward to where the demon had sat, puzzled to see the white cords lying on the carpet. He bent down and reached out his forefinger to touch them. They were warm, and a faint white light circled them. He looked back at Rick who nodded slightly.

Micah picked them up and held one in each hand. Heavy. The warmth grew till the heat penetrated his entire body. They felt more solid and more real than anything he’d ever touched. Then they faded. Their color changed from white to the color of his skin before they sank into his palms, slowly at first, then more rapidly till they disappeared completely.

He turned to Rick, and they grabbed each other in a crushing embrace.

||||||||

Micah stood on the beach in front of his home and watched the last shards of the sun sink into the ocean. An older couple to his left lit their fire; to his right a young family packed up their plastic buckets and shovels and headed for the path up to the parking lot a quarter mile north of Micah’s home.

A hint of smoke from the campfire squiggled up to him; he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Yes.

“Thank You.” He opened his eyes to gaze at the sky above.

This day would be burned into his memory forever.

As he ambled back to his home, he pondered what the next few days would bring. Great things. He knew it. There was no doubt in his heart. Tomorrow he would rest. Monday he would open the second to last letter from Archie. It would take him to a place unimaginable.

CHAPTER 43

Monday morning Micah rose before the sun, a cup of coffee laden with hazelnut creamer in his right hand, Archie’s eighteenth letter in his left. He sat on his couch in front of his massive river-rock fireplace. After switching on the lamp next to the chair, he slipped a table knife under the lip of the light brown envelope and sliced it open.

November 25, 1992

Dear Micah,

The room has always been ready for you, and now you are ready for the room.

You know, of course, the room to which I refer.

1 Corinthians 3:16–17.

For eternity and His glory,

Archie

Micah stood in front of the door of the brilliant room only a moment before it opened on its own. Light streamed out in a flash flood of power, surrounding him like a tidal wave.

It was too much ecstasy to contain. He stepped into the room and froze. It was glorious and overwhelming. Bliss flooded his heart, spilled over, and didn’t stop. His mind said this place was too holy, too right, too pure for him. But his heart didn’t agree. Micah fell to the floor, stunned. He knew where he was.

He stood in the presence of God. Surrounded by Him.

And this room was his own heart.

His heart.

His.

The holy of holies. The place where the Spirit of God dwells within the hearts of men.

Rick said it yesterday on the cape. The verse in Archie’s letter confirmed it. Yet till that moment it had been words. Just words.

Tears came, a hidden well broken open. Deep, cleansing tears. Freedom. Forgiveness. Peace. Nothing could separate him from this unquenchable love. Nothing he could do would make this Spirit of God love him any less.

Utterly and relentlessly loved beyond all imagination.

He had entered into the holiest place in the universe. It was inside him. Because God was in him and he was in God. And He had been there all along.

After ages passed, Micah rose to his knees. Images flashed across the walls all around him: mountains, oceans, deserts, lakes, all in the most brilliant colors he’d ever seen. The images shifted; now they were of him running, flying, lying in an emerald field hundreds of miles across, his face bathed in elation.

He was a drop of water in the ocean of the universe. Microscopic in the vastness of time, space, and history. Caught up as if the ocean of that universe were pure delight pouring up out of him only to swirl back and bury him again in its intoxicating waves.

A framed parchment on the wall caught his eye:

Utterly engulfed,

And wanting more.

Buried,

Drowned,

Intoxicated,

With the vastness of Love.

Losing myself as the waves wash over me,

Through me,

Surrounding me,

Caught up in a hurricane of overwhelming peace,

I have let go,

And He has found me.

Micah didn’t leave the room till evening fell on Cannon Beach nearly nine hours later. He eased out to his deck, down the long set of stairs to the beach, and padded across the sand toward the surf.

Three teenagers laughed as they tossed their oval skimboards into the water at the edge of the ocean, leaped onto them, and floated across the thin water cushion.

The perfect visual.

Micah was floating and never wanted to land.

||||||||

A rare cloudless horizon filled his vision as Micah sat on his deck that night with strawberry lemonade in his hand. He sat without thought and without care, his only focus the waves caressing the darkening beach.

His cell phone vibrated, and he looked at the caller ID. His dad. Take it. Don’t take it. Take it. The choice ping-ponged through his head.

“Hello?”

“Micah, it’s Dad.”

“Not, it’s your ‘father’?”

His dad sighed. “I probably deserve that.”

“No, you don’t. Low blow. Sorry.”

Silence.

“How are you, son?”

“Good. Really good. And you?”

“Good.”

Again, silence.

“It’s good to hear your voice,” his dad said.

“Yours, too.” A small part of him meant it.

His dad cleared his throat three times.

“Micah . . . I know ever since your mom died I’ve caused you so much . . . I mean, a lot of . . .”

The line went still.

“What I’m trying to say is, I was just thinking about, you know . . . You see, I checked the Mariners’ schedule. We could—I could get us a pair of tickets to a game coming up in the next few weeks. Not that you’d want to drive up—”

Wow. Not what he’d been expecting. Not what he wanted. After all these years, he was supposed to run to his dad with open arms? Pretend everything was okay? Yeah, right. Forgive? Yes, he’d forgiven his father, but . . .

“I don’t know, Dad. I don’t think that’s going to work for me.”

“Not a problem. I understand. I didn’t think you’d be able to get away.” His dad coughed. “Maybe next season.”

Suddenly Micah’s body flushed with heat, and tears threatened to spill onto his cheeks. Love. Not his. God’s. He tried to sweep away the emotion that fluttered through his heart, but it wouldn’t leave. “Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Let me check my calendar and get back to you. I’ll make it work. I’ll be there.”

||||||||

As he went to sleep that night—more at peace, more whole than he’d ever been—Micah still couldn’t rid himself of one sliver of pain: Sarah.

There had to be a way back to her, but if there was a path, he couldn’t see it.

But it didn’t mean he would stop looking.

CHAPTER 44

A breeze dropped in from the north Thursday morning as Sarah and Rick strolled along the beach next to Haystack Rock. With the tide out, the pools around the rock were ringed with people poking at the jade green sea anemones and pointing at the purple-and-orange starfish clinging to the rocks.

Rick said he wanted to talk about something important but wouldn’t say any more than that.

“Do you think fathers give good advice?” Rick asked after they’d moved beyond the tide pools.

“Depends on the father.”

“Say I’m the father.”

Sarah laughed. “Are you saying you’re old enough to be my dad?”

“Many times over.”

“You look pretty good for being so ancient.” Sarah cocked her head toward Rick. “Yes, if you’re giving fatherly advice, I’ll definitely listen.”

Rick nodded. “Micah Taylor.”

Two boys raced by on recumbent beach bikes, sand kicking up behind their tires. She didn’t answer till they’d shrunk to specks, five hundred yards down the sand. “You’d need a very persuasive argument for me to have any involvement with Micah.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Sarah told him about the scene at Osburn’s the previous Thursday night, and Rick listened without comment. “I’ve gone out with guys who tell me they love me after the first date. Ones where the guy says five words to you the whole time and thinks he’s poured his heart out. Guys who talk about their conquests on the golf course like they’re Jack Nicklaus and ask zero questions about me. But I’ve never had someone pretend we were madly in love with each other after one dinner. After that dinner I thought it might go somewhere. But he has one too many bulbs burnt out in that house of his.”

Rick snagged a wayward Frisbee as it floated down in front of them. He spun it back to the thrower with a perfect toss. “If an intelligent, perceptive man like Micah tried to win your heart, would it make sense for him to pretend you were in love in a parallel life?”

“I’ll assume that’s a rhetorical question.”

“So then you have to consider the fact that his saying those things makes the story more plausible, not less.” Rick zipped open his Windbreaker.

“Unless he’s crazy.”

“Do you really think he’s crazy?”

She looked away and sighed. “He walks into my ice cream shop unannounced and proceeds to tell me that I need to fall in love with him because we were together in a parallel universe? That God has ordained it? That’s sanity?”

“Well, what if it was true?”

“What part?”

“That you were in love in a parallel life. That God brought you together.”

“This is the moment where I ask if you’re serious, and you nod your head and tell me absolutely, right?”

Rick nodded and smiled. “So here’s the fatherly advice. Give him another chance. Entertain the possibility, ever so slight, that he told you the truth. That there was another life where you fell in love, and the enemy is trying to steal it.”

Sarah hugged herself and blew out another long breath. “So I’m just supposed to believe some guy who seemed okay, more than okay at first, really is okay? I simply believe he’s not psychotic and skip off into the sunset with him?” She bent down and picked up a lone agate.

“Will you give him another chance?”

She didn’t answer.

“Sarah?”

She gave what she imagined was an imperceptible nod.

When Rick spoke again, his tone changed. “I need to tell you some things now that will surprise you. And might even change how you look at Micah.”

As they walked next to the rumble of the waves, she stared at Rick, eyes wide. When he finished, tears spilled down her face, and she buried herself in his chest.

||||||||

Thursday afternoon the phone rang as Micah stuck two pieces of wheat bread into his toaster. He decided not to answer it. Today needed to be a day of reflection. Alone. But a glance at caller ID told him it was Rick. Gotta take that one.

“Hello?”

“It’s Rick; we need to talk. In person.”

“About?”

“Soon.”

“No hints?”

“Best if there’s no prelims. Can you do it now?”

“Sure. Where?” Micah’s hand went to his stomach and squeezed. Something was wrong.

“How ’bout Oswald West State Park? It’s a gorgeous day, and we’ll probably be able to find some privacy there. This is a talk to have without an audience or interruption.”

“Sounds good.” But it didn’t sound good. It sounded like an omen. Why no audience? He stared at the phone and thought about the location. Oh, wow. Rick had given him a clue anyway.

He pulled onto the highway and nursed the speedometer up to sixty. As 101 South moved smoothly underneath him, the answer popped into his mind so abruptly he almost expected to hear a ding. He knew exactly what Rick would tell him. This would not be fun.

Micah hiked down to the cove trying to stretch time. With everything in him, he didn’t want this conversation. When he reached the sand, Rick was already there, sitting on a log about a hundred yards to the north.

For a few moments he watched his friend toss rocks into the surf. Micah’s shoes felt heavy as he trudged toward the log. He sat without speaking and continued to watch Rick toss wave-polished stones into the ocean.

“I’ve got to go now, Micah.”

The words hung in the air, and the silence stretched out. His friend’s voice had never sounded so serious and full of sorrow. Micah bent down and picked up two dry sticks. As he broke them into smaller and smaller pieces, he looked up. “What do you mean, go?”

But he knew what Rick meant. Somehow asking the question was a way to hold off the pain, if only for an instant longer.

“You know what I mean. I’m sorry.” Tears wound their way down both sides of Rick’s cheeks. They reflected Micah’s own.

“Now is the moment when you tell me who you are.”

“Yeah.” Rick threw another rock. “But I don’t really need to, do I?”

Micah shook his head.

The day at Cape Lookout when Rick had shown a sliver of his glory—the rock disintegrating under his foot, how he seemed to grow larger, light seeming to come off his body—all rushed back at him along with a dozen other clues from the past five and a half months. It all made sense now. Micah picked up a stick lying next to the log they sat on and drew lines in the sand.

“You were the man standing here, at the edge of the beach that day I almost drowned kayaking.”

“Yes.”

“You were there during my junior year of high school when I’d had enough of life and tried to drive off the edge of that cliff. You’re what stopped me.”

Rick nodded.

Micah blew out a long breath. “You’re in that picture with Archie at Chris Hale’s house, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

He knew the answer to the next question but wanted to ask it anyway. To make the moment complete by hearing the answer from Rick’s lips. He swirled his stick through the sand, watching the tiny grains part and then gather together again as the wood passed between them. “You’ve been with me since the day I was born, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” Rick waited a moment, then added, “I won’t stop being with you. It just won’t be in the same form.”

The reality of Rick’s words swirled through his mind, and Micah steadied himself against the log.

Rick, an angel. His angel. Archie’s angel while he was alive. The wonder of it circled Micah, lifted him, then slammed him down with the reality of Rick’s departure.

The last five and a half months spun through his mind like a DVD playing at thirty-two times normal speed. Conversations, runs on the beach, movies together. Coffee taking the edge off early foggy mornings, countless meals at Morris’s Fireside. Rick his confidant, mentor, and best friend.

Micah stayed silent, desperately hoping that if he didn’t speak, Rick would have to stay. Even if Micah had wanted to say something, what words would he use? He raised his head and stood. Rick was already standing and drew Micah up to his chest and squeezed hard.

“Don’t go.”

“I have to. It is time. But I’ll still be here.” He eased Micah away, his hands now on Micah’s shoulders, Rick’s eyes locked on his. “Who knows, maybe our destiny is to see each other face-to-face again before you step into eternity.”

“How can I live this life without you?”

Rick laughed his familiar, dancing laugh. “Walk with God. Listen to the Holy Spirit. You know His voice. You’ll come to know it better as you practice listening. And listen to your heart. It knows the truth, for as you know, that is where the temple is and where the King dwells.”

“Does Sarah know?”

“Yes.”

“When did you tell her? What did she say?”

“That’s for her to tell you, not me.”

“Does that mean she’s going to—?”

“Micah.”

“You gotta—”

“Micah,” Rick said again, slightly louder. “God is for you and He is sovereign. Trust Him.”

Micah watched in wonder as a faint, paper-thin light started to outline Rick’s body—the purest light Micah had ever seen.

As the light thickened, Rick turned his palms up and stretched his fingers as far as they could go. “I love you with the love of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” A grin split his face ear to ear in sharp contrast to the tears that streamed down his face.

Micah stepped back and the transformation quickened. Rick’s features changed from the ones Micah knew so well into the most handsome face he’d ever seen. The light around Rick expanded farther, and his body grew with the light till he stood at least ten feet tall and two men wide.

Micah couldn’t keep his eyes off Rick’s face. Love streaked out of it; tears and joy mixed together in a radiant display of glory. A few seconds more and the brilliance coming off Rick’s face became blinding, and Micah shut his eyes.

When he opened them, the beach was empty.

He slumped back onto the log and sobbed. Tears of sorrow for Rick’s going and of gratitude for the gift of his friendship. Finally tears of peace. Great pools of peace.

||||||||

The next morning Micah walked onto his deck as dawn fired golden light over the eastern mountains. The fog had retreated fifty yards off the beach and formed a wall of white. The sun lit it up, making it look like a giant movie screen made of cotton. The perfect setting. A blank screen to open Archie’s final letter in front of.

Strange to think the journey had ended and Micah wouldn’t be listening anymore to this remarkable man from his past who had become such a large part of his future. But in many ways the journey was still starting, and if he knew Archie, this last letter would be a doozie.

He opened the envelope, and a key dropped out: small, brass, and nondescript. He placed it gently on his deck’s pine picnic table and pulled the sharply creased letter free of the envelope.

Micah smiled. What a trip it had been. He owed Archie his life. He thanked God for the man yet again, slipped the edge of his thumb underneath a corner of the letter, and eased it open. He smoothed the creases three times before letting himself read the familiar penmanship that would go to his heart one last time.

December 23, 1992

Dear Micah,

Regretfully this is my last letter to you. Do you harbor that lament as much as I do? During the last few years, it has certainly been a joy putting my pen to paper with you in mind. If all has gone as I have hoped and prayed it would, then a number of extraordinary things have happened, not the least of which is you discovering the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in ways you never have before.

Has your heart surfaced? Are you listening? I know you are. Sobering, is it not? What most of us bury is the treasure we long for all our lives.

Was it worth it? You had the world and had almost given up your soul to get it. Now you have sold the world to gain back your soul, heart, and spirit. Was it a fair trade?

A grin burst onto Micah’s face. Fair? No. The trade was heavily leveraged in his direction. He had gained his life, the Kingdom, and a restored heart. All the favor spun his way.

Freedom, Micah, the Lord is always about freedom. Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty. If what you do brings freedom and life, it is most likely Christianity. If it doesn’t, it is probably religion, and there is already too much of that in the world.

However, you didn’t open this letter to hear another one of my sermons. You want to discover where and how your adventure concludes. I must disappoint you. I don’t know, only He does.

By now Rick has told you who he is, and I imagine he has left. I’m sorry. Everything has its ending.

One more surprise before I say farewell. Last week I drove down to Cannon Beach and paid for a safety deposit box at the Bank of Astoria. The key in the envelope will open it. Inside the box is another key, the one to your true heart’s desire.

Finally, please do not think your adventures into the supernatural are over. Hardly. No, this was just the introduction. I will see you on the other side.

Forever your great-uncle,

Archie

P.S. Some choices are irreversible and some cause irreversible change. Others are not and do not. Regarding Sarah, I have no answers. But we both know His will, and your destiny will not fail to be accomplished.

How did Archie know about Sarah? Right, what didn’t Rick tell Archie? Micah sat on his deck and turned the key in his hand over and over again wondering where Sarah was right now. And what time the Bank of Astoria opened. A quick visit to the Web told him 10:00.

He would be standing outside their door tomorrow at 9:59 a.m.

CHAPTER 45

He’d have answers in one minute and thirty-two seconds. Thirty-one. Thirty. At precisely 10:00 Micah pushed open the bank’s front door. It squealed like a pig at feeding time.

The Bank of Astoria was small but comfortable. There was a sitting area with cloth chairs to his right, a stand with a large stainless steel coffeepot and packets of Coffee-mate creamer to his left. Caffeine? No way. It would push him off the chart. The adrenaline in his veins had already given him the shakes. The key to his heart’s desire? Bring it on, Archie.

“Looks like you could use some WD-40 on that door,” he said with a smile to an elderly lady behind the counter.

“May I help you?” She glared at him over the top of her tortoiseshell glasses.

“I’m here to look at a safety deposit box, thanks.” He pinched his lips together to stifle a laugh. “Here’s my key. The number is on it.”

“We know how these things work, sonny.”

He stayed silent as the Ice Queen shuffled over to a file cabinet and pulled the file on the box in question. When she came back, she had a new personality.

“Well, well, well. You must be Micah Taylor. Yes, yes, yes.” She turned to two bankers who sat at their desks ticking away on their computer keyboards. “It’s him. Micah Taylor is here. Right here! I told you he would show up, and now you all have to watch me fill my piggy bank.”

“You know me?”

The teller pranced toward the back of the bank with a dance step she probably did a good deal better thirty years earlier, too locked in to her jitterbug to answer his question.

A male employee that looked like Santa Claus with a buzz cut wandered over. “You’ll have to excuse Madge’s unorthodox bank behavior there.” He stretched his paisley suspenders, one thumb on each side, and continued. “You see, that safety deposit box has never been opened, and there is one, and only one, name authorized to use it. Of course that’s you.

“The box was first rented quite a few moons ago. Yes sirree Jim-Bob, it has gained quite a reputation over the years. We were given explicit instructions to do nothing with the box until you came and opened it, and we’ve all had a little bet going as to when—and frankly if—you’d ever show up. Madge had only ten more days for you to show before her guess was up, and since the cash prize to the winner has grown to a nice little chunk of change—good conservative bank investing over the course of seventeen years—you sure made her day just now.”

“You’ve had this thing for seventeen years?” Of course they had. Archie first rented the box back in 1992.

“Bank’s been bought out three times since the box was first registered, but it was prepaid for twenty-five years so it’s stayed put.”

Madge waltzed up to Micah with her eyebrows above the rims of her glasses, the smile still on her face, gold showing where she hadn’t brushed well enough when she was younger. “I have the box in the back in the private booths. Would you follow me, please?”

Micah was led into a tiny room with two booths. Madge gestured to the one on the left, and he stepped inside and pulled the curtain closed. The box sat in the center of the small desk.

He sat down and held his breath. This was it. Last contact with Archie. The final puzzle piece.

Micah inserted the key Madge had given him into the box and turned it, as if it were a Q-tip in a baby’s ear. It wouldn’t rotate. With slightly more effort the clasp opened with a light click. Part of him wanted to throw the lid back with abandon; another part didn’t want to open it at all. Rick was gone. So was Sarah and Seattle. Now Archie’s voice from the past was about to blink out.

He’d given up his world and gained his soul. There was no turning back. But where did it leave him? Cannon Beach without Rick and Sarah was poorly flavored. And there was the nagging question of income. He had little money left, and although the mortgage papers he’d gotten from Chris assured him the house and land were paid for, when tax time rolled around, he would need a hefty sum to cover a nine-thousand-square-foot home on the ocean.

A light tapping on the wall just outside his curtain startled Micah. He jerked upright and cracked his knee on the cubicle desk. “Yes?” He winced.

“Just making sure everything is going a-okay in there, Mr. Taylor.”

It was Granny Good-Grin.

“Fine. Thanks.”

He rubbed his knee as his eyes settled back on the box.

Might as well.

He opened it. An old manila envelope sat at the bottom. On top of it was a note from Archie. Micah lifted the card as if it were a butterfly’s wing.

Micah,

I thought you might like to have a reprint.

Archie

A fine layer of dust covered the envelope. Micah unwound the string sealing it, his palms sweaty. He turned it upside down. A photo and a key taped to a note card slid out. Micah stared at a copy of the picture he’d seen at Chris’s house. Chris, Archie, and Rick stood on a fishing boat, their arms around each other, grins splashed on their faces. This he would treasure.

Four lines were written on the note card:

A key to open heart’s desires,

Yours and those beyond,

Cords are cut and chains are broken,

When we live our calling strong.

Micah pulled the key off the card and examined it. “A key to open his heart’s desire.” Archie’s last letter had said the same thing. Micah hadn’t expected a literal key. One side had deep scratches. He looked closer. They weren’t scratches. They were words or numbers. Too small to make out but definitely writing.

He gathered up the treasures, said good-bye to Madge, and dashed down Main Street to find a magnifying glass. After buying one at Trinkets & Treasures, he sprinted to his car, got in, pulled out the key, and shoved it under the glass. The writing leaped out at him.

An address was engraved into the key in a soft, fluid script. He was dumbfounded.

The address was his own.

Then he felt it. A physical sensation this time. His world had shifted once again, even though from where he sat parked everything looked the same. The last vestiges of his Seattle existence had fallen away. He knew it. Only Cannon Beach and the unexplained parallel life remained.

Micah started his car and headed for home. He was so dazed it wasn’t till he shifted into third gear that he realized this wasn’t the BMW he’d gotten out of half an hour earlier but a Toyota Camry.

He took the corner into his driveway at twenty miles an hour. Adrenaline shot through his veins as his tires threw up a curtain of crushed gravel, and he slid toward the bank in front of his house. He slammed on his brakes and skidded to a halt inches from the end of the driveway.

Streams of light poured through tiny openings in the fog bank above him, as if randomly sprinkled spotlights announced his arrival.

The house looked the same. But Micah knew it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

He got out and walked to the front door. The beat of his heart increased with each step forward.

The moment he opened the door and stepped inside, he saw the change. The painting. It hung over the fireplace, three spotlights pouring down on it.

It was finished.

The last bit of sky and clouds had been filled in, and a lone seagull skimmed across the wind, its body in partial silhouette against the brilliance of the sun. The sand castle next to the little boy was finished, and the people along the left edge were complete as well. The figure walking out of the painting to the right was Rick. Of course.

But something else had changed. What? He had studied every intricacy of this painting. He knew every brushstroke, every nuance of color. It was subtle, or he would have seen it immediately. The change toyed with him, played in corners of his mind, dared him to discover what it was.

He paced in front of the painting, glanced away, glanced back, as if he could sneak up on the difference by turning his head fast enough.

Finally it clicked. There! A small black streak in the corner of the painting. He knew instantly it was the artist’s signature tucked in among azure and emerald waves. Finally. He would know who painted this masterpiece that had captured his heart. He eased toward the painting as if approaching too quickly might make the name vanish into the surf it rested on.

The signature was so small he had to get within inches of the canvas to see it. Before reading the name, he closed his eyes and laughed. All this buildup for a name he probably wouldn’t even recognize. Then he lifted his lids in slow motion. The name wasn’t difficult to read. But Micah only saw it for a few seconds before he slumped backward to the carpet, head in his hands. Archie had said his heart’s desire.

Astonishment filled him. It couldn’t be.

The final piece had fallen into place. The puzzle was complete.

He ran out onto his deck and shouted till his voice grew hoarse. “Yes! Yes!”

||||||||

Moments later he remembered everything. Every scene from the last six years of his life melded into place. His old girlfriend Julie, the ankle injury, and every other detail.

For six years he’d starved while he painted ocean scenes all up and down the Oregon Coast—from Bandon to Florence to Newport. Getting better, selling a few paintings, galleries taking an interest, his reputation as an artist growing. And how one year ago he’d received a note down in Newport from his great-uncle Archie telling him he’d inherited a home on the Oregon Coast.

As he bathed in the memories, the scenes and memories of his Seattle life faded. There had been another life, hadn’t there?

Yes, Seattle. He had lived there, worked there. Made money there? Yes, a lot. RimSoft. He’d been famous. He was sure all of those things were true. A few moments later he wasn’t. There were bits and pieces, scattered memories, puzzle pieces that even if they were all put together wouldn’t show him enough of the picture to remember it clearly. It didn’t matter.

He walked back inside and glanced down at the coffee table just inside the door. A worn magazine looked up at him: Coast Life. He picked it up, smiled, then gently laid it back down. He’d read about himself a little later.

Micah walked around the side of the house toward the top of the bluff. A small circle of ocean-smoothed stones formed a fire pit. He grabbed the kindling sitting next to it, and five minutes later crimson-and-gold flames shot toward the sky. It was an altar to the final disintegration of his old life and a celebration of the one just begun. He didn’t go inside till the last embers faded.

||||||||

That night sleep evaded him. He tried. Pushed Sarah from his mind thirty times an hour.

But it was futile.

Archie had said some things were irreversible. Others not. So which was Sarah? To give her up, stop loving her was like trying to stop the waves from crashing onto the shore.

His feelings of love for her pummeled him without a break. Relentless. But he didn’t want them to stop.

Tomorrow he would find her. He had to try one more time.

CHAPTER 46

Sarah asked herself for the twentieth time why she was going but didn’t turn the car around. By the time she reached Micah’s driveway, she had resigned herself to the task but was determined to make the visit as short as possible. Say what she had to and then leave forever.

She parked at the end of his drive and sat for ten minutes, her fingers the only part of her moving as she drummed them on her steering wheel. Most of her wanted to drive off and never look back. But a small place inside kept her from heading home. Besides, she had promised Rick.

She walked toward Micah’s house and saw him through a window. He sat in front of a painting of the ocean hanging over the fireplace. Gorgeous. A picture as captivating as she’d ever seen. As she studied it, Micah turned. Their eyes locked; neither moved. Then he disappeared from view, and the front door opened a few seconds later.

“Sarah.”

“Hi.”

Surprise flickered over his face but he didn’t speak. She wondered how to start and groped for words that wouldn’t give him false hope. “I’m here for one reason.”

Micah didn’t respond.

“I promised Rick I’d come.”

“Because he told you who he is.” Micah opened the door wider.

“Yes. And a few other things.”

“Come in?”

Sarah didn’t answer but stepped over the threshold and into the living room toward the painting. “I love this.”

“Thanks.” Micah smiled, a look of peace on his face. He closed the front door and motioned her toward the picture windows overlooking the ocean.

She stood in the center of the room, arms folded. “I know God can do amazing things, but I don’t believe we had a romance in another life. Wouldn’t I sense it or at least have some miniscule feeling it happened?”

Sarah was angry. Angry for being here. Angry that Micah had stolen away any chance at there being something between them with his bizarre behavior. Angry Rick had asked her to give Micah a second chance, knowing she wouldn’t refuse.

“You don’t have even a little bit of that feeling right now?”

It stopped her cold. The truth? She had felt something the second Micah stepped into Osburn’s ten nights ago. Something small but persistent saying they had a deeper connection than just one dinner together. But his weird performance next to the ice cream counter had crushed any hope of it being real. When it had turned bizarre, she forced any thought of a connection to the far reaches of her heart.

“What do you want, Micah?”

His eyes closed and his lips moved silently. Probably praying. After a few seconds he opened his eyes, and with penetrating confidence said, “I want the impossible. I want to take you into my heart.”

“Your what?” Sarah squeezed her arms tighter.

“If you knew my heart, you’d believe.”

Sarah didn’t answer. As strange as the statement was, the maniacal attitude she’d seen at Osburn’s was gone. His countenance had changed. A quiet confidence stood in sharp contrast to the image she’d seen the other night. The man in front of her knew who he was.

“I can’t convince you with words that we’ve had more of a history than you remember.” He turned to look at the waves. “I can only reveal my heart to you and then let you choose.”

“And how are you going to show me your heart?”

“I don’t know.” He looked up at the painting.

The next words out of Sarah’s mouth shocked her. “But God knows.”

“What?” Micah turned. A faint smile appeared on his face.

Sarah didn’t answer. Her eyes were riveted on something to the left of where he stood. She spoke in a whisper. “When I had dinner with you here, that door was not there.”

“What door?”

“There. Right there.” She pointed to his left, and Micah turned to look.

It was normal height but twice the width of a standard door. An intoxicating aroma flowed from it. Like roses mixed with apple trees in full bloom. Light streamed from under it. The confused look on Micah’s face told her he didn’t see it.

“What door?” he repeated.

But in the moment he asked, his eyes danced, and she knew he could see it.

The door to his heart.

She reached for Micah’s hand, and together they walked forward. The door opened before they reached it, and she stepped through into what looked like liquid light. It was pure and piercing. Worries, pain, wounds, fear, all slipped off, consumed by the river of radiance.

A moment later they stood in a grove of trees. It was daytime—early morning by the look of it. Dew covered the grass, and the angle of the beams of light that streamed through the trees said the sun had only been up for moments. Beyond the forest swelled an ocean. But not the Pacific. This ocean was too blue, too big, the pounding emerald waves too full and rich, the foam at the top of the waves too white to be one of earth’s oceans.

So much passion and power. So much love she felt her heart would burst. The sounds, the light, everything said this was the place she’d been longing for all her life. She was in the presence of God.

“Where are we?”

“You know.”

“Your heart.”

Micah didn’t answer her. He didn’t need to.

An instant later a circular curtain of transparent light surrounded them, and Sarah gasped as vibrant images came to life on every inch of the curtain’s surface.

She watched herself in Osburn’s the day Micah and she met, then saw bike rides together, dinners, their hike up Humbug Mountain and up the Astoria Column. Their trips to Fort Stevens and excursions down to Manzanita, their first kiss, and even a few of their fights. Scene after scene from their months together.

She stared at him in astonishment.

Rick and Micah’s first meeting at Hug Point, his breakup with Julie, visiting the doctor about his ankle, almost drowning in his kayak.

She watched herself implore Micah not to go back to Seattle and him say it would be okay.

She remembered. All of it. Every moment they’d spent together. Her head sank into her hands. “I remember.” She turned to Micah. “You and me. I remember.” She moved toward him, tears in her eyes.

He drew her in tight.

The screen vanished, and they stood in a high mountain meadow; Indian paintbrush and Canterbury bellflowers swarmed through the tall grass. But the beauty paled in comparison to the Presence surrounding them.

Sarah buried her head in Micah’s shoulder and rested there, maybe for hours. Maybe years. It was a moment snatched from eternity.

||||||||

Micah had closed his eyes the moment Sarah and he embraced inside his heart. He opened them in bed, staring at his ceiling. He whipped off his covers and bolted upright.

It had to be more than a dream!

He pulled on a T-shirt and some sweatpants and raced for the front door. He yanked it open and sprinted down the driveway, ignoring the gravel cutting into his feet.

“No!”

There were no tire tracks where Sarah’s car might have left some. Lunging back into the house, Micah grabbed the phone and called her house, then Osburn’s. No answer at her house, and the girls at Osburn’s hadn’t seen her.

Setting down the phone, he let the sorrow come. He wandered over to the fireplace, sat down in front of it, and closed his eyes. “You are still Lord.”

When Micah opened his eyes minutes later, his gaze rose to the painting, and his breath caught. It had changed one final time. A figure had been added—a woman—walking straight toward his home. He leaped to his feet and sprang out onto his deck to search the beach.

Fifty yards away Sarah strolled toward him, hair flowing in the wind like a river, her radiant smile filling his world.

It wasn’t a dream.

The dream had just begun.

||||||||

A few days later Sarah and Micah sauntered among the bleached driftwood scattered along the beach, holding hands, neither of them speaking. The sun eased behind the clouds leaving a russet smear across the sky. They rounded the point just north of Micah’s home to the sound of pounding hammers.

A small house was coming into shape among a small grove of poplar trees. They squinted to see the name on the sign at the edge of the lot that would tell them the name of the builder. It was Hale & Sons Construction Co.

“Oh, my,” Sarah said. “Do you think they’re building—?”

“Yes.” Micah smiled. “I think they are.”

Dear Reader,

Toni Morrison says, “If there’s a book you really want to read but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.”

That’s Rooms. I didn’t write it for readers as much I wrote it because I wanted to read Micah Taylor’s story. I needed to read his story. A story of freedom. A story of healing.

I long to step into the freedom that Micah discovers, to live more completely in the divine design and destiny God has created for me, to be victorious over the voices that hold me back from living the full life God intended me to live.

I loved writing Rooms because it’s my story. It’s your story. It’s the story of anyone who wants to step into greater freedom, step into the glory of how God uniquely made him or her, step into the destiny planned for them from before time began.

He is the Great Healer of wounds. He is the Great Restorer of freedom.

If you’d like to explore more ideas together on how to live with freedom, come visit my Web site and blog at www.jimrubart.com.

For freedom’s sake,

James L. Rubart

Discussion Questions

1. What would you describe as the theme of Rooms? Is there more than one?

2. Before coming to Cannon Beach, Micah seemed to have it all—fame, money, influence—but he was still searching because he’d buried his heart. Do you feel like your heart has been buried or lost (Galatians 6:9)? What things caused this? Are you trying to get it back (Luke 19:10)? If so, how?

3. Throughout the novel God takes Micah into specific rooms—to heal his wounds and to set him free (Isaiah 61:1; Luke 4:18). If you could physically walk into the rooms in your own soul, which room do you think God would lead you into first? What other rooms would God take you through?

4. One of the pivotal scenes in Rooms is when Jesus enters the movie room within Micah’s dream and heals the deep wounds he received from his father (Jeremiah 30:17; Acts 28:27). What are the deep wounds that need healing inside you?

5. Were you surprised that Jesus ignored the movies (the symptoms) and went to the cause (Micah’s deep wounds as a kid) instead (Luke 15:11–24)? Why or why not?

6. For much of the book, Micah thinks the voice is himself. Can you relate? Can you look back on your life and think of times where the enemy of your heart has spoken to you through thoughts and impressions you thought were your own but now realize were not? How did he say it? How did it make you feel? What do you do when that voice is speaking to you?

7. The voice at one point convincingly tells Micah that following Jesus means following principles and rules. Eventually Micah discovers it’s not about those things but about a relationship with Jesus. He doesn’t follow Jesus out of obligation but love. What is the story of your spiritual journey? Have you followed more out of love or obligation or a combination of the two?

8. It’s not only the voice that speaks to Micah. God does as well through a distinct impression in his mind and/or heart. Jesus says, “My sheep hear My voice” (John 10:16, 27). What does that mean to you? Do you hear God’s voice? If so, what are the ways He speaks to you?

9. One of the recurring themes in Rooms is freedom, a foundation of the Christian faith (John 8:2, 36; Galatians 5:1; 2 Corinthians 3:17) yet one that many followers of Jesus don’t experience. Are you free? If not, what is the thing you’d like to be free from most? What holds you back from more freedom?

10. In one of Archie’s letters, he quotes Saint Irenaeus saying, “The glory of God is man fully alive.” What makes you come alive? Are you doing it now? Why? Why not?

11. When Micah skydives, it is a huge risk, but it gives him the courage to risk taking a sabbatical from RimSoft, which ultimately sets him free. Is there anything you need to risk in order to follow God’s call on your life (Acts 15:26)?

12. We get hints of Micah’s artistic destiny early in Rooms. During Julie’s meeting, she says, “You’re always doodling” when he sketches the house, and early on we learn he painted in high school and college. Later he tells Julie he might paint at the beach. It’s always been there, but Micah didn’t see it. Whether it’s painting or writing or music or hiking or travel or counseling or a hundred other different passions, many people would say, “It’s always been inside me.” What passion has always been inside you? Are you pursuing it? What steps do you need to take to find it?

13. Micah’s choices send him down two very different paths. Are you facing any significant choices right now that could take you down a wonderful or destructive path? How do you know which is the right path to take? What specific steps are you taking down that path?

14. The day Micah got his scar shaped his life. Does one incident from your childhood control or affect your life in a way you wish it hadn’t? Explain.

15. Throughout the novel Micah desperately wants to enter the brilliant room. When he finally gets in, he’s stunned to discover it is his own heart, where the Holy Spirit lives. First Corinthians 3:16–17 says this is a holy place. If you’re a follower of Jesus, do you think of your heart as a holy place? Do you think of it as the place where God lives?

Cannon Beach, Oregon, is beautiful all year long. The following are a few of the many Web sites where you can find out more about the town and the surrounding area, as well as information on some of the places Micah goes in Rooms.

www. cannonbeach.org
www.cannon-beach.net
www.el.com/to/cannonbeach

Arcadia Beach State Park: www.oregonstateparks.org/park_187.php

Ecola State Park: www.oregonstateparks.org/park_188.php

Hug Point State Park: www.oregonstateparks.org/park_191.php.

Oswald West State Park: www.oregonstateparks.org/park_195.php.

Cape Lookout State Park: www.oregonstateparks.org/park_186.php.

www.morrisfireside.com
www.theoceanlodge.com
www.cannonbeachbooks.com

Acknowledgments

I thought writing a novel was primarily a solitary endeavor. Wrong answer. Try again. To describe a novel as a solo effort would be like saying the director is the only person involved in a feature-length film. Consequently, passionate thanks go out to:

Ruth, Jennifer, Tanya, and Jeff Scorziell for reading that long first draft of Rooms and giving great feedback and encouragement.

To Pat, Royce, Laura D., Scott, Kelli, Jill, Debbie A., Barb, and Helen for reading version two and pumping me full of hope. To Taylor, Jimmy Rub, Laura C., Bob C., Ronie, Leonard, Paul, Marcus, Mitch, Dave, Dan, Tina S., Ron, Tina D., Dineen, Robin, Jamie, Jeff, Debbie C., Glen, and my Good Buddy for reading version three and sending your excitement my way.

The greatest gift someone can give me is to read what I’ve written, so sincere thanks goes out to you, my reading friend, for investing your time in Rooms.

To Jennifer Fry for pushing me to take action. To my Band of Brothers: Jeff Stucky, Eric, Mark, Bob L., Jim R., and Peter for prayer, belief, and your constant willingness to listen as I told—on and on and on—of my roller-coaster journey to publication. To the Winklings for encouragement, laughter, critique, and belief.

To Sharon Sabin for continually asking how Rooms was coming along and believing from the beginning.

To the Carters: Rick, Evelyn, Todd, and Lindsay for reading Rooms, being such incredible encouragers, and for having almost as much passion for the book as I do.

To David Webb for being my champion, Susan May Warren for your outstanding teaching and friendship, and Sharon Hinck for friendship, belief, and that stellar conversation at Mount Hermon.

To Randy Ingermanson for that first huge boost and for being a great friend. To Tim Riter, Bryan Davis, and Jeff Gerke for their early friendship, wisdom, and encouragement. To Mary Beth Chappell, Beth Jusino, Janet Kobobel Grant, and Steve Laube for your excellent counsel and encouragement. To Tricia for wisdom, belief, and dropping everything to help someone you barely knew! To Elaine for early, early belief and intense education.

To Carla, you are my prayer warrior! To Robert Boyd Munger (My Heart—Christ’s Home) for writing such a powerful piece. To Roy Williams for telling me the truth and helping me believe.

To Bob Lord for dazzling brainstorming as the story formed, challenging critiques as you read, and for continually reminding me, “It’s all in the execution!”

To John Eldredge for widening my own path to freedom.

To Diana Lawrence, art director at B&H, for designing a stunning cover.

To my B&H fiction marketing manager, Julie Gwinn. You’re incredible!

To Karen Ball, my executive editor, not only a wonderful editor but my dear friend.

To editor Julee Schwarzburg, who took Rooms far beyond what I could have made it on my own. Are all editors as brilliant as you?

To Chip MacGregor, who is not only my agent but my friend as well.

To Cec Murphy, mentor, friend, and teacher.

To my critique partner and lifelong friend, Royce Cameron, for dedication to the craft and to me. I hope to be as good a writer as you someday.

To Jim Vaux who spoke it out during that dinner in Woodinville ages ago and wars for me in prayer like no other.

To Mick Silva for brotherhood, supernatural counsel, rabid belief in me, and never letting me forsake my heart and the reason for it all.

To Mom for loving me, believing in me, praying for me, for seeing my destiny, and never, ever, doubting it.

To Dad for giving me the gift of writing and showing me what joy unleashed looks like.

To Taylor and Micah for believing in me and being better sons than I could ever have imagined.

To Jesus for life, freedom, and making my dream come true. It all begins and ends in You.

Finally, to the toughest person to thank, since words are far too frail to convey my overwhelming gratitude—but I must try—my wife, Darci. Without your tireless love, unwavering faith, laser-focused edits, vision for the future, and deep counsel about the things in this life that really matter, this book would not have happened. You are far beyond what I ever dreamed a wife and best friend could be. In you I found my Sarah. In you I am truly blessed.

PRAISE FOR BOOK OF DAYS

Wow. A brilliant book. Perfectly paced, incredibly engaging, and entirely satisfying. It's one of those rare stories that settles comfortably in the deepest corners of your imagination and simply will not leave until long after the final page has been turned. With Jim's first book, Rooms, we were introduced to a budding talent; Book of Days establishes Jim as the real deal. If you love suspense, intrigue, adventure, romance, and a solid dose of spiritual wonder, then this book is a must read.

—The Miller Brothers, award-winning authors of the Hunter Brown book series

I devoured Book of Days by Jim Rubart in one sitting. It is an exciting but poignant novel about how truly important our memories and choices are to who we become. It's still resonating in my heart. Highly recommended!

—Colleen Coble, author of The Lightkeeper's Bride and the Lonestar series

No sophomore slump for James L. Rubart! Book of Days is actually better than his best-selling debut, Rooms. Rubart crafts a terrific story that is equal parts fast-faced thriller, thought-provoking allegory, and moving drama. Don't miss this one!

—Rick Acker, author of When the Devil Whistles

It's very rare that a novel makes me cry—really have tears running from my eyes, but Book of Days did. I laughed and cried right along with Cameron on his quest to find the Book of Days. And just when I thought the plot couldn't possibly be wrapped up in a way that would satisfy, Rubart pulled out all the stops to create the perfect ending to a heartfelt story. This is a journey not to be missed!

—Robin Caroll, author of Deliver Us From Evil and Fear No Evil

Great cover, great concept, and great fun to read! Book of Days blends Peretti's The Visitation and Jordan's The Miracle of Mercy Land and explores biblical ideas in a modern context. Rubart is for real and his writing is fast-paced and readable.

—Eric Wilson, New York Times best-selling author of Fireproof, Expiration Date, and Valley of Bones

A story intricately woven with God's truth and human frailties, Book of Days is what I call a "living book"—a story able to reach across time to significantly effect the hearts of its readers. James L. Rubart is a master storyteller with an unparalleled style and oomph that drags you back to his stories time and again.

—Ronie Kendig, author of Dead Reckoning and Nightshade

James Rubart is officially now one of my favorite writers. He takes grand concepts, weaves them together with mystery, suspense, some mischievous fun, and a serious thread of hope. Book of Days is a great read . . . why people buy novels.

—Dan Walsh, award-winning author of The Unfinished Gift and The Homecoming

James L. Rubart's stories are clever and creative. He's a storyteller who pricks the heart of our generation and causes us to think about where we've been and where we're going. He weaves it all in the cotton of a great book. Book of Days is a must read.

—Rachel Hauck, best-selling and Carol award-winning author

Book of Days is an imaginative, adventurous, and compelling read. Rubart's attention to plot and character, while weaving in spiritual truth, gives an already terrific premise dimension and depth. Rubart's talent is undeniable, and his ideas are pure wonderment.

—Rene Gutteridge, award-winning author of Listen

Book of Days, Digital Edition

Based on Print Edition

Copyright © 2011 by James L. Rubart

All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America

978-1-4336-7151-7

Published by B&H Publishing Group

Nashville, Tennessee

Dewey Decimal Classification: F

Subject Heading: ADVENTURE FICTION \ MEMORY—FICTION

Scripture taken from the Holman Christian Standard Bible® Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2002, 2003, 2009 by Holman Bible Publishers. All rights reserved.

Publisher's Note: The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

For Dad

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Dear Reader

Discussion Questions

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I thought Book of Days would be the novel I saw in bookstores first. All the major publishers had passed on Rooms (in the fall of '08) so I put it on the shelf and started working on Book of Days. But B&H reconsidered, Rooms came out first, and I'm grateful.

Book of Days was inspired by my dad's illness, and it feels right that it should come out after he's gone to be with Jesus and the chapter of his life on Earth is over.

Again I'm thankful to all those who helped take Book of Days from a scattered idea to a completed novel:

To Jaime Wright-Sundsmo for lending her time and extensive expertise to make my climbing scenes accurate (and for telling me it was okay to stretch the authenticity in places where I needed to).

To John Olson for telling me I had to flip my original vision of Book of Days and make Cameron my protagonist. (He was right.)

To my readers of my first draft: Debbi Anderson, Jamie Carie, Ron DeMiglio, Jennifer Fry, Ronie Kendig, Bob Lord, Pat Rubart, Jim Rubstello, Tina Sander, Ruth Voetmann, and Katie Vorreiter. Your stellar critique and comments smoothed out many rough edges.

To my incredible team at B&H Fiction, you're awesome! Special thanks to Kim Stanford for being so great at doing the final polish, Diana Lawrence for my outstanding covers, Karen Ball for her vision, and Julie Gwinn for her wisdom and bucket loads of talent.

To Royce Cameron who was there "where it all began," brainstormed on the original idea, and walked every step of this novel with me.

To Andy Meisenheimer, for being instrumental in shaping the plot and pushing me to go deeper with the story, then deeper still.

To my editor Julee Schwarzburg for being brilliant and a joy to work with.

To my prayer team for warring for me in the heavens: Allen Arnold, Twila Belk, Nancy Biffle, Jamie Carie, Jeff Conwell, Ron and Tina DeMiglio, Mary DeMuth, Eric and Jennifer Fry, Randy Ingermanson, Susan Hill, Keith Horner, Ronie Kendig, Tosca Lee, Bob Lord, Dineen Miller, Cec Murphey, Don and Heidi Myers, Glen Peterson, Peter Prinos, Steve Price, Cynthia Ruchti, Jim Rubstello, Darci Rubart, Taylor Rubart, Micah Rubart, Pat Rubart, Jim Rubstello, Jeff Scorziell, Mick Silva, Jeff Stucky, Carla Williams, and Jim Vaux.

To my wife Darci and sons Taylor and Micah, for their constant support, encouragement, and unwavering love.

To my mom for loving me like only a mother can.

To my dad. I love you. What a day it will be when I see you again.

To the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit for your grace, mercy, and letting me live my dream.

All my days were written in Your book and planned before a single one of them began.

Psalm 139:16

PROLOGUE

Summer 1853

A stone slammed into the side of Hassun's head, sending him to his knees. Pain exploded like lightning and streaked down his back as he slumped forward onto his hands. Careless. His moccasins must have left a trail. Foolish. How could he have let that happen?

Have to move! His assailant's next attack would most likely be to his ribs.

Hassun spun to his left, sending up a thin curtain of dust from the ledge overlooking the cliff, and caught the man's dark leather moccasin as it flashed toward his face.

Hassun twisted his attacker's leg and the man sprawled on the ground, his head inches from striking a rock.

Not close enough.

The man leaped to his feet, stepped back five paces, and snatched a bow and a pine shaft with a brilliant black arrowhead off the ground. By the time Hassun staggered to his feet and shook his head, the man had nocked the arrow.

"Nukpana? Why?"

"You are surprised?"

"You were my friend."

"I am still your friend and ever will be." Nukpana drew back slightly on the bowstring, the arrow pointed at Hassun's chest, and laughed. "Do not worry, I am not going to kill you. I could have done that easily with a larger rock a moment ago." He released the pressure on the bowstring and stroked the arrow's white feathers. "You never could hide your tracks. I only need to know where the Stories are and I will leave you."

Hassun should have seen it. The rage two summers past when he was chosen guardian instead of Nukpana, then the false praise for having been given the honor. Being badgered almost daily ever since in a half-joking, half-serious manner about the location.

"And if I do not tell you where they are?"

"I will see how much pain you can endure before you die. But know before you join our ancestors, you will tell me."

"The Stories are not for your eyes."

"But they are for yours?"

"I am not the one who made that choice."

"And who is?" Nukpana pierced the tip of his forefinger with the point of the arrowhead and a drop of blood seeped out.

"You know."

"But those who chose you are gone, and the understanding now only remains with you."

Hassun nodded, his long black braids hanging over his muscled shoulders.

"What if something happens to you? Another must retain the knowledge."

"That is not for any man alone to decide. You know this also."

"Think, Hassun. We could use its power for so much good. Together. You and I. Blood brothers since our youth. We could wield the insights and foretelling it offers to—"

"No. That is not its purpose."

"If you will not tell, then give me the stone." Nukpana spread his feet wider, one in front of the other, renocked the arrow and drew it back.

"I cannot. Even if you do not yet know how to decipher the markings, it would be the same as telling you." Hassun massaged the small stone that hung from his neck on a thin leather cord under his buckskin shirt. "You know this."

"Enough. Give me the stone." Nukpana drew the bowstring back further, his first two fingers turning a deep red where the string bit into them.

Hassun stared into Nukpana's eyes as he lifted the stone from around his neck and let it hang from his upturned palm.

"Yes, throw it to me and there will be peace between us."

"No." Hassun wrapped the cord around the stone and closed his fist around it.

"One more chance. Tell me where the Stories are or give me the stone. Either one and you will live. Now."

Hassun closed his eyes. "For You, I choose." He opened his eyes and gauged the distance between Nukpana and the edge of the cliff. Three paces, maybe four. The distance might be short enough. Nukpana would not shoot to kill, only to maim. "As I have told you already, it is not possible."

"Is it worth your life?"

Hassun drew in a deep breath and whispered, "Yes."

"So be it."

Nukpana drew back fully on the bow at the moment Hassun lunged forward and sprinted toward his friend, little puffs of dust rising from where his feet dug into the ledge above the cliff.

Nukpana's fingers loosed the arrow and time slowed.

As Hassun hurtled toward the arrowhead streaking toward him, he hurled the stone over the edge of the cliff.

Nukpana's head snapped to the left to follow the arc of the stone against the blue sky, shock splashed across his sun-browned skin. "No!"

The arrow entered Hassun's chest just above his heart, making him stagger, the darkness of unconsciousness rushing into his mind. No, he wouldn't give in.

Two paces to go. Yes. He would make it.

Nukpana turned back the moment Hassun slammed into the bigger man, driving him back, then over the edge of the cliff.

Sound vanished as Hassun wrapped his arms around his friend and the forest floor spread out below him.

"I have protected that which was entrusted to me. Now I come."

CHAPTER 1

Cameron Vaux stepped into his dad's room and tried to push the regrets into a dark corner of his mind. They'd never go on the backpacking trip he'd planned for his dad's fiftieth birthday. Never take the sailing trip from Seattle to Alaska. The cruise around Italy would be a grand intention never fulfilled.

The what-should-have-beens had vanished.

Just like his dad's mind.

It had been a year since his dad knew who Cameron was. The doctors said the grains of sand still in the top of the hourglass were few, which made the call he'd received that morning from one of the nurses surprising.

"Your dad is more coherent than we've seen him in a long time. He keeps saying, 'I need to see him now. Right away. I must tell him.' But when we ask who 'him' is, he says he doesn't know. We're guessing it's you."

Cameron stood just inside the door, stared at the back of his dad's graying head, and watched him study the business section of the paper as he'd done his whole life. Pouring over the stock charts to see who was up and who was crashing. Ready to steer Cameron's economic choices down the straight and financially rewarding. His house and his healthy IRA were due to his father's fiscal acuity and passion to share what he'd learned with Cameron.

He sighed. There would be no more lessons on navigating the investment waters.

"Hey, Dad, how are you?" Cameron eased over to the windows and pulled open the beige curtains. Early May sunshine filtered through the emerald leaves on the maple tree outside and filled the room.

His dad sat next to the window in his dark blue leather chair, feet propped up and covered with the Washington Huskies slippers Cameron bought him last Christmas.

"Well, I'm still alive. It's so good to have you here." His dad adjusted his glasses and squinted. "Now tell me again who you are . . . ?"

"It's me, Cameron. Your son. You asked for me?" He couldn't help hoping the tumblers inside his dad's mind had magically clicked back into place, and he could have one last conversation where his dad knew him. Please?

His dad set aside the business section he'd probably read twenty times already that day and stuck out his hand. "Put 'er in the vise, pal."

Cameron took his dad's hand and cried out in mock pain. "Ahh, wow, you haven't lost your strength, Dad."

His dad smiled, a hint of water in his eyes.

"You know, sometimes I look in the mirror and say, 'Hey, you old buzzard, what are you still doing here?'" His dad's eyes lit up and he laughed like stones skipping on a pond.

"You're not old." Forty-nine was not old. Certainly not old enough to have a disease that made Swiss cheese of his dad's memories.

"We'll be home before dinner at this pace." His dad nodded. "Yep, we're making good time."

The familiar sadness tried to rise from Cameron's heart and smother his mind, but he blocked it. He didn't need the emotion. He didn't need tears right now. There had been enough of those over the past six years to fill Puget Sound.

"The nurses said you needed to see me."

"Well, it is so very good to see you."

"They said you needed to tell me something, Dad."

His father lifted his glass of orange juice and toasted Cameron. "Have I told you how proud I am of you?"

Cameron smiled, closed his eyes, and let the words sink in. His dad used to say those words ten times an hour two years back, but the frequency had dwindled to almost nothing. It was a gift to hear the phrase again.

Cameron glanced at the pictures on the walls. Of family. Of friends. Of his mom and dad playing tennis when they were first married. Cameron picked up a photo sitting on the coffee table of his mom and dad swimming across the Smith River in the redwoods and drew his finger across the surface of the glass.

"I miss her so much."

"Who?"

"Mom." He held out the frame for his dad to see.

His dad took the picture and stared at it. "That's me! Isn't it? And who is that with me?"

Cameron closed his eyes and sighed. Not mom, he couldn't let his dad forget her.

"It's mom. You have to remember her. You loved her very much."

"I did? And what did you say her name was?"

How could he forget the woman he'd been married to for twenty-seven years? Yes, the disease, but their passion for each other was the type that nothing should ever be allowed to steal. There had to be something he could say to trigger his dad's memories of their love.

"Camping in the redwoods. The Big Rock. We went there every year till I was ten. You can lose all the other memories, but not of her. You have to remember Mom. You always said living without each other would be a Siberian existence."

"Okay, and I'm living here with you right now, pal."

Cameron slumped into a chair next to his dad and dragged his teeth over his lower lip. "Where have your memories gone, Dad?"

"Well, I don't know, but you're here and I'm so glad you stopped by."

Cameron stared into his dad's eyes until his father looked away.

"Are they lost forever? Maybe when this life is through you'll get them back. Maybe you'll find them in whatever comes next."

His dad smiled, the hint of laughter playing at the corners of his mouth. "Heaven is coming, you know."

"You looking forward to heaven, Dad?"

"Oh yes, indeed. He's coming for me." His dad glanced around the room until his gaze settled on Cameron. "Well, I'm glad you've come by, but remind me again, how are we acquainted?"

Cameron's chest tightened and he tried to smile. "I'm just a kid who loves his dad with all his heart."

"That's good. Very good."

Cameron scooted his chair closer to his dad and leaned forward. "I'm sorry, Dad. Sorry you have to go through this. I don't think I could handle getting this disease of yours. I'd be tempted to end things early, you know? Did you ever consider it?"

Not a chance. His dad would have obliterated the thought the instant it appeared. "At least you have your God-thing going on, so you feel like you know where you're headed."

"God is so good."

"Yeah." If only God was real. Maybe He was, maybe He wasn't. It took a leap of faith to believe, his dad always said. But how could you know for sure before leaping? And Cameron wanted to know. A never-ending circle.

Cameron picked up the myrtlewood cribbage board that sat on the coffee table next to his dad's chair. "We played a few hundred on this board, didn't we? Or was it a few thousand? I'd love to play one more game. Wouldn't you?"

"We could play now if you like."

"Should I set up the board?"

His dad grabbed Cameron's hand and smiled wide. "Tell me exactly what are we doing here today."

"Talking. Just two guys hanging out together talking."

"And you are?"

Cameron set down the board, rubbed its smooth surface with his finger, and circled the word Finish carved into the end of the wood. "The product of an awesome father."

Outside his dad's room an orderly's tennis shoe squeaked on the linoleum as she passed the door. At the sound his dad jerked his head up and his eyes cleared.

"When it starts happening to you, you must find the book with all your days in it, Cameron. It might cure you. Do you understand?"

Cameron raised his head. "What did you say?"

"When you start losing your memories, you must find the book. Everything will make sense to you then. Find it for me, will you? Promise me you'll find it."

"Are you with me here, Dad?" Cameron's mind reeled. He couldn't tell if his father was lucid, but his eyes were clearer than he'd seen them in ages, and the countenance of his face said he knew exactly what he was saying.

"Did you know you can see the future? I saw it once. It's not a real book, of course. I even touched it, when I was a kid. Did you know that?" His dad rubbed his hands together and chuckled. "Of course you didn't. I never told you that. I never told anyone except one person right after it happened. People would have thought I was crazy. But that doesn't matter now."

"What are you talking about?"

"Do you understand? Find the book, Cameron." His dad took Cameron's face in his hands. "Did you hear me? The book of all days. Find it for me. Find it for you." He released Cameron's face and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hand.

Cameron shook his head, as if it would cause his dad's words to make sense. Was this real? Did Dad have any idea what he was saying? "Why do you think it will happen to me?"

"Not a question. It will happen; it will. I've seen it." His father patted Cameron's hand. "I'm so sorry."

Cameron blinked and a trickle of fear wound through his mind. He wasn't ready for a conversation out of Alice in Wonderland.

"What is this book? Where would I find it?"

His dad grasped Cameron by both hands and nodded once. "You know what I love about us? We both have beautiful blue eyes."

Cameron leaned in. "Why do I need to find this book?"

"You know what I love about us?" A smile lit up his dad's face as he squeezed Cameron's hands. "Both of us have beautiful blue eyes."

"Stay with me, Dad. You just told me I'm going to start losing my memories like you and about a book I have to find. Where is the book?"

"Well, I'm very proud of you, you know."

Cameron let his head fall back and he closed his eyes. It was over. No matter how hard he tried to massage the conversation back to whatever this book was, and why his dad thought Cameron would get the disease, it wouldn't happen.

He wanted to have one last conversation with his dad about the important things in life, so why did he end up with his dad rambling about nonsensical things instead?

A few minutes later Cameron let it go and told the story about the two of them skiing from nine in the morning till ten at night up at Stevens Pass without a break.

"Do you remember the next day? We couldn't move!"

For the next half hour Cameron didn't stop the tears when they pushed out and didn't stop the laughter when his dad talked about some random comical event from decades back.

After the light outside his dad's room had grown black, Cameron slid his arms around his father and whispered in his ear, "I love you, Dad. Always have. Always."

His dad held him for a moment, then patted Cameron on the back and took him by the shoulders, a wide grin on Dad's face, moisture in his eyes.

A week later his dad was gone.

CHAPTER 2

Eight Years Later

Come on, remember!"

Cameron stared at the phone number on the yellow sticky note, willing himself to recall who it belonged to. He pressed the Post-it note onto the middle of his MacBook's screen.

What was wrong with him? It was his handwriting. No one else had scrawled those numbers half an hour ago. He remembered jotting it down. It was someone he needed to call back. But the memory of whose number it was had disappeared.

His face grew hot.

"Remember what?"

Cameron looked over at Brandon slumped in front of his computer, a pen whirling around his fingers like a minibaton on steroids.

"Where'd you learn to do that?"

"YouTube." Brandon glanced up at the clock on the wall of their production studio. "If we're going to get this vid finished, we gotta jam. You're almost done with edits, right? Tell me yes."

"Another hour at the most."

"Cool." Brandon sat up and whacked away on his keyboard. "So have you decided, Cam? Are you headed to the fifteen-year this weekend?"

"We just had a ten-year reunion. Besides, July is too early to have a reunion. It should be in August."

"Did I ask you if you'll do a couple of tunes again? Just you and a piano up there onstage, nothing fancy."

"No chance. I haven't played for eons." Cameron rubbed his eyes. "I can't believe high school is already fifteen years in the rearview mirror."

"Thirty years is coming in a flash." Brandon grinned. "Old man time will be here before you know it. Hey, remember, I need you to get that voice-over on the Crystal Mountain video laid down by the end of the day."

"Right."

Cameron turned back to his screen and stared at the number. What if old man time had already shown up? He tried to laugh at the idea. So he'd been forgetting a few things lately. Big deal. It was probably the stress of working sixty-plus hours every week and still finding time to coach Little League baseball.

Plus the added bonus of the anniversary date looming like a storm over his heart. Less than a month away. Couldn't the pain stay buried till a few days before the seventeenth arrived?

But it hadn't been a few things he'd forgotten and it hadn't been lately. It had been going on for at least a year. And it was getting worse.

Go to the reunion? Yeah, it would be a blast answering questions about Jessie's death.

"Cameron! What is going on?"

He turned toward the sound of the voice.

A bald guy ducked under a sagging streamer that said, "Class of '95, About to Come Alive," threw open his arms, and grinned as he stutter-stepped up to Cameron in black dress shoes that were out of place with his jeans.

"These reunions can't come fast enough for me. I love seeing everyone. I can't believe you and I haven't seen each other since the last one. That's just a wrong song."

"Hey," Cameron said. Not even a glimmer of recognition. "Great to see you. You are . . . ?"

"You crack me up, Cam." The guy grabbed him in a bear hug, and when he pulled away the grin left his face. "Hey, I heard about Jessie. Sorry, man. Really."

"Thanks." Why couldn't people read his mind and realize he didn't want to talk about Jessie? Maybe he should have worn a sign that said, I'm doing as well as I can, but my heart was shredded when she died, and I'd rather not talk about it with you because the pain is still extremely ripe even after two years.

"Are you still climbing?"

"Yeah." Had he gone rock climbing sometime in the past with this guy?

"It seems like yesterday you and I and Jessie and Gina Stewart learned to climb together. When was that? Two summers out of high school? You'd just met Jessie and her sister—what was her name? Ann? And if I remember right, you couldn't decide which one to ask out." The guy gestured up and down with his palms like a scale. "Then Jessie asked you to take the class, and you didn't want to go 'cause you're scared of heights. But you liked Jessie so you decided to gut through it. That cracked me up, you pretending the whole time that you weren't terrified so Jessie wouldn't know, but I knew you were freaking out . . ."

Ann, Jessie's foster sister.

Cameron hadn't thought about her for at least six months. She probably hadn't thought of him since the funeral. He'd tried to get along with her the whole time Jessie and he dated, but Ann had never warmed up to him. She'd stood there, maid of honor at Jessie's and his wedding, glaring at him through the entire ceremony.

". . . and Jessie blows all three of us out of the water the way she took to climbing. And I loved her laugh; it was so totally uninhibited, you know? She's hanging out over a two-hundred-foot cliff cracking up like she's at a party, telling us to climb faster."

A rock-climbing course after high school? Is that when he started? Images flitted through his brain, then the memory of the summer rushed in. Yes. Jessie calling him with an invitation to take the class together. Him deciding that was a sign to pursue her instead of Ann even with his aversion to heights.

How could he forget that? It was his first date with Jessie, if you could call it a date. He didn't want to learn to climb, but he wanted to get to know her. So he went and fell in love with both the sport and Jessie.

"I remember." Cameron pursed his lips, nodded, and rubbed his face.

"Hey, I'm an idiot, I shouldn't stir up . . . talking about Jessie . . . I mean, I don't want to—"

"It's okay, really."

They said good-bye and Cameron watched his old friend dance up to a group on his left.

"There he is," said a voice to his right.

Cameron turned to face a man with slicked-back blond hair and a goatee already flecked with hints of gray.

"Hey . . . hi." Who was he? Here we go again.

"Cameron, how are things going for you? It's my fault for not calling you. It's been too, too long since we talked."

"Yeah, it's been a while."

"When Jessie, uh . . . I should have called, and really I should have come to the service, but I'm just weird when it comes to—"

"Death." Think, Cameron. He knew him. "It's all right."

As they talked Cameron tried to picture the guy fifteen years younger. They were in some kind of group together . . . weren't they?

"Are you doing your films yet? I bet you are."

He jerked his head back. "What?"

"Aren't you making films and doing the Steven Spielberg directing thing? You always said you'd have your first one finished by the time you reached the age of thirty-two. You were so convincing. Some of the stuff you did back in high school was pretty impressive, so I figured thirty-three means you're a year overdue, if you haven't done one yet."

A chill washed over Cameron. That was indeed the plan. Two years ago he was on track to jump into the Hollywood circus, but the plan didn't include losing Jessie. The dream crashed and burned after that.

"No, I'm behind schedule."

"I understand." The man nodded. "You ever want to talk about it, call me. I mean it."

As the man sauntered off, the pieces inside Cameron's brain snapped into place.

A moment later Brandon came up to him with two drinks in his hand.

"That was Donnie Taggart," Cameron said.

"Uh, yeah it is."

"It took me a second to remember—"

"Well, he's pretty forgettable. We only played in a band with him for two years."

Donnie Taggart was in their band? What? No. Wait. That's right. How could he forget that? "He played bass. Sang a killer version of 'Better Man' for us and sounded just like Vedder. He lived a few miles away from you in a house painted a muted yellow. Didn't he have a boxer that snagged Frisbees out of the air no matter how far you threw it?"

"Look out Jeopardy, here comes Cameron. Nice to know your steroid-strength memory is still functioning. You know I hated you in high school 'cause of that. I don't think you ever studied."

If only it were as simple as taking steroids to get his memories to return and fix whatever was malfunctioning in his mind.

Brandon clapped him on the back. "Have fun, bro. I'm going to go catch up with all my old girlfriends."

"That'll take, what, five, ten seconds?"

"Ha." Brandon punched him in the arm. "Be good."

Cameron breathed deep and it seemed to clear his head. As he scanned the room, he recognized almost every face. He remembered names and even the classes he'd taken with them. The memory loss had to be due to stress and lack of sleep more than any kind of encroaching disease.

His gaze settled on a dark-haired woman who stood next to the small stage they would probably use for giving out awards for having the most kids, the farthest distance traveled to get here, and married the longest.

As he studied her profile, a wave of heat washed over him. He should know her. Concentrate. Something about their junior year. She was part of it.

She turned and spotted him.

Oh no. He needed to figure it out before she reached him. But his mind was blank.

She shimmed up to him and gave him a sideways hug. "Hey, handsome. I was hoping you would be here."

"I was hoping the same." Cameron bit his upper lip, as if the shot of pain would tell him who this woman was.

"It is so great to see you. You know, I meant to come to the ten, but life was pretty crazy in those days." She pulled on her earlobe. "I'm so sorry about your wife. I read about it. It was a small plane accident, right?"

Cameron nodded.

She stepped back a few paces. "Let's see, your black hair is just as black and thick, no discernible extra girth around the middle yet, and only a few laugh lines around your gray-blues." She laughed and leaned closer to him. "I thought all the guys were supposed to come to the fifteen-year reunion bald and overweight."

A moment later he knew her. "Tonya!"

"Cameron!" She pointed at him, smiled, and studied his face. "You okay?"

"I'm just tired; my job has been nuts lately. For the past year actually."

By the time they'd finished talking, he remembered every one of their dates. But it didn't help the big slug of lead in his stomach get any lighter.

Two weeks later on a sun-soaked Saturday afternoon, Cameron packed the last of his climbing gear into the back of his MINI Cooper and fired up the engine. He felt good. Strong. His mind hadn't shifted into hibernate mode even once since the reunion, and he tried to believe the incidents were over.

But part of his brain still felt like he was watching a 3-D movie without the glasses.

He hit Highway 2 out of Monroe at two o'clock and glanced at his watch. Should be to Leavenworth by four or four thirty. He might even be able to get a climb in before dark and make camp on top.

As the little town of Gold Bar slid by, his dad's words from eight years earlier echoed in his mind: "When you get it . . . when you get it . . . You will . . . you will . . ."

"No, Dad, I can't believe that." Cameron popped his steering wheel with his fist. "It's just the anniversary of Jessie's death and the pressure of work. That's all."

The stress-O-meter had been pegging red for far too long. Brandon and he had become master jugglers with twenty video projects in the air at all times. That extracted a high price at life's tollbooth.

"Nice try," said the other side of his brain. Stress alone wouldn't make his mind take as many vacations as it had during the past twelve months. Neither side of his mind could claim victory. But in his heart there was already a clear winner.

The fingers of his right hand started shaking, and he clamped his left hand on top it. That didn't accomplish anything except make both hands quiver. Relax! His mind was fine. He probably just needed food.

A burger at the Alpen Drive-In took care of his hunger pains, but it didn't quell the gnawing feeling running through his mind.

As he waited to pull back onto Highway 2, Cameron stared at the license plate in front of him and played the game he amused himself with on long car rides when he was a kid.

LIO A33.

Liking intelligent orangutans after thirty-three.

Launching igloos over a thirty-three.

Life is over at thirty-three.

CHAPTER 3

Cameron sat on a cliff overlooking Icicle Creek watching the glacier-fed stream wind its way toward the Wenatchee River.

He stared at the outline of a boulder buried under the surging river as he pulled off the stone hanging around his neck and massaged its smooth surface. When had Jessie given it to him? Not long before she died, he was sure of it.

Why hadn't two years taken away more of the pain from Jessie's death?

Two years?

The accident felt like two days ago.

Like two seconds ago.

Fragments of the scene tried to rush into his mind, but he forced them into the deep recesses of his heart like he'd been doing for the past twenty-four months. He wouldn't let himself relive it again. Ever. Jessie's accident was the one memory he wished he could forget completely.

Hadn't someone told him after the accident that it would be okay?

Okay?

It would never be okay.

Fairy-book marriages snuffed out after only five years were not okay.

Wild Turkey whiskey should have given him an award for the amount of their booze he bought and drowned in after Jessie's death.

Then on a Friday night, a little over half a year after he lost her, he quit drinking. When he came within inches of hitting an SUV head-on, he was convinced. Part of him wished his Mini Cooper had wound up the size of a microwave—with him inside.

That same weekend he started rock climbing again. It didn't cause his forehead to split open the next morning like drinking did, and although the sport wasn't quite as adept at helping him blunt the pain, it was a way to be with Jessie.

He looked up from the edge of the craggy rock face as the last sliver of a mid-July sun vanished behind the Enchantments, leaving strains of orange, cotton-candy clouds. The temperature dropped and Cameron rubbed his bare upper arms. Tank tops were ideal for climbing but not for watching the sun set.

Six months after he stopped drinking, well-meaning friends started the blind-date merry-go-round. He went on three dates. The first yakked about her divorce two hours nonstop; the second spent the evening asking herself questions, then laughed at the answers like a bored late-night talk-show host. The third woman was perfect. Smart, funny, pretty, and she loved the outdoors.

But she wasn't Jessie.

Nobody could be, and after he turned down the next five setups, his friends stopped playing matchmaker.

In the movies when the hero loses the love of his life, another perfect girl comes along full of liquid light and fills all the dark places. It didn't work that way in the real world.

Three or four times a week a dream of Jessie wrenched him from sleep. In those moments he wondered if his memories were true, or if the passage of time had made their marriage more wonderful than it really had been.

And now he'd started losing those memories of her. And some days—he clenched his teeth—he couldn't quite capture her face.

These days when he pulled up photos of Jessie and him together, he sometimes couldn't even remember where they'd been taken. Most times when he concentrated, the memory rushed back into his mind like the ocean filling a tide pool. But other times . . .

Cameron lingered on the edge of the cliff a few more minutes and gazed at the valley three-hundred feet below. He sucked in a breath and held it as long as he could before releasing the air.

Wasn't heaven in the clouds? He massaged his arms and stared at the darkening sky. Was that where Jessie was?

To his right a squirrel screeched. Cameron squatted and peered at the animal who sat ten yards away at the base of a western larch. The life of a squirrel. Simple. No pain. No maddening mysteries. Few questions and an answer with every acorn. He dug into his day pack, pulled out a large handful of trail mix, and tossed it toward the creature.

"You'll be able to feed all your kids for a week on that."

The animal squealed and skittered around the trail mix and stuffed its cheeks full before scampering off.

Cameron reached down and grabbed a baseball-sized stone, stood, and hurled it with all his strength at a quaking aspen. It smacked into the tree and tore off a section of bark. Strike. He picked up another rock. Then another.

Smack! Strike two.

Strike seven, eight, nine. You're out.

He ignored the pain knifing through his arm and shoulder and didn't stop throwing stones till the water in his eyes blurred his vision too much to see.

First Dad, then Jessie. People died. Why couldn't he get over it and move on?

Cameron slumped to the ground and massaged his eyes with his palms and tried to recall the first time Jessie and he had met.

The memory wasn't there.

Here we go again.

Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. What was going on with him? Impossible. How had his dad known? How could this be happening to him at thirty-three?

Cameron pounded his forehead with the flat of his palm. "You can't lose your mind, Cameron! You can't."

A few seconds later their first date surfaced like the sun cresting a mountain ridge at dawn. It didn't help the panic pinging through his mind.

One year for Christmas he'd framed a collage of all their most memorable days leading up to their wedding. First real date . . . their trip up to Vancouver, B.C., where they'd visited Flintstone Land and he danced with Wilma and stepped on her toes three times. First kiss . . . Larrabee State Park in Bellingham, wasn't it? First time they'd said I love you. First . . . The canvas of his mind went blank after that.

He used to know all the dates better than Jessie ever had.

Now all he had were fragments.

Cameron trudged back to his amber one-man climbing tent, pulled his iPhone out of his climbing pack, sat, and scrolled through his favorite pictures of Jessie and him.

"Where are you now? If you're in some blissful afterlife, can you see what's going on down here?"

A picture of Jessie holding her pilot's license, a big grin on her face, slid into view. Immediately he was back at the scene of the crash, and the memory surged up from his heart like a flash flood.

This time he couldn't stop it.

"Let me talk to her!" Cameron shouted into his cell phone. Through the phone he heard a siren wail through the night.

"I'm sorry, sir. Her condition isn't . . . she can't—"

"Please put her on the phone. Please."

Cameron heard muted voices and then rustling.

"Hey." Her voice sounded soft and muffled, as if she were speaking through a thick blanket.

"Jessie!"

"Hi, Sweet-dream." A labored breath. "I love you." Silence. Then barely a whisper. "Hurry, baby, please?"

He hung up and tossed his cell phone onto the passenger seat.

Sweat dripped off his forehead into his eyes as he alternated between crushing the accelerator and mashing the brakes. Swerving around and through light traffic on I-5, he felt like he was in a movie chase scene on double speed. Rain hammered against the windshield and "Don't Fear the Reaper" played on the radio, the perfect soundtrack to the nightmare he was living.

Breathe, Cameron.

This couldn't be happening.

But it was.

He wanted to call her back, tell her something, anything, to keep her alive.

Jessie was dying.

No. Impossible. They were meant to be together always—till they were old and gray and it was time to lose their minds.

This wasn't the end. It couldn't be. There was so much life left to live.

By the time he reached the off-ramp that would take him to Paine Field, the rain had shifted from a downpour to a fine mist, as if a giant spray bottle pumped out little bursts overhead.

As he skidded around the final corner leading to the air strip and straightened his MINI Cooper, the lights of the police cars and ambulance lit up the horizon like the Las Vegas strip. But the lights pulsed with death.

He rolled down his window as he approached the scene, and the silence struck him like a wall. No sirens sliced into the night. No one spoke, no one shouted, no one ran back and forth between the ambulance and the mutilated metal that had been Jessie's midnight blue and white Cessna Skylane.

As Cameron got out of his car, he tried to take slow breaths. He'd imagined running for Jessie the moment he arrived, but his feet felt bolted to the asphalt.

A medic squatting next to the wreck glanced at him, then nodded toward the inside of the ambulance and spoke to someone inside.

A medic appeared from the ambulance, jogged up to Cameron, and stuck out his hand. Cameron didn't take it.

"Mr. Vaux?"

"Yes."

"She only has minutes left. You need to come."

"Now?" As Cameron uttered the word he realized how stupid it must sound. But everything was out of rhythm, out of body, far past surreal.

"Yes, you need to come now. Right this way." The paramedic took his arm and guided him toward the mangled Cessna.

Part of him wondered why he didn't sprint to the plane, cradle Jessie in his arms, and somehow pull her back into this life.

"How did it happen?" Cameron mumbled as the medic guided him toward Jessie, his hand still on Cameron's arm.

"You need to talk to her now."

Cameron scuffed up to the plane and stopped just before reaching it.

"Is she . . . ?"

"Her body has been . . . her upper body is okay. She can talk to you."

Jessie lay inside the plane, her head resting on the passenger's seat, eyes closed. No cuts, no bruises, dark hair framing her face like a work of art. A tiny speck of blood on her chin was the only imperfection.

But what must have been the cockpit lay buried in her torso, her blouse dark red from blood already starting to dry.

As Cameron reached out with his pinky finger and stroked her chin, Jessie's eyes opened.

"Hey, baby. You're here." She coughed lightly.

"I'm here, you're going to be—"

"Shh, only moments now." She coughed. "I was never completely sure it was real, but it was. What I saw. Death brings clarity. It sweeps away all the doubts, you know?"

"What—?"

She laughed but the blood mixing in her lungs made it sound like she was gargling. "Mortality makes many things clear, my love." She swallowed. "One is I love you more than life. The other is, the book is real. I know it is. I saw it."

Cameron braced himself against the plane's frame. The book? Too weird. The memory of his last conversation with his dad flashed into his mind. Dad had talked about a book he'd seen that he wanted Cameron to find. It was a nightmare version of déjà vu. It couldn't be the same book, could it?

"Jessie, are you talking about a book with all days in it?"

"No time." She coughed again. "You have the stone, yes?"

"What stone?" He stared into her eyes, as if he could do it with enough intensity to climb inside her mind.

"I gave you . . . before I left . . . this afternoon." She sucked in a stilted breath. "You must not lose it. It's the key."

"Yes, I have the stone, but a key to what?"

She closed her eyes and her head slipped back.

"Jessie!"

Her eyes fluttered open and she gasped for air.

"Use it to find the book, okay?" She blinked and drew another breath.

"What book? My dad's book?"

"He saw it too? You never told me." She coughed out a barely audible laugh. "That's God. He loves you so much, Cameron."

"I thought Dad was crazy."

"Promise you'll find it." Her eyes closed. "It's okay."

Tears fought their way onto his cheeks.

"No. No tears, Aragorn." The most precious name she had for him.

"You can't leave me, Jessie."

"I have to. It's going to be all right, I promise." Her grip on his hand faded. "Someday you'll know that it's okay."

Jessie drew one more breath and locked her eyes on his. "I love you, Cameron. Always and forever."

He blinked back tears as he shook his head.

Unbelievable.

Jessie and his dad both saw this book, whatever it was, or at least they believed they saw something.

Cameron stood and wiped his moist palms on his shorts as he paced back and forth on the top of the cliff near his tent. Was the book real?

He had to find out.

Now.

And he needed help.

But from whom?

Someone who wouldn't think he was nuts when he told his dad's and Jessie's story. Someone he could trust. Someone who knew Jessie almost as well as he did.

He sighed and slumped forward.

No, he wouldn't call her.

But he had no choice. He picked up his iPhone and scrolled through his contacts. If she was still in Portland, her number would be in there.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Ann, it's Cameron Vaux."

"Yeah, I saw that on caller ID."

"It's been a long time. How are you?"

"Fine."

Cold as ever. What was he doing? He could hang up right now and Ann wouldn't call back. He needed another option. If only there was one.

"Cameron?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Are you still doing investigative reporting?"

"No, I'm hosting Adventure Northwest. For almost two years now."

"That's right, I'd heard that." He rubbed his forehead. "Today's the anniversary of Jessie's—."

"What do you need, Cameron?"

"I thought maybe you would want to talk about—"

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but we haven't had a conversation in two years, and it seems a little strange that you want to talk about Jessie all of a sudden."

Cameron massaged the back of his neck and walked to the edge of the cliff. No choice. He had to tell her. "I have to talk to you about something important."

"Okay."

"When my dad was forty-two, forty-three, his mind started slipping."

"I remember Jessie mentioning something about that, but I never knew the details."

Did he really want to get into this with Ann? Cameron glanced at the river below surging with the spring runoff. No choice.

"Are you there, Cameron?"

"I'm not sure I want to talk about this."

"So why'd you call?"

"I don't know." A red-tailed hawk soared above him screaming kee-eeee-ar as he tried to make a decision.

"Do you want to call me back?"

"I . . ."

"Look, Cameron, I know we've clashed in the past, but if you want to talk I'm willing."

He pressed his lips together and drew a deep breath. "I need to tell you the last thing my dad said to me."

"Okay."

"It was bizarre at the time, but now I'm not so sure." Cameron paused. This he needed to remember with as much accuracy as possible. "He said I would get the same disease he had. Not if, but when."

"I'm sorry."

"I went to my fifteen-year reunion a few weeks ago and didn't remember people."

"I'm going to mine next year. I'm sure I'll forget people too. You hadn't seen some of them in fifteen years."

"I didn't remember a girlfriend I had for a year, a guy I played in a band with for two years."

"You had no memory of them the whole time?"

"No, I mean, yeah I did . . . but it took a while each time for the memories to kick in. It's like it was locked up somewhere in my mind. I stared at this person, knowing I should remember them and just couldn't."

"And now you're thinking you're going to go down your dad's path?"

"Yeah, but there's more. At the same time he told me my mind would start going, he said I had to find a book with all the days in it. That he saw this book when he was a kid. That when I found it, everything would make sense; everything would be all right."

Ann didn't respond.

Great. He needed video conferencing on his phone. Was she surprised? Amused? "Are you there?"

"You're saying he was coherent when he laid all this Twilight Zone stuff on you?"

"He was clear, Ann. It was only for a few moments, but he was all there."

"It's been eight years since you had that conversation with him. Is there any chance time has tainted your memory of it? Given what you've, uh, been going through lately?"

Maybe. It was a fair question. But Cameron knew what his dad had said.

"No, I remember." He kicked at a rock, then said, "Here's where it gets a little bizarre. Jessie said the same thing on the day she died. She said I had to find a book, and if I did, it would be okay." Cameron swallowed hard. "What if they were talking about the same book?"

"Jessie was on the verge of dying; the mind can come up with fantastical things in those moments."

"But they both came up with the same story." Cameron shuffled back to his tent and sat next to it. "Jessie also said her stone was one of the keys to finding the book."

Again, Ann didn't answer.

"Did Jessie ever talk to you about a book or her stone?"

"What does all this have to do with me, Cameron?"

"I have to find the book. For my dad, for Jessie, for myself."

"But why are you calling me about it?"

"I need someone who knew Jessie to help me. Who might know something more about her story."

"I don't think I'm the person you're looking for."

"You know you are. Who else can I trust?" He scratched at the dirt with his forefinger. "Who else do I know who has a background in investigative reporting?"

The silence lasted more than thirty seconds.

Ann sighed. "What do you want me to do?"

The next morning his cell phone shattered the silence. Who was calling this early? He fumbled through his pack to find his phone. Ann. Cameron unzipped his tent and glanced outside. Not a hint of dawn. He might be able to get back to sleep.

He slid his Bluetooth over his ear. "Why are you calling me at this hour?"

"I thought you wanted answers."

"It's four forty-five, Ann."

"My foster dad always said, 'Never any point in burning daylight.'"

"It's not light," Cameron muttered.

"Do you want to know what I've discovered or not?"

He blinked and shook his head to wake up. "I want to know."

"Your dad said he found this thing when he was a kid?"

"Yes."

"Did he ever talk with you about his childhood? His early childhood when he lived in Central Oregon, in a town called Three Peaks?"

"No, I knew he grew up in Oregon . . . and I remembered him saying it was a strange time for him, but I didn't remember where. Where is Three Peaks?"

"I just told you, Central Oregon."

"Hey, I'm still waking up." Cameron crawled out of his tent and sat cross-legged.

"How long did he live there?"

"Till he was nine. What does this have to do with—?"

"Remember what he said to you?"

"About?" He scratched the back of his head.

"Wake up, Cameron. You need to be on point for this. Your dad said he saw this book thing as a kid."

"Yeah."

"I got up early and dug through the Internet, grabbing everything I could find on Three Peaks, which wasn't a lot. But I did find one item worth mentioning."

"What?" Cameron massaged his feet and slipped on his shoes.

"Have you ever heard of Future Current?"

"No, should I?"

"Probably not. It's not that well known outside of New Age circles. But in that subculture it's pretty well known. Their whole focus is unlocking memories from the past as well as trying to look into the future. Know it, tap into it, control it, use it to shape future events. And their headquarters are in—"

"Three Peaks, Oregon."

"Yep. For them to choose to locate in a town of only seventeen-hundred people . . . seems like a pretty interesting coincidence. Why there, you know what I mean?"

Cameron started breaking down his tent.

"So what's next?" Ann asked.

"When can you meet me in Three Peaks?"

She sighed through the phone. "Sorry, Cameron. Why don't you check it out and call me if you need help once you get there."

"Ann? Please?"

"I'll think about it."

"Ann, I really—"

"I said I'll think about it."

The line went dead.

He didn't need her to think about it; he needed her to come. Cameron dug his fingers into his knotted shoulder and stared at the horizon, now a lighter gray streaked with hints of gold.

I have to find the book, huh, Dad? That will bring my Jessie memories back and keep them intact for the rest of my days? Will it keep me from losing any more of my mind? He rubbed his brow as the cords in his neck tightened. I can't afford to lose my brain, Dad.

Cameron finished breaking down his camp and glanced at his watch. He could be back to Seattle and packed for a trip to Three Peaks by early afternoon.

As he stuffed his tent into his pack, Jessie's stone around his neck fell out of his shirt. He dropped his pack and held the stone, staring at the markings on its surface.

This was the key?

All right, Jessie, if the wild goose is running, I'm ready to go on a chase.

All he needed to do on Monday morning was convince Brandon he could handle an extra fifty hours for the next couple of weeks.

Piece of cake.

Yeah, right.

CHAPTER 4

Cameron sat in his office on Monday morning, chewing espresso beans and getting more irritated by the second. Brandon and he played tug-of-war over his going to Three Peaks, and Cameron was getting tired of the rope burns.

"You can't go now, bud, we've got five jobs on the front burner. They're jumping off the stove, they're so hot. I'm supposed to shoot, edit, write, and do the voice work all by myself? Oh, that's right, I forgot, I don't do voice work. And I can't animate like you can. But other than that, sure, count me in for a 120-hour week. Sign me up, lock and load, make it happin' captain." Brandon did a bad version of The Twist.

"Stop."

"Huh, what? Say again. One more time?"

"Stop talking. Now. You're not funny and your dancing makes you look like you've got the dry heaves."

"That's your big comeback for why you have to go?"

"I have to do this, Brandon."

"Listen, sarcasm aside, I get it. Great. Go. That's why we started this biz. Have the freedom to get out of here and go without checking with some corporate suit. But hello, uh, not when we're in the heart of the game. Two months, then you're outta here for three weeks. Four. Six. Whatever."

"I need to go now."

"Okay, okay, I'm with you. Just give me a good reason why, and I'm on the team."

"I think I'm . . ." Cameron stopped himself. Right. As if he could tell Brandon he was losing his mind. And his dad's whacko last words and a recent recollection of Jessie's accident were about to send him on an insane goose chase to find some book that would restore his memories, cure his mind, and maybe answer ninety-nine of the other one-hundred questions of life.

"I can't tell you."

Brandon slouched back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head. "Oh, great. Let me guess. It's some weird trek, like the time you were convinced Bigfoot had visited your campsite up near Tumwater Canyon and you needed to hang out up in the pine trees for three days trying to get his picture."

"I was seventeen when I did that. I was a little more impressionable in those days."

"So you don't believe in Bigfoot anymore?"

"No, I've shifted my focus to something fully based in reality—the Loch Ness Monster."

Brandon laughed and slumped back in his chair. "It's hard to stay ticked off at you, even when you're being an idiot."

Cameron smiled. "Thanks, I think."

"So why can't you tell me what's going on?"

"Three Peaks is where my dad grew up till he was nine. Something he said to me might be a clue as to why he died so young. I need to check it out."

"You're killing me, Cam."

"I have to go now."

"You already said that." Brandon sighed and pulled up a calendar on his computer. "How long?"

"A week, maybe two."

"This be July 19." Brandon pointed to the date on his computer monitor and then moved his finger down two weeks. "This be August 2. You gotta be back at de veddy, veddy latest by that date, cool?"

"It'll probably be sooner than that. I just want to see if there's anything of my dad's history there that will explain how Jessie and he ended up talking about the same . . ."

"How Jessie and he ended up talking about the same what?"

Cameron dug the nail of his forefinger into his thumb. He needed to be careful. He wasn't ready to tell Brandon what was going on. He had hardly come to terms with it himself. "I need some space on this one. Okay?"

"You got it. No worries."

No worries? Right. They were the only thing filling his mind.

An hour later Cameron checked to make sure his mountain bike was securely mounted on top of his MINI Cooper, then slipped behind the wheel. He tossed his briefcase into the passenger seat on top of a couple of books on Central Oregon history and buckled up.

The backseat was stuffed with his laptop, video camera, clothes, and climbing gear: ropes, carabineers, tapered wedges, SLCDs, harnesses, shoes, and chalk. Always lots of chalk, so he wouldn't slip. Climbing safe meant climbing in control. No emotion, only execution.

Even the adrenaline rush that coursed through him when he climbed wasn't emotion. It was a drug, an endorphin high that buried his pain. A way to keep the loss of Jessie at bay for at least a few hours. And a way to be close to her at the same time.

His mind shifted to Ann. She had finally relented and agreed to meet him, saying she'd been meaning to come to Three Peaks anyway on a personal matter. She would arrive in Three Peaks in a couple days but could only stay for a week at the most. Fine with him. All he needed was a little help.

He fired up his car and headed south on I-5 toward Oregon. Wispy clouds moved across the sky, covering and uncovering a brilliant sun framed by a sapphire sky. That old sixties song nailed it: the bluest skies were in Seattle. He glanced at his dashboard temperature gauge. Seventy-seven degrees. A perfect summer day.

He'd read that depressed people killed themselves more often on sunny days. They were supposed to feel better when the sun was out. When they didn't, any remaining hope died, and so did they.

He'd traveled that road hundreds of times in his imagination. When Jessie died, the idea shoved its way into his mind at least a few times a day.

The blackness had tried to draw him in. It invited him to a place with no pain, no emotions, no longings—nothing but sweet relief from despair, so thick every day felt like he was slogging through waist-high tar.

The past year had been better. His mind said ending his life wasn't the answer, even if his heart continued to argue back.

These days whenever the dark thoughts surfaced, he shoved them underwater till they drowned.

He shouldn't worry about it. If he ever got serious about the idea again, Jessie would probably swoop down from heaven or wherever she was, stop him and say, "How can you think about destroying your life? You have a destiny. One that no other life can fill. Live free, Aragorn."

A king that loses his mind. Yeah, what a great tale that would be.

"Where are you, Jessie? Are you and Dad together? My heart is so barren without the two of you."

Cameron pulled into Three Peaks late that afternoon looking for Dream It, Do It Hardware, the place he'd get his first shot at finding answers.

A hair salon anchored the corner of the first building. Midway down the street was Bronco & Buster's Grill & Saloon and a sporting goods store with rubber canoes out front and a basket of clearance items spread out on the sidewalk.

On the other side was Palino's Pizza, the town hall, and Java Jump Start. At least he'd be able to get a decent caffeine jolt each morning.

At the end of the next block was the Ponderosa Lodge Best Western. He glanced at the name of the hotel on his itinerary. Yep. The Ponderosa would be home for the next two weeks.

Across the street stood the hardware store. He pulled into the parking lot on the side of the building and sat in his car, fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel. One minute. Two. Probably the place where his journey would end before it started.

Jessie loved her dreams and visions. About God, about life, about all things spiritual.

Maybe the book was just another one of her fantasies.

Maybe his dad's words were the final ramblings of a mind shutting down forever.

Only one way to discover the truth. Start asking questions.

Lots of questions.

As he stepped through the door of Dream It, Do It Hardware, chimes announced his arrival. He scanned the store. No customers. To his right a small fan pushed a faint smell of sawdust and grease into his nostrils.

"How can I be of help to you today?" said a man with thinning, dirty-blond hair. He sat behind a low counter on a tall maple stool and pecked at a computer keyboard with his forefingers. He wore a rumpled blue polo shirt with a Benjamin Moore logo and khaki shorts. Cameron guessed the man was in his late fifties, early sixties.

He eased toward the man. "I'm looking for Mayor Kirk Gillum."

"Mind if I tell him who it 'tiz that's searching for him?" The man stepped out from behind the counter, his eyes narrow.

"My name's Cameron Vaux, I'm—"

"Right, we met on the phone. I'm Kirk." He folded his arms across his chest. "You don't look like you sound on the phone, Mr. Vaux. You've got one of those deep radio voices, so I thought you'd be six foot ten or something. Of course, I probably don't look like I sound either. People rarely do." He unfolded his arms and gave Cameron a weak handshake. "I suppose I should offer you a drink."

Kirk moved back around the counter and opened a small refrigerator. "I've got Diet Mountain Dew; that's about it."

"Mountain Dew is fine."

He tossed a can to Cameron who snagged it with one hand.

Kirk stepped back to the counter and leaned forward on his elbows. "You mentioned you're a videographer, right? Will you be doing any filming while you're down here?"

"Probably not."

"Too bad. It would be a real treat to have someone make a documentary about our town," Kirk said.

"Treat?"

"The wonderful things about a small town outweigh the downsides, without question, but one of those downsides is wheelbarrows full of monotony. Three Peaks is great for tourists, but sometimes we locals like a little shot of excitement. Having a film crew here would be kinda fun."

Cameron took a swig of Mountain Dew. "Sorry to disappoint you, but maybe someday."

"No problem. So you want some history on Three Peaks, huh?"

Kirk didn't wait for Cameron to answer. "Like I said when you called from Seattle, I'm not much of a historian, but a few folks around here can tell you everything, from the highest and lowest temperatures for the past fifty years to who won the Doggie Dash ten summers back. I've already told them you'd be coming."

Kirk yanked a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it to Cameron. On it were three names with addresses and phone numbers.

"They're looking forward to meeting you. First is Arnold Peasley. He's a little off center—most folks around here would say he's certifiably peculiar—but he knows his history like I know nuts and bolts.

"Next is Laura Moon. She was the mayor here before me and owns the crystals store in town. She runs the local theater and writes her own plays sometimes. Her plays are about as exciting as bird-watching, but we like her too much to complain."

"I know some people who really enjoy birding."

"Sorry to hear that." Kirk almost smiled. "Just kidding."

He tapped the next name on the list. "Then we've got Susan Hillman, the best of the bunch. She works at the library, so she can point you to the history books. She's a rock, solid as they come, and is one of the keenest observers of people you'll ever meet. A little whacked out when it comes to her spiritual beliefs, but we overlook that as best we can."

"Thanks, I appreciate all the help."

"No problem, young Cameron." Kirk attempted another smile. "Anything else you want to know before we say good-bye?"

Should he tell this guy the real reason he was here? Kirk Gillum wasn't exactly heating up the hardware store with his warmth. But what could it hurt?

"I want to talk about my dad."

"Your dad?"

"He lived here till he was nine."

Kirk rubbed his chin. "Interesting. It is indeed a small world. Is this the first time you've visited Three Peaks?"

Cameron nodded. "First time."

"And you wanted to see where he spent his early years? Is that what this history thing is about?"

"That and hopefully a little bit more."

"More?" Kirk leaned back and folded his arms again.

"My dad died eight years ago, but before he did, he said something strange. His mind was gone at the time so I didn't pay much attention then. But some recent . . . circumstances have made me think again about what he said and take it a little more seriously."

"And what did he say?" Kirk titled his head.

"That I needed to find the day's book. I have to find out if it exists."

"The day's book? Hmm . . . ?" Kirk squeezed the tip of his tongue between his lips and looked like he'd taken a bite of lemon pie without any sugar.

"Does that mean anything to you?"

The mayor stared at him with a condescending smile. "Don't take this the wrong way, Cameron, but why in the world would you want to go searching for something like that? Trust me, leave it alone."

"So it does mean something to you."

"Of course it means something to me, or I wouldn't have suggested you drop it." Kirk stood and strolled toward the front door of the store. "But since I'm one of the friendliest people you'll meet in this town, young Cameron, I'll say it again. You might consider just leaving it alone."

Cameron planted his hands on his hips. "Mind telling me why?"

"You are a free citizen and can do whatever you want within the confines of the law." Kirk pushed open the front door. "But I do hate to see anyone in my town, especially a fine new friend, waste his time chasing down some fairy tale that is none of his business when he could be out doing so many other interesting things." He motioned through the door toward Cameron's car. "Thanks for coming by."

Cameron took the not-so-subtle hint and walked out. He climbed into his car and fell back in his seat.

Until that moment, he hadn't given his dad's and Jessie's words more than a fifty-fifty chance of having any validity. No longer.

A fairy tale? Not to Kirk it wasn't. So what was this book?

Cameron pulled Gillum's list out of his pocket. Time to meet quirky Arnold Peasley.

CHAPTER 5

What are you still doing here?"

Ann Banister looked up from her desk to find Drew Silster standing in the doorway of her office, arms spread to both sides of the door frame, his eyes twinkling behind his squared-off glasses. Good boss. Good friend.

"I was plowing through a few e-mails and wrapping up a few last-minute details," Ann said.

"You mean you were stalling?"

"You're funny." Ann smiled. "I mean I was wrapping up a few details."

"Anything I can do for you while you're gone?"

She shut down her e-mail. "Yes. You could pray for my trip. I'll need it."

"Excellent suggestion. I'll get started on that as soon as I figure out how that whole prayer thing works." Drew stroked his chin. "When you get back, I've got a stupendously stellar story for you to work on."

"That's the twentieth time you've used that line this year." Ann leaned back in her chair and folded her hands across her dark blue Nike jacket. "And it's only July. You're addicted to alliteration."

"I can't believe I'm giving you three weeks off in a row."

"Sure you can, I've earned it." Ann grinned. "And you love me."

"True. And so do they." Drew stepped inside and pointed at a map of the United States on the far wall of Ann's office. "Did you see the overnights? The TV audience in Miami loves you. As they do in Philadelphia, and San Francisco, and Nashville.

"But they're not so sure about you in Dallas or right here in Portland, Oregon." He walked to the map and circled the cities with his forefinger. "The show has plummeted all the way to number two in its time slot in both markets."

"I still wonder why I got in front of your cameras that first time." Ann shook her head, even though now she couldn't picture herself doing anything else.

"You're finally going to tell me why you agreed? Ever since I've known you, you've never wanted anything to do with the outdoors or thrill seeking, then all of a sudden two years ago, boom, you transform from Ms. Investigative Journalist into Adventure Girl."

"I think you know why." Ann touched the tip of her forefinger to a framed picture on her desk.

"I suppose I do."

"It's the same reason I started rock climbing. It's a way to feel close to the true adventure girl. I think about Jessie with every story I do. She would love to be cohosting the adventures with me. And she'd be better at it."

Ann picked up the photo of her foster sister and clutched it against her chest. "I pretend Jessie's doing the stories with me, laughing, teasing me, pushing me to do even crazier things."

She set the picture back on her desk and swallowed. No more tears. Enough had come a few days back on the anniversary of the crash. "So what's the stellar story you'll have me dying to develop when I get back?"

"Rock climbing. Since you're a pro now, it's time." Drew waved the production schedule in his hand. "I've been producing Adventure Northwest for three years, and we've never done a show on rock climbing."

"I didn't realize that. What a riveting revelation." Ann clicked off her desk lamp.

"That one was better than your last two."

"Thanks. Listen, I'm still pretty new to the whole climbing thing. Maybe we could wait another six months or a year even."

"Nah, you'll be great. Knowing you, I'm sure you're better than you're letting on."

She scooted her leather chair up next to her desk as she watched Drew gaze at The Princess Bride poster on her office wall.

"Still waiting for Wesley, aren't you?"

"Absolutely." Ann flipped her shoulder-length auburn hair behind her shoulders. "Nothing can stop true love."

"Don't you have to find him first?"

"I'm working on that." But she wasn't working on it. Was she supposed to meet someone online? Not a chance. Ask friends to set her up? No. Finding true love wasn't as easy as scripting a movie where the handsome hero suddenly appears.

Drew rapped a rolled-up tube of papers against his palm. "Speaking of romance, I'm going to surreptitiously stick my snout in where it doesn't belong."

"You already did with your stalling comment." Ann folded her arms across her chest.

"Are you seriously going down to Three Peaks to meet Cameron?"

"No. I'm not going there to meet him. He'll just happen to be there at the same time I'm finding out where I came from." Ann raised her eyebrows and tilted her head.

"You sure you want to dig into your family history?"

"Positive."

But she wasn't positive. Why try to find relatives who might not want to be found? Why uncover a past that might be better off buried? Because she had to know if she was completely alone in the world. And the timing of Cameron's call might be God's way of saying it's time.

"You just happen to be going down there at the same time as Cameron? I thought he called and asked you to come." Drew slumped into the chair in front of Ann's desk.

"He did."

"I'm confused."

"So am I." Ann pinched the bridge of her nose. "But I've been meaning to go there anyway, so the timing worked out. What was I supposed to say?"

"No."

"I tried, Drew."

"Not hard enough apparently."

"He's almost like a brother-in-law. And it has to do with Jessie too. Something I need to find out about her."

Drew nodded. "You're not worried about any emotions that might surface again being around Cameron?"

Ann rolled her eyes and sighed. Yes, she was fully worried. "That was seven years ago." She slammed her laptop shut and stuffed it into her briefcase.

"So you don't have those feelings anymore?"

"No." Ann, you are such a liar.

"I'm only going to say this because you're one of my closest friends. I can tell when you're lying."

"Well, this time you're wrong." She slung her briefcase strap over her shoulder and glared at him. "I'll be fine."

"What kind of friend would I be if I didn't at least tell you to be careful?"

"I'm always careful."

"I know." Drew stood, walked through the doorway, and said over his shoulder, "Be extra careful this time, okay? I don't want you getting hurt."

Neither did she. But it wouldn't be easy.

Hearing Cameron's voice and having the old feelings surge to the surface was bad enough. Now she'd have to be around him for a week or more.

Why had God stuck him back in her life? Even if Cameron caught a clue and realized how she felt, she could never let herself get involved with him.

Add in the possibility that Jessie's book was real, and she had a recipe for severe psychosis. How many times had she teased Jessie about that fantastical story? Probably every day after they ended up together in the Busby's foster home.

Ann strode out of her office, tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks.

She had the feeling this adventure would wrack more nerves than any on-air story she'd ever done.

CHAPTER 6

Cameron rang Arnold Peasley's doorbell as he examined the chipped pea-green paint on the siding determined to get answers. He wouldn't let Arnold shut him down as fast as Kirk Gillum.

Ten seconds later the door swung open and a spry man wearing a plaid long-sleeved shirt and an ancient-looking pair of Adidas sweatpants stood in front of him. He held a worn basketball under his arm.

"Arnold Peasley?"

"Yep."

"My name is Cameron—"

"I know precisely who you are." Arnold tapped his foot double-time on the faded hardwood floor in his entryway. "Gillum said you'd be coming by to converse with me about Three Peak's history."

Arnold led Cameron through a six-foot-tall corridor of stacked newspapers bound with twine. Piles of papers lined every wall.

"Quite a collection of newspapers you have there."

"I keep telling myself I should toss 'em, but I consider myself the town's unofficial historian, and a newspaper is the best history you can have. Books have a tendency to filter out all the interesting details." Arnold ran his fingers through his hair three times in rapid succession.

"Don't they have microfiche of all these papers?"

"Oh, probably, but there's nothing like having the real McCoy, you know what I'm saying? I think you do." Arnold stopped in front of two rocking chairs, only a few patches of varnish still on them, sat, and motioned for Cameron to do the same.

A few moments later Arnold smacked the arms of his chair three times and popped back to his feet. He strode toward the kitchen dribbling his basketball. "Come along, Cameron; don't just sit there."

He smiled to himself and followed his host.

"I do know the history around here," Arnold said over his shoulder, "so fire away. What would you like to know?"

Everything. No point in being subtle; he needed answers now. "Before my dad died, he told me about a book with all the days in it. Does that mean anything to you?"

Peasley stood in front of the refrigerator dribbling the basketball. "Why should I tell you?"

"Because I—"

"Can you take the time to explain what the book has to do with finding out about the history of Three Peaks?"

"I'm not—"

"You're not really here to find out the broader history of our town, are you?" Peasley glared at him as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

Cameron sighed. "No, I'm not."

Peasley squinted at him as if he were studying a map, deciding on the best route to his destination. "Since you've come clean with me, I'll be fairly transparent with you. Yes, I know exactly what you're talking about."

"And?" Cameron raised an eyebrow.

"I said fairly transparent. Not fully. There's a couple of people to talk to, but you might want to start with him."

"Him?" Couldn't he get a straight answer from this guy?

"Yes, there's always been rumors that he knows more about the book than the rest of us, but he won't talk about it. Maybe you can get him to open up." Peasley drummed his fingers on the counter.

"All I want to know is what the book is."

"Ah, so disappointing. We were doing well, and there you go lying to me again." Arnold shook his head. "No, no, no, you want to know far more. And if you knew what the book really was, you'd want to know far more than you're imagining right now. You'd want to know it all."

Cameron gritted his teeth. Yes, he wanted to know everything about the book. If he confessed that, would Peasley stop talking like Mr. Cryptic?

Arnold opened his refrigerator and grabbed a pitcher filled with something light brown. "Can I interest your taste buds in something cool and refreshing?"

"Sure." Cameron nodded and swallowed. He'd better choke down at least a little of what looked like well-aged iced tea, or Arnold might stop talking altogether.

Peasley poured two tall glasses and handed one to Cameron. The other he left on the counter. "I grew up around here. I never left."

Cameron took a sip of the tea. Not bad.

"I played guard on the high school basketball team in '68 and '69 you know. You're staring at the Three Peaker who took the assist record to new heights those years."

"Who scored the points?"

"Taylor Stone did, of course, but if I hadn't seen the lanes with my eagle eyes, he wouldn't have gotten the ball. Taylor always mentioned that about me when he was talking to the paper about his record-breaking performances. Always. Good man, Taylor was. We had the most consecutive wins in the history of the town. The '82 team came close to breaking it but didn't quite make it. They missed the record by two games."

Arnold Peasley undoubtedly knew his history. Basketball at least.

"I have pictures of the team from both seasons I played, both seasons—did you know that? And the photographer those years? Whew. Good photos. Action photos."

"Will you tell me anything about the book my dad told me about?"

For the first time since their conversation began, Arnold stopped fidgeting. He turned and stared straight into Cameron's eyes, basketball clasped between his palms. "Maybe later. But I'd start with him, and if you get anything interesting from him, we'd love to hear about it."

"Who is 'him,' Arnold?"

"Taylor Stone, of course." Peasley shook his head. "I was giving you clues the whole time and you didn't pick up on them. Are you going to go see Taylor?"

"I'll think about it. Thanks."

"I probably wouldn't waste my time trying. He most likely won't talk to you. Certainly not about the book."

"You just said I should talk to him."

"I said you should, I didn't say you could. In fact, it's pointless to try and if I were you, I'd head back to Seattle as soon as you can." Arnold bounced his ball once. "Did you play basketball growing up? You're going to love these pictures. C'mon, I'll show them to you. Come along."

Arnold Peasley grabbed his iced tea and clipped back into his living room.

Cameron grabbed his notepad and started writing. Why was Arnold driving him to talk to this Taylor Stone? He didn't think it was Peasley's altruism. And why hadn't Kirk Gillum mentioned the guy?

Ann Banister poked her trip counter on her dashboard on Tuesday evening at five thirty, cranked the volume up on her Maroon 5 CD, and pulled onto I-5 heading south. She should be in Three Peaks in three hours.

Cameron flashed into her mind and she sighed.

Three days wouldn't be enough time to figure out what she would say to him when she saw him. Why did he have to ask her to come? Wasn't it enough to talk on the phone?

"Why am I doing this, God?" She smacked her steering wheel. "I could have said no. I should have said no."

But it was about more than Cameron. Why should she be burdened with only one unpleasant task when she could be weighed down by her mysterious past as well?

Ann glanced at the photo on her passenger seat. "Did you love me, Mom, in the short time we had together? Do I have any aunts or uncles out there thinking about me? Wondering about me? Do I finally get to find out?"

She sighed and stomped on the gas. Fine. Let's go. It was time to uncover the past, face Cameron, see if any of Jessie's story of the Book of Days held any truth, and determine what all three things would tell her about the future. But she didn't have to like any of it.

Ann passed through Marion Forks at seven thirty and flicked on her headlights against the growing dusk. Another forty-five minutes and she'd be there.

The highway was nearly empty. She rubbed the back of her neck. It would be okay. What was the worst that could happen? She'd see Cameron, get over it, confirm that Jessie's tale was another instance of her imagination spinning out of control, find out she had no living relatives, and be done with it. Then head back to Portland to move on with life.

Simple.

Ann closed her eyes for a second. She was tired. Emotionally, physically . . .

What was that—?

No!

A deer stood in the middle of the highway, fifteen yards ahead, eyes wide.

Ann swerved into the oncoming lane of traffic, a horn wailed at her, and she yanked the wheel back to the right. The car on her left passed her by inches at the same time her right bumper clipped the deer's back leg.

She screeched to the side of the road and grabbed her legs in an attempt to keep them from shaking. It didn't work. Ann rubbed her face. "Oh, no, no . . . deep breath now. Get out, see if it's okay. Come on."

It was one of her worst nightmares. Her passion for animals overrode most other things in life.

She fumbled with the release on her seat belt, flipped it back, and stumbled out of her car.

"Please don't be dead."

When she reached the spot where she'd hit the deer, there was no sign of it. No blood, no fur, nothing.

Was the deer all right? She glanced off the road on both sides. "Please let it be okay."

Ann returned to her car and eased back onto the highway. Was this a sign of how much pain she'd have to go through before she was done with Three Peaks, or Three Peaks was done with her?

CHAPTER 7

Cameron looked at the address on Gillum's piece of paper and then gazed at the numbers on the two-story house in front of him. This should be the home of Susan Hillman.

Thirty seconds after the chime of the doorbell faded, Susan opened her door. Her short, tossed brown hair made her look like she'd just come in from a windstorm.

She offered iced tea—must be the official Three Peaks' drink—which Cameron declined explaining he'd had a glass during his last visit. But he did accept two cookies and a glass of milk, making him feel six years old again. They sat outside on her covered redwood front porch and made small talk for a few minutes about the heat of a Three Peaks summer and how long she'd lived in town.

"Fifty-seven winters." A smile played at the corners of her eyes. "But my age and how warm it gets here isn't what you want to know, is it?"

The small-town gossip grapevine must be on overdrive. "No. I'd like to talk about my dad. About his childhood."

Susan nodded.

"His name was Boscoe Vaux and he lived here till he was nine."

Susan laughed. "Well, fancy that." She leaned back in her chair till it bumped into the planter behind her filled with blue Larkspur. "I remember him."

"You what?" Cameron jerked his head and squinted. "You remember my dad?"

"Isn't that funny? I haven't mulled over the memory of Little Boss for ages. And you're his son. He was one of my closest friends in those days. Fascinating." Susan ran her hands through her hair. "God has a sense of humor, yes? Little Boss and I shared the same paint set in first and second grade."

"Little Boss?"

"That's what we called him, due to his being named after your grandfather, who of course was Big Boss." She smiled again. "Boscoe wasn't the best name for a little boy to have. I think he appreciated being called something different." She shook her head. "That takes me back a few years. If Little Boss went two minutes without laughing that was a long time. And what a great smile. Everyone loved him. So tell me, how is your father?"

"He passed away eight years ago." The familiar ache settled in his stomach as an image of his dad and him standing on West Seattle's Alki Beach filled his mind. Cameron missed that grin and the hearty laughter that always accompanied it.

"Oh, Cameron, my heart hurts for you." Susan blinked and covered her mouth. "So young."

"Thanks." They sat in silence for a minute, and it seemed to fill a dark corner of his heart with light, if only slightly. "My dad said when he was a kid, he saw a book that showed him the past and the future. Do you know anything about that?"

Susan stared into Cameron's eyes, then looked down and smoothed her forest green shorts. "I haven't thought about that for years, but I do remember a few things. Wow. Funny how it's stayed with me." She tilted her head back and scanned the ceiling, as if she would find what to say etched on its surface.

"Boscoe and Big Boss were involved in this group called Indian Guides, and they'd go on all these hikes and adventures together. Every Monday morning at lunchtime in the school's orange cafeteria, Little Boss would report what they'd done and where they'd gone.

"Well, after one of their weekend hikes, he started acting all closed up and wouldn't talk to me or anyone else. After a few weeks of that I finally asked him, 'Why are you being so quiet all of a sudden?' or something like that. He poked his straw up and down in his chocolate milk and said, 'I know when I'm going to die.'

"It was a strange thing to say coming from a nine-year-old kid, and I didn't know how to respond. Then he said, 'When I grow up I'm going to have a son and I know things about him too.' I laughed but Little Boss just kept staring at his milk carton.

"I asked him where he saw these things, but all he would say is, 'I don't know if I could find it again. Maybe I dreamed it all up.'"

"We never talked about it after that. Back then I thought he was making up stories, but over the years I've often wondered what he saw. Looking back with an adult's perspective, he certainly believed he saw this book you're looking for."

Cameron shuddered. His dad had seen something. Maybe he was just a kid, but what he saw had changed him. "I have to find that book."

"Why is this book so important to you, Cameron?"

"My dad said I needed to find it to understand."

"Understand what?"

"What would happen to me. Or what is happening to me. What he thinks he saw."

"And what is that?"

Cameron stared at Susan Hillman. Wisps of her brown hair hung over her eyes. This was a woman it would be easy to slide into friendship with, a woman he'd be tempted to spill his guts to. "I'm not sure."

"I see." And by the way she looked at him, it seemed Susan truly did see.

"Are you hoping that if you find this book Little Boss spoke of, it will give your life meaning?"

"No." Cameron held his breath and looked away, as if turning could deflect the question. How could he tell her he had to find the book because he was scared he was losing his mind and he was hoping his dad was right and the book would cure him?

How could he describe losing his memories of Jessie and tell how he would try anything to get them back? How he was terrified of ending up like his dad, talking about nothing and everything mixed up into a mess the best linguists in the world couldn't decipher? How he'd promised his father he'd search for a book that probably only existed in his dad's mind and Jessie's imagination?

Susan looked at him with compassion. "I had a son about your age. Are you thirty-four? Thirty-five?"

"Thirty-three." Cameron shifted in his seat. "Had?"

Susan nodded as she brushed back her hair. "I'd like to offer you a stone."

Interesting. Susan understood loss but didn't want to talk about it. Part of him didn't want to talk about Dad and Jessie, but she had a choice. He didn't. "Offer a what?"

She reached over and opened an old dark mahogany cabinet sitting next to the front door and brought out a bowl made of stained glass. It was full of rocks, all polished to a brilliant shine.

"This one is pretty." Susan picked a piece of jade. "I found it myself. I let it scuttle around in the polisher with all that fine sand working on it, rubbing off the rough spots, for three straight weeks." She handed him the bowl and he set it on his knees.

"You know more about the book, don't you? Will you tell me what it is?"

"Pick a stone, Cameron. To keep." Susan grabbed the edge of the dish and rattled the stones inside it.

He settled on a flat stone the color of crème brûlée streaked with black lines. Peppered along the lines were tiny red specks, connecting them, making it look like constellations of another world.

It made him think of Jessie's stone. His hand pressed against his chest and felt it under his shirt. For a moment he thought about telling Susan about the stone. Not yet. It wasn't time.

"That stone is a good choice." A pleased, almost joyful look passed over Susan's face. "A very, very good choice. Do you know where I found it?" She spoke as if talking directly to the stone. "Right here. In Three Peaks. I've never seen another like it."

She nodded twice and stood. Cameron took his cue and walked toward her porch steps. "So will you tell more about the book?"

Susan smiled and patted his arm. "You're a good man, Cameron. Keep hope, always hold on to hope."

Cameron jammed his notepad into his back pocket, clomped down Susan's stairs and toward his car. He did have hope mixed in with a full helping of discouragement. Cryptic answers was all he was getting. He didn't have time for Three Peaks' version of Where's Waldo. He needed answers before his mind went on permanent hiatus.

Movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

A man clipped along the sidewalk directly across from Susan's house.

Who? . . . Gillum, it was Kirk Gillum.

"Hey, Kirk." Cameron gave a quick flick of his hand in greeting. "As you've probably guessed, I just met with Susan. Thanks again for the introduction."

Gillum nodded in return and kept walking.

A little more of that mayoral warmth to brighten Cameron's day.

It didn't matter. Tomorrow he'd employ an old-fashioned method of discovering what he needed to know. And he would find answers.

CHAPTER 8

On Wednesday morning Cameron headed for the Three Peaks Public Library determined to find answers. Looking in books and old newspaper articles might tell him something the Internet and the people of Three Peaks hadn't relinquished.

Five and a half hours later, after pouring over every history book housed on the sagging shelves and every article available, all he'd achieved was exhaustion. And a neck that felt like guitar strings tuned three octaves too high.

Cameron slammed a book on the history of early Oregon shut and squeezed his temples. Why couldn't he find anything? Why was this town such a vault when it came to this mysterious book?

He looked at his notes spread out on one of the library's tables in front of a huge picture window and watched a shadow creep across them as the sun started to set.

It was pointless.

"You're not getting anywhere, are you?"

Cameron turned at the sound of the voice behind him.

A young man with sky-gray eyes, a Caterpillar baseball hat and a thick black goatee sat in a corner of the library, worn cowboy boots propped up on a chair in front of him. A decades old copy of Life magazine rested on his chest. Jimi Hendrix was on the cover.

"No one is tossing out straight answers, are they?"

"About?" Cameron raised his eyebrows.

"Don't insult me." The man laughed. "News travels in a small town even faster than Twitter."

Cameron rubbed his chin and studied the man. His eyes were mischievous. "You really want to find out about this Book of Days nonsense?"

Cameron frowned. "Book of Days?"

"Yeah, that's the official title. What have you been calling it?"

How much should he tell Cowboy Bob? At least enough to keep him talking. "My dad said 'book of all the days.'"

The man set his boots on the ground and sat up. "Your dad?"

"That's what he called it."

"Close enough. Some people call it the 'Book of Memories.'"

He leaned in. Finally someone who didn't talk in circles. "Book of Memories?"

"Sure, supposedly it's the book where everyone's life is recorded. All their memories."

His dad's memories. Jessie's. His own.

"I need to find that book." Cameron looked directly at the man. "I have to find that book."

"Take a number."

"What do you mean?"

The man took off his hat and leaned forward. "I've wondered about the legend myself for years."

"Can you tell me the legend?"

"I just did." The man flicked his hat. "It's Native American. At least that's where they say it started. But some people in town get pretty private about it. The New Agers mostly. I don't know why. It's not that big a deal. The few outsiders who dig around and figure out what it is, come to the conclusion it's a joke and they wander off."

"So where do I go from here?"

"Talk to Jason. He's the expert on the Book of Days." The man closed his Life magazine and tossed it onto the end table next to his chair.

"Where do I find . . . ?"

"Jason Judah. Three Peaks' most prominent self-appointed spiritual leader."

"Self-appointed?"

"You answer every question with a question? You some kind of Socrates fan-boy?" The man broke a toothpick in two and started cleaning his teeth. "Just a little small-town humor for you."

Or small-town strangeness. "I see."

"My name is Johnny. People around here call me Johnny."

"You should have stopped with the first joke."

"I like you, Cameron." Johnny chuckled.

"Thanks." Cameron rose to his feet. "Where can I find Jason?"

Johnny pointed out the window in front of Cameron to a building on the corner across the street.

"See that tiny door between the two windows? The white one with the dark blue trim? That's where the faithful gather."

Cameron stared at the dark blue door hoping that stepping through it would change his life forever.

The door said Future Current.

Future Current? That sounded familiar. Cameron looked at his notes. Right. It was the New Age group Ann told him about. Yes. Finally he would get answers. Cameron stepped into the room, slid a few feet along the flaxen-colored back wall, and leaned against it. Jazz-rock—Joe Satriani maybe—played just loud enough for the melodic bass line and an occasional guitar riff to be heard.

Jason Judah stood in front of a polished steel podium, looking like an aged and heavier version of the Norse god Thor with curly hair, his thick dirty blond locks hanging down just below his ears.

His sixty-plus disciples leaned forward in their chairs, taking copious notes as their leader's voice rose and fell in a gentle cadence.

Two of Jason's followers he recognized: Arnold Peasley and his buddy Kirk Gillum.

"We are looking for answers. The answers are out there. We are looking for direction. The path is right in front of us. We are looking for meaning. The meaning of our lives is calling to us in every moment. We are looking for our bliss. Our bliss is waiting for us to take action.

"What do you want? You don't have because you don't ask. You can make what you want reality. We must understand that the power of the mind is limited." Jason smiled and waited, probably for the questioning looks that appeared a few seconds later.

"You expected me to say unlimited, yes? But the mind is indeed limited; by fear, by worry, by doubt. It is time to put fear aside. To push through the doubts to the other side. To give anxiety no place in your heart ever again." Jason motioned with his hands as if beckoning his followers.

"Come now, come. Believe. Believe you can create the reality you've always dreamed of. Believe you can use the Book of Days to make everything you've ever wanted come true. Believe you can tap into its vast knowledge of yesterday, today, and tomorrow. The book is here. And if we believe, we can move mountains with its power."

Jason closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

"The book is our guide." Jason paused, then opened his eyes and grinned. "And with it we will become unstoppable."

A rush of adrenaline coursed through Cameron. Either the man was a nut case or this was the breakthrough he'd hoped for.

Jason's gaze swept slowly back and forth over the faction in front of him. On his second pass he locked on to Cameron. One by one, Jason's group followed his gaze till all eyes were riveted on Cameron.

"Are you a seeker or a believer?" Jason asked.

"Neither."

"An honest man." Jason held out his hand, palm up. "That is refreshing." He strode over to Cameron. "If you are neither a seeker nor a believer, tell us what brings you here and what we might do to help make your life more full."

Cameron couldn't tell if Jason was kidding or not. Did he make up a line like that or read it in some self-help guru's book? Neither the man nor the smile on his face moved. Jason must be serious.

"My name is Cameron Vaux."

"Welcome, Cameron."

"I'd like to talk to you about the Book of Days."

"Excellent. You've come to the right place. Let's step outside for a moment." Jason led Cameron back through the door he'd come in. After they'd walked five yards Jason said, "The book, why do you seek it?"

"My—" He glanced at Jason. A hunger in the man's eyes made him stop. "Some friends of mine mentioned it before they died. They said it was important that I find it. I promised them I would. So I'm honoring their request."

"Wise friends. And I respect your honoring their desire." Jason smiled. "I think having a discussion about the book can be arranged. Breakfast tomorrow morning, perhaps? Say seven thirty at the Outland Café?"

"I'd like to talk to you about it right now."

"Not now. Tomorrow morning."

Cameron nodded. Jason didn't seem the type to be coerced into anything he didn't want to do.

"Our journey together begins, Cameron. I believe you will find it an extremely fascinating one."

CHAPTER 9

Ann sat in her room on Wednesday morning holding a cup of bad hotel coffee as she tried to ignore the cloud of doubt that hung over her head, sending drops of anxiety into her heart.

You're supposed to be here . . . you're supposed to be here.

Repeating the phrases like a mantra didn't help.

She'd slept late, went for a run, and showered, thinking it would help her figure out if she should call Cameron. He wasn't expecting her till Saturday. Part of her wanted to announce her early arrival, and part said wait.

She decided to check in with Drew, then grab an early lunch. Getting out among people would help clear her head.

"How was the drive down?" Drew asked.

"Fine." Ann took a sip of coffee and grimaced.

"You're still feeling this is the perfect path for you to be on?"

"No, but I'm successfully ignoring all those negative thoughts." She paused. "At least I wish I were."

"Are you thinking of heading back?"

"No, I need to do this, Drew."

"Hey, do me a favor. If you have it in your laptop, could you look up the e-mail address of that photographer who came by the office last month? I want to have him take some new head shots of you and the rest of the crew."

"RonnieD@JadeShot.com." Ann grabbed her keys and slipped out her door into the hotel hallway.

He chuckled. "It amazes me every time you do something like that."

"There are some advantages of having a photographic memory."

"What, there are disadvantages?"

"Remind me to tell you about them sometime."

"So have you figured out what you're going to say to Cameron when you see him?"

"I'm thinking about hello for starters." Ann reached her car, opened it, and slid behind the wheel.

"Hah."

"Hey, I worked on it the whole trip down."

"Seriously, what are you going to say?"

"I'm not thinking about it." Not at the moment. But she'd been debating what to say since that first disconcerting phone call four days ago. Ann jammed her keys into the ignition, started her Prius, and yanked the gearshift into Reverse.

"In other words, you have no clue how you'll greet him."

"I have nothing."

"I think you should take the blunt approach and tell him the reason you haven't had a relationship last more than nine months ever since you met him."

"I already told you, those feelings vanished years and years ago." A grocery store slid by on her left. Lunch. She needed some.

"I think the lady doth protest too much."

"Leave it alone, Drew." She didn't need him needling her about it. Especially when his needles were hitting such tender spots.

"Does anyone in Three Peaks know you're coming?"

"Who would even care if I'm coming?"

"Small towns make big stars like you even bigger."

"I'm not a star. I hate that."

"It's true."

"Fine. I'll get my pen prepared."

"I caught that alliteration. Nicely done."

"Thanks, I'll be in touch." Ann hung up and her stomach took advantage of the pause in the action to shout, Food! Now!

The Darn Good Deli caught her eye and she slammed on the brakes and turned hard to the right. Behind her a horn screamed at her.

"Yeah, sorry, my fault." She squeezed into a parking spot on the far side of the lot and grabbed her purse. As she stood in line trying to decide between the barbecue chicken sandwich and the turkey melt, the mumbling behind her grew in volume.

"It is!"

"Here? Nah. It is not."

"Is!"

Ann turned. Two women, one blonde, one brunette, both in short-sleeve blouses squirmed behind her. They looked to be in their midforties, carrying a few extra pounds, but their features were striking. Take twenty years and twenty pounds off and they could have been models. Who did they remind her of? Some old comic book with a blonde and brunette in it. Bingo. Archie. Betty and Veronica hit middle age.

The brunette spoke first. "Hi, sorry to bother you. We're not exactly the outdoorsy types, but we love reading and watching shows about it. And, well, there's this national TV show we're hooked on called Adventure Northwest. They do shows on white-water rafting, and paintball, and hot-air ballooning, and kayaking, and skiing, you know, that kind of stuff. Well, we think you look just like the host, Ann Brewster."

"Banister!" Betty whacked Veronica on the arm.

"A lot of people tell me I look like her." Ann nodded toward the sandwich menu on the wall. "What do you recommend?"

"I always get the turkey melt; it's never let me down," the brunette said.

"I'll take that one," Ann said to the man behind the counter. She winked at Veronica. "Thanks."

After giving him details on how she wanted it—mayo, mustard, no pickles, olives, lettuce, and tomatoes—she felt a tap on her shoulder.

"Are you sure you're not Ann Banister?"

"I'm pretty sure. But it's difficult to be absolutely one-hundred percent positive."

"I think you're her. She's my favorite person on TV."

Ann smiled. "Okay," she whispered. "I'm me. I mean, I'm her. I'm Ann. But it's not a big deal. Really."

She paused to watch the absurdity of fame engulf the women.

"Ahh! I knew it was you!" The brunette drilled her finger into the blonde's shoulder like a woodpecker trying to get at a beetle. "See! See! I was right."

"Ouch! Stop it!"

"Can I let you in on a little secret?" Ann said.

Both women leaned in, their mouths twittering with nervous grins.

"I'm no more special than you two, just a bit better known. Really." Ann might as well have mentioned aliens just landed in town square for all the effect her words had. The ladies nodded and kept grinning.

By the time Ann paid for her sandwich, the women had calmed down. Thankfully the two workers behind the counter had obviously never seen her show.

After creating a mix of Diet Mountain Dew, Cherry Coke, and raspberry iced tea, Ann waited for her two new friends to pick up their sandwiches.

"Can I ask you a favor?"

"Hi," the blonde said. "I mean, yes, of course."

"I'm visiting in town for a few days and haven't connected yet with the person I'm meeting here. Do you mind if we eat together? I would love to find out a little bit more about your town."

After almost dropping their drinks the two women agreed, and the three found a table in the back.

"We'll introduce you to Jason Judah, absolutely for sure we will," Betty said. "He's the most spiritual man you'll ever meet and knows just about everyone in town. In fact, he's having a get-together tonight at the town hall. It's an open invitation and you'd get to meet everyone. You know what I mean? You should come."

Veronica gave her the address and time.

"Okay, I will." Ann noted them on her cell phone. "But for the moment, all I want to know is if there are any good swimming holes around here where the kids hang out during the summer."

"You came all the way from Portland to find out where the local kids go for a swim?" Betty tilted her head and frowned.

"It's pretty important to me to find out the answer." Ann reached into her purse and pulled out the picture of her mom.

"Oh my." Veronica stared at the picture, then slid it over to Betty. A few seconds later they both scooped up their sandwiches and grabbed their drinks. "We're so sorry, Ms. Banister. We just remembered something. There's somewhere we have to be right now. Gotta go."

Ann stared at them as they scampered out the door without looking back. Interesting. There were obviously some dark rabbit holes in Three Peaks. She looked forward to seeing how deep they went.

CHAPTER 10

As Cameron trudged down Main Street on his way to breakfast with Jason on Thursday morning, he stared at a sign in the window of Step on the Field Sports that reminded him of Jessie. It said, "You gotta believe! The Outlaws will take State this fall!"

Three months after they'd started dating, Jessie had stood on the top of Mount Si thirty miles east of Seattle, gazing at the miles of trees laid out in front of them like a patchwork green carpet.

"Looking at this splendor, you just gotta believe." She turned to him, eyes lit up like diamonds reflecting morning sun.

"In what?"

"Something and Someone greater than yourself."

"What do you believe in, Jess?"

"I haven't told you enough already?" She laughed. "God loves you, you know." Jessie took his hands. "What about you? What do you believe in?"

"Us."

"Me too." She snuggled into his chest as he watched an eagle canter on the winds that swirled up the side of the mountain.

"That's it? No more questions? Aren't you supposed to try to save me?"

"That isn't in my job description." Jessie poked him. "God handles that part."

"So He's slackin'? I haven't felt anything yet."

"Someday He'll reach you, Cameron. I know it." Jessie pulled back, her hazel eyes gazing into his, her countenance suddenly serious. "He's not hung up on time like we are."

"Good to know." Cameron stroked her hair. "So there's a God and a heaven, huh?"

"Oh yes." She said it without a trace of doubt.

Maybe Jessie was there now, looking down at him as he tried to believe the book wasn't on the level of the Loch Ness Monster. And hoping Jason wasn't a quack.

Cameron stepped into the Outland Café and scanned the restaurant. Dishes clattered and an intense tang of bacon crept into his nose. Growing up, he'd been given two pieces of bacon every day before school. These days the smell made him nauseous.

He shook his head and waited to be seated. Two families sat at tables along the wall to the right, underneath a large picture of the three snow-capped peaks the town was named for. To Cameron's left, two men, who looked like they stepped off the pages of Field & Stream, each downed a three-inch-high stack of pancakes doused in maple syrup.

The hostess led Cameron to a table at the back of the café. After settling in, he glanced at his watch. Another two minutes and Jason would be late.

He wasn't.

As Jason stepped through the doors of the Outland Café, the majority of eyes turned toward him. At least six foot five and probably 260 pounds, the man was Mount Everest, or K2 at least. People acknowledged him with either admiration or thinly veiled disgust in their eyes. There didn't seem to be any middle ground. Jason's eyes seemed to say "love me or hate me, just don't ignore me."

Spying Cameron, he burst into a wide grin and sauntered toward the back of the café, stopping along the way to greet his admirers with an encouraging word. He ignored the ones who glared at him or had a sudden interest in the food on their plates.

"Good morning." Jason stuck out his frying-pan-sized paw and Cameron shook it.

"Thanks for talking to me."

"The pleasure is mine." Jason sat across from Cameron and beamed. "Cameron Vaux. How are you?" It was a statement, not a question.

"You're popular around here."

"With some." Jason smoothed back his thick hair and nodded at two women three booths down who gazed at him with dopey looks on their faces. "Others not so much."

"Why not?"

"I make people uncomfortable." He paused and a thin smile appeared on his face. "Do I make you uncomfortable?"

Cameron considered Jason Judah. He formed an impression of most people quickly. Jason was not most people. He exuded confidence, yet below the surface floated insecurity, maybe even anger. Cameron saw it in the way Jason continued to glance around the room, attempting to catch the eye of a fan, frustration rising when it didn't happen quickly.

"What's your technique for making people uncomfortable?"

Jason looked him straight in the eye. "I tell them the truth."

A waitress filled both their oversized brown mugs with coffee. Cameron ordered the Three Peaks Scramble. Jason waved her off, saying coffee was enough.

"There are people here in town and across the country who don't like what we're doing at Future Current."

An emotion flashed across Jason's face. Sorrow? Self-pity? It was gone instantly, but in that moment Cameron got an impression of what Jason had looked like as a little boy—frightened and longing for the red wagon or train set that never showed up on Christmas morning.

"Maybe they don't like it because of the hospitality of your followers. I tried to talk to your friend Kirk Gillum, and he didn't exactly set up tea and biscuits for me."

Jason laughed. "I'm sorry about that. Kirk is a little protective. He's had a number of organizations come in and call us a cult and try to rough him up a little because he's the mayor of the town."

Cameron raised his eyebrows.

"No, not physically, but they've hassled him. Little grousing fundamentalist groups around here calling for his resignation, saying he's part of a religious order trying to take over the town and all that. But now that you've checked out, I'm hoping he'll warm up."

Jason had done a background investigation on him? This guy might be over the top and down the other side. "Checked out?"

"Of course. I had one of my people do a quick background check on you to make sure you're who you say you are and aren't part of some right-wing religious group trying to denounce us and make our work out to be a blight on Three Peaks. It's why I couldn't meet with you last night."

"Thanks for delving into my life without my permission."

"You're welcome." Jason took a drink of his coffee and smiled. "Don't you research clients before you start working with them?"

"Sure."

"Then don't begrudge me for doing the same."

"I'm not going to become a client."

"But you might become a follower."

"I doubt it."

"You never know, Cameron. This book is not for one man; it's for all of us. You, me, my followers."

"Why is it for everyone?"

"Because with this book we can change the world." Jason ripped open five sugar packets simultaneously and dumped them into his black coffee. "It tells the past, and more important, what is to come."

"You're saying your Book of Days tells the future?"

Jason leaned back. "That's exactly what it does. Once we learn to access its secrets more fully, we will change lives all over the planet. Imagine if you knew ahead of time that Hurricane Katrina would hit New Orleans. Or an earthquake was about to level Haiti. Or that a cruise ship would sink with your loved ones on it. With this book, you could shape your own destiny far beyond imagination."

Cameron poured a splash of creamer into his coffee. It sounded wonderful. Like a fairy tale. But the book didn't keep Jessie's plane from smashing into the ground and stealing her life, and didn't keep his dad's mind and days from disappearing far too early.

"We're getting better at reading it every day. And we will once again learn to read the book like those who did hundreds of years before us. We will know the past in complete detail. We will know the future with blinding clarity."

The guy was serious. It sounded ludicrous. But at the moment ludicrous had appeal. Lead me to it. "What exactly is the Book of Days?"

"Oh, you've got to be kidding." Jason laughed and slapped his palms on the table. "No one has told you yet?" He stared at Cameron, a smile growing on his face.

"What is it?"

Jason shook his finger. "Not so fast. First, I want to know why you want to find it so badly when you don't even know what it is."

"I told you already, some friends asked me to locate it."

"And if you don't mind me asking, when did these friends ask this of you?"

"Eight years ag—" Cameron stopped himself. He saw exactly where this was leading.

"Uh-huh. Thank you for your honesty, even if it was a slip of the tongue." Jason leaned in and replied in a mock whisper, "You found out about the Book of Days eight years ago. Yet you've done nothing about it till now.

"Don't you find that fascinating?" Jason addressed the table next to them, but the two teenage girls sitting at it ignored him. He turned back to Cameron. "I find that fascinating. I wonder what the answer is. Hmm?"

Cameron stared at the man across the table. He was a manipulator, someone who got what he wanted, when he wanted it. Not his kind of person.

"See what I mean, my new friend? About people not liking me because I tell the truth? And now you're wondering about my motives."

"All I want to know is what the Book of Days is. If you're not going to tell me, fine. I'm outta here."

"Cameron, please. Do you really want me to call your bluff? You're not 'outta here.' You need to know what the book is, because something stirring inside you is so great it will burst out unless you get your answers. That much is obvious. But I'm not one to pry into another's affairs without an invitation. I apologize. Your forgiveness, please?"

"Sure." Jason was a certifiable piece of work.

The waitress arrived with Cameron's meal and Jason said, "Thank you, sweetheart." She ignored him.

He smiled at Cameron. "The Book of Days is power. Ultimate power. Ultimate knowledge. A book from God's own pen."

"God? I haven't ever had much use for religion."

"Neither have I. That doesn't change the fact that a book exists that was written by the hand of God."

"I think people call that the Bible."

"This book is different. That book was written by men under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit—that's what the Christians say. God penned this book Himself in which He has recorded the past, present, and future of every life that has ever lived or ever will live. Look it up. It's right there in Psalm 139:16."

"Sounds like an urban legend."

"No, not this. This book is real. I promise you."

Real? Cameron hands tingled as if all ten fingers were tiny cell phones on vibrate. "Can you take me to it? Can I see it?"

Jason raised his eyebrows and laughed. "I think you've misunderstood me. The Book of Days isn't a physical book, just as love is not physical. Yet love's power is greater than a nuclear bomb. The Book of Days exists on a spiritual plane. If we only believe in the things we can see on a corporeal level, we are indeed blind."

"What?" Cameron closed his eyes and sighed. The wild goose died. "The book is all in your head? Are you joking?"

"Not in my mind, just as coincidence and intuition aren't in my mind, but are waiting to be acquired if we have the eyes to see and ears to hear."

"Fine. Then how do you use it?" Cameron sat back and folded his arms. "Look at the silverware, plates, glasses, salt-and-pepper shaker, and the fake rose in front of you.

"Now watch." Jason placed his massive arm on the right side of the table and slid everything he'd just mentioned to the left. "Now, don't think about what you see, but ask yourself what you feel.

"Suddenly there is an openness between us that was not there previously. We spoke, we saw, yet with those items removed we feel closer to the other, with a greater ability to communicate, wouldn't you agree? The simple act of removing those things between us made our connection stronger.

"It is the same with the book. To access it fully, we must rid ourselves of the things in the world that block us. E-mail, Facebook, TV, movies, our fears. We must get rid of the noise and free our minds."

Jason placed his hands on the table, leaned back, and took in a long breath through his nose and let it out even slower. "When we slow down, we start to receive the spiritual impressions all around us in every moment. We see pictures in our mind's eye; visions that are sent to us from the book fill our hearts. Visions of our past and future. We record them and test them against what the rest of us have seen and heard."

Jason waved his hand through the air. "The curtain is thinner here in Three Peaks than almost anywhere else, making it easier to access God's book."

Cameron felt like he'd been dropped in a glacial lake. So the Book of Days was just another made-up religious fantasy? No wonder his dad had talked about it. God was his whole life. Same with Jessie.

Cameron swallowed hard and rubbed the back of his neck with both hands. He'd wanted so badly to believe it was real.

"What's wrong?" Jason said.

The book was a figment of Jason's imagination, another eccentric chapter from the pantheon of New Age mysticism. So what had his dad seen? Jessie? What had they thought they'd seen?

"I thought the book was real. Physical. Something you could see."

"It is real. It's—"

"No, not your kind of real. My kind." Cameron picked up his cup and his napkin. "Something you could get a coffee stain on."

"And what made you think it was that kind of book?"

"My dad said he'd seen it, touched it."

"Touched it?" Jason leaned forward and an eager look flashed through his eyes. "And you believe your father?"

"I believe he believed it when he told me."

"When did he say he saw it?"

"When he was nine, before his family moved away from Three Peaks."

"Fascinating." Jason steepled his hands and rubbed the bottom of his chin with the tips of his fingers. "There are some who believe as you do. I've never been able to decide one way or another.

"I've prayed for evidence that the book exists on more than just the spiritual plane. I even dug into old Native American stories from these parts, thinking I might find something there. The Paiute tribe who filled this land is full of them."

Jason leaned forward.

"But the only thing I've found on the book is a scant legend that tells of a place where stories are told of the past and the future." Jason slumped back in his seat. "I tracked down a few of the older members of the Paiute tribe still living in these parts, but they apparently don't know their own history, at least not this legend.

"The only semiverification I found was from one old-timer living in the mountains near here who said, 'Yes, I have heard of the legend, but that is all I can tell you.' Hardly substantive confirmation of a physical Book of Days."

"What was his name?"

"George or Graham or something like that. Does it matter?" Jason drummed his fingers on the table hard enough to make the silverware rattle.

"But in my wildest dreams I've always hoped the book was existent, and you have now fanned the flames of that emotion. I believe we've been brought together to explore that possibility, yes?"

Cameron stared at Jason. Brought together? No. The man had a vibe about him that said sprint in the opposite direction, as if a swarm of wasps were closing in. But if Jason could help find out if his dad's last words were real . . .

"So will you join me, Cameron?"

"I'll consider it."

"I served in Vietnam." Jason twirled his knife around on the table with his forefinger. "I dispatched men there. I would be a formidable collaborator."

"You're saying you'd kill to find this book?" Cameron cocked an eyebrow.

Jason smiled and shook his head. "I simply want you to realize the passion I bring to this quest. This book is far more than simply a tome of answers about the past, about the future. All the tormenting questions that pound your mind in the deepest shadows of the night. Every one of them answered. This book holds all the memories you've ever created."

Jason drew his knife slowly across his palm and then placed the tip of it on his forefinger and pressed until it appeared deep enough to be touching bone. "If it exists on a physical plane, it's worth doing almost anything to find it."

A surge of hope filled Cameron and caught him off guard. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

"Are you quite well, my friend?"

Cameron nodded. But he wasn't okay. His rational, logical side said the book couldn't exist—that his dad was delusional, that Jessie had been speaking out of the emotions surrounding imminent death—but his emotional side screamed of what the book could do for him if Jason's claims were true.

Until that moment he hadn't admitted, even in his darkest moments, how much the idea of this book meant to him. He would get his memories of Jessie back, know if he would suffer the same fate as his father, and even see what he could salvage of the rest of his life.

His dad said it might heal his mind. Finding the book meant everything.

"I'm fine."

"Passion is the fuel that drives great discovery." Jason waggled his forefinger back and forth between them. "I think our passions can complement each other."

"I don't know."

"You will join me, Cameron, if not now, then someday. You want the book too much. You need me. It's only a matter of time."

"If we were to work together, what would the next steps be?"

"Good, good." Jason patted the tips of his fingers together three times, then pointed at Cameron. "There's a man in town I've always wondered about. Things have happened around him that have always made me ponder if he knows more about the Book of Days than he's told."

"Like?"

"He grew up with Midas touching his every choice. As if he knew what would happen before it did. It's always caused my curiosity to be stirred."

"So why don't you talk to him?"

"I've tried, many times, but the best of friends would not be the language used to describe our relationship. He likes to control people, and I'm not one who can be controlled."

"What's his name?"

"I think you can guess. Arnold Peasley should have given you a clue."

What was the name he'd written down after he'd talked to Arnold? "Taylor Stone."

"Have you talked to him?"

"I'm intending to."

"Good. We should chat again after you do." Jason stood and dropped fifteen dollars on the table. "That should take care of breakfast and provide a healthy tip for our waitress. Pay it forward can work wonders, don't you think?"

A short time later Cameron stood on the sidewalk outside the Outland Café and stared at the mountains looming over the town like a guardian. Apparently all roads led to Taylor Stone.

It was time to find the man and get him to talk.

CHAPTER 11

Have you read the online version of the Post today?" Tricia Stone asked on Thursday afternoon as she leaned back from her computer screen and looked at her husband.

It was a rhetorical question. Taylor had run the Three Peaks Post for eighteen years, and when it arrived each week, he scoured every story, brainstorming out loud how it might have been improved if he were still there. And wishing they'd never developed an online version.

Tricia tapped her monitor. "Jason Judah just posted an op-ed piece about this video producer from Seattle, Cameron Vaux, coming here to search for the Book of Days. He ends it by inviting people to a town hall meeting tomorrow night. Jason says he has an astounding announcement to make."

Taylor didn't respond except to shift in his dark brown leather chair and turn a page of his fly-fishing magazine.

Tricia took off her slipper and tossed it at Taylor. It smacked him in the belly. She crossed her arms and waited till he looked up. "Are you talking to me today?"

"I'm sorry, hon. I'm more than a little wrapped up in this article. It talks about a way to create makeshift flies from things in the woods."

It was a lame attempt at covering up. Even though they'd married later in life—three years after her first husband had died—she'd known Taylor since third grade. And after five years of marriage, she knew when he was hiding something.

"You've never liked talking about Jason's Book of Days religion. Why?"

Taylor raised an eyebrow. "Anything written about the Book of Days should be on the Weekly World News' Web site, not the Post's. I can't believe what's happened to that paper since I retired." Taylor took off his wire-rimmed glasses and cleaned them on his 501 Levis. "I should have stayed on till I hit sixty-five."

"Maybe they truly are tapping into some mystical knowledge, some spiritual plane we don't know about that shows the past and the future. A lot of Jason's followers believe in the idea, and they're not bad people."

"A lot of nice people believe in Bigfoot too, and they can show you a great deal more evidence than anyone can show for a book with the past, present, and future recorded between its covers." Taylor put his glasses back on. "It doesn't make Bigfoot real or a book that exists only in the spiritual realm real either."

Tricia got up from her chair, padded across their hardwood floor to Taylor, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He patted her forearm and picked up his magazine, blocking his face from view.

Later that night, toward eleven o'clock, just before sleep took her, Tricia felt Taylor slide out from under their goose-down comforter. A floorboard squealed and he stopped. A few moments later their bedroom door opened and closed.

She eased out of bed, put on her lavender robe, and opened the door a crack. Taylor sat in front of their kitchen computer, his face bathed in the stark light from the monitor.

She eased across the floor till she saw what he was reading. The online version of the Post. She squinted. No surprise. Taylor was reading Jason's post about the Book of Days.

Taylor rubbed his face three times, then pressed his knuckles into his lips.

He'd carried whatever it was for so long. If only he'd tell her.

The man stared at himself in the mirror, at the lines under his eyes, at the softness of his flesh. Where had the years gone? The late fifties weren't middle age. If they were, he'd live to 120. Life was running out.

He strode out of the bathroom and onto his deck overlooking Three Peaks. A breeze kissed his hair and he allowed himself a grim smile.

So close, he was so close to finding the book. He felt it. With it he would set things right. Expose the lies. And then protect it for the rest of his days. And he wouldn't let some punk kid from Seattle sweep in and find the tome while he stood screaming on the sidelines.

He would watch Cameron. Where he went. Who he talked to. What people would or wouldn't tell him. He would use whatever Cameron discovered to find the Book of Days.

And then do whatever was necessary.

CHAPTER 12

Cameron sat in his hotel room Thursday night chewing on espresso beans, studying his notes of Jessie's words from when she lay dying in the plane.

"The book is real. I know it is. I saw it."

But did she mean physically or with what she always called her spiritual eye?

That was the hard place between the rock. He had no way now of knowing what she meant.

Peasley, Susan Hillman, the mayor—what was his name?—none of them had said anything that would indicate the book was real, had they?

But his dad said the book was physical: "I saw it once . . . I even touched it, when I was a kid. Did you know that?"

Think. Come on. Of course his dad wasn't lucid. His brain was gone. Spinning make-believe. Cameron had no way of knowing if his dad's words were fact or fiction. So his story happened to match up with Jessie's dying visions. So what?

Cameron walked back to the oak veneer desk and slammed his laptop shut. Then he went down the hall to get a Mountain Dew. "Will this Stone guy give me the answer, Jessie?"

Cold drink in hand, Cameron trudged back into his room and slumped into the chair next to his window.

Was his dad thinking straight when he talked about some book he'd seen as a kid? That was the hard place between the rock. He had no way of knowing if his dad's words were fact or fiction. So his story happened to match up with Jessie's dying visions. So what?

But maybe the book was real. It was possible, wasn't it? Peasley, Susan Hillman . . .

Cameron bolted upright. Didn't he just have this conversation with himself? A surge of heat pulsed through his body. Stop it. He couldn't let himself go there. "You are not losing it, Cameron. Your mind is fine."

Cameron stood at the window and recited long passages of Henry David Thoreau he had memorized in college. After reeling off the top-ten grossing concerts of the last year, he launched into naming the places Jessie and he had gone on their first five hiking trips together. He made it to number two.

Cameron raked his fingernails across his head, as if he could dig the memories out of some hidden chamber in his mind. A groan escaped his lips as he pressed his head against the glass and gritted his teeth. Think!

Just after midnight he gave up and wiped the cold sweat off his forehead. He'd tossed on a rocklike mattress every night since getting to Three Peaks. He'd read that lack of REM sleep could have a devastating effect on memory. That had to be it. Had to.

He flopped down on his bed, yanked the covers over his body, and let exhaustion carry him away.

The dream started almost immediately.

Three Years, Two Month Earlier

A hint of barbecued salmon lingered in the air long after Jessie and Cameron had cooked and eaten their dinner in Wilmot Park on the north shore of Lake Chelan. The lake turned from gray to black as the last light of day faded from the sky, light ripples the only movement on the water. The first star broke out of the dusky twilight and neither of them spoke till three more had appeared.

Cameron pulled Jessie against his chest. "It seems ridiculous to believe we're the only beings in this universe, don't you think?"

"Does it matter?"

Cameron frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Does it matter if we are or we aren't? Isn't the deeper question if we'll go on once this existence is over?"

"You're thinking it's time for a little God-talk?" Cameron stroked her hair. "Lay it on me."

Jessie's breathing settled into a steady rhythm, and Cameron consciously caused his pace to join hers. It was a way to feel as one. Neither spoke.

She finally turned her head slightly and broke the silence. "You know how you always said you couldn't live without me?"

Cameron kissed her forehead. "True."

"You can." She took two long breaths. "You will."

"Uh-oh. This is where you tell me you've fallen in love with your old high school tennis coach and you're about to leave."

Jessie didn't laugh. "You'll make it without me." She gazed up at him, eyes sad.

"I'm not going anywhere, sweetie, and neither are you."

"Okay." Jessie buried her head in his chest. "I want to believe that."

"Why wouldn't you?" He leaned over and looked into her eyes.

She closed them and pressed her lips together. "It's just that sometimes I get scared."

"Of what?"

"Being separated."

"No fear, we're going to be together for a long, long time." He squeezed her tight. "That tennis coach isn't nearly as handsome as me."

Again, Jessie didn't laugh. "It's still years away. I'm not going to think about it."

What was she talking about? "What's years away?"

"Death."

A heaviness fell on Cameron as if a backpack full of stones had been thrown on his shoulders. She was serious. Death? "What's going on with you?"

"I'm fine."

"Then why are you talking like this?"

"I just want to be with you for a long, long time," Jessie said.

"It'll be decades at least."

"Okay." She nuzzled in tighter.

He stroked her hair again. "I love you, Jess."

"Always, Cam-Ram. Always and forever."

The melancholy tone in her voice echoed in his mind for the rest of their vacation.

Cameron woke early on Friday with images of Jessie in his mind.

Had he dreamed about her? Yes. They'd been somewhere together. Near a lake? On vacation? The last images slipped from his mind like sand through his fingers. He gritted his teeth.

He had to find the book. See if it could—

No.

Cameron threw on his biking shorts and ignored the thoughts galloping through his mind regarding the Book of Days. Not today. At least for a few hours.

Twenty minutes later he panted out a rhythm in concert with the spinning pedals of his Novara road bike up the McKenzie Highway. He glanced at his odometer, then his watch. Another hour and he'd reach the summit of McKenzie Pass. A perfect distance for pushing his lungs and muscles to the breaking point.

Which is exactly the point his head was at.

When he reached the Dee Wright Observatory, he stopped and sucked in big gulps of air. The site offered a panoramic view of the Cascade Mountain Range as far north as Mount Hood.

Beautiful, but it didn't ease the squeezing feeling in his stomach.

Cameron got back on his bike and headed back, quads burning, lungs burning, mind burning, as he glanced at the cars rushing past him in the right lane.

No one would guess.

It would be so easy to swerve in front of one of them. In seconds it would be over and he would be free. His heart rate kicked into another gear.

No way. Knock it off.

But what choices did he have?

Slowly lose his mind like his dad had? No thank you. Keep digging for fantasies here in Three Peaks and continue to get nowhere? Sorry. Follow Jason? A questionable plan at best. Option number four, please.

Find out more about Taylor Stone? Definitely.

As soon as he got back to his car, he pulled up Safari on his iPhone and went to www.whitepages.com.

She would know Taylor Stone.

Cameron dialed Susan Hillman's number as he sat at a red light at the north end of Three Peaks and stared out the window at a banner hanging over the street. "Meet You in the Park!"

The banner promoted the sixty-ninth annual Three Peaks Jazz Festival. It boasted itself as the Biggest Little Jazz Festival in the World. Might be worth going to.

Three rings. Four.

"Hi, Cameron. Nice to hear from you."

Cameron pulled his cell phone away from his ear and stared at it for a second. "How'd you know it was me?"

"Even out here in the sticks, we have this nifty little invention called caller ID."

Cameron smiled and thumped his head with two fingers. "You probably have microwaves and cable TV too."

"What can I do for you?"

The light turned green and he stomped on the gas a little too hard. Slow down. He needed to relax. "I've had some intriguing conversations with someone named Jason Judah."

"Ah yes. Interesting man."

"You know him?"

"In a town our size you know everyone. I've known Jason since grade school, but my guess is you didn't call up to get a deeper understanding of the man."

"True." Cameron braced his yellow notepad against his steering wheel and scratched Susan Hillman and the date at the top. No point in forgetting anything.

"Jason says I should talk to a man named Taylor Stone who knows a lot about the Book of Days that he's not telling."

"That's Jason's opinion." Susan laughed.

"So you know him?"

"Taylor? Very well. He ran the Three Peaks Post for almost twenty years. I think it's an excellent idea that you meet him."

"Okay."

"I'm curious, have you figured out why this Book of Days is so important to you?"

Cameron hesitated. As much as trusting Jason seemed like foolishness, trusting Susan seemed like great wisdom. "Yeah. Because of . . . I need to find it for my dad, and for my late wife, and also for me." He pulled into the parking lot of the Best Western and killed the engine.

The crackle of the connection was the only sound.

"And why is that? Why do you need to find it for yourself?"

Cameron paused a long time before saying, "Because I'm afraid I'm losing . . ." He didn't finish and didn't know what words to use to fill the silence.

"Did your dad say who wrote his book?"

"No, Jason says God did."

"What do you think?"

"I'm not sure if I believe in God."

"That doesn't prevent Him from believing in you."

Cameron smiled. "Thanks, Susan. I'll be by for another peanut butter cookie soon."

"I'll hold you to that. Now, here's Taylor's phone number and address. Ready?"

Cameron said good-bye, hung up, and stared at the information scrawled on his yellow notepad. Another dead end? Or a highway to answers?

After a quick shower he studied his notes and his eyes stopped on the verse Jason had told him to look up.

Why not?

He strode to his laptop and Googled Bible and Psalm 139:16. Strange. His heart rate accelerated as the verse popped up on screen.

"Your eyes saw me when I was formless; all my days were written in Your book and planned before a single one of them began." (Psalm 139:16)

Impossible. That couldn't be the book they'd asked him to find. Bible tale, urban legend, a Noah's ark-type story dressed up in New Age clothes.

Cameron went to the bathroom, doused his hands with water, and slicked back his hair. He walked back to his laptop, hunched over the monitor, and stared at the verse again as he massaged a double knot in his right shoulder.

. . . were written in your book . . .

Could it be real? Little chance. It felt like Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, searching for cinematic artifacts. But this wasn't a movie. So what did Little Boss and Jessie see all those years ago?

Cameron went to his window and stared at the tourists sauntering up and down Main Street, the sun flashing against their cameras as they snapped pictures every few seconds trying to capture a memory.

Susan's words about meeting Taylor Stone played in his mind: "I think it's an excellent idea." She knew more than she'd told him. He'd heard it in her voice.

Time to find Taylor Stone. Now.

CHAPTER 13

There was no answer on Taylor's phone, and no one there when Cameron stopped by the man's house. He caught a break when he dropped in at the Three Peaks Post and chatted with the receptionist.

"You're looking to find Taylor?" The young redhead set down her nail polish and pointed to a county map on the wall behind her. "I know where he is most days from May through September, and since it's July I should know where he is. And I do." She tapped her pen on the counter making little black dots someone would have to wipe off. "You wanna know too?"

"Yes." Cameron forced himself to be patient. The ache in his gut said every moment counted, and while he could force himself to be light on the outside, it wasn't an easy weight to carry.

"On the river." The receptionist made a motion of casting a line, then reeling in a fish. "They tell me he's very good at it."

"Any idea which one?"

"Sure." She stepped over a stack of papers and tapped a tiny blue squiggle on the map on the wall. "Either the Metolius or Squaw Cre—I mean, Whychus Creek. It used to be Squaw Creek, but a lot of people still think of it as Squaw Creek 'cause we called it that for a long time, know what I mean?"

"Sure. Any idea which one he favors?"

"Well, there's great fly-fishing on both of them, but the fish are smaller on Whychus Creek and this time of the year the water level there is dropping, but of course it's more private there and Taylor likes his privacy, so all things considered, I'd—"

"So you think he'd be on Whychus Creek, then?"

"If I were in your shoes, that's the one I'd try first. But you never can know for sure till you start searching, know what I mean?"

"Thanks for all your help. I appreciate it."

Later as Cameron hiked from the trailhead past thundering Chush Falls to the stretch of the creek where the fish would be running, he mulled over what he would do if Stone turned out to be a dead end. No idea.

And even if Stone led him to the book, what guarantee was there that it would fix whatever was eating away at his brain like a piranha?

As the first shards of the creek materialized through breaks in the trees and underbrush, he stopped and listened to the silence. An occasional call from a red-tailed hawk broke the still canopy overhead but that was all.

Intellectually he knew this was a place of peace, but the emotion eluded him.

As he pressed through the bushes, breaking into the rocky sun-soaked beach that bordered the creek, Cameron looked right, then left. Nothing. Wait. Two hundred yards downriver Cameron saw a flash. Yes. The sun glinting off a fishing pole.

The figure whipping the pole back and forth glanced his direction from time to time, but it wasn't till Cameron trudged down the creek bank and stood directly across from him that the casting stopped.

The man was tall and wore an Oregon Ducks baseball hat. He had a black goatee with more gray than black, and his eyes made Cameron think of Sean Connery.

Cameron eased forward till he was inches from the crystal water that gurgled in front of his boots. He glanced at the photo Susan had e-mailed him earlier. The man who stood twenty yards away on the other side of the creek was definitely Taylor Stone.

"Greetings!" the man called across the glassy creek. "You lost?"

"Not if you know where we are."

"Well said." The man smiled.

"You're Taylor Stone."

"Is that a statement or a question?"

"I'm Cameron Vaux."

"Ah, I see." Taylor whipped off his hat to reveal a shock of salt-and-pepper hair to match his goatee. He bowed, his hat across his chest. "You're correct. I am Taylor Stone. It is interesting to meet you."

He put his hat back on, turned, and whipped his arm back and forth three times in smooth succession, the fly at the end of his line settling on the water for only a few seconds before a flick of his wrist snatched it off the surface. "Are you a fly fisherman, Cameron?"

"I've always wanted to learn."

"Do you mean that?" Taylor stopped casting and stared at him, a twinkle in his brown eyes.

Cameron had wanted to learn since his dad and he had backpacked a section of the Pacific Crest Trail and stumbled on a fly fisherman who had given them part of his catch for dinner. "Yes."

"Well, well. Then perchance I'll teach you someday, Mr. Cameron Vaux."

He studied Taylor. "For someone so well known in Three Peaks, you're a difficult man to track down."

"Do you believe in God, Cameron?"

He almost laughed. Three Peaks: spiritual central. Did everyone here ask about a person's spiritual life so freely?

"My dad did. So did my wife."

Taylor pointed at him. "You know what I'm going to say next, right?"

"You're going to say, 'I wasn't asking about them, I was asking about you.'"

"Correct."

"I don't know." Cameron looked down the creek and gave a tiny shake of his head. "I really don't know."

"It's born into us. We're not humans with a spirit. We're spirits with a body. We're made to follow something bigger than ourselves. So we latch on to things to fulfill the way we were made."

"Your point?"

Taylor chuckled. "For some people around here, that 'something' is a magical, mystical book that exists only in their minds."

"Can we talk about that?"

"Why do you want to talk to me?"

"All roads seem to point to you."

"All?"

"Many."

"And do those roads say I'm a hermit?"

Cameron laughed. "I was going to say reclusive."

"How long after meeting someone is it before you form your own opinion of him?"

Cameron sat on a boulder and rested his elbows on his knees. "Jason says you're Machiavellian and control the people in this town; that you try to keep people from talking about the book."

"Machiavellian? I'm impressed. I didn't think Jason capable of coming up with such a precedent metaphor." Taylor winked.

"Most men's vocabulary and elocution don't allow the use of words with such eloquence."

Taylor nodded. "I like you, Cameron."

"Would you be willing and able to answer a few questions about the history of the Book of Days?"

"Able? Sure." Taylor pulled a ten- or eleven-inch redband trout out of the creek, removed the hook from the fish in one swift motion, set it back into the shallow water at his feet, and watched it swim away. "Willing? Nope."

Cameron assumed he was kidding. "I imagine you know why I'm here asking—"

"Yes. You've talked to Jason, maybe Arnold Peasley or Kirk Gillum, and they've told the young video producer, whose dad claimed to have seen the book, to ferret out the hidden knowledge buried deep in the cranium of Taylor Stone."

Cameron stared at the man. Had he been tracking Cameron as much as Cameron had been tracking him?

"Would you like to hear some hard, cold reality?" Taylor continued without waiting for Cameron to comment. "Although it's a truth you know well, allow me the liberty of stating it. Life for the majority of Americans is exceedingly boring. Work, eat, sleep, then hit the repeat button. It's why legends like the Book of Days bloom and multiply like dandelions. It makes life more interesting. And when you add in the New Age element that is rampant in Three Peaks, a cottage industry is created. People see things they want to see. They start hearing voices that don't exist and see pictures and visions in their minds that aren't real. They believe things that only reside in their imaginations, and they create evidence for past and future events where there isn't any."

Taylor caught and released another trout.

"So the Book of Days is a hoax?"

"You can find Web sites that prove Paul McCartney died in 1966 and was replaced by a look-alike, but I'm one of those who says he's still alive and well."

"So the Book of Days is a hoax."

"Not a hoax, a fable. A made-up story Jason and his followers have tried to turn into a religion.

"Do you believe in those books that say we can tap into a hidden power floating beyond our vision? That we can create our own reality just by thinking of it?

"Millions of people bought those books and believe the message. They are spiritually starving, so when a book like that arrives, promising to fill their empty souls, the unsuspecting lap it up like a starving cat in front of a bowl of microwaved milk."

Taylor turned from his casting and drilled Cameron with his eyes. "This Book of Days nonsense is no different."

"Then why keep the lid on it? Why not promote the idea that an amazing book that tells the future exists in your town and build the legend rather than keep it quiet? It would boost tourism."

"Because working, eating, and sleeping with contentment as your constant companion is not entirely bad." Taylor leaned his rod against his body.

"A great majority of the people who live in Three Peaks take for granted that they've known three-quarters of the town their whole life. They take for granted the gift of being able to call most of those neighbors in the middle of the night and see them come running to help."

Cameron nodded. "Community."

"Exactly. Yes, we could create T-shirts and posters and Internet ads telling people to come search for the legendary Book of Days and create a tourist trap that would rake in thousands daily. But it would become a trap for us as well. Do you think the Scots like the proliferation of tourists searching for Nessie? Some do, I'll grant you. The ones selling the T-shirts and DVDs wouldn't mind seeing even more seekers. But the majority of the towns around the lake would like to simply be left alone."

Taylor sat on a large boulder and set his fly rod across his leg as he worked on securing a new fly to his line. "I have some power in this town having been mayor a few times and having run the paper for more than a few years. And yes, I've tried to keep people from talking about the Book of Days or sticking their nose in where it doesn't belong so that we can keep our sleepy little town sleeping. If that makes me Machiavellian, so be it."

The confidence Taylor spoke with made his words ring true and washed away what little belief Cameron had held of the authenticity of the book.

The river between them seemed to grow wider. But he wasn't ready to give up without one last try.

"Before my father died, he claimed to have seen the book. He says he touched it."

"I'm sorry for your loss. I can't comment on what your dad saw or didn't see, and I don't know what has driven you to talk me today. But I do know people can be led down false paths when their souls are searching, and I would pray you do not take that path." Taylor finished tying on the new fly and began casting again.

His words settled on Cameron like a three-hundred-pound anchor. No one with a shred of rational thought would entertain the idea of a physical book that told the future and recorded the past existing on Earth. He himself had chalked his dad's words up to the disease until he'd become desperate. Even Jessie's words hadn't spurred him into action.

So was his own fear clouding his judgment? Undoubtedly. But he didn't care. Taylor Stone wasn't God. He didn't have all the knowledge of the universe at his fingertips. Maybe Jason was right and this guy was wrong.

"What if the book is real? You can't know with one-hundred-percent certainty it isn't, can you? I have to at least try to find it."

"That book will bring you nothing but death, Cameron."

"How can a book that doesn't exist bring death?"

Taylor's next cast fell far short of the deep hole he'd aimed for. He cast three more times before answering.

"I see your passion and can appreciate it. And I feel for you as you go on this quest. But I think we're done talking for the day." Taylor set his rod down and stared at Cameron. "Unless of course you're ready for that lesson."

"Maybe later."

Taylor nodded good-bye and Cameron turned away from the creek. He slogged through the underbrush arguing with himself. Believe Taylor. Believe Jason.

He replayed the conversation with Taylor in his mind. Something was off. Not off exactly, but slivers of Taylor's speech didn't ring true. Was it a hint of concern in Taylor's eyes? Maybe it was Cameron's feeling Taylor was protecting somebody. And what about his line, "That book will bring you nothing but death" Freudian slip?

He stopped, turned, and hiked back up the trail the way he'd just come. He slowed as he approached the creek and watched the ground in front of his hiking boots to avoid snapping any twigs. As he got closer to the river bank he scrunched down and eased forward, taking only one step every few seconds.

A rock shifted under his weight and cracked against another stone. Cameron froze and didn't move for thirty seconds. He sank to his knees and crawled up to spot where he could see the creek.

A few more yards, yes, he spotted Taylor. He wasn't fishing. He stood, hands on hips, looking toward the three peaks the town was named for.

Cameron was only slightly surprised when a few seconds later Taylor bent over a large boulder, arms extended to hold himself, and muttered something too quiet to hear. The next moment he straightened and kicked at the rocks in front of him. Then he picked up a stone the size of a cantaloupe and hurled it into the boulder in front of him. It shattered and Taylor turned and fell back against the boulder, arms folded, head looking up to the sky.

So Stone wasn't as self-assured as he liked to project. If Cameron's interpretation was right, he'd just ripped the door off a house that Stone wanted to keep hidden from everyone, maybe even himself.

The man deserved credit. Taylor Stone was quite an actor. The fisherman had almost convinced Cameron there was nothing to the legend.

Machiavellian? Probably not. But there was a very good chance he was the Book of Day's key master.

CHAPTER 14

Cameron arrived at the Three Peaks Community Hall on Friday night a few minutes before six o'clock, ready to see a skirmish. It seemed like a third of the town or more had responded to Jason's open invitation to hear the new revelation he'd discovered about the Book of Days.

He suspected Taylor Stone would show up to promote his opinion of keeping a proverbial lid on the whole Book of Days nonsense. At the very least he'd be there to see what Jason would say and refute anything he didn't like.

Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots, Three Peaks' style.

While waiting for the meeting to start, Cameron munched on the abundant hors d'oevres and surveyed the crowd.

As his gaze swept back and forth over the crowd, he spotted Kirk Gillum standing in a corner of the hall next to Arnold Peasley. Kirk's eyes locked on to Cameron's for a moment, he blinked, then looked away. The guy couldn't have been elected mayor on his charm.

Where was Stone? The man had to be here. Cameron spotted Taylor on his third scan. There. Over near the restrooms, leaning against the wall with a woman in her late fifties by his side—probably his wife. What was her name? The receptionist at the Post had told him, but he couldn't remember.

Cameron eased through the crowd till he stood ten or eleven feet from Taylor. He caught Taylor's eye just as Jason stepped to the microphone. Taylor winked at him.

"Friends and neighbors, seekers of the truth, and those who are merely curious. Welcome! Thank you for coming." Jason paused and looked over the throng, those with folded arms mixed in with those with adoration on their faces. "We have a packed house tonight. I think even my worst enemies must be here!"

The crowd chuckled politely as Jason's eyes swept the room. When his gaze reached the far right side of the room, he stopped and raised his eyebrows.

"Well, this is interesting. It seems we have a distinguished individual here this evening from Portland—Ms. Ann Banister."

Cameron closed his eyes and let his head flop to the side. Great. She wasn't supposed to arrive till tomorrow. Gear up. It would be fine. She might have grown a new personality since last time he saw her.

The crowd followed Jason's gesture toward Ann.

She waved and offered a half smile.

"Welcome!" Jason boomed as he led the crowd in light applause.

"Now, Ms. Banister, I don't mean to put you on the spot, but would you like to come up onstage and say a few words?"

What was Jason doing? Why would he want Ann up onstage? Did he expect her to uncover the location of the book on the spot? Sure, she used to do investigative reporting, but she wasn't Scully from the X-Files or Olivia from Fringe.

The guy was rocking on a chair with no legs.

Ann waved Jason off. "That's okay, thanks."

"Come now, I think you have some fans here who would love to hear from you."

The crowd laughed and broke out into a louder round of applause.

"See?"

As Ann made her way to the stage, Jason gave an impromptu introduction. "If you don't know already, Ann hosts a very popular cable program that I believe is seen weekly across the country. Please welcome to our town, Ms. Ann Banister."

Ann sprang up the stairs in jeans and a maroon polo shirt with an Adventure Northwest logo. She walked over to Jason, shook his hand, and turned to wave at the crowd.

"Hello, Three Peaks!" A big smile creased her pretty face. "I didn't dress tonight with the idea of being onstage. I hope this works for you." She smiled again as the crowd applauded and nodded their approval.

A sudden movement to his left made Cameron pivot.

Taylor Stone stumbled forward and hunched over, as if he was choking on one of the mini crab cakes Jason had provided for the event. His wife steadied Taylor, and after a few seconds he stood erect again, apparently recovered. But his face wasn't red as it should be from choking; it was stark-white. His eyes narrowed and his lips parted, the look on his face was one of shock.

No question as to the source of his surprise. Stone stared directly at Ann Banister.

Taylor finally turned to his wife, who glanced rapidly back and forth between Ann and him. After sharing ten or fifteen seconds of intense whispers, Taylor and his wife eased out the back door.

The Taylor Stone saga had just added a fascinating new chapter.

Taylor Stone, you and I are going to get to know each other much, much better.

Cameron looked back at the stage and listened to Jason banter with Ann about life as a television-show host and his favorite episodes of Adventure Northwest.

"Now friends, I want to bring up a subject dear to my heart and many of yours. Ann, I'd love to have you stay onstage and answer a few questions if you don't mind." Jason turned, opened his palms, and tilted his head.

Ann gave a quick nod.

"Great." Jason turned back to the crowd. "I know some of you think Future Current is a joke and that the Book of Days is a figment of my overactive imagination. But I recently met a man whose father saw the book in physical form. And touched it. He carried this secret till just before he passed on."

Wonderful. Of course Jason couldn't keep his mouth shut about what Cameron had revealed. He glanced at the back door. If Jason threw out an invitation for Cameron to come up onstage, he didn't want to be in a position to accept.

"I believe this man told the truth. It brings to light something I've hoped for for years. That the book is not just real on a spiritual plane but in the physical realm as well. Are you ready to read about your future? Remember your past? With this book we can change mankind forever." Jason grinned. "Friends, please show your appreciation to this man's son for bringing us renewed hope. I give you Cameron Vaux."

Cameron gave a quick wave as a smattering of applause filled the room. He looked toward the door again. Kirk Gillum stood at the door glaring at Jason. A moment later he shoved his shoulder into the door and strode out.

"I'm sure Cameron will be interested in talking to any of you as soon as I'm finished."

Right. Maybe he should follow Kirk out onto Main Street.

Jason paced the stage, his head moving down then up then down again, then he turned to face the crowd. "I know many of you have heard the legends of the book since childhood, and the claim of someone who has seen the actual book in living color does nothing to bolster your faith.

"Regardless of where you stand, it is time to address the pink elephant that has taken up residence in the middle of our town. I haven't spoken of the book in a public gathering such as this for a long time. But now the time is right. It's time for you all to join us in our quest for the truth."

Cameron stared at Ann. Her face looked like she'd just stepped off a dingy that had been navigating twenty-foot swells.

"Friends, I don't think the timing of Ann coming to our town is coincidence. She's dug into stories around the Northwest as an investigative journalist for many years now and has found some intriguing and unusual things during that time. So now I ask you, Ann, from someone who has seen their fair share of strange stories, is it possible the book actually exists? That it is genuine?"

A wave of concern washed across Ann's face but she recovered a moment later. "Would you like me to give my professional or personal opinion?" Ann tilted her head to the side.

The crowd chuckled.

Jason tilted his head to the side. "We'd like to hear both."

"Okay, reporter first." Ann pretended to crack her knuckles and lowered her voice. "Since I am completely without bias and entirely objective," Ann smiled, "I don't know whether a Book of Days exists or doesn't exist. It would be fascinating if it did, but I will, of course, keep all emotion out of my mind as this story unfolds. And if you find it in the meantime, can you let me know if my show is going to be canceled next season? I'm a little worried."

Jason gestured toward Ann as they both joined the crowd's laughter.

"Sure it would be wonderful to find a book that told the unique story of every man, woman, and child on earth and explained the whys of their past and what will happen in their future. There are things I'd love to know about my past . . ." Ann cleared her throat. "And, of course, my future."

Jason's slight smile grew into a grin. It was obvious he considered Ann's words so far an endorsement of sorts.

"But to be serious for a moment"—Ann turned to Jason, whose smile froze on his face—"having talked to a great many people over the past ten years that have had, um, fascinating beliefs, I have to confess I think we all have a better chance of finding the lost city of Atlantis out back than finding a hidden Book of Days written by the hand of God."

Jason swallowed. "But you are here to scout out what could be the story of the century before bringing in the cameras, correct? This is the ultimate adventure."

"No, actually I'm not. I'm here entirely on a personal matter. Sorry." Ann held up both hands and grimaced playfully.

Jason's eyes clouded over. "But if the book is discovered, certainly many people would want to broadcast the story, yes?"

"Yes, of course, I'm sure a hoard of TV reporters would race directly here, right after finishing up their interviews with King Kong and the Abominable Snowman."

Laughter erupted through the crowd and Ann smiled kindly at Jason. "Sorry, Jason. I couldn't resist."

A wave of anger flashed across Jason's face. "I'm serious. If we showed you hard evidence, would you cover the story?"

Ann looked at him and it seemed for the first time she realized the level of intensity he carried regarding the book. She took a half step away from Jason. "My apologies. I didn't realize this search was quite so serious."

"Deadly."

"Okay." Ann took another step away from Jason. "If you find a genuine book of God, your town's population will make Woodstock look like an empty field."

Ann left the stage, the look of concern back on her face.

Jason answered questions for the next ten minutes before he wrapped up his talk and stepped down from the stage where his followers gathered around him and offered congratulations.

Ann was surrounded by people as well and Cameron moved near her to watch her work the crowd.

She was as charming to others as he remembered. Why couldn't she treat him half as kindly?

She smiled at the right times and always asked the people around her at least two follow-up questions, unlike most people who asked one return question to be polite but really didn't care what the answer was. She looked into people's eyes when they spoke, as if they were the only other person in the world, and her laugh was addictive.

No wonder she'd been Jessie's best friend.

"Have you met her yet?"

Cameron gave a start. Jason had sauntered up to his side without him noticing. "Yes."

"Do you know each other?"

Cameron nodded.

"Really. How?"

"Mutual friends from our past." Cameron rubbed his temple. He didn't want Jason to know his connection to Ann. Jason seemed much too interested in her. "That shouldn't surprise me. You're in the same type of business, and you're ambitious like she is."

"Not really."

"Oh yes. I Googled you myself last night. Three years ago you entered a short film in five different contests and you finaled twice. Your Facebook page is full of links and likes within the film industry." Jason clapped his back. "You've made no secret of the fact you want to move up in the world of video. Scrap it altogether and move into making feature-length films."

"What's your point?"

"If we find the book, you could make any film you wanted. You would never have to concern yourself with money again. You'd know the future. What if you knew which script Universal Studios would approve and which ones they wouldn't? What if you knew which films would be a massive success? You'd be planets ahead of every other director in the world.

"I'm going to use this book to help the world, but I'm only going to let a few people have direct access to it." Jason paused a moment. "You need me."

Cameron walked away. Jason was right. If the Book of Days was authentic and they controlled it, it could make his career. But his dream of making movies had faded. All he wanted now was to remember Jessie and find a cure for his disintegrating brain.

He filled his punch glass and went to study the core teachings of Future Current spelled out on two four-color posters sitting on large easels.

"Are you learning anything?"

For the second time in the past ten minutes Cameron was startled by someone sneaking up on him. He spun on his heel.

Ann. He tightened his grip on his plastic cup and it snapped, a trickle of punch wound its way down the cup's side. Great.

Where should he start? Seeing her in person was different than talking on the phone. Far different. Those eyes. Captivating. He'd forgotten how beautiful she was. And she looked leaner than when he'd last seen her. Maybe hosting Adventure Northwest required more than just standing in front of the camera.

"Hey, Ann, hi." Cameron leaned in to give her a quick hug at the same time she extended her hand, which caused her to poke him in the stomach.

She pulled her hand back. "Sorry."

"No, my fault, I wasn't sure if I should . . ."

Awkward. Just like the last time they'd seen each other.

"Thanks for coming down here," Cameron said.

"Sure." Ann nodded.

"I'm thinking we'll connect tomorrow late afternoon and talk about our game plan. I have some things I need to do the first half of the day."

"Good. Perfect. What time were you thinking? Three? Four?"

"Let's say four. I'll call you around three thirty and we'll pick a spot."

"Fine." Ann turned and waltzed back into the crowd, greeting fans along the way. She'd never been athletic like Jessie, but she moved with a fluid grace that was a bit mesmerizing.

He slogged back toward his hotel and stopped to look at the Three Peaks Bakery. Closed. A sign said the building was constructed in the mid-1920s. In the window were three apple fritters that looked like they needed a home.

He patted his stomach. Jessie and he used to have an apple fritter night two or three times a year where they'd gorge themselves on the treats and curse their decision the next day.

Had Jessie done the same thing with Ann when they roomed together in college? Probably. He turned and trudged on. Five days already in Three Peaks. And little to show for it.

"I'm not getting much of anywhere, Jess. You think a fritter could make me feel better?"

By the time he stepped into the lobby of the Best Western, his legs wobbled. His exhaustion was more emotional than physical, but his body still felt like he'd spent the day climbing Mount Kilimanjaro.

He fumbled in his front pants pocket for his hotel card and couldn't locate it. Where . . . ? Right. Back pocket. Cameron pulled it out and stared at the green stripe.

What was his room number? 304? 324? Think! He popped himself in the forehead twice with his fist. He looked over at the hotel's night host who stared at him with raised eyebrows.

Why couldn't he just ask the night guy behind the counter? No, he'd figure it out; he just needed to stop thinking about it for minute. He glanced around the lobby for a distraction.

A rack of brochures next to the check-in desk caught his eye. He wandered over to it and found leaflets that boasted of guided hikes that would fascinate him, a Bavarian Village fifty miles down the road that would fill him with unforgettable memories, white-water rafting that was the "trip of a lifetime" and world-class golf courses that promised to "Take you away from it all." He was ready to be taken away from it all and checked into a new life. One with a brain that wasn't missing a spark plug or three. Where do I sign up?

After five minutes of pretending he was reading the brochures, he broke down and approached the front desk. "Hey, can you remind me what room I'm in? Too many hotels in too many weeks and all the numbers start to blend together."

"No problem, Mr. Vaux."

Eschewing the elevators, he took the stairs to the second floor, the whole way fingering the rock Susan Hillman had given him. He rolled the cool, almost cold surface of the stone around his palm and stared at its intricate pattern of red lines, each one ending at a black spot on the stone. It was comforting.

On impulse he pulled Jessie's stone out from under his shirt and held the two stones side by side. They looked good together. Jessie had said her stone was a key, but he had no idea what that meant. He'd shown the stone to three northwest historians just before he left Seattle, but none of them had any idea what the markings were. If it was a key to finding the book, he needed some way to locate the door.

When he reached his floor and finally his door, he stuffed his card into the lock and pulled it out. The green light flared. He pushed the door handle and trudged into his room, not bothering to turn on the light. All he wanted was for sleep to consume him.

Let me escape. Sleep come quick, okay?

As soon as he plopped onto the russet bedspread, he jerked back up and rubbed his neck. A sharp corner of something had poked him. He fumbled for the light on the nightstand and snapped it on. A square dark maroon envelope held a thick red card inside. As he slid the card free, he couldn't help but think of Ann. She'd worn a maroon polo shirt at Jason's gathering. A great color on her.

My dearest Mr. Cameron,

I hope you have enjoyed our hospitality during your short visit to our town. If you don't leave within the next day, and instead choose to prolong your unwarranted escapade here, the consequences will be, shall we say, disagreeable.

Regards,

A friend

Cameron crumpled the note in his hand, his eyes darting around the room as his smile turned into laughter. Excellent. He was on the right track. And he had a pretty good idea who that trail would lead to.

CHAPTER 15

Midmorning on Saturday, Cameron unclipped another nut from his rack, jammed it into the crack and clipped in with a carabineer. He wedged his chalk covered fingers into the crack and adjusted his foot so he could stick the hold.

He was seventy-five feet above the forest floor and trying to keep his fear in check. Another hundred feet or so and he'd crest the ridge of the cliff and have a look at the amber and green valley below without a cascade of adrenaline pumping through his veins.

Right now the adrenaline was a torrent because the fear he'd confronted when he and Jessie learned to climb together had never left him. Could he manage it? Yes. Conquer it? Not even close. Even looking out a window from more than three stories up filled his stomach with stampeding butterflies. But the price was worth it. When he climbed, he felt Jessie and nothing else. Every other extraneous thought vanished as his concentration narrowed. And he didn't have to remember anything except how to stay alive.

His next move was a micro hold about two feet above his head. With a shove off the edge with his foot, he should be able to reach it with his fingertips. He stiffened his left hand in the crack, bending his fingers to create a human anchor, then released the wall with his right hand. Cameron plunged his hand into his chalk bag then returned to his hold; trying to ignore the burn in his arms and calves.

He took a breath and focused on the wall a quarter-inch in front of his nose.

The climb was listed as a 5.9 in Spectacular Northwest Climbs, but it seemed closer to a 5.10. The difficulty of finding decent holds increased the higher he got. Always have three points of contact; it was a fundamental of beginning rock climbing, but this route wasn't for beginners. And while Cameron wasn't a beginner, no one would describe him as advanced.

Squinting into the sun he saw his next hold and stretched out for it. Short by at least five inches. He reached the crux. The hardest part of the climb; the spot where the 5.9 rating came from. The only way to reach it was to shove off with his foot. His anchors would hold.

He was taking too long deliberating the next move. Momentum. Climb with momentum, few pauses. Just go!

Cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

Should he descend? No. He was almost halfway up and down-climbing would be harder than moving up. As his options pinged through his mind, Cameron looked down. A tactical error. Sweat seeped through the white chalk on his palms and fingers. Not good.

To think people free climbed this route without ropes. Insane. His right leg started bouncing, the panic inside pushing its way out.

Closing his eyes he sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slow. He laid his cheek against the cliff face and took another breath. Then another.

You want to live without me? You want to live with your memories vanishing? You want to try to live without a mind?

The thoughts flashed through him like they were spoken.

"Jessie?" Her name escaped his lips before he could stop it.

Join me. It would be simple.

Yes. It would be so easy. He could unknot himself from the rope—his toes the only thing keeping him on the cliff—then slowly lean back till the wind whistled past his ears, faster, faster, eyes closed, not knowing the moment of impact until . . .

Progress on finding the book was moving like a glacier, and he still had no gut feeling one way or another if it would turn out to be the answer to all his hopes or an illusion that would leave his soul even emptier than it felt right now.

He couldn't live with his mind slowly melting away like early winter snow.

He looked down again and his stomach knotted tighter, then reached toward his harness to undo the rope.

No one would ever know. It would be declared an accident, case opened and closed before sunset. Brandon could find another partner.

Cameron blinked rapidly and waited for his panic to settle, for the voice that couldn't be Jessie's to stop whispering at him—for the rational part of himself to grow strong again. But it didn't. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry and a cough rasped out.

He should join her. Why not? Before all memory of her vanished.

Join her.

He reached toward his harness to undo his rope. He watched his fingers, as if detached from them, start to undo the knot. His toe slipped and he instinctively reached up to grip the wall. Wait, what was that?

Cameron started as he spied a figure on top of the cliff looking down at him. He or she was silhouetted by the blazing sun behind her, the outline of a rope around her shoulders. Female? Looked like it. The figure turned and he caught the outline of shoulder-length hair and a slender, athletic figure. Definitely a woman.

A witness.

Thank you.

Whoever it was had just restored a spot of sanity to his brain. What was he thinking?

Cameron sucked in a breath, shoved himself upward, and snagged the next hold with his fingertips.

"I hope I'll see you again someday Jessie, but not yet. Not yet."

An hour later he reached the top and slumped to the rocky ground breathing hard. After catching his breath, he glanced around for his lone spectator.

No one.

He slid out of his climbing gear, settled down on a boulder, and grabbed his water bottle. After five gulps he dumped the rest on his head and studied the drops of water as they fell from the ends of his dark hair.

They trickled onto the ground, sending up little puffs of dust. He couldn't keep his legs from shaking. Not from fatigue—from the fear of his near embrace with death.

"Cameron?"

He twisted to see who it was.

Unbelievable. Ann. Maybe there was a God. And Cameron was the ant under the magnifying glass. Thanks for the torture, Book of Days Author.

He shook his head. "You never wanted anything to do with climbing. I never imagined you would get into it."

"That makes two of us." She walked toward him, auburn hair bouncing on her shoulders.

"But you did."

"I hated it at first. I think I still do. But it's a way to be close to Jessie. You know what I mean?"

Cameron nodded. He knew.

"I didn't know you were climbing again."

The fear from the climb still hung on him like a concrete robe; she had to see it in his eyes and notice his leg bouncing like a jackhammer. But if she did, Ann didn't let on.

"I only stopped for about six months." He shifted, stretching his legs out in front of him. "What about you?"

Ann folded her arms and tapped her foot. "I started a year and a half ago. I still have a ton to learn."

"Hey, I'm assuming you just scaled this peak solo since no one else is up here, and if you did, you've got a pretty fast download going."

"That climb was a bit outside my comfort zone. Actually a lot outside." Ann paced, five yards away. "It's interesting to see you up here."

Interesting? What, she didn't think he could handle the climb? "You too." Cameron gazed out over the valley spread out below them like a golden-brown silk river, splotches of green spread randomly throughout. She was probably waiting for him to say something, but what? The only noise was a light wind straining to get through the pine trees dotting the ridge just behind them.

"I watched you catch your breath for a few minutes about a third of the way up. How long did it take you to get up here?"

Cameron's face flushed. If she only knew. He rubbed his forehead and coughed. "About an hour."

"I wish I could climb with that speed. I've focused on the sport intensely for the past eighteen months, but I feel like I've plateaued." She pulled her hair into a ponytail and secured it. "I've heard of climbers with natural talent. I am not one of those fortunate souls."

Ann offered him a bottle of Powerade from her climbing pack and he accepted. After a few moments of silence, she got up, eased over to the edge of the cliff, and sat with her legs hanging over it.

After a few seconds' hesitation, he got up and joined her.

Ann peered at him out of the corner of her eye. "So, will we be able to get along for the next week or so?"

"You tell me, Banister. Our relationship has never been bathed in a great deal of warmth."

She shrugged. "I think we'll be fine."

"I hope so."

"I should let you know, I'm not here just to help you find out more about your dad's and Jessie's book."

"Really."

She folded her hands and looked at the sky.

"Are you going to tell me about it?"

"I want to try to find information on someone who lived here in the sixties and early seventies." She tapped the tips of her fingers together.

"Who?"

"My mom."

Interesting. "Okay."

"Jessie never told you my history?"

"Not much."

"I'm an only child and I have no idea who my dad was. He was gone before I was two. When I was seven, my mom hooked up with a loser from Shelton, Washington, and we lived there with him till I was eleven." Ann pulled at the thin band of silver in her right ear. "That's when my mom abandoned me for good."

"It was a drug overdose if I remember right."

Ann nodded. "I was so angry at her I refused to go to the funeral." She closed her eyes. "I'm still angry."

She shook her head. "Two months later I came home from school one day and found all my things on the front lawn. The guy was gone. Ten minutes later it started raining just like in some sappy movie.

"But for me it wasn't sappy. In that moment I realized I was alone in the world. I cried nonstop till Mrs. Carie next door came over and took me in for the night. The next day I was baptized into the foster-care system. As you probably remember, that's where I met Jessie. She's the only family I had."

Wow. She was an orphan.

Ann leaned forward, head down. "Once I was in college I never looked back. Until now. I don't know if I have any uncles or aunts or cousins, and at this stage of life—you know, turning thirty-two, thinking about having kids of my own—I'd really like to know something of my family history."

In that instant Ann became utterly human. It didn't matter that she'd never liked him. She knew pain, loneliness. The same pain he carried, the same loneliness. Cameron started to speak, then thought better of it. A disclosure of that nature needed a moment to settle.

Ann stood and brushed nonexistent dirt off her climbing shorts. She walked over to her pack and grabbed two PowerBars. She tossed one to Cameron and unwrapped the other in a swift motion.

"Both sets of my grandparents died before I was born. What are the odds of that? So I have no family. Period. Now you'd think someone in the media would be able to find the story of who my grandparents were and some history on my mom, but it didn't turn out that way. She wasn't exactly what you'd call a record keeper. But I've kept digging and finally a bit of luck led me here." She wiped her nose with a tissue. "I'm hoping to find someone who knew my mom before she left for Washington."

Cameron stole a quick look at her profile as she watched a white-throated swift flit about the ground, searching for anything the climbers might have dropped. Ann's lack of makeup allowed her freckles to stand out and it made her more beautiful than he'd ever seen her.

As Ann asked questions about the town, the sensation of knowing exactly what she looked like as a little girl immersed him. The innocence that growing up pushes out of most men and women still flitted behind her eyes and into her smile.

Cameron told her what he'd learned so far about the town and when he'd finished, she sat back and pulled one knee up to her chest and simply said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome. I hope you find what you're looking for."

Ann turned and leaned in toward him. "Now, it's your turn."

"Mine? For what?"

"To tell me about your plan for finding the book and what you've discovered already."

When he finished she said, "So you think Jason is the key?"

"No." Cameron rubbed his kneecaps and smiled. "Taylor is. With him it feels like I've made progress, and with you here I'm hoping we'll make even more."

"I used to read Taylor Stone's syndicated column in The Oregonian."

"He's a writer?"

"He ran the Three Peaks Post for years."

That's right. Cameron knew that.

"You don't really think there's anything to this Book of Days story, do you?"

"It depends on the moment you ask." Cameron sniffed a laugh. "Sometimes I can't believe I'm doing this; other times I think there actually might be something to the legend." Cameron whapped himself on the head with both hands. "Am I crazy? What do you think?"

Ann shrugged. "I believe what I said at the party last night. It's gotta be a legend."

"Even with Jessie saying she saw it?"

Ann stood and folded her arms across her chest. "You and I both know Jessie occasionally saw visions from God."

"But you believe all the God-things that Jessie and my dad believed."

"Jessie wasn't a full-out Christian mystic, but she liked reading them and that's the way her faith leaned. I've never gone down that path."

Cameron rubbed the ring finger on his left hand. "She was always asking me to go down that road with her."

"Why didn't you?"

"I've never had anything against God. It was great for Jessie, great for my dad, probably good for you too. I've just never seen how He could exist."

"What about now?"

It was an excellent question. "Maybe He's out there. But I wouldn't know where to start looking."

Ann cracked her knuckles and smiled. "I could offer some suggestions."

The fights they'd had over his marrying Jessie raced into his mind.

"You're a good guy, Cameron, but you don't follow Jesus so you shouldn't marry Jessie."

"All you're going to do is hurt her."

Cameron turned and raised his eyebrows. "Like the suggestions you used to give me all the time when Jessie and I were dating?"

Ann clasped her hands. "I see some of your memories from the past are still crystal clear."

Cameron rolled his eyes.

A few moments later Ann stuck out her hand. "Truce?"

Cameron looked into her riveting green eyes as he took her hand. "Sure."

He watched the late-morning sun play tag with the clouds as a breeze brought the perfume of ponderosa pine up from the valley.Cameron let his senses get swept away in it. It felt strange sitting next to Ann, alone, miles from anyone or anything. It also felt comforting.

And wonderful.

And wrong.

What if years ago Ann had invited him to a play before Jessie asked him to learn to rock climb? Would he be sitting here with a ring on his finger?

Stop it, Cameron.

He needed to keep his distance from her. Find out if the book was real as fast as possible, then get back to Seattle. He would never betray Jessie by having feelings for Ann. Never.

CHAPTER 16

On the drive back to Three Peaks, Cameron popped his steering wheel with his palm and blew out an exasperated breath. He'd told Ann he was making progress. What progress? If he could get Stone to talk, Cameron might get somewhere. But what if he couldn't?

"Jessie, what would you do?"

He laughed and contemplated having a conversation with God. That's exactly what Jessie would do. Could he do that while driving? How important was it to pray with eyes closed? Was that a requirement? Of course Jessie had prayed all the time with her eyes open, so it was probably all right.

He pulled up to a stoplight and rubbed his neck.

Two adults and three kids on matching bikes crossed in front of him, probably on their way to Indian Loop Road. The Fun To-Do guide in his room said it was a favorite of locals and tourists. The kind of trail he'd dreamed of going down with Jessie and their kids someday. "Thanks for killing that dream, God." There, he'd prayed.

The light turned green, and as he eased down on the gas, he decided to give prayer a real shot.

"I have no concept of how to talk to You. But if You really wrote a book, stuck it here in Three Peaks, and it's the one my dad and Jessie talked about and it really exists, I'd appreciate some help finding it. Thanks."

Ironic that he would end up here trying to find the answers to life. Jessie had loved Central Oregon as a kid. She came down at least twice with her church group, or was it Girl Scouts? She'd even asked him a few years ago about going back. Hadn't she? Didn't she say it was important they come here together? He gritted his teeth. He couldn't remember. Too much fuzz covered what little was left of the memory.

What should be his next move? On the cliff they'd decided Ann would stop by the library that afternoon and see if she could dig up anything he hadn't been able to find, but what should he do? He'd talked to all the possible leads in town—which had gotten him nowhere—except for his conversation with Taylor Stone. But getting Stone to help with his quest would be like swimming through concrete.

"I'm getting tired, Jessie."

He wasn't any closer to the book than when he'd arrived, and Brandon expected him to be back in Seattle in a little over a week. Cameron popped the steering wheel again. He needed answers now. Somehow. Some way.

He stopped for a long, late lunch and didn't arrive back at his hotel till four thirty. He tossed his keys and wallet on the desk and scanned his room. Something was out of place. Wait, not out of place—missing.

Where was his notebook? Didn't he leave it on the desk? It wasn't there. He glanced at the floor. The cleaning staff might have knocked it—no, not there. Not on the nightstand either.

He sucked in a breath and blew it out quickly as heat filled his body. Think! Where was it?

He wiped his forehead as he strode into the bathroom. Had he set the file on the sink?

Nothing. Not there.

Come on . . . Ah, there it was, resting at the base of the overstuffed chair next to the window. He snatched it up. "Don't go disappearing on me. I need y—"

Cameron stopped as he flipped it open and stared at a blank notepad. All his notes were gone, ripped cleanly out.

Another wave of heat coursed through him. A threatening letter was one thing; stealing his notes took things to another level.

He glanced around the room. Nothing else was out of place. At least that he remembered. And everything in the closet seemed to be there.

Cameron strode to the window and yanked back the curtains, as if the intruder would be standing under a streetlamp staring up at him.

The street was empty, but it didn't stop a shiver from running down his back.

He spun and smacked the chair.

He needed his notes!

He flopped into the chair and didn't know whether to scream or laugh. He was getting behind somebody's curtain, and that person wanted to kick him out of the theater. But Cameron had a ticket and wasn't about to leave.

After a long shower he glanced at his watch. Five thirty. Too early to catch a movie in the Five Pine campus at the east end of town.

He stared out his window and saw the banner promoting the jazz festival. It had just started. Hadn't he looked at the banner a few days ago? Yes. He remembered. A miracle.

Why not stroll down and listen for a while? It was better than sitting in his hotel room, wondering who had broken in for a second time and trying to ignore the nauseous gurgling that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his stomach.

About halfway to the park, he caught the sound of a band. A guitarist was playing riffs in fine Robert-Cray style, and the faint smell of barbecued chicken tantalized his taste buds.

There had to be at least five-hundred people spread out on blue and green and red checkered blankets or sitting in lawn chairs, bottles of red wine at their sides or pitchers filled with what looked like iced tea.

People sat in large groups, talking and laughing, kids running from blanket to blanket acting like everyone was their mom or dad, sister or brother. One of the amazing aspects of a small town. Community was real. You knew your neighbors and everyone in town was a neighbor.

So different from his life in Seattle, where he had a lot of acquaintances but not many deep friendships. He'd always envied Jessie in that regard. She had a big group of God-buddies who would do anything for her.

Cameron was about to sit on a gray, faded picnic table on the edge of the crowd when he noticed two familiar profiles to his left: Taylor Stone and the lady who must be his wife.

As Cameron eased over to them, she smiled, whispered something to Taylor, and motioned for Cameron to join them on their checkered picnic blanket.

Taylor glanced at Cameron as he approached but stared straight ahead as Cameron sat next to him. "Still in town I see," Taylor said.

"For a while longer."

"Hello, Cameron. I'm Tricia, Taylor's wife." She leaned across Taylor and offered her hand. "I've heard positive things about you."

"Really?" Cameron grasped her hand. "Good to meet you."

"Are you a jazz aficionado perchance?" Taylor continued to stare straight ahead at the five-piece band.

"No, but I have a few CDs of the legends."

"Who do you consider legendary?"

"Coltrane, Miles Davis, Charlie Parker . . . and a few others."

Taylor raised his eyebrows.

"If Taylor were to admit it, he'd heartily approve of your choices. Good to have you join us." Tricia patted Taylor's knee as she looked at Cameron. "How is your search going?"

"For?"

"The Book of Days, of course."

"Everyone knows everyone else's business in a small town, don't they?"

"For the most part." Tricia smiled. "And your search?"

"Stymied. The people who talk about it only say the same things Jason says."

"Not surprising." Taylor eyes stayed locked on the band.

"Oh, really?"

"If you go to Roswell and asked about the alien landing, the only people who are talking about it are the ones trying to make a buck by plucking it from your wallet. The others are bored with the whole thing." Taylor sipped his tea. "Now that you've sliced open the hornets' nest with talk of your dad touching a real book, Jason and all the other whack jobs associated with Future Current will be searching for this genuine Book of Days till they bring Walt Disney's frozen body back from the dead. But they'll never find it."

Tricia offered Cameron a glass of iced tea, which he accepted.

"Once Jason drops out of sight, another New Ager will dig up the Book of Days story and continue the quest. We'll probably never be rid of it." Taylor drilled him with a frown and turned back to the band.

"Do you think Jason wants me to leave?"

"Are you kidding? You've handed him what he would call solid evidence that there's a physical book . . . No, he'd be the first member on your Book of Days Facebook fan page."

"I see. So it doesn't make sense that he or one of his followers would send me an unsigned note that somehow showed up on my hotel bed, threatening me harm if I don't get out of Three Peaks?"

An emotion flashed across Taylor's face, almost too fast for Cameron to see it. If he hadn't been staring right at Taylor, he would have missed it. Concern? Recognition? Anger? He couldn't tell. But it was enough to decide Taylor had sent the note.

"When did you get the letter?" Tricia asked.

"Yesterday."

"Did you report it?"

"No, I took it as a positive sign. That I'm on the right track. A hornet doesn't sting unless you're pounding on the nest."

"Why is it so important for you to search for this book?" Tricia asked.

Was it the town edict that everyone asked that question? Cameron let his head fall back and he stared at the thin layer of clouds above, growing pink. Why search? A moment later, Cameron found himself spilling his heart out to the two strangers beside him.

"Before my dad died, he said finding the book would answer my questions. My wife said the same thing before she died in a small plane crash. Maybe they were deluded, but I promised I'd search."

This time the emotion across Taylor's face lasted a full second, and Cameron didn't have to guess what the man felt: surprise and then conflict.

Tricia glanced at Taylor, then slid her hand on top of Cameron's and squeezed.

Taylor turned to him, a curious look on his face. "I'm sorry about your wife and the plane crash. Dying in an accident is . . . for the person who stays behind . . . It's not . . . I'm sorry for your pain."

Cameron nodded. Where had that bucket of compassion come from? Not exactly the Taylor Stone he'd met so far. It was Cameron's turn to study the band.

After the next set ended, Tricia and Taylor gathered their things and got up to leave.

"Best of success, Cameron, hang in there." Taylor bent down to shake Cameron's hand.

"Thanks, maybe we'll talk again."

"Maybe."

The park shadows grew till Cameron was the only one left in the park. The band had packed up and the last stragglers had ambled back toward their homes or hotels.

Wait. He wasn't the only one left. A figure in shadow leaned against a tree on the opposite side of the park. It was too small to be Jason. Was it a man? A woman? He couldn't tell, but he knew the person was staring at him.

Cameron stood and called out, "Hello."

No response. No movement.

"Can I help you?"

The figure shifted his weight and pulled his hood further down on his face.

As Cameron started walking toward the figure, the person walked backward a few paces, then turned and sprinted away.

Cameron raced toward the fleeing figure, but he had too much of a jump on Cameron. By the time he reached the spot where the person had stood, he had vanished.

The temperature had dropped at least twenty degrees since Cameron first arrived, or maybe the appearance of someone watching him made it seem that way.

Threatening notes. Someone stealing his research. Stalkers trailing him. Great. It added a nice flavor of fear to his quest.

But it also added validity. He was getting closer.

And Jason was right. Taylor Stone was far more tied into the Book of Days than he was willing to admit. Cameron would stay close to Taylor and somehow find a way to get the man to confess.

As he crawled under the sheets that night, hope fluttered up from his heart.

"I'm making progress, Jessie." He clicked off the lamp next to his bed. "I know you're with me. I'll see you in my dreams."

Three Years Earlier

Intermittent breezes had buffeted Cameron and Jessie as they hiked the two miles up Mount Erie in northern Washington. They could have driven, but they were considering entering their first triathlon, and the exercise would be a good addition to the mountain-bike ride they'd taken earlier in the day.

He grabbed her hand and gave a quick squeeze. She smiled, let go of his hand, and sprinted up the path. "Think you can catch me?"

Maybe not, but she'd caught him. All of him. Forever.

They crested the top of the trail and gazed down on the farmland a quarter-mile below.

It looked like a postcard, pencil-thin dirt roads separating bright green fields as far as they could see, with inlets of Puget Sound reaching out like fingers into the rich green-and-gold ground.

The sun would set in two hours, so they couldn't linger long before heading back down. They'd had one of their first dates here, and he'd taken her back once a year ever since. He would keep bringing her here till they had to drive to the top and get to the viewpoints using walkers.

They found their traditional seat, an outcropping of rocks with just enough room for both of them to sit, and dangled their legs with four hundred feet of open space below them.

"Perfect day?" Cameron asked.

"Only one thing would make it better."

"That is?"

"When we get home we find out a major studio wants to buy one of your short films, make it feature length, and have you direct."

The wind continued to swirl erratically, pushing Jessie's hair back in bursts, then dying so it fell on her shoulders like wayward feathers seconds later.

Perfection in human form.

She turned toward him. "What if I told you something you'd never believe?"

"I'd believe it."

"No. This is something I know you could never accept."

"I would accept it, because it's you."

"You wouldn't. It's the unanswerable argument. If I know you won't . . . it's like saying God, who nothing is impossible for, can make a stone too heavy for Himself to lift."

"Easy answer." Cameron laughed. "Since there probably is no God, he wouldn't be able to lift it."

Jessie ran her fingers over the top of his hands, then intertwined their fingers. "You promise to believe me?"

"Yes, tell me."

Jessie closed her eyes and smiled.

"What? You're pregnant? You were abducted by aliens? What?"

"Later."

He laughed and pulled her in tight, nuzzling her neck with his lips. "Now."

She tickled right under his arm where he was most sensitive, and he leaped back as if he'd stuck his finger in a light socket.

"I've seen proof. God is real."

"Really."

Jessie nodded.

"If you say so."

"He is."

"If you say—"

"No, Cameron, look at me. I know He's real."

"Uh-huh." Cameron drew her back into his chest and stroked her hair. "You're going to tell about this proof I suppose."

"Yes. I've seen something He made. Something amazing."

"What? The stars? The ocean?"

"Something even better."

"Tell me."

"I will, when it's time." She folded her arms across her chest, dropped her head, and leaned into him hard.

"I love you, Cameron. Always and forever."

CHAPTER 17

The oak door into Taylor's workshop creaked as Tricia opened it just past eight o'clock Sunday morning with one goal pounding through her heart—get her husband to talk. He didn't turn from the crinkled instructions laid out in front of him, but that didn't mean he hadn't heard her come in.

She watched him fiddle with an ancient-looking fly rod, probably from the midfifties, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He hated those glasses. They labeled him as middle-aged plus, which he refused to admit to.

The walls were covered with maps and pictures of hidden rivers and fishing holes that took three days of backpacking through the wilderness to reach. Most of the time Taylor took his trips solo, "to escape" he'd tell her, but what he was escaping from was never clear.

Even though they'd known each other since junior high, he'd never fully opened up to her. He held secrets that she'd learned to accept. But ever since Cameron Vaux had arrived in town, Taylor had been escaping from her emotionally as well. It wasn't like him.

The secrets weren't about another woman or some hidden addiction. Something about Cameron had pushed him into his workshop—or as she liked to call it, his cave—more frequently these past seven days.

"Hello, my wonderful Tricia," he said, his head still buried in the instructions, his hands holding two pieces of the rod together. "The glue should be dry here in another forty seconds or so."

Tricia eased up next to Taylor's workbench and leaned on her elbow. "Let's talk." She waited a few seconds for him to look at her, but he didn't budge. "I know you're doing your caveman want-to-be-alone thing right now, but I need to ask you something."

"I'm not caving; I have to get this done by the weekend."

"Uh-huh." Tricia straightened, turned, and leaned back against the workbench. "Are you going to help this Cameron kid?"

"Help him what?"

She would smack him on the head if it would stop him from playing dumb. "I know you better than you think I do."

"I'm sorry, hon. We've just registered ten pounds on the confusion fish scale. That's two pitches over my head, third strike, yer out."

"You're mixing metaphors."

"I know."

"Look at me, Taylor Stone." She placed her forefinger under his chin and lifted till he looked into her eyes. "I think both pitches hit you right in the heart, sweetie." She let his chin go.

Taylor harrumphed. "In other words you think I know something more about this book business than I'm telling him?" He sat up and pulled off his reading glasses.

"Thank you for stating the obvious."

"What gives you that idea? Yes, David says in the Psalms all his days were recorded in God's book before he was born. He didn't say everyone; he said for himself. And I highly doubt David was describing a physical book that just happened to be plopped down in the good ol' US of A and land in little ol' Three Peaks, Oregon. He was speaking metaphorically about God knowing the past, present, and future because God is omniscient. He wasn't talking about a book you can order on Amazon.com with the click of a button."

"Forgive me. I didn't know the depth of your knowledge when it came to that particular passage of Scripture. I'm sure you can tell me with complete certainty that God would only do that for David and no one else, and that there's no way He created a literal book and placed it somewhere on earth where man might find it."

Taylor shook his head and focused on his fly rod. "It would have to be a pretty big book."

"Since you were the voice of this town for eighteen years, you know more of its secrets than anyone." Tricia folded her arms across her chest and leaned in. "So if there is even a shred of a chance this book is genuine, any real evidence to back up Jason, then you would know it. And you like helping people. So if you try and tell me all you know about the Book of Days is that it's a strange legend and nothing more—"

Taylor spun toward her in his chair and locked his hands behind his head. "So I should just grab a three-cheese pizza with Cameron and hand over whatever knowledge I possess, whether it's garbage or not? Maybe spend a few days brainstorming with him, doing research, hiking in the woods with him looking for this thing since deep down he reminds me of myself and I'm always such a helpful guy?"

Tricia patted his shoulder. "Well said."

"Thank you."

Taylor returned to his fly rod and scraped off a tiny bit of excess glue. Tricia knew he considered the conversation finished, but she didn't. And she could always outlast him in the icy stare-down contest.

He slapped his modeling knife on top of the workbench. "If it's that critical to your happiness, I'll dig through my old notes and see if I can find anything. Okay?"

Tricia whirled, marched out, and didn't look back. Taylor wouldn't be grabbing the trowel anytime soon. Again, it wasn't like him. Finding out why leaped to the top of her mental to-do list.

On Sunday night Cameron drove into Bend to catch a movie and escape his crumbling world. He needed to wrap his mind around something more than the question of whether or not he'd be wrapping his mind around anything at all a few years into the future.

Tomorrow he'd meet Ann, see if she found anything at the library, and decide what to do next.

As he walked through the parking lot toward the theater, a familiar face moved toward him.

Ann.

"Cameron, what a nice surprise." She sashayed up to him and fell into step alongside him.

Was she kidding, or had the truce they'd established on the mountain kicked into effect? "I thought you were going to see that play in Bend."

"I changed my mind."

"I see." Cameron stuck his hands in his pockets and walked faster.

Ann took a few quick strides, then she was next to him, matching his pace. "You're going to a movie?"

Cameron nodded. "Yep."

"By yourself?"

"I think it's the best way to take it in. No distractions, no having to talk to anyone about it till you've had a chance to process it." He glanced at her. "And you're headed . . . ?"

"The same."

"To a movie?"

"Yes."

"By yourself?"

She nodded and smiled.

"And I thought all we had in common was rock climbing and—" Cameron stopped himself. No parents, brothers, or sisters for either of them. Both missing Jessie. Both looking for answers.

She raised her eyebrows.

"Rock climbing," he finished.

The line to buy tickets was long, and Cameron didn't try to break the awkward silence till it had stretched past a minute. "Have you found anything more about your family?"

"I'm getting almost nowhere."

He could relate.

Ann stepped out of line and folded her arms, probably to see why the line was moving so slow. She wore faded Levi's and a dark blue Nike sweatshirt, her hair cascading over it like water.

Beautiful. He locked his hands behind his head and put his chin down. Stop it! The feelings were wrong. This is the way to honor Jessie? To remember her? By letting possible emotions for Ann dance around in his head like a tango? He had to get a handle on it.

"Do you want to help me investigate?" She stepped back into line beside him. "The way I see it, we have similar skills. Find the interesting angle to a story whether it's with words or with the lens of a camera. We know how to draw the deeper parts out of a subject or a scene. It's always easier to find the answers with two minds focused on the story. I help you with the book; you help me with my family history. So?"

Great. More time with her. That wouldn't help. But it was fair. "Fine. I'll help."

"Thanks."

Cameron gave Ann a thin-lipped smile and half a nod.

She stepped in line in front of him and whispered over her shoulder, "When can you start helping me?"

"You're up." He motioned toward the cashier window with his eyes.

Ann bought her ticket and eased over to the right as Cameron stepped up to the window. He glanced at her face as he bought a ticket to a different movie. It was blank. If she felt something either way she didn't show it.

He shoved his wallet into his coat and walked with her toward the ten-foot high glass doors leading into the theaters. "What have you uncovered so far?"

"I think my mom was born in Three Peaks and lived here till she was at least a teenager."

He raised both eyebrows, an invitation for her to elaborate.

Ann glanced at her watch. "My movie's starting. Next time I'll give you the gory details." She winked at him, not a flirtatious wink, but certainly playful.

All it took was a truce on the mountain for her to get a personality transfusion?

He watched her till she disappeared into theater number seven, then tapped himself hard on the forehead when she turned back and gave a little wave, as if she knew he'd be watching. He spun on his heel and strode toward theater number two.

Cameron left the theater two hours later. He glanced around the lobby looking for Ann. Why did he do that? Would he ask her to go for ice cream if he found her? Hardly. She was wrong for him, not even close to what he would want because no one could ever take Jessie's place.

He needed to get his mind back on the book. Tomorrow he would take another run at getting Taylor Stone to talk. A hard run.

CHAPTER 18

Ann chose the wrong movie. A romantic comedy was the worst salve possible for a heart aching over a guy she couldn't have. She tried to keep from putting herself onscreen, but it was impossible when the male lead reminded her of the Cameron she knew before Jessie died.

When the lead started to throw away his collection of classic baseball cards to prove his love—with a smile on his face—Ann laughed and cried at the same time. That scene was Cameron personified.

And she would have stopped him just like the scene played out onscreen.

After the closing credits, Ann strode out the theater with her head down. "Get out of my heart, Cameron!"

A couple walking out of the theater with her tried to hide their laughter.

She turned her head toward them. "I'm thinking about the classic girl-loves-boy-but-there's-no-way-they-can-ever-be-together-but she wants-to-be-more-than-anything storyline."

"And you're the girl?" the woman asked.

She was the girl.

He took one more glance at Cameron's notes, then let out a chuckle as he lifted them from under his reading lamp and filed them away inside his oak cabinet. It was such good news. Cameron's late wife had a stone she gave to him. And it was the key to finding the book?

Fascinating.

But where was the stone? Cameron must have it with him. It certainly wasn't in the hotel room.

Didn't matter. The stone was another confirmation the book truly did exist in physical form. He would keep watching. And waiting. And learning. Young Cameron was doing his work for him.

Thank you very much.

He picked up his Glock and looked at it from all angles, the oil he'd used earlier allowing the gun to spin easily around his fingers.

"We haven't played together in a long time, have we?" He laid it on his desk and spun it counterclockwise. "Have patience. We will dance together again soon. I can feel it. Can't you?"

He leaned back, smiled, and gazed at a map of Three Peaks and the surrounding land. He picked up his knife by the point, let it settle into his callused fingers, then flung it at the map.

Thunk!

It pierced the center of the map and sunk into the wood paneling behind it. "Wherever you're hiding, I will find you. And you will be mine."

CHAPTER 19

The Monday morning sun was bright as Cameron approached Taylor's house, the late model Ford truck out front throwing off little bursts of light like a disco ball from the seventies. The guy must polish it every day.

When no one answered the doorbell, he walked around the back of the house and found Taylor sitting on his back deck, wearing a tie-dye T-shirt, khaki shorts, and nothing on his feet.

He didn't acknowledge Cameron but had to know he was there. The boards on the deck squealed as Cameron walked across them, announcing his arrival as loudly as the mermaid wind chime would have if a wind had been blowing.

Cameron grabbed one of the Adirondack chairs against the house and pulled it within a few feet of Taylor and sat. A few minutes later, Taylor broke the silence.

"My feet roast in anything but sandals, still. Till age five I don't remember wearing shoes at all from April through September, except in church. Maybe sitting on those church pews—hard as granite, mind you—shoved the memory right out of my mind."

Taylor reached in and pulled something metal from his pocket. "I hated church. Not just 'cause of having to wear shoes. Every Sunday morning Pastor Davis Darton ranted about God's love and God's forgiveness but with a red face that looked like an overripe tomato ready to burst. I couldn't figure out how God could forgive anyone if He was perpetually angry.

"One Sunday after service, I snuck up to see if the spot where Pastor Darton pounded on his podium each week was dented. It wasn't, but the wood in the middle was a lighter color than the rest of it. To me, church wasn't a building; it was Annie singing one of the hymns we both loved or lying in the meadow with my eyes closed listening to her read from the Bible."

Interesting. Ann. Annie. "Who's Annie?"

Taylor sat without moving or speaking for at least two minutes. Finally he opened his hand and stared at the object resting on it. A window crank. He brought it up to his face and pressed it into his cheek until his skin turned bright red.

He sighed, dropped his hand, and began spinning the crank around his fingers. The sun flashed off it with each rotation, and with each rotation Taylor winced. After the seventh or eighth turn, Taylor squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head.

Cameron shifted in his chair and tried to find something in the yard to focus on. It felt like he was sitting in on a Catholic confessional. Whatever crime Taylor was in the midst of paying penance for was serious.

Taylor raised his head and looked at Cameron. "Would you like to see it?"

"The . . . what?"

"This."

Cameron nodded and held out his hand.

Taylor held up the window crank for Cameron to look at but didn't hand it to him.

Cameron studied the crank and the blood rushed from his face. Why would Taylor have one of those?

"Do you know what this is, Cameron?"

He swallowed hard. "It's a window crank made sometime between 1965 and 1967. Standard on Ford Mustangs during those years."

"Not bad." Taylor squinted at him. "How'd you know that?"

He hesitated, then said, "I restored a '65 Mustang and gave it to my wife for a Christmas present one year." He didn't add that the only time Jessie drove it was to the airfield on the day she died.

A wave of what looked like surprise washed over Taylor's face, but he recovered a moment later. "That model was a great car." He sighed and laid the window crank on his knee.

They returned to silence and watched the wind blow through the pine trees bordering Taylor's property sixty yards away.

"Do you think God really forgives everything, Cameron? And if He forgives, does He forget? Or does He write everything down in that book of yours so it lasts forever?"

What was Taylor asking him about God for? Or was the question directed more toward Taylor himself?

"I don't know if He forgives, forgets, remembers, keeps track . . . God and I have never done a lot of communicating."

"Annie said He forgives it all. Past. Present. Future. For everything we've done that we're ashamed of. And remembers it no more. Our part is accepting it."

"Nice thought."

"If it's true, He must have to take a big spiritual eraser to those parts of your amazing Book of Days."

"Industrial-strength eraser." Cameron smiled.

"Annie would have forgiven me for what I did to her. In an instant. My head says that. But my heart . . ."

It was the third time Taylor had mentioned Annie. Cameron couldn't help asking again, "Who is Annie?"

"I've said way too much. Waaay." Taylor took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he propped his elbow on his knee and spun the window crank again, faster this time. When he finished, they sat in silence for a long time.

Finally Taylor said "Here" and handed the crank to Cameron, as if it were a gem-encrusted dagger.

"Who did it be—?"

"Belonged to me. Off a car of mine." Tears threatened to spill onto Taylor's cheeks. Cameron couldn't be sure if Taylor's tears came from the pain of the sunlight flashing off the crank into his eyes or from remembering. Maybe both.

"When something you would die for is destroyed by the hand of another, you can almost learn to live with it. When you do the destroying yourself, it's impossible."

Exactly. Almost learn to live with it. And the part that remained was brutal. "What was destroyed?"

"Cameron . . ." Taylor stood and offered his hand. Cameron took it and found himself yanked to his feet with a surprising strength. "Tricia asked me to talk to you about some things I know about. But I can't. It's nothing against you. You're a good man, and we have some things in common. More than I thought. But some things are meant to be sealed forever. Do you understand?"

Taylor strode into his house without waiting for an answer, without looking back. The screen door smacked shut with a sound like the blast from a .22.

Cameron stared at the door and took two steps backward. He had the sensation of being watched and looked toward the upstairs windows. Tricia Stone gazed down at him, her face expressionless. Then she slowly mouthed the words I'm sorry before turning away.

As Cameron made his way back to his car, he ran his hands through his hair. The scene in Taylor's backyard was another confirmation that the man was in the thick of the Book of Days' mystery, but prying that door open would take a crowbar the size of Paul Bunyan's ax. So be it.

But Cameron hoped the crowbar wouldn't break before the door opened.

After leaving Taylor's house, Cameron headed for the mountains and did a climb rated a 4.5. It wasn't technically difficult, just a good workout. The air was absolute crystal, something Seattle's skies still aspired to, but they didn't reach this level of purity.

As he gazed out over the trees below, he pulled out the stone Susan Hillman had given him and watched the sun bounce off its surface.

He turned it over slowly in a continual motion, studying the intricate pattern the red sparkles made. It was like a map. A treasure map. Yeah, right. Wouldn't that be nice? When he was a kid—eleven, maybe twelve—he'd made a treasure map and hidden it in his fort, twenty feet up in the maple tree in his backyard. He looked at Susan's stone again. A map to the Book of Days? If only it were that easy.

Maybe it wasn't a map; maybe it was a road sign. On impulse he snatched his cell phone out of his climbing pack.

"Hello?" said a low, booming voice.

"Hey, Scotty, it's Cameron."

"Who?"

"Cameron Vaux. In college we—"

Laughter. "I'm just messing with you, man. I'd know your voice even after four and a half years of silence, which, by the way, it's almost been."

"Sorry."

"Why?"

"I, uh . . ."

"Shut up, Cameron. My fingers can dial too. Hang on a second." The sound of Bono singing "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" in the background snapped off.

Cameron snorted out a laugh. The timing of the song would be much funnier if he wasn't the butt of the joke.

"Okay, tell me what you want."

He smiled. When it came to geology, few were better than Scotty. When it came to tact, no one was worse. He wouldn't be able to look up subtle in a dictionary for a thousand bucks and Cameron loved him for it.

"I need a favor, Scotty."

"Anything."

"I'm going to overnight you a rock. I need you to examine it fast, see what kind of stone it is, that kind of thing . . ."

"No problem. I'll get you the composition, age, where it's from—"

"I know where it's from. Three Peaks."

"What state?"

"Oregon."

"What're you doing there, Cam?"

"Looking for a book God wrote, that records the past and tells the future."

Scotty snorted. "That's how you're wasting your time these days? If I thought you were serious, I'd tell you how stupid you are."

"Thanks."

"Your timing is decent. I can do it tomorrow afternoon and give you the stats tomorrow night. Will that work?"

"Perfect. I owe you."

"If I added up all your IOUs, Vaux, I'd be traveling in Europe forever and you'd never be able to reach me."

Cameron hung up, watched the wind rustle the tops of the trees, and smiled. The pieces were appearing. Maybe he was losing his mind, but he wouldn't stop trying till this puzzle was locked into place.

CHAPTER 20

Ann slowed her pace slightly on the dirt road on Monday afternoon and glanced at the woods around her. Why had she let herself get so far from civilization? She wasn't worried about being alone in these woods. It was just . . . Okay, she was worried. She'd seen too many stories of women who disappeared in her exact situation.

Her pedometer said she'd come 4.7 miles. Time to head back to Three Peaks.

But the solitude of the rutted logging road and the pines sending out waves of perfume muted her fear and pulled her around one more corner, then one more, and one more.

Out here she could think. About the multiple reasons she'd come to Three Peaks—but mostly about the game she was playing with herself when it came to Cameron.

In her mind there was no game. The answer was clear. Stay away. God was her life. Cameron wasn't even sure God existed. Never the two shall meet. But her heart said game on.

Why not? Jessie had done it.

Yeah and Ann had seen what it did to her. Jessie prayed for Cameron daily, waiting for him to fall in love with Jesus, but he never did. And though she'd kept it from him, it broke her heart.

Ann picked up her pace, timing her strides so her feet landed on the shadows the trees cast on the dirt road.

She'd relaxed too much at the movie theater and let her feelings seep out of her heart, into her mannerisms and reactions. Did Cameron notice?

And what about him?

Sideways glances at her when he didn't think she saw. The look in his eyes last night when she turned to wave good-bye. On top of the mountain he looked at her the way he used to look at Jessie.

She slapped her hip hard. What was she thinking? In a few days he'd be back in Seattle, she'd be in Portland, and they would go back to pretending they didn't know each other.

It wouldn't go anywhere. It couldn't go anywhere. Not with his agnosticism—

Behind her an engine surged. She grabbed her iPod and put Josh Groban's crooning on hold and looked for cover. There! An opening a few yards ahead. She sprinted for the horseshoe-shaped clearing, scampered off the road, and squatted behind a large juniper tree.

Ann laughed at herself. Relax. Yes, the road seemed abandoned, but that didn't mean cars couldn't drive on it. But something inside her pinged danger and she obeyed the sensation. She peered toward the path, hoping nothing more than her eyes would show through the underbrush.

Ten seconds later a Ford Expedition bounced into view, pounding over the washboard road. Ann held her breath as the SUV passed her hiding spot. What was wrong with her? Cars were allowed to drive on dirt roads. The road seemed like it would be difficult to traverse by car and had been tough to find. But she was the one from out of town. The road might be frequently traveled by the people of Three Peaks. It probably was.

The sound of the Ford's engine faded.

Easing out from her hiding place, she breathed deep and looked up. Thank You, God. She didn't feel like having company out here.

Her mind returned to Cameron and what he—

The whine of the SUV accelerating pierced her thoughts. The Expedition was backing up. A second later it came into view; too fast for her to scurry back behind the juniper tree. A tinted window rolled down revealing the wide grin of Jason Judah.

He parked, eased out, and sauntered around the side of the Ford. Leaning against the passenger side door, he lit a cigar and took off his shades.

"You are a hard woman to track." He spread his arms. "But here I am. I can't deny that Nam gave me a few useful skills."

"What are you doing here?" Adrenaline pumped through her. This was not the scenario she wanted to be in with Jason. Menace oozed out of the man. She'd felt it the first time they'd met, and being miles from anywhere, from anyone, the feeling intensified.

During her years of working in television, she'd been in the center of hostile gangs in downtown Portland, been in white-water rafts where she'd come a razor's edge from death—but this man made those situations seem mild. The inner bell of intuition that screamed danger rang double-time.

"How are you, Ann?" Jason took two steps forward.

"You followed me. What do you want?"

"Tracked. Followed. I suppose it's the same thing." Two more steps.

Ann planted her hands on her hips. "What do you want?"

"Are you this abrupt with all your interviewees?" Jason tapped his cigar, too early for any ash to come off; it seemed to be a part of his act. "All I want is a little chat."

"Why not talk to me in town? Why here?"

"Fewer distractions."

Ann watched the last of the dust settle that had been kicked up by Jason's Expedition. She looked at his hands. No keys. There were twenty, maybe twenty-five feet between the SUV and him. She was fast, but she'd spent her energy on the five-mile run getting up here. She wouldn't be quick enough to make it around him and to the driver's side of the car before he got in the passenger door.

"I think you can help me."

"I doubt it."

"I knew it from the moment we met." Three steps forward. "We'd make a good team."

"I disagree."

"Why are you afraid of me?"

Afraid? No. Terrified. She'd seen a madness in his eyes when she'd teased him onstage during his town meeting. Out here it had ramped up to maximum intensity. "You're wasting your time."

"I don't think so." One more step. "I wonder how many people have taken the time to figure out you're the foster sister of Cameron's late wife."

She shuddered. He'd been researching her? She hugged herself as if she'd be shielded from his gaze. "So what."

"From what Google and Facebook tell me, the two of you were close. Not only foster sisters, but best friends. I believe it highly probable Jessie talked to you about the book. I think you know more than you're telling. Maybe even more than you've told Cameron."

Ann backed up and stumbled over a pine branch.

"Relax; I'm not your enemy. I'm not anyone's enemy."

"Fine. What do you want?" Ann repeated for the third time. Keep sounding confident; keep your eyes locked on his.

"I want you to tell me everything Jessie told you." Jason took a long drag on the cigar, blew out a perfect smoke ring, and watched it melt into the sky. "I've come to believe her and Cameron's father. The book is real."

"How do you know?"

The trees on both sides of the clearing hemmed her in. The cliff in back of her formed the third wall. And the fourth, a steadily advancing Jason lessoned her options with every one of his steps.

"I admit I'd never seriously considered there was a book in physical form till Cameron showed up with the story of his dad and wife. I mean, who are we kidding? A real book of God here on earth? Now mind you, I had hoped and prayed and dreamed of it, but did I truly believe it possible? No. But after Cameron and I talked, I did a little digging. And I've discovered something very interesting. Would you like to know what it is?"

Ann shrugged. "Sure."

"There are six other spots in the world with a similar legend to the Book of Days. The Middle East, South America, China, Scotland, Turkey, Egypt, and of course the seventh location is in the United States, right here in Oregon."

"How did you find this out?"

Jason took three more steps forward. "Every one of the legends talks about a book with recordings of days in it. They don't use that exact language, but that's the general description. And they're not describing an idea, but a physical book."

"A book that tells the future." Keep him talking. Find a way to get out of here.

"Yes. That has recorded every event of every man and woman's life. Those that have been, and those that are to come."

"So what? Multiple stories about a book that tells the future doesn't make it real. You can find stories of a massive flood in nearly every culture. It doesn't mean a man named Noah really floated above it all with a boat full of all the animals in the world for forty days."

"That's amusing. I know you're a Christian. Which means odds are you believe the Noah story."

"Fine. I believe the flood story." Ann glanced to her left then her right, as if she could find an escape route she missed earlier. "If it's in the Bible I believe it, but I'm not prone to fantastical meanderings and chasing way-out legends like this book nonsense."

"This is the story of the century, Ann. Pulitzer-prize material." Jason tapped his cigar again. This time a spot of ash floated down. "Consider what this would do for your career. You wouldn't be limited to doing little featurettes on thrill seekers around the Northwest. If we find an authentic book, you'll want to be the one who reveals it to the world."

Jason waited for Ann to respond. She didn't. Reveal it to the world? For what purpose? Fame? Notoriety? No thanks. If there was a genuine Book of Days, she'd let someone else announce it and she'd keep her sanity.

She'd watched too many people in television grab for the brass ring of stardom only to find out it was really a brass handcuff. One that dangled a person's self-worth over a fickle fan base that loved you one moment and despised you the next.

"Cameron has to be getting some useful information with all the people he's talked to, especially Taylor Stone. Has Cameron told you everything? Find out all he knows, we'll add to what I know, and let's dig this thing up. Even if it turns out to be nothing, what have you lost?"

Jason was right. If a Book of Days was found, even if it was written by the hand of man, it would be an intriguing story. Worst case, it would be comic relief to tell Drew and her other friends; best case it would be Raiders of the Lost Ark come to life.

"I'll think about it."

"Excellent. That's all I'm asking." Jason walked around the Expedition and opened the driver's side door. "Very, very good, Ann Banister." He paused before getting in. "Would you like a ride back to town?"

"No thanks."

"You're probably right." He tilted his head and eyed her slowly up and down. "You could use the workout."

Ann smashed her tongue against her teeth to stop from seething out something she'd instantly regret. Her heartbeat didn't slow till the dust from Jason's SUV settled on the road two minutes later. What was wrong with her? Relax. He hadn't threatened her.

She squatted and held her head between her legs. Yes, he most certainly had.

What had she gotten herself into?

CHAPTER 21

Cameron glanced at his watch late Tuesday morning as he sat in front of his laptop, studied climbing routes on www.smithrock.com, and waited for Scotty's call. A few more moments and he'd know if his hunch about the stone was right. Scotty prided himself on being on time—precisely on time, which meant the phone would ring in thirty more seconds.

It didn't.

After Scotty pressed in on being two minutes late, Cameron reached for his iPhone at the instant it lit up with Scotty's caller ID. "Hey."

"Sorry I'm late."

"Are you changing personalities?"

Scotty cleared his throat. "I'm not surprised easily." The line went silent.

"What has you in shock and awe?"

"Where did you say you got this rock?"

"Three Peaks, Oregon."

"Impossible."

"Why?"

"This rock only exists in six places in the world and central Oregon ain't one of the places."

"You're kidding." Then where did Susan Hillman get a hold of that stone? "Where are the places?"

"The Middle East, South America, China, Scotland, Turkey, and Egypt."

Cameron opened Word on his laptop and started taking notes. "Spread out all over the globe."

"Very spread." Cameron heard Scotty tapping a pen or pencil against his desk. "That's where it gets weird." Again the line went silent. Cameron watched five seconds tick by on his watch.

"This type of stone is somewhat the holy grail to geologists. When I say this type of rock exists in only a few places in the world, I don't mean there are big deposits of it. I mean in each of those places, there are two, maybe three pounds of this type of rock, and while it has no intrinsic value like gold or platinum, its rarity makes it highly desired among us professional rock hounds.

"Carbon dating says these rocks are only around five thousand years old, so where did they come from? What made them? Volcanoes? No one knows.

"And for the final chapter in Weird Rocks of the World, their basic properties are almost the same as diamonds. They look pretty ordinary, but guys like me would pay hundreds for a piece. Where did you say you got the stone?"

Cameron felt light-headed. The words Susan Hillman had said skittered through his mind. "A good choice, Cameron. A very, very good choice."

"I need to get that rock back, Scotty. As soon as you can."

"You wouldn't be able to get another one, would you?"

Cameron pulled out his brown leather notebook and started jotting down every detail of his conversation with Scotty. This was a revelation he couldn't afford to forget.

"Cameron?"

"Huh?"

"Get me another stone, okay?"

"Sure. Gotta go, Scotty."

He ended the call and punched up Susan's number. It was time to find out exactly what she knew.

Moments later Susan answered. "Hello?"

"Hi, it's Cameron. I have to talk to you about the rock you gave me."

"I wondered how long it would take you to figure it out."

From behind a cluster of western larch, Jason watched Taylor Stone apply his ax to a pile of pine stumps with considerable force and waited for the right moment to step into his line of vision. Stone hadn't lost much size since their football days; Jason had surrendered even less.

If it came to blows, both would have a shot at taking the title. Taylor a mite quicker, Jason certainly holding the size advantage. But it wouldn't come to blows between two middle aged men. Ridiculous.

This was his time. He and his followers held their destiny in their hands. The universe had spoken through Cameron—telling them the book was real—and Jason would not be stopped from responding with a shout that would reverberate through the ages.

All he needed were a few answers.

Cameron would provide none. He would have joined Jason by now if he was going to. Banister? She might be wavering, but she considered the book a fairy tale. Plus she feared him. Which he enjoyed, but she would stay away because of it.

He needed to break Stone, chip his resolve into grains of sand he could sift through his fingers. Taylor knew hidden things about the book. Jason was sure of it.

"Stone!" He stepped into view, his hands on his hips.

Taylor squinted into the setting sun. "Well, Jason. What a pleasant surprise."

"It's been quite a while, hasn't it, Taylor? Just the two of us chatting about life, with no one else around to distract us from meaningful conversation."

Taylor stared at Jason, his face like granite, the ax held stiff in his dark-brown leather gloved hands.

He strolled across Taylor's lawn. "It's been interesting to have some new blood focused on the book, this time searching for a real one, wouldn't you agree?" Jason folded his arms, smiling. "There is so much out there for us. Such power that is drawing us. It is time we looked into those pages of power and let people control their own destiny."

Taylor slapped the ax handle against his palm. "I suppose at some point you'll tell me why you're here, but why don't you stop the pompous guru bit since none of your flock is around to hear you." He narrowed his eyes.

Jason grinned and sat on one of the stumps dotting the backyard, clasping his hands together. "To the point as always."

"Why the obsession with the idea of finding a physical book, Jason? You know it's a myth."

"Do I really need to give an answer to you of all people?"

"Humor me."

Jason rubbed his hands together as he stood and strode over to Taylor, stopping inches from Taylor's face. "You know that in the right hands this book could do great things for the world, old friend. Things never before conceived by the mind of man."

"Your hands."

"Yes, mine." Jason circled Taylor like a boxer. "I would bring healing to so many and prevent so much future pain."

"You would bring sorrow. Knowing the future isn't for us to obtain. With our finite view, we would use the knowledge the book contains to twist things into a tapestry of knots that could never be untangled."

"Freudian slip?" Jason pursed his lips. "'The book contains?'"

"It was a figure of speech to point out your—"

"I think not." Jason put his hands behind his back and tilted his head back, his eyes staying focused on Taylor. "Come now, old chum. Talk to me."

"Even if there was a book, you'd set yourself up as the gatekeeper, the only one who would know its location."

"It's a role someone has to fill. To keep away the crazies. But I would share what I learned with all."

"Leave it alone." Taylor raised his ax to his shoulder. "There's nothing to tell."

"Have you told Cameron Vaux what you know?"

Taylor's only response was a deep breath.

"I believe you've known exactly where the book is ever since we were kids and could lead me to it right now if you wanted to. I believe you found the book years ago and used it over and over again as we grew up. To be the football star, the basketball star. Class President, mayor of Three Peaks. The editor in chief of The Post where you could manipulate the lives around you and make yourself the most golden boy in the history of this town. You had the Midas glove on when you touched anything. Because you always knew what was coming next and you changed it to fit your dreams.

"And I believe the book—and you—were intimately involved in a certain mysterious death thirty-three years ago that no one talks about anymore. When I find this book, I will systematically bury you, golden-boy."

Stone said nothing, but the pallor of his face told Jason he'd hit a nerve.

Taylor smacked the ax handle into his palm. Then again. And again. And again. "Time for you to leave, Jason."

Jason glanced at the ax before riveting his eyes on Taylor. "Are you threatening me?"

"Without question."

As Jason strode away, the sound of splitting wood seemed to grow faster and louder. Yes, he'd definitely hit a mother-lode nerve. He would track Taylor twenty-five hours a day. Along with Cameron, and Ann just to be thorough.

Cameron flopped back on his bed at the Best Western early Tuesday afternoon. Two hours until he saw Susan. Enough time for a nap. He could use it with how poorly he'd been sleeping. He stared at the small water stain on the wall next to the bed that resembled the undulating curves of the Columbia River, closed his eyes, and imagined himself floating down a river with nothing on his mind. Peace like a river, Jessie used to sing a song about that.

Just a few minutes rest couldn't hurt.

The vibration of his cell phone in his pocket snapped him back from the edge of sleep. He blinked, sat up, and looked at caller ID. Brandon.

He should take it. This was his partner's third call. The first one he'd forgotten about till he looked at his phone's recent-calls list. The second one he hadn't listened to yet.

"Hey, Brandon."

"Why haven't you called me back?"

"Sorry, I've been busy down here."

"Don't sweat it. I've got great news, bud."

"Yeah?"

"More than great. We've been invited to submit to Thrill Junkie's Grand Canyon wild-water adventure. And they're doing a celebrity version. We get to bid on the job, so they're asking us to put together a killer demo reel on why we should get to film the Stars on the River Reality Trip. Celebs on the river with you and me. If we get on that river, it will lead all the way to Hollywood."

"Are you serious?" Cameron sat up.

"That's the good news."

"I don't need the bad."

"Yin and yang. Gotta take 'em both."

"The bad?"

"They need the bid a week from this Friday."

In ten days? "Wow. They want it that quick?" Cameron clenched his teeth. Wrapping up his search in five days wasn't going to happen. But this is the kind of job that could put their company on rocket sleds. "I might need more time down here."

"Sorry, dude, no more time to spare. This gig could be huge. Gigantor huge."

"I know, we gotta do it. But part of me is thinking this Book of Days thing could be genuine. I'm not kidding. Can you imagine knowing your future?"

"What are you talking about?"

Whoops. He'd forgotten he hadn't told Brandon anything about his dad, Jessie, and the book. "Sorry, I thought I'd told you." Cameron rapped his forehead with his fingers. "Look, when I get back, I'll do my Paul Harvey impersonation and tell you the rest of the story."

"Who?"

"Paul Harvey, he was a radio legend. Don't tell me you don't know who he is."

"No clue. You're the ex-broadcaster, not me."

"Just a little bit longer."

"Soon, Cam."

"Don't worry."

"I am worr—"

"I'll be back the first instant I can." Great. Gig of a lifetime and he was searching for some fantasy book.

Susan had better be willing to give him some rock-hard answers.

CHAPTER 22

Two hours later Cameron glanced at his watch, swore, and mashed his gas pedal. Three thirty-five. He should have been at Susan's five minutes ago. She probably wouldn't care, but he hated being late. Probably because it irritated him so much when people made him wait.

Cameron reached over to flick on the radio, but before he could, his cell phone buzzed. He picked it up and looked at the number. Ann. "Hey, how are you?"

"Great, how was your movie?"

"Fine. Yours?"

"Excellent." She paused. "Maybe next time we'll choose the same one."

There it was again. Friendly Ann was still onstage. Why? "Sounds good." What else could he say? Why are you suddenly being Cinderella to me after seven years of playing the Ice Queen?

"Guess who met a stalker this morning."

He clutched his steering wheel as an image of the figure from the park flashed through his head. "Are you okay?"

"Fine."

"Was it Jason?"

"You win."

"Where?"

"In the mountains on an old dirt road. I went for a run and he followed me there. He's a whacko, Cameron."

Traffic in front of him stopped and as his Mini Cooper slowed to a halt, Cameron looked to his right. Climb-It Sports. A poster in the window showed a climber dangling from an overhang by his fingertips. There was no rope. The caption on the poster said, Leave It All Behind.

He thought of his moment on the mountain before he'd seen Ann in silhouette and how close he'd come to leaving it all behind. The thought still niggled at him, tempted him. He was making progress on finding the book, but to what end? Even if he got to the finish line, he might not have enough of a mind left to know if he'd won the race. His dad didn't say the book would cure him, only that it would be okay. What did that mean? Who would really miss him? Brandon, of course. And . . .

"Cameron?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Did you hear what I said?"

"No, sorry."

"After making me feel like I wanted to take three showers in a row, Jason told me something interesting."

"Talk to me." Cameron glanced at the chipped street sign a half a block ahead as the light turned green and traffic lurched forward into a lazy curve in the road. River Street. That was his turn to get to Susan's house.

"Did you know according to Jason, there are six spots in the world with a legend about a book that tells the future?"

Cameron gripped his steering wheel between his legs as he pulled a pen out of his back pocket and leaned over to the passenger seat and grabbed a piece of paper out of his briefcase. A second later the wheel slipped and his car headed into oncoming traffic. Two horns blared at him.

As he yanked the wheel to bring his car back into his lane, he lost his grip on his cell phone and it smacked against the gear shift before settling to the carpet at Cameron's feet.

He fished it off the floor, breathing in rapid little puffs. Hello, Mr. Death. How are you today? I was just thinking about coming to visit you. "Ann, you still there?"

"Are you all right?"

"Other than coming within inches of meeting another Three Peaker head-on, I'm dandy."

"Those horns were for you?"

"Yep. I was driving with my legs and the wheel slipped. Then I dropped my phone."

"Driving with your . . . You're insane. Don't you use a Bluetooth?"

Heat burned his cheeks. "When I remember to bring it with me."

"You're breaking the law."

"Sorry."

"Buy another one for your car. I don't want anything—"

No. He couldn't let her say she didn't want anything happening to him. He didn't need those emotions stirred up. "Can we get back on track?"

"Sure."

"I'll bet the places with the legend are the Middle East, South America, China, Scotland, Turkey, and Egypt."

"How did you know that?"

"Geology." Cameron pulled over to the side of the road and yanked out his notebook. "There's a seventh location, Ann."

"I know."

"And that seventh location is—"

In unison they said, "—Three Peaks, Oregon."

"Where's your interest meter pegging now?" Cameron asked.

"On a scale of one to ten, probably a twelve. This is getting entertaining."

"I'm headed to talk to Susan Hillman about a rock she gave me, then grab a bite and do some serious Google searches on those spots. Wanna meet me at the Ski Inn restaurant—?"

"Absolutely, say around seven?"

"You're perfect."

"I am?"

Cameron heard a smile in her voice.

Wow, where did that foray in the land of Freud come from? "What I meant is, that time is perfect."

"Hello, Cameron, have you prepared yourself to pepper me with all kinds of questions?" Susan looked up for a moment, then continued watering the baskets of rock penstemon flowers hanging in baskets above the four corners of her massive cedar porch.

"Maybe." He strolled up her steps and stopped at the top. "You weren't surprised to hear from me."

"No, I wasn't." She turned from her watering and tapped her head. "You're a smart young man. But I will admit I was surprised to hear from you as quickly as I did."

"You thought it would take me longer to discover the significance of the rock I chose?"

Susan nodded and set down her watering can. "I could suggest you keep delving deeper into the mystery of the stone, but you've already found out what you needed to discover in that arena. And I suppose I should confirm that Taylor Stone is one of the more significant keys to your quest. But again, you've figured that out by now."

Susan clapped her hands together. "So since you're already doing all the right things, I'm not sure what help I can be, but I'm certainly willing to try."

Two white wicker chairs sat at forty-five-degree angles to each other and Susan motioned for Cameron to sit. After asking him to hold his first question, she went into the house and returned a few minutes later with two Arnold Palmers.

"Here's how you can help immensely," he said after taking a sip of the iced tea-lemonade mixture. "While I'm enjoying my scavenger hunt, picking up one clue here, another there, I would not mind in the least if you simply told me the exact location of where the book sits." He cocked his head.

"Would you mind if we played a little game together?"

Cameron shrugged.

"The rules are simple. You ask me a question, I answer as honestly as I can. I ask you a question and you extend the same courtesy toward me."

"All right."

"You start." Susan brushed a strand of brown hair off her face.

"You just implied that the stone you gave me is connected to the Book of Days. Is it?"

"Of course."

"How?"

Susan shook her head and smiled. "My turn. What do you hope to gain by finding this book?"

Life. He wanted life instead of the agony of losing Jessie. He wanted answers, meaning, purpose. He wanted there to be a reason his dad left this world too soon. He wanted peace to replace his frustration . . . He wanted to relive the days and years Jessie and he had shared together . . . He wanted his mind to be restored—all the emotions converged into one.

"I want hope."

Susan's eyes misted over as she nodded. "What do you hope for?"

"Unh-uh." He wagged his finger. "My turn again."

Susan bowed her head slightly and opened her palms.

"Is the book real, or just some New Age dream, or some pseudo-scientific concoction like the Oregon Vortex?"

"I suppose many things are possible that we're tempted to say aren't." Susan held his gaze for a few seconds before looking down. "But I do believe there is a book in heaven—God's book—in which He has recorded each man and woman's life."

"What do you mean—?" Cameron cut himself off. "It's your turn."

"Go on. Ask. The question game is a silly one, only fun for the first few minutes, don't you think?"

"Jason said the Book of Days exists on a spiritual plane that he claims he's tapped into. Is that what you mean?"

"No."

A quiet confidence played in Susan's eyes.

"You think there is a God, and you think that He records every moment of every life? Even future events?"

She didn't hesitate. "Without question."

"You're saying you know it absolutely to be true?"

"People who claim to know there is a God and those who claim to know there isn't a God are more similar than either side would like to admit. I believe, yes, but do I know? For certain?" Susan shook her head, a gentle smile on her face. "No one can with 100-percent certainty, Cameron. Not till our days on earth end. So while I will be surprised if that book isn't in heaven, I won't know definitively till I get there."

A hummingbird hovered near Susan's feeder full of sugar water, flitting back and forth as if wondering if Cameron could be trusted. Finally it began to drink, but only for a few moments before streaking away again.

"That bird is the only species that can stay in one spot as it flies. The speed with which it moves its wings is mind boggling, up to ninety times per second. Some would say that ability came after millions of years of adaptation; others would unequivocally state the hummingbird is proof of intelligent design."

Cameron shifted and crossed his legs. "Which is it?"

"Man has longed to touch the infinite—or explain Him away—ever since Adam and Eve left the garden. In the end, as I suggested earlier, it comes down to what you choose to believe."

"Susan . . ." Cameron paused. The look on her face was not one of pity, but of longing. For what he couldn't tell. But it wasn't for herself. It was for him. "Thank you, once again, for your time and your wisdom."

She leaned forward and took both his hands in hers. "Let me say, for me, the critical question is not whether God's Book of Days is here on earth or in heaven, but if it does exist, what kind of lives are we recording in it?"

As he stood and contemplated Susan's musings, the hummingbird returned, not hesitating to drink more of the nectar, even though Cameron had leaned closer to the feeder.

"I have always celebrated men and women with passion, and I see you have passion." Susan smiled and her head fell back. "The path life takes us down isn't always where we would choose to go, but in the end, it is possible to wind up where we wanted to be anyway."

He wanted his brain back. Was that possible?

CHAPTER 23

He set the seven bullets on the mantel above his fireplace three inches apart and watched the light from his candles dance on their copper tips. Seven was the number of perfection. But he wouldn't need that many.

One for Cameron.

One for Stone.

Banister? Maybe. He grinned and set her picture next to ones of Taylor and Cameron already on the mantel. Probably.

He slid his knife out of its sheath and licked the blade. Nothing like the taste of steel. Unless it had a bit of flavoring. He smiled again. Maybe he'd do it that way. Time would enlighten as to the best method.

After placing the knife to the right of the bullets, he settled onto his leather couch, closed his eyes, and opened himself to the universe.

Soon, it told him, and he believed.

Cameron sat waiting for Ann in the Ski Inn, soaking in the smell of fried onions and sautéed mushrooms, thinking about Susan's words. What kind of life was he recording?

His dad's trips to Africa, the free medical treatment he gave to thousands—definitely worth recording. And the joy his father brought to people with his universal acceptance and uninhibited laughter? Write it down.

Jessie's volunteering downtown at the Union Gospel Mission, taking those kids from the cancer center up flying? Leading that Bible study for those girls? Pen and paper time.

Following God gave them purpose.

But Cameron's life? Sure he coached the kids in Little League and gave extra attention to the boys who didn't have a dad at home, but there wasn't much else.

He plopped his briefcase in front of his silverware and let his head slump forward behind it. It reminded him of hiding behind snow forts as a kid. Why couldn't the days be that simple again, his quest nothing more complex than smacking another kid in the head with a snowball?

Cameron took a drink of his ice water and smacked the glass back down loud enough to get the couple three tables down to look his direction. What hard evidence did he have after talking to Susan? He yanked his notepad out of his briefcase. Nothing.

Describing his emotional state as frustrated was an understatement. He wanted to rip the town apart and force them to give him an answer. Was he the Fool on the Hill? Was he crashing through the underbrush, chasing smoke, trying to find a fire that didn't exist?

Internally he swore at Susan, Taylor, Jason, and everyone else he could think of. Why wouldn't anyone give him a straight answer?

He was finding clues but too few and not fast enough. One led him to another leading to another like a stack of Russian babushka dolls, except this stack never seemed to end.

Cameron sat up and rubbed his ears with the palms of his hands, then his eyes. As his vision cleared, he focused on the yellow pad in front of him. Five pages of notes, plus a reconstruction of the ones that were stolen. Sometimes he could remember every line; sometimes he couldn't remember a quarter of what he'd written down. He circled a few lines in red ink, then closed his eyes and let his head fall back against his chair.

Was the memory loss accelerating? He refused to let himself think about it.

He glanced at his watch—6:50—then closed his eyes. Ann should be here in ten.

"You look tired."

Cameron jumped and opened his eyes. Taylor Stone stood in front of him, arms folded, smile on his face. He had his signature Oregon Ducks hat on, this one crisper than the one he'd worn at the creek. Probably even had one with a little bow tie on it for formal events.

He had to snap out of his descent into desolation. He wouldn't get much pity from Stone, and people didn't reveal their secrets to Eeyore. Be charming outside, even though his insides felt like grapes in a winemaker's vat during crushing season.

"Don't you know as a self-respecting Husky I should rip that thing off your head?"

Taylor opened his eyes wide. "Huskies respect themselves? I learn something new every—"

"Do all Ducks have a proclivity for talking in cliché's? Or is it just you?"

"'Proclivity.' Is that really the way video producers talk in Seattle, or are you trying to impress me?"

He offered his hand and Taylor grasped it in a warm handshake.

"Good to see you. Is this a regular hangout for you?" Cameron said.

"No. It's just where I knew I'd find you."

"And how would you know that?" Cameron leaned back, twirled his pen, and gazed up at Taylor's knowing smile.

"I didn't." Taylor chuckled. "I actually had no clue. This is the fourth place I looked."

"Would you like to sit down and tell me where I can find the Book of Days? Or can I simply abduct you at gunpoint and force you to tell me what you know about it?"

Taylor stared at Cameron.

"At some point you're going to trust me." Cameron took a long look at Taylor and smiled. "I know it won't be this moment, but think about it."

Taylor sucked in a quick breath. "You and I need to go for a drive, my Husky friend."

"Sorry, I can't. I'm meeting someone here in a few minutes."

"Your choice."

Cameron clicked his teeth together. Ann would understand. "Let me make a quick phone call."

"I'll be outside. If you're not standing beside me in two minutes, I'll assume you don't want to talk."

"I'll be there."

Finally. Taylor Stone was going to grab a can opener and let the beans spill.

As Cameron walked out, he spied Kirk Gillum and a woman sitting at the bar.

"How's your search going, Mr. Vaux?"

"Not a lot of progress, but I'm still looking."

"Good for you." Kirk took a drink of what looked like scotch and soda. "Listen. I'm sorry about the day we met if I was a little rude. I've been burned, you understand."

"No problem."

"I hope the book fairy tale comes true for you, and you find what you're looking for."

Cameron frowned. "I thought you were one of Jason's followers."

"I am, and the idea of the book is real. But the book isn't real. Do you understand?"

"Yeah." But he didn't understand. If Jason was pushing the book as genuine to his disciples, why wouldn't Kirk support that belief? And why did he care what Cameron believed?

Kirk turned back to the bar. "Take care, Mr. Vaux."

The inside of Taylor's Toyota Tundra matched the outside. Spotless. It didn't have that new car smell but looked like it should.

Neither man spoke as they pulled into traffic and headed for the east side of town. As the Three Peaks High School football field came into view, Taylor broke the silence. "I bled and danced on that field. Three golden years. Even had a few scouts send me letters, small college only, nothing impressive, but I did love the game."

"I understand you were pretty decent at basketball too."

"I see you've been conversing with Arnold Peasley."

Cameron smiled and nodded.

"That there?" Taylor pointed to an old mechanics shop with a 1912 Model T Ford sitting out front. "That's where Mr. Gowner taught me to tweak on cars till they purred like well-fed tabby cats.

"Look at those freestone peach trees over to your left. Tending to them was my first summer job. Thirteen years old and they told me to plant them in perfect rows. From smooth tender shoots to hardened, twisted peach trees in forty-five short years." Taylor sighed.

"Kind of like you, huh?"

Taylor jammed his forefinger at Cameron. "Watch it, punk."

"I've heard it said confessing to a stranger is often easier than those closest to you."

"For some. Am I about to be glad or regretful that I don't know you?"

Cameron propped his elbow on the open window and laughed.

"What? You think if you confess something to me, I'll be obligated to reveal one of the dark secrets you imagine I carry?" Taylor said.

"Something like that."

"First, I don't have any secrets, dark or otherwise. Second, I'm not in the habit of confessing to anyone. Nice try."

Cameron watched the river bordering the highway churn and pummel its rocky bank. "After my wife Jessie died, I did my job every day, never missed work, but I was drunk every minute for six months."

Taylor glanced at him. "Did you wind up taking a ride on the alcohol-addiction wagon?"

"No, I suppose I just wasn't made that way. I never had to have it, but I sure wanted it. If I'd gone by the AA definition, I was a full-blown member of the drinking consignetti. But when I stopped, I quit cold turkey, no temptation to overindulge again."

"What made you hit the brakes?"

"Almost making my car into a toaster oven with me inside. And I knew it would break Jessie's heart to see me that way. My dad's too. I vowed to them I'd never drink again."

"Oh, really? You think they see you from the great beyond?"

"I'm an agnostic, not an atheist." Cameron put on his sunglasses. "So I don't know what's out there. Sometimes I think I feel her, feel my dad. Spirit world, heaven, maybe they're there right here now. I wish I knew for sure."

"Me too."

Cameron cocked his head. "I thought you were a God person."

"I am. That doesn't mean doubts don't sometimes worm their way into my mind." Taylor pulled into a deserted park on the outskirts of town. The sun was starting to set behind thin clouds as they got out of Taylor's truck and walked across the parking lot.

"So what's your current drug of choice, Cameron?"

"Rock climbing."

They trudged along a path that wound up the side of a hill, putting them two-hundred feet higher within fifteen minutes. After they both caught their breath, Taylor pointed out the three peaks the town was named for. The mountains—snow covered even in the heart of summer—were framed by two ponderosa pines that stood thirty feet in front of them. Postcard perfect.

"Do me a favor and stand right . . . here." Taylor stood behind Cameron holding his shoulders and moved him back a few feet to the right. "Take a close look now."

Cameron stared at the peaks. Taylor had brought him here for a reason, but Cameron doubted if the man would tell him why. Like a rabbit that bolts at the slightest movement, he sensed the man would clam up the moment he pushed him.

He'd seen the peaks hundreds of times since coming to town: on postcards, placemats, and around every corner of Three Peaks. But something here was different. The angle? The time of day? He couldn't tell. It reminded him of something and made him wish for his notebook.

There. That was the difference. The angle of the sun on the mountains formed a shadow that mimicked an arrowhead perfectly. And the arrowhead shadow pointed to a spot that looked like a tunnel burrowing into the mountain.

A moment later the sun sank lower in the sky and the illusion vanished.

"Let's go." Taylor turned back the way they'd come.

"What did you just show me?"

"Nothing." Taylor rubbed the back of his neck. "What's the toughest part about your wife's death?"

"You're not going to tell me why you stood me in front of the mountains?"

"No." Taylor scuffed along the dirt path, kicking at pinecones. "Sorry, Cameron."

Cameron stuffed his hands in his coat pocket. Was Stone part of the plan to drive him out of his mind? "The toughest part? The regrets. Stuff you wish you could take back, wish you'd done or said. The things you wish you could forgive yourself for."

"There are some things you should never forgive yourself for. With some things"—Taylor bent down and picked up a rock—"it simply is not possible."

"Really?"

Taylor hurled his rock at a tree twenty yards below them. It smacked into the pine dead center, the sound reverberating through the park. "Really."

The sun had given itself over to twilight by the time they reached Taylor's truck. Neither spoke till they were halfway back to the Ski Inn.

"I like you, Cameron. You're strong. You've lived through pain and sorrow. Now stay strong. And for your own sanity, get out of Three Peaks now. And until you leave, stay away from Jason."

"What's the history between you two?"

"None of your business."

Taylor didn't speak again till Cameron stepped out of the older man's truck and ambled toward his MINI Cooper.

"Cameron!"

He turned to look at Taylor who leaned out his window.

"I'm serious. I'm only looking out for you." Taylor pointed his forefinger at him. "Stay away from Jason, for your own good. Got it?"

Cameron didn't answer, but on the other hand, Taylor didn't wait for a response. He peeled out of the parking lot and didn't look back.

CHAPTER 24

On Wednesday morning Cameron stood at the bottom of the library stairs and peered at Ann over the top of his triple-shot latte, trying to stop the butterflies from playing rugby in his stomach.

"You coming up?" she called down to him.

"Eventually. I need another sip of wake-up juice first." He took another drink of his coffee and climbed the stairs.

Her auburn hair was pulled back, and it didn't look like she was wearing makeup. It should have made her less attractive, not more. Why couldn't she be ugly?

When he reached the top of the stairs, he toasted her with his coffee and made a choice. Today he wouldn't beat himself up for his growing attraction toward Ann. He'd stay in the moment. No projecting what might happen in the future. They were feelings, nothing more.

He walked over and opened the library door for her. They settled at the back of the library at a large polished table that looked like it was constructed from old barn siding.

"This kind of table would be cool to have in my house," Cameron said.

"I have something just like it in mine."

"Really?"

Ann nodded.

Interesting. The same taste in furniture too.

She scooted her chair closer to the table. "Did you get anywhere looking into those rock spots?"

Cameron grimaced and clacked his teeth together. "Nothing. Yes, those six places around the world have this type of rock, but I couldn't find any mention of a legend similar to the Book of Days. I don't know where Jason snagged his information, but it doesn't show up anywhere on the Internet or in any history book in this library."

"So let's—"

"Let's not. I need to take a break from thinking about the book, and I promised I'd help you look into your family's past."

"Really?" Ann's face brightened.

As she spread out her notes on the table, Cameron said, "Why don't you give me a quick recap of what you know for sure and what you suspect."

"I don't know much for certain. I don't even know my mom's maiden name."

"You never asked her?"

"I was a kid; it wasn't the most pressing question on my mind, and I don't ever remember her talking about her history except one time when I overheard her say, 'When I lived in Oregon.'"

"So how can you know Three Peaks is the part of Oregon where she lived?"

"Because of this."

Ann pulled out a photo that showed a girl—eleven, maybe twelve years old—who had just let go of a tire swing out over a river. Her long arms and legs were splayed in spread-eagle fashion, lit like gold by a late afternoon sun. Her features were obscured by her thick reddish blonde hair, but you could tell she was smiling.

A boy and another girl stood on the bank watching her, one pointing at her as she flew through air. But they were bathed in shadows, the light too dim to make out their features.

"Your mom?"

"Yes." Ann turned the picture over. "Look."

In blue ink was scrawled, Jennifer flies! July 22, 1963.

"Where'd you get the picture?"

"It's the only photo I have of her. I barely remember what she looked like as an adult." Ann tossed the photo onto the table. "Not that I'll ever care."

"What you do you mean you won't ever—?"

"Are you kidding?" Ann stared at him as she squinted and gave little shakes of her head. "She was drunk almost every night, and on the nights she wasn't, she was 'riding the horse.'"

"The horse?"

"Heroin."

Cameron nodded. "Is that what she ODd on?"

Ann rocked back in her chair, arms folded. "Yep. All of a sudden I was hearing about lots of things I'd never heard of before. It was quite an education for an eleven-year-old kid."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too."

Cameron took her hand. "Really, I'm sorry."

Ann flushed and pulled her hand away. "Thanks, but it's eons in the past."

"So you've forgiven her?"

Ann shifted in her chair.

"You need to forgive her."

She gazed out the window, then eventually looked at him. "I know."

"Remember what Jessie always used to say about bitterness?"

"It's like cutting yourself and thinking the other person will bleed to death."

"Something like that." Jessie didn't just say it. She lived it, always forgiving people who didn't deserve it. And she'd taught Cameron you couldn't be free without forgiving people, including yourself.

Ann steepled her hands and rubbed her forehead with her forefingers. "Do you mind if we focus on my history?"

"No problem." Cameron picked up the photo of Ann's mom. "So how does this prove—?"

"I've memorized every part of this picture, every shadow, every ripple on that river, the contours of the bank, the mountains in the background . . . I'd recognize this spot no matter if it was winter, summer, spring, or fall. And I've used Google Earth to look at every image of every river in all of Oregon."

A second later it struck Cameron like thunder. It was close to the spot on the river where he'd first met Taylor Stone. "Oh, wow, that's Whychus Creek."

Ann nodded. "I've shown this picture to a good chunk of the people in town. No one recognizes my mom, or if they do, they're not admitting it."

"How would someone recognize your mom when you can't see her face?"

"I know it's a long shot, but three other people were there the day the picture was taken. Don't you think one of them would remember it?"

"I only see two others on the bank."

"Someone else had to take the picture."

He stared at the photo. Would anyone remember a tire-swing adventure from over forty years ago? Maybe. Maybe not. "So what's my mission, should I choose to accept it?"

"Help me find old school photos, someone who recognizes my mom in this picture, someone who will admit it, find the other kids in the shot . . . There has to be something or someone who can tell us about this picture."

"I'm on it."

Ann stood. "I'm going to grab a stack of old newspapers from the early sixties. The local swimming hole might be profiled in a small-town paper and that's the kind of shot they'd put next to the story."

She sauntered off and Cameron watched her go. Her mom's overdose wasn't eons ago. For Ann it was seconds ago. She needed to let it go.

"Finding everything you need?"

Cameron's head whipped around to the source of the voice. Susan Hillman stood to his left. She worked here? She must have told him. Why couldn't he remember? Rhetorical question. Think!

"I forgot you worked . . ."

"You forgot I work here? I never told you, so you're forgiven."

"You didn't tell . . . ? I mean . . . right, I remember that you didn't."

"Are you okay, Cameron?"

"Great. And you?"

Susan just smiled. "How goes the quest?"

"Actually I'm not here for me; I'm here for a . . . friend, who is doing some research."

"Is your friend five-seven, auburn hair, leaning toward red, nice figure, and piercing green eyes?"

He laughed. "Possibly."

"She's a pretty gal. Seems sharp enough too. And from what I've seen, kind as well."

"Wait till you get to know her."

Susan swatted Cameron on the shoulder and chuckled. "Can I point you in a helpful direction?"

"If you're offering, yeah, you can. Take a look at this."

Susan sat in a chair next to him and he slid the photo of Ann's mom in front of her. "Do you know who this girl is?"

Susan's face flushed and she pressed her lips together. After a few more seconds, she stood. "I'm so sorry, Cameron, but I can't talk to you about this photo."

"What?" He squinted at her. "Are you joking?"

Susan licked her lips and glanced around the library. "I don't think it would be right for me—"

"Why can't you tell me about this picture?"

"I can't."

Cameron rapped the edge of the table with his palm. "It's important!"

"Out of respect for . . . an old friend, please don't ask me about it again." She walked off, her soft-heeled shoes making muted clicks on the floor.

He ground his fingers into the top of his skull and smacked the table again.

A few minutes later Ann returned without any papers in hand. "Guess what?" She slid into her chair next to Cameron and sat sideways in it, her legs crossed. "The microfiche of the Three Peaks Post from May of 1963 to September of 1963 seems to have vanished."

Cameron didn't answer.

"What's wrong?"

"I want to strangle somebody."

"What happened?"

"Susan Hillman knows the people in your picture, but she won't talk about it."

Ann's face went slack. "She won't? What? I mean, she does?"

"Without question."

"Why won't she talk?"

He rubbed his temples. "No clue. Once again we bump into the Three Peaks' Wall of Secrets." Cameron leaned back. "Susan won't talk. Taylor won't talk. Jason is a psycho. And I'm losing my mind. Literally."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Slip some truth serum into the town water supply."

"Seriously."

He had to hold it together. Going crazy wouldn't get him to the book or help them figure out Ann's history, and something told him the two were connected somehow. "Someone removed the microfiche from the summer of '63 because of that picture. So all we have to do is get a hold of hard copies of the paper from that time period."

"Taylor Stone ran that paper for eighteen years. He might have copies," Ann said.

"He would've been only eleven or twelve when that picture was taken."

Ann slapped her hands on the table and leaned in. "Let's go to the paper."

"Somehow I think they'd be missing those issues." Cameron drummed his fingers on the library table. He blew out a laugh. Of course! He knew exactly who to talk to. Unbelievable. Maybe his memory was returning.

It was time to pay another visit to Arnold Peasley and his newspaper museum.

CHAPTER 25

After saying good-bye to Ann, Cameron sat in his car determined to find something to take his mind off Jessie, his memory loss, the book, Ann—everything. Even if it wasn't good for him. Yes, he and Ann were making progress on her history—Peasley had agreed to see him Friday afternoon—but he was still buried in six feet of Three Peaks dust in his search for the Book of Days.

The Peak Me Up Bar & Grill flashed into his mind. The sting of Jack Daniels and Wild Turkey had led him down a path of emptiness for six months till he'd broken its hold, but when there was little to live for, the city of Empty wasn't a bad destination. A few drinks couldn't hurt.

He pushed open the maple-colored bar door and ignored the voice inside screaming to walk away. Maybe it was Jessie's voice. Maybe his dad's. Maybe his own. It didn't matter. He was going to get plastered, kiss the world good-bye for two or six hours, and love every second of it. Or at least give it an Olympic effort.

The bar was empty except for two fortysomethings who racked balls on a faded green pool table and the bartender who stared at a television that wasn't turned on.

Cameron sat at the bar on a maroon stool with silver legs that looked like it had been minted yesterday. No balls dropped on the break, so the second man stepped up and tried to sink the six ball in the right corner pocket. He sank the eight ball instead.

The perfect commentary on Cameron's life.

"You're Cameron Vaux." The bartender said it as if he were required, no emotion behind the greeting.

"Yeah, and you're the bartender."

The bartender nodded, as if slightly perturbed.

"Sorry, I'm probably not happy enough for happy hour right now."

"What can I get you?"

"Mr. Jack. Double shot."

Thirty seconds later the drink sat next to him, its mellow whisky smell tempting him. But really, there was no temptation. The battle was over. Daniels had won.

He slid his fingers around the shot glass and watched the liquid bounce against the sides like a miniature pond in the wind.

Just a little liquid to set him free.

Cameron carried the drink over to a booth in the darkest part of the bar and stared at it. It was a good choice. As long as he was forgetting things, he might as well forget the futility of his life for a while. He ignored the voice still yakking away in his head and lifted the drink to his mouth.

"Nothing compliments a double shot of Jackie D better than a double-decker mushroom and Swiss burger over at The Sail & Compass."

Cameron whirled to find the source of the familiar voice.

Taylor Stone stood to the left of the front door, next to the electronic dart board, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other as he leaned back against the wall, a little knowing smile on his face.

"Mr. Stone. Good to see you."

Taylor sauntered over to the bar and sat next to him. "I suppose I could go through all the 'you don't want to do this, and are you sure this is the best choice right now speech,' but you're too smart for that to work. So let me just bluntly say you know where this road leads, so before you toss that double shot down your throat, why don't we get some food in your stomach?"

He stared at Taylor, then at the glass. Taylor Stone, his rescuer. Irony rears up to take a bow. Taylor Stone, the thorn in his flesh. Taylor Stone, the man with hidden answers about the Book of Days. Taylor Stone, the man with his own demons.

"Will you talk about the book?"

Taylor pushed himself up from the barstool and folded his arms again. "You coming?"

Why not? Cameron took another look at the shot glass. He threw down a twenty-dollar bill, set the drink onto the middle of Abe's face, and strode with Taylor out the front door.

When Cameron stepped outside, he stopped to let his eyes adjust to the sun pounding down and turned to Taylor. "The burgers are decent?"

"The best. Let's go."

The Sail & Compass carried its theme throughout the restaurant. Pictures of sailboats adorned every wall, a drawing of an ancient-looking compass covered the front of the menus and the napkins. Even the ceiling was covered with the night sky, little white dots representing the constellations—nature's map for sailors.

They ordered and watched a Seattle Mariners' game on the big screen inside the bar while waiting for their food to arrive.

When the game went to commercial break, Cameron turned to Taylor. "It seems odd to have a sailing themed restaurant this far inland."

"Maybe this is the closest people around here will ever get to the water."

"They could take a drive. It can't be over one hundred and fifty miles to the ocean from Three Peaks."

Taylor tilted his head to the side. "Want to bet?"

"Sure, loser pays for the burgers."

"One hundred and fifty-seven miles to Newport. I win. You lose."

Cameron tossed his cardboard coaster at Taylor and hit him in the stomach. "You want to know why most of our conversations start off okay but drift into the realm of animosity?"

"Sure, enlighten me." Taylor grinned.

"Probably because I get too close to the truth, pick away too much of your scab that covers it up, and you can't handle the pain."

"Probably true."

Cameron expected Taylor to respond with anger, but he didn't.

A moment later their plump waitress with her megawatt smile shimmied up to their table with their meals. As soon as Cameron's plate skidded to a halt on the table, he grabbed a handful of French fries and shoved them in his mouth.

"What are you doing there, sailor?"

"Trying to counteract the effects of Mr. Jack."

"Uh, hello? You and Mr. Jack didn't end up meeting this afternoon." Taylor laughed.

"What?"

"You didn't throw down that shot, Cameron. Are you okay?"

No. Not in front of Stone. Think. Did he swallow the drink? That's right, Taylor came and he . . . paid for it but didn't . . . Oh, wow. Cameron's stomach knotted like he'd swallowed a sixteen-pound bowling ball. He had to get a grip, keep Stone from seeing him panic.

"I guess I was so determined to have the drink when I went in, I thought I . . ."

"Relax; it's an easy thing to forget." Taylor's mouth said the words, but his eyes and tone of voice disagreed. He stared at Cameron as if waiting for a confession.

"I haven't been sleeping well since I got here."

Taylor grabbed the ketchup and squirted what looked like half the bottle in between his double-decker mushroom and Swiss burger and his fries. "I know you want to talk about the book, but let me throw out a wild idea instead. You can decide to shoot me down in flames or go along for the ride."

Cameron squinted at him. "Okay."

"Let's pretend you don't care about the Book of Days' legend, and I don't care that you have an obsession with it. We'll pretend we're old friends telling stories of the insane things we did in our late teens and early twenties. Hmm?"

He shook his head and gave a weak smile. How could Taylor know Cameron and his dad shared those kinds of stories with each other a few years after the disease took hold? Like how his dad set the unofficial record for getting from West Seattle to downtown by running every stoplight and stop sign along the route. How he swam across the bone-numbing waters of Hood Canal on a whim in the summer of '78.

Cameron rubbed his face. He missed those talks. He missed his dad.

"What's wrong?" Taylor said.

"My dad and I used to tell each other those kinds of stories."

"Hey, we don't have to—"

"Nah, let's do it." It might be the closest he could ever get to talking with his dad again.

By the time he was done with his hamburger—which was as good as Taylor said it would be—Cameron had told him about everything from the time as a teenager where he and two friends had filled up fire extinguishers with water and spent the night soaking everyone on the street they could find, to how in their early twenties Brandon and he had parachuted into the middle of a Dave Mathews Band concert at the Gorge Amphitheatre in eastern Washington.

Taylor arched an eyebrow. "I'll bet the aftermath of that stunt was interesting."

"It was a stupid thing to do. But we only spent one night in jail."

After Taylor told of his rock concert days, experiments with drugs, and the time he outran a cop in his 1963 Chevy Impala SS, Cameron smiled. "You were a certifiable wild child, Mr. Stone."

"It was the sixties, there was no choice." Taylor downed the last of his third Coke. "And I have to say, based on your stories from the early nineties, you would have, uh, fit right in with my group of friends."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was meant as such." Taylor raised his glass of now only ice and Cameron clinked his against it.

"To life."

"To life," Cameron agreed.

After their waitress took their plates, Taylor pulled out his wallet. "Just so there's no argument, when the check comes I'll be paying."

"Really. Why's that? I'm the one who needed rescuing from the bottle. You rescued; I should pay. Plus I lost the bet."

Taylor wiggled his ears. "First, because I asked you, second, penance for lying to you the other day at the jazz festival."

Cameron frowned. "How?"

"When I said I didn't know anything about a note threatening you if you didn't leave Three Peaks."

"You didn't lie; you didn't say anything."

"I knew the truth and didn't speak it. It's the same thing as lying."

"So you did send the note."

Taylor stared at him with a thin smile.

Cameron pushed himself back from the table, teetered back in his chair, and smiled. "It's okay. I knew you sent it. Knew you were lying."

"Oh, you did?" Taylor threw his Visa card onto the table and the waitress snagged it a few seconds later. "I believe it. Most people are human lie detectors. Did you know the people who have the most trouble spotting a liar are other liars?"

"No." Cameron shook his head and leaned forward in his chair. "So you feel bad about the lie?"

"For the most part, yes."

"Does this mean you're going to tell me what you know about the book?"

"On that count, I'm afraid I'll have to bring you a bit of disappointment." Taylor looked at the ceiling and pursed his lips. "But I do promise not to lie to you anymore, as long as we close the book on the subject. Pun intended."

"Lousy pun."

"So do you agree? The subject is closed?"

"I can't. I have to do this."

Taylor stared at him, hands folded on top of his head. "You're a good kid, Cameron. Really. But a secret is kept by one. However I will tell you this. No matter what you hear from anyone else, there is no Book of Days that you can leaf through like an old Sears catalog. Never was. Never will be. You can hang out here in town the rest of your life for all I care. In fact, I think I'd like it."

Taylor lowered his hands from his head and leaned forward. "I know I'd like it. But you'll never find a book where God has written down in heavenly black ink every moment of every man and woman's past, present, and future, no matter how long you search."

"But you know more than you've told me."

Taylor sighed and leaned back.

"You can trust me."

Cameron saw the battle going on inside Taylor. Part of him wanted to talk. But it was like sneaking up on a three-point buck. The more noise he made, the quicker the deer would spook and bolt away.

This was a hunt Cameron had to let play out without crashing through the woods like a rookie. The more he backed off, the better chance the war going on inside Taylor's eyes would turn in his favor. But Cameron was running out of time. The waitress brought their bill and Taylor's Visa card back.

"It's been a pleasure to serve you today, Mr. Stone."

"Thanks, Sandy."

Taylor signed, slid the bill to the edge of the table, spread his palms, and leaned in. "All right, I'll tell you a few things I know. Then will you leave it alone and head back to Seattle?"

Cameron lifted his head and stared at Taylor. Was it possible he would finally open the door, even a crack?

"I'll tell you three things about the book if you promise that will be the end of it. Any further search is something you do on your own. No more questions. Agreed?"

"Yes."

At the sound of heavy shuffling feet next to their table, Cameron looked up. No. This couldn't be happening.

"Filling his head with more of your lies, Stone?" Jason stood too close to the table, his thighs pressing into its edge.

Cameron rubbed his eyes. Perfect timing.

"Care to join us, Jason? We'd enjoy gleaning some of the wisdom you have stored up inside that massive cranium of yours."

"Someday, Stone, the falsehoods you've weaved since childhood will fall on you like a net on a bird. Someday the curtain will be thrown back in a flourish and the mighty and powerful Oz will be revealed for the charlatan he is. I will dance in the streets that day, as I will one day dance on your grave."

"Wonderful to see you too, Jason."

Jason squatted and turned to Cameron. "You might not like me. You might not like my methods or personal beliefs. But I don't lie. I speak truth, seek the truth, and press on toward truth." He glanced at Taylor, then focused back on Cameron. "I suggest we talk again, sooner than later."

Cameron watched the big man stride away before turning back to Taylor. "I'd heard you two didn't like each other. I didn't realize how potent the animosity was."

"Powder-keg potent."

"You've known each other for a long time?"

"We grew up together."

"Why the hostility between you two?"

Taylor propped his elbow on the table and rested his head on the palm of his hand. "I never cared about being liked."

"But Jason did."

"Since our junior year of high school, Jason has been trying to one-up me."

"Has he ever done it?"

"I don't know, maybe. I never paid much attention. But if you ask him, he'd probably say never."

It explained so much. "So finding this book would put him on the map, and you'd finally be in his shadow."

"What people do doesn't put them on the map except for a short time; it's who you are that people remember."

"So who are you, Taylor?"

"Someone a lot like you. Someone trying to find answers to the questions rolling around inside his brain."

Cameron glanced around the restaurant. "Thanks for being willing to help me with some of mine. You were about to tell me a few things you know—"

"Like I've said a number of times before, I like you, Cameron. And that emotion got the better of me and turned into a moment of weakness." Taylor wiped up the water on the table with his napkin and set it next to the salt and pepper shakers. "I'm sorry, but as I said before, a secret is held by one."

"Taylor, please I—"

"Be strong." He stood and shuffled toward the door of The Sail & Compass.

Cameron sat for a long time staring at the restaurant's logo—a sail with a compass in the middle, the needle pointing north, unlike the needle on his compass, which was spinning out of control in the middle of the ocean, with no sailboat on the horizon.

That night he dreamed again. Of a sailboat.

Two Years, Three Months Earlier

Jessie and Cameron had spotted four Dall's porpoises as they navigated their rented sailboat through the salty waters of the San Juan Islands, two hours north of Seattle.

In a rare declaration the weatherman said the sky would be brilliant, and it was. The fresh air mixed with the pungent smell of seaweed swirled around them, and Cameron drew it into his lungs in deep gulps.

The seagulls seemed to caw in an intentional rhythm with the wind digging into their sails as they sliced through the gentle swells.

"Another—"

"—crystal day." Cameron finished.

It was their word for a pure day, unencumbered with thoughts of shooting videos or editing or fixing the water pump on his MINI Cooper. And for Jessie, no emergency calls to come in and cover a shift at the hospital or having to think about teaching her aerobics class at the gym.

They sailed on with no need to talk. Only a need to soak in the chaotic pattern of the waves that seemed to drain away the stress of the week.

They stopped at a little cove just south of Limekiln State Park. The Olympic Mountains shimmered in the distance to the west, and looking north they could make out Vancouver Island.

After anchoring their sailboat and taking a small skiff onto the rocky beach littered with periwinkle shells, they found a sun-bleached log to sit on as they ate their tuna salad sandwiches—sandwiches splashed with the tiniest bit of Tabasco sauce. Cameron had teased Jessie about that for six months before he tried it and had to admit she was right. It made the sandwich.

After they finished, Jessie stood and shuffled toward the edge of the water. "When dreams come that feel so real you don't know if they're dreams, are they real?"

"Too many hours watching the philosophy channel?" Cameron laughed.

"Probably." She laughed with him and looked north toward Vancouver Island. "And what should you do when something so fantastic happens in real life you're not sure if your subconscious mind turned it into a dream because that kind of thing never happens in real life? Has it turned into a dream, or is it still real?"

"I'm not sure I followed every speck of that, but I'm going to vote for it's still real." He smiled on the outside, but inside he worried. When Jessie talked like this, he didn't know how to respond. Playing along with her meanderings felt like the wrong decision and the right one at the same time.

"So you'd believe the fantastic?"

"How old were you when the fantastic happened?"

"Ten."

"What happened?"

"I saw something." She turned and walked back to the log Cameron sat on.

"Are you going to tell me about it?"

Jessie squatted down in front of him. "I saw something about us. And something about me."

Cameron touched her cheek. "So that's how you knew to accept my invitation for that first date."

"Yes. I saw you, and your father, and I saw you and me. So years later when I met you and met him, I didn't hesitate to get involved with you."

"Did you see Spider-Man and the Fantastic Four too?"

"This is serious, Cam."

"I am being serious, I'm just . . . Okay, I'm not, but you have to admit it sounds a little woo-woo that you saw me, my dad, and us when you were ten. Even if it was in a dream, it would be weird."

Jessie sank down and sat in the sand with her back to Cameron. "It wasn't a dream. It was real."

"Okay, Jess." Score a point for Mr. Insensitive. "I'm sorry."

"I also saw someone die." She drew in a quick breath. "Someone we both know."

"Who?" Cameron leaned toward her. "Who, Jessie?"

She didn't need to answer. He knew. Where did her visions come from? She would say God; he would say from her fertile imagination. Whichever it was, it didn't diminish the emotional impact.

She turned toward him and wrapped her arms around his waist. "Tell me it was just a dream."

"It was a dream from a ten-year-old. Let it go." That was all it could have been.

"It's gone." She leaned her head on his shoulder and started to cry.

Cameron woke up gasping for air. "Jessie!" She was there. Right there!

He slid his legs over the bed and grabbed his notepad off the nightstand. But by the time he clicked his pen, the memory of the dream had vanished.

Cameron slammed his fist into the mattress. "I'm sick of this!"

The clock read six fifteen. Time to get up and go meet Ann. Why did he agree to go climbing with her? He wasn't sure. Something about it didn't feel right.

CHAPTER 26

Climbing with Cameron was probably a poor use of time.

He drove them east on Highway 126 early on Thursday morning. They should be trying to find the book or working on her family history. But when she'd suggested they try a climb together, he'd agreed immediately. What was she thinking? She refused to allow her heart to answer.

As Cameron took the exit that would take them to Smith Rock, Ann looked at the temperature gauge on the MINI Cooper. Even though it had been in the mideighties the night before, it was now only fifty-nine degrees. Being in the high desert and sitting at thirty-one-hundred feet meant cool mornings even in the heart of the summer. But morning climbing meant less possibility of wind, and wind was not a climber's friend.

When they arrived, Cameron parked the car in front of a sign that pointed them toward the route they'd decided to climb. Within five minutes she had her pack and gear slung over her shoulder ready to rock 'n' roll.

The narrow trail would take them to the base of a climb rated 5.9, which was perfect. Challenging enough to be fun but with little chance of trouble since there were two of them and they'd be double belayed.

She watched Cameron's black hair silhouetted against the seven o'clock sun that streaked into her eyes. She half jogged a few steps to put the shadow of his head between her and the rays and pulled in a lungful of the thick air full of morning and pine.

What was she doing here with him?

Yes, she'd resolved the matter of their relationship. She wouldn't get involved, but why tempt her feelings by being around him when she didn't have to?

On the other hand, what was wrong with enjoying herself for the moment?

She loved him, yes, but so what? It didn't mean she had to act on it. She wouldn't act on it. Ever.

Even if he did start following God, what about Jessie? Would he ever be able to push past that? How could she know how long it took to get over the death of a spouse?

Ann turned her focus to the wild white orchids lining the trail. A meadowlark flew overhead and she tried to send her thoughts of a future with Cameron away with the bird. Stay in the moment.

"There's our spot." Cameron pointed to a sheer rock face looming in front of them.

Gray nimbus clouds moved in as they took out their climbing gear and carried it the final hundred yards to the base of the climb.

"Ready?"

"More than." She smiled. "Let's have some fun."

Their first move was twenty feet up to a wide ledge, which they did without ropes. Their guide book said the first step was moderate. It turned out to be simple and Ann raised her eyebrows when they'd both caught their breath. "Pretty easy so far."

"It was practically stairs. But it's time to get on rope."

"I would agree."

"Do you want to take the lead?"

For the next fifty feet Ann didn't speak except to communicate her holds and check to make sure Cameron was ready before moving higher. They moved into a smooth rhythm.

"How are you doing, Cam? Can you talk and climb?"

"Yes, but don't try to throw me a piece of gum."

Ann smiled. "Do you have any updates on the book we should talk about?"

"I'm headed to Arnold Peasley's tomorrow to see if he has any newspapers from the early sixties."

"Who is Arnold Peasley?"

"Didn't I tell you about him?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." Ann looked down in time to catch a pained look pass over Cameron's face. "Are you okay?"

"It's the memory thing." Cameron shook his head, as if shaking water out of his hair. "I met him when I first got to town. He considers himself Three Peak's unofficial historian. And his home is stacked beyond the rafters with old newspapers. I bet they go back to the early sixties."

"He'd have to have been collecting them since he was a kid."

"Let's hope he did the paperboy thing." Cameron wiped his forehead with his forearm. "It's worth a shot. I was going to save it as a surprise, but I couldn't wait."

"Can I come?"

"No, Arnold is a little quirky. Plus if there's nothing there, you won't have searched for hours only to be disappointed."

Ann grabbed a pencil-thin ridge with the tips of her fingers, and hoisted herself up another three feet. "Careful, we've got a crimper here; I hope the tips of your fingers are in good shape."

"Got it." He grunted as he closed the gap between them.

"What about Taylor?"

"Stone knows volumes more than he's saying. I almost got him to talk, but Jason showed up and destroyed the moment."

"Mr. Creepfest himself, huh?"

"In all his glory."

"You're not going to back down from this quest, are you?"

"I don't have a choice."

"Not to be cold, but aren't you wasting your time?" She reached into her climbing pouch and pulled out a handful of chalk, the powder spilling out from between the cracks in her fingers and floating away on the slight breeze. "You really think whatever Taylor Stone is hiding can make this book poof into existence?"

"Probably not, but I know people, and too many things about Stone don't add up."

"Like what?"

"His reaction to you at Jason's gathering at the community center. His—"

"Hold it. What do you mean his reaction to me?"

"Didn't I tell you about that?"

"No."

"It was weird. As soon as you got up onstage, he went white and doubled over like he'd been gut-punched. He and his wife left a few minutes later."

"You're kidding."

"I was standing close to him. After one look at you, he did the white-as-a-sheet thing."

"You have no idea why?"

"No clue."

Ann tried to remember if she saw someone leave right after getting onstage. Maybe. She shook her head. "All right. You have my attention. Anything else?"

"When we met the first time, he exploded after I left and he didn't think I saw him. It was right after we talked about the book. Then he tells me to stay away from Jason. And he writes that note trying to scare me into leaving town. His coming close to telling me things he knows about the book, then shutting down like he has secrets that would make the CIA gasp."

"That doesn't make the book real, Cam."

"There's nothing that could make you even start to believe, huh?"

"It's like something out of a comic book. I think we landed on the moon. I don't think Kennedy was killed by the Mafia. I don't believe little green men buzz the planet and borrow some of us for experiments. I think there's a rational explanation for why ships and planes disappear over the Bermuda Triangle. And sorry, I don't believe in a nine-hundred-pound book that has recorded the past, present, and future of every soul on earth." Sorry, Jessie.

"Nice speech."

"Thanks, I've been practicing."

Ann turned and climbed higher. She had been practicing. If she could rip the idea of searching for the book out of Cameron's head, she would do it. The whole search for the book brought up her own regrets. Jason was right. Jessie had told her about the book in more detail than she'd ever told Cameron.

How Jessie knew the year and season she would die but nothing specific enough to prevent it.

How Jessie had seen Cameron after she died, standing in silhouette holding another woman and laughing.

How she knew for certain Ann would find her Wesley someday and her Princess Bride poster would come to life.

All through their teens and early twenties, Ann teased Jessie about believing in a magical book that revealed all these things when she was ten. Ann had done it so frequently Jessie stopped talking about it, even when Ann asked for forgiveness and to hear more of what Jessie had seen.

"The last part is too precious to tell you when I know you don't believe me," Jessie had said.

"I do believe!" Ann protested.

Jessie smiled. "No you don't, but I'll still love you when the sun buries itself in the sea forever."

Jessie was right. Ann didn't believe.

She still didn't.

The Book of Days couldn't be real.

She stretched her leg to its limit to reach a knob that jutted out from the wall a quarter inch and pushed herself another two feet up the sheer cliff.

"So, what if it turns out this book exists on Earth? Will you believe in God then?"

Cameron burst out laughing. "Welcome to the climb, Ms. Conundrum! You crack me up. Twenty seconds ago you're telling me to pull my head out of my proverbial sandbox, and now you're saying the book could be real."

"I'm not saying it's real or even could be real; I'm just asking if it would change what you believe." Ann reached into her climbing bag for more chalk. "And I'm finding this intellectual banter helps me climb better." She swung her right leg up to a ninety-degree angle and shoved her foot into a crack just wide enough for her big toe to slide into.

"Nice move," Cameron said.

"I'm serious. If the book is real, is God real? Or is life still arbitrary?"

"No, if the book is real, then God has to be real."

"So you're like Thomas, wanting to see the nail marks in Jesus' hand before he believed."

"You're right. I do."

"His love is an ocean, Cameron. It's so vast you can't take it all in."

He didn't respond. From the frown on his face it was apparent her question needled him.

Cameron scowled, more at himself than Ann; although he didn't care if she saw it. Talk about going for the soft underbelly. Deep down he'd always envied Jessie's and his dad's faith. It gave them meaning. It gave them purpose. It was probably why Jessie had that inexplicable look of peace on her face when she died.

Part of him had always wanted to believe. Ever since he could remember, his dad had loved him fiercely. The idea that the supreme being of the universe felt the same way about him was almost overpowering. The being that made all the stars in the universe loved him?

But there was no proof. Take it on faith, take it on faith, God is real. Sorry, faith wasn't enough.

If the book was real, he'd get back his memories of Jessie. He might be healed of the rampage taking place in his brain. And it would mean God and heaven exist, and Cameron would see her and his dad again.

But what if his path ended with a much more realistic outcome? The book being just an idea, a spiritual state of consciousness like all the other religions of the world? What would he do then? Comfort himself with the fact that neither Jessie nor his dad was anything more than dust, just a few years ahead of him?

Deep in his gut he knew the book couldn't be genuine. When would he admit it enough to go home and slowly watch his mind fade into nothingness?

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ann's weight shift, and he focused on the small outcropping her left foot now rested on.

Oh no.

"Cameron!"

The crack that started the moment Ann put her full weight on the tiny nub, snapped a second later and she fell. As she careened past him, her weight wrenched him backward and his anchor slipped from its crack in the rock.

He reacted without thought and lunged up to where he could grab a handhold. If he didn't make the jump, Ann's weight would yank him off the tiny ledge his toes were on and they would fall at least thirty feet—if his other anchors held. Thirty feet was enough to badly injure them.

If the anchors failed, the fall could be enough to kill them.

Come on! If he couldn't get a hold before the rope snapped taut . . .

Got it! Yes.

The rope went stiff an instant later and the pressure ripped Cameron's right hand off the ledge. "Arrrgh!" Pain sliced through the fingers of his left hand like a knife but he held on, then lunged with his hand and caught hold again. "Ann!"

No answer. Not good. She could have slammed into the wall and been knocked unconscious. He couldn't keep this hold much longer.

"Ann!"

Time slowed to a crawl, the strain on his fingers faded into the background as an epiphany washed over him in a moment brilliant of clarity. In seconds the weight of Ann's body would force his fingers from their cling to life, and slipping off the clothes of mortality would become a distinct possibility.

He would join Jessie at last. It would finally be over, and his question of whether she was waiting for him would be answered.

But in that moment a revelation coursed through him—he didn't want to die. It wasn't time. It wasn't right. Not yet. No matter what was happening inside his brain, he would fight for life.

Time stopped as a feeling appeared as if a massive red theater curtain had been drawn back. An emotion he buried at the moment of Jessie's death. Hope.

Hope for life, hope he could feel joy again.

That he could love someone and be loved by someone.

That he could live a life that would make Jessie and his dad proud.

"Ann!"

"Uhhh." A moan floated up to him.

"Stay with me! Can you hear me?"

"Cameron?" It was just above a whisper, but yes! she was conscious.

He risked a look down, but the ridge jutting out blocked his view. "Can you move?"

No answer.

He had to hold on!

A gust of wind whipped against his face.

"Perfect. All we need now is some rain. Is this in Your book, God? Then stop writing!"

"Cameron." It was more a moan than his name, but it was a streak of hope.

"Ann, you have to secure. Now!"

Silence.

God, if You exist . . .

He focused on his knuckles, shifting his gaze rapidly back and forth between his two hands. His left hand started shaking first. A moment later his right hand joined in. It wouldn't be long.

His left fingers slipped down a quarter-inch.

No!

Drilling in on the second hand on his watch, Cameron promised himself he would hold on another forty-five seconds.

Fifteen seconds later he heard the faint scrape of metal on rock, and he knew Ann was securing a nut into the wall below him. Silence. Then the sound of another nut being wedged into place.

He didn't blame her for securing two; he would have done the same thing. He heard the click of the carabineer as she clipped in, then suddenly the weight on the rope eased and Cameron sucked in a quick breath of air. "Ann!"

"I'm secure. Are you all right?"

He nodded and then realized she couldn't see him. "Stay there. I'm coming down."

After securing an anchor into the rock and clipping his rope into it, he belayed down the thirty feet to where Ann hung, her face white except for where a large bruise had started to form on her right temple.

He reached out and touched Ann's temple with the tips of two fingers. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, really," she said in between breaths. "I'm sure it looks worse than it feels." She stared at him. "You saved my life."

"And you returned the favor by waking up. I figured I had about five seconds left when you secured that first nut."

Cameron stared into her eyes, both of them still breathing heavily.

He'd heard you could know a person more intimately after looking into their eyes for thirty seconds without speaking than you could in an hour of conversation. After the half minute was up, he agreed.

"Let's get off this rock."

They sat at the base of the cliff in silence, the only sound was Ann's deep breaths in concert with his own.

The adrenaline had stopped pumping fifteen minutes ago, but perspiration still seeped through his shirt. His legs twitched and his arms felt like they'd been shot up with a triple dose of Novocain.

"Do you want to talk?"

Ann shook her head, her eyes moist.

Without thinking Cameron scooted next to her, put his arms around her shoulders, and drew her in. Ann pressed in hard against his chest without hesitation and sobbed.

"It's okay . . . it's okay." Cameron stroked her hair and repeated the phrase over and over. He didn't know what else to say. After a few minutes her tears stopped but she didn't move. He pulled her in closer and kissed the top of her head.

The chattering of a squirrel filled the late morning air.

Something about the sound brought peace, and Cameron took his first breath that didn't feel like a gasp for air. After a few more minutes he glanced at his watch. They'd been off the mountain for over an hour. Why did it feel like minutes?

"Ann, talk to me."

She stirred and mumbled something.

"What?"

"Don't leave me."

"I'm right here." He squeezed her tight as her tears came again. "Right here."

Twenty minutes went by without any movement from Ann. She could have been asleep. Cameron wouldn't have cared if twenty years went by. Something about sitting here, holding Ann was very right. Very good. Very true.

Did she think the same?

After another five minutes she stirred, stood, and walked a short distance away. Her auburn hair rose and fell on the breeze slaloming through the trees, and her climbing clothes accentuated her figure. If her hair were darker and she were a little shorter, it could be Jessie standing there.

When Ann finally turned back, her tears were dry and she gave a slight smile. "Thank you."

Her simple thanks filled him. Anytime. I'm here.

Cameron fired up his MINI Cooper and turned to Ann. "Was that written in God's book? Before it happened, was it written down?"

"Yes."

"So God gives us no choice. What is, is."

"Choice is God's greatest gift to us, Cameron."

"If it's already carved in stone, how is that possible?"

"It's not in stone, and I'm guessing God's book operates a little differently than ours." Ann gathered up her hair and put a scrunchie around it. "We chose to climb that cliff today. Our choice. No one else's. It wasn't some preordained plan that we had no part in."

"Do you mind if we have a soundtrack for our conversation?" Cameron pulled onto the road and slid a Jack Johnson CD into his player.

"Good call, H."

Cameron glanced at her. "H?"

"Did you ever see that movie K2? It was about these two climbing buddies. One of the guys was named Harold. So his partner called him 'H,' and was always saying, 'Good call, H!'"

"Good movie?"

"It was all right."

Ann leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. It seemed so natural for her to sit next to him. Maybe God should keep writing this chapter.

"Listen," he said, "if we say for a moment this Book of Days is real—was that whole thing we just went through together on the cliff written down ahead of time? Before it ever happened?"

Ann didn't answer and he glanced at her again. She opened her eyes and frowned at him. "What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"You just asked me that."

"What?"

"You just asked me virtually the same question two minutes ago."

He bit both sides of his tongue with his back teeth. He couldn't lose it now. His mind had been doing better the past few days. "Sorry, I'm a little stressed still. A lot stressed."

"Is your memory loss getting worse?"

Cameron clenched the steering wheel and ignored the vise grip around his stomach. "It's getting better."

When they reached Three Peaks, Cameron said, "I hope the emergency room isn't crowded."

"What?"

"You're getting that head looked at. You were out cold."

"I told you I'm fine. I meant it."

Cameron shook his head.

"Really, I've been knocked out before. If I had a concussion, it would have shown up by now."

"Even if I let you talk me out of going to the hospital, there's no way I'm letting you stay by yourself tonight."

Ann touched the bruise on her head and sighed. "So what do you suggest? Have me sleep next to the night manager in the lobby of my hotel?"

"You can do that?"

"Funny."

It was a good question. Neither of them knew anyone in town well enough—Cameron grabbed his iPhone.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's Cameron. Would you be willing to have a mildly injured houseguest overnight tonight? She's very well mannered."

"What happened? Is it Ann?"

"We had a bit of an adventure during our climb today, and Ann got a head injury—"

"It's a bump, not an 'injury.'" Ann whacked Cameron on the arm.

"Is she okay?"

"I think she's fine. But I don't want her by herself tonight."

"I'd love to have her; I've wanted to meet her for a long, long time."

"Thanks, Susan." Cameron hung up. "Done."

"What'd she say?"

"She's wanted to meet you for a long time."

Ann frowned. "What does she mean by that? I just got here a few days ago."

"You should ask her."

"Will she tell me?"

"I doubt it." Cameron smiled. "She's good with secrets. But if she opens up, ask her about your mom's photo."

"That would go over well." Ann laughed. "I'll find out what I can. And we'll meet up tomorrow?"

"I'll call you as soon as I'm done seeing Arnold."

"Find me something good, okay?" She winked at him and Cameron winked back.

He dropped her off at Susan's, then gazed at the front door long after it shut behind Ann. Find her something good? If Cameron's suspicions were right, he would find her something very good in Peasley's mountainous piles of newspaper.

CHAPTER 27

Tricia Stone strained to draw back her bowstring till the pulleys kicked in and made the final few inches easy. Just like life. Always a tipping point where the perseverance paid off.

She concentrated on her target, a root beer can hanging by a string from a pine tree forty yards away. The air was still as it often was in the middle of the day, and the only noise was the occasional call of a Wilson's Warbler that had settled behind her. No one to bother her. No one to interrupt her scattered thoughts. It was strange that she'd developed this passion for shooting arrows into pop cans or pinecones or plastic milk cartons in the middle of the woods.

Not the expected hobby of a middle-aged empty nester, and friends teased her about it. Some called her Robin Hood, at least none of them called her Friar Tuck. Taylor never teased her. He even encouraged her practice, but then he had his own target practice: fly-fishing.

Here she knew the answers, or if she didn't, it's where she could find them and fix the flaws.

As the pop can rotated slowly to the left, the sun hit it and flashed into her eyes. She blinked, then closed her eyes and saw the can in her mind.

Breathe in. Now hold it. Focus. See the can. Trust your instinct. Right there. Focus deeper. Release.

The arrow sang through the air, and Tricia didn't open her eyes till she heard the tip of the arrow rupture the can with a screech.

"Impressive shot."

Tricia whirled around to see who had spoken. There was no one. Wait. Over to the left, halfway behind a large pine. Jason Judah. "Thanks for sneaking up on me."

"No, I didn't do that." He rose from the boulder he'd been sitting on and ambled toward her. "I found you right as you started your routine. I didn't want to disturb."

Tricia glared at him trying to convey that's exactly what he'd done.

He didn't pick up on the hint. Or more likely he did and ignored it. "Mind if I join you for a few minutes?"

"Yes."

"We haven't talked just the two of us for years have we now? Hmm?"

Tricia half walked, half jogged to the can she'd just lanced to get her arrow. She didn't trust Jason. She'd never trusted him. And given his erratic history with Taylor, her heart pounded with the thought that they were miles from anyone.

Before she was halfway back, Jason called out, "What does Taylor know about the book?"

"What do you want?"

"To know what Taylor knows. Do you think he'd be willing to lead me to it?"

"That's a ridiculous question, Judah." She shuffled back up to her shooting spot and started packing her bow and arrows into a forest green bag.

"You know you're the only one who still calls me by my last name?" Jason laughed. "Did you know that?" He paused and leaned back against one of the pines surrounding them.

Tricia didn't answer. She wanted to leave, much sooner than later.

"Why is my question ridiculous?"

"Even if I knew what Taylor knows, I wouldn't tell you."

"Ah, so he does know more than he's letting on."

"Judah, I have no idea what my husband knows, if anything. But if you're so convinced he knows something, then ask him yourself." Tricia threw the last of her pop cans into her bag, yanked it onto her shoulder, and started striding the sixty yards back to her Jeep Cherokee.

"I did."

"And what did he say?"

"The truth about him will come out at some point."

"What truth is that?" She didn't look back.

"About his covering up the accident."

Tricia spun and glared at Jason. "For thirty years you've been hinting and hemming and hawing about Taylor. If you have something on him, why not just tell me. If you don't, simply keep that obnoxious maw of yours shut."

"Whoooweee!" Jason slapped his leg. "A little bit of fire coming out of the belly there. I'm impressed."

"I'm serious."

"Oh, I know you are." He narrowed his eyes. "But then again, so am I. Taylor knows more about the accident than he's ever let on. How do I know this?" Jason leaned forward. "He told me. In a moment of weakness, when for a moment he thought we were still friends, he told me. He said, 'I did it to her. I did it.' And I'm convinced whatever it is he did, is tied to the book. I'd bet my life on it." Jason rubbed his chin. "Did you know he told me that?"

Tricia's face flushed. The possibility that Jason knew more about Taylor's past than she did melted her heart. "The past is the past. What happened then is over."

"You're a believing woman, in God Almighty above. Aren't you? And you believe eternity is real? That there is a realm outside of time? A place where the past, the present, and the future can exist together?" Jason smirked. "So don't try to tell me the past is over. The past is right now."

"Are you finished?" Tricia pulled her keys out of her pocket.

"What does Taylor know about the book?"

She opened the back door of the Jeep, tossed her gear inside, and slammed it shut. "You might fool your followers, Judah, but not me. I see who you are. And it isn't about truth."

She got in, fired up the Jeep, and mashed the gas pedal to the floor, kicking up a curtain of dust that blocked Jason from sight in her rearview mirror.

If only making him disappear for good was that easy.

Ann had just finished forty-five minutes on a treadmill at the Three Peaks Women's Gym—which did wonders in erasing the fear of yesterday's climb—when a voice behind her said, "Excuse me, you're Ann Banister, aren't you?"

Ann turned to see a woman probably in her late fifties, with wavy shoulder-length brown hair and a face that looked familiar.

"I am, and you are?"

"Tricia Stone, Taylor's wife."

The wife of the mysterious Taylor Stone. Interesting. "Good to meet you."

"I feel the same way. I've been hoping to bump into you ever since you arrived."

"Really?"

"Yes, and—I don't mean to pry—but speaking of bumps, that's a doozy you have on your forehead there."

"It looks much worse than it feels. I battled a cliff yesterday. The cliff won." Ann touched her forehead. "It's a little tender but that's all."

"That's good to hear." Tricia handed her a small card with an address on it. "I'm sure a home-cooked meal would do wonders for your recovery."

"You're inviting me over for dinner?"

Tricia nodded.

Ann smiled as she wiped the sweat off her forehead with a hand towel. This could be providential. It might be a chance to discover a few of the mysteries Taylor knew about the Book of Days and find out about his reaction to her at Jason's gathering. "This might sound rude, Tricia, and I hope it doesn't come across that way, but why do you want to invite me into your home?"

She smiled. "Good for you. Don't worry; I appreciate people who are straightforward, so I'll be the same." She took Ann's arm and led her away from the row of treadmills out of range of the three other women doing an early morning workout on the machines.

"When you got up on stage during Jason's little shindig the other day, Taylor's face turned the color of freshly fallen snow. He wouldn't talk about it, but I know something about you crumbled his Oreos."

"I heard about that."

Tricia's eyes widened.

"Cameron Vaux told me."

"Ah." Tricia nodded. "When I asked Taylor why seeing you made him go all goofy, he clammed up like a Mafia boss on the witness stand." She grabbed a heartbeat monitor off a stand next to a row of elliptical trainers and strapped it to her wrist.

Ann smiled. "I see. So your plan is to ambush him when I step through that door where he's trapped and has to give some kind of explanation about me?"

"Oh no, I would never do that. Of course not." Tricia patted her on the shoulder. "I plan on giving him a full ten minutes of warning before you arrive."

Ann shook her head and smiled again.

"Can you make it tonight, say around six thirty?"

"I'll be there."

"Wonderful. I'm so looking forward to it."

Ann would be there, along with a certain picture from her mom's childhood. Something told her the Stones needed to be asked about that photo.

As Ann left the gym, her eyes locked on to a man with a baseball hat sitting directly across the street on a dark brown bench. She glanced away, then back to the man. He was watching her.

She reached into her purse to grab her keys, and when she looked up again, his gaze was still fixed on her. She glanced up and down the street for cars, then jogged across Main Street directly toward him.

"Hello. My name is Ann. What's yours?"

The man looked Native American. He smiled, and his dark brown eyes danced. "I hope I didn't frighten you just now."

"You didn't, but why were you staring at me?"

"It is important I see you. Meet you."

"Why?"

"To see."

"See what?"

"I'm sorry. I'm not able to explain that to you right now." The man stood, put on gold-rimmed sunglasses, and gave a slight nod. "It was a pleasure to meet you. And again, I regret the possibility of having disturbed you."

"Who are you? What's your name?"

"Good day, Ms. Banister. I wish much life on you."

Great. Another creeper to add to her collection.

CHAPTER 28

It's a Wonderful Life played though Cameron's head as he drove toward Taylor Stone's house late Friday morning. "I want to live! Clarence, I want to live!" Cameron smiled at his abysmal imitation of Jimmy Stewart.

What was that overused line from Dead Poets Society? Carpe diem. "Seize the day." He wanted to carpe liber. "Seize the book."

The climb yesterday had made him want to live and, at the same time, freed him from worrying about the future. Death could come in any moment, why not live it to the full in the moment he was in? His brain could short out tomorrow, so why not rip the envelope into pieces while he still had the chance? That meant planting his feet in front of Taylor Stone and finding a way to get him to reveal his secrets about the Book of Days.

Cameron pulled up to the curb in front of Taylor's house and tried to formulate a plan. After five minutes he still didn't have one. It didn't matter. He'd know what to say when he got there.

After ringing the doorbell three times and getting no response, he eased around the side of the house into the backyard.

In the southeast corner, Tricia set paving stones in an undulating pattern as she worked toward a wishing well that looked brand new.

"Hi, Tricia."

She turned and stood. "Hello, Cameron." She shook off her gardening gloves and grasped his hand tightly. "You're looking for him?"

He looked back at the house and nodded.

"He's fishing."

"I should have known."

"But I'll answer any question I can." Tricia did a faux curtsy.

Not a bad idea. He might learn something new.

She led Cameron over to a well-worn maple bench framed by a trellis covered with lavender wisteria. She brushed the bench with the tips of her fingers. "My thinking, talking, and kibitzing bench. All ready for you."

"Thanks." Cameron sat. "Is Taylor acting differently these days?"

She smiled. "Video directors are observers, aren't they? He's been acting strange ever since you showed up. But it was nothing compared to the reaction when Ann Banister stepped onstage."

"No kidding. That, I'll remember. Any idea what that was all about?"

"I don't know. Yet."

"You're on a mission to find out?"

Resolve shone in her eyes. "Most definitely. Ann's coming over for dinner tonight."

"My Ann? I mean, Ann Banister?"

"No, Anne Frank." She flicked his leg. "Of course Ann Banister."

Cameron smiled.

"Her visit should be interesting. I'll give you a full report."

"I'd appreciate that."

"I like her." Tricia took off her shoes and knocked them together to get rid of the dirt that clung to them. "I can see you like her too."

"Hmm."

She turned on the bench toward Cameron. "Are you going to do anything about it?"

He'd come to ask the questions but ended up with the Three Peaks version of Barbara Walters sitting next to him. "No."

"Why?"

"I wouldn't do that to Jessie."

"If you knew you were dying and Jessie would live many years beyond you, would you want her to live her life alone, hanging on to the cloud of your death and your memory? Or would you want her to be happy?"

"Point taken."

Tricia tossed her shoes onto the lawn. "I need to stop shoving myself into areas that are none of my concern. I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

She patted Cameron's leg. "Good man."

Time to bring the subject back to Taylor. "So Ann's appearance at Jason's—"

"I doubt Taylor would've been any more shocked if Elvis had stepped up to that microphone. He tried to tell me it was a sudden bout of stomach cramps, but of course I didn't believe him. He hasn't had a stomach cramp since, well, I don't know if he's ever had one since we were married."

"Five years ago."

Tricia nodded. "Yes."

"You haven't been married that long."

"Well, I didn't want to be a widow the rest of my life, and Taylor and I have been friends for eons, at least since second grade. So after I'd grieved for far longer than I should have, we started having coffee together, and dinners at Kokanee Café, and hikes up to Whychus Creek Falls . . . and before long he slipped a ring on my finger, and here we are."

"Do you still think about your first husband?"

"All the time." Tricia patted Cameron's hand. "But the pain is muted."

Mute his pain? Sounded wonderful. But how long would it take to get there? So far the pain of losing Jessie still screamed in his ear every day.

"What about Taylor? Ever married before you?"

"Yes."

She paused so long Cameron thought that was all she would say.

"He was married at twenty-three. They were perfect for each other. It only lasted two years."

"Why?"

"He was widowed as well." Tricia looked up toward the ivy crawling over the redwood trellis and covered her mouth. "Whew, I don't think about the accident too much anymore." She blinked rapidly.

"Accident?"

She stood, pulled the lavender scarf off her head, and moved over to the rosebushes next to the trellis. "Taylor blames himself for her death. He's never come right out and said that, but I can tell that he does. I can tell." She plucked at the roses that were encroaching on her side of the bench. "He's never told me why he feels that way. I stopped asking a few years ago."

"What was her name?"

"Annie."

Window-crank Annie. One mystery solved, three thousand to go.

"He changed after Annie died. There was a big group of us that hung out together. Kirk and Arnold, and Annie and me, and at least ten others. Taylor was our leader and had a spontaneous streak that kept us all in trouble most of the time. After two or three months, the playful part came back but the thoughtful Taylor was gone. At least on the outside. We all tried to talk to him about Annie's death, but he wouldn't speak about it. Ever.

"We'd see him sometimes, sitting in the field where he proposed to Annie, weeping. But around us it was only jokes. He worked so hard at covering up his pain, at some point he couldn't even get past the veneer himself." She smiled. "And now God has brought you and Ann into his life to stir it all up again."

"That's a good thing?"

"It's wonderful. You have to clean out a wound before it can heal properly."

Cameron waited for her to finish deadheading the roses and sit back down before he spoke. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Yes, of course."

"Does it bother you that Taylor keeps so many secrets from you?"

Tricia's smile was sad as she shook her head. "No. Because I believe it is a divine plan that I am in Taylor's life the way I am. And I also know beyond a shadow of doubt that he loves me. Deeply." She patted Cameron's hand again. "And I love him back the same way. Some day all secrets will be revealed."

"Does Taylor know something about the Book of Days he's not saying?"

"If I were in Las Vegas with millions to burn—which I don't have—and I were a betting woman—which I'm not—I would have to put my money on the answer being yes."

"What does he know?"

"I haven't a clue." She shook her head.

Cameron hadn't planned on interviewing Tricia about the Book of Days. He assumed Taylor would block any attempt, so he'd put little hope in the idea. But now that he was here, and she answered every question so openly, he'd begun to think he would get an insight or a clue or at least an indication about the true depth of Taylor's knowledge of the book. Now that it was apparent Cameron would get nothing, frustration swirled around him.

But Tricia could help with another mystery tied to the book.

"Can you tell me about Jason and Taylor? Taylor says Jason's been trying to one-up him since high school."

"Since their junior year." Tricia sighed. "But before that they were best friends. All through grade school and junior high, and through the first two years of high school. The best of pals."

"You've got to be kidding." Cameron snorted out a laugh.

Tricia arched an eyebrow. "That amuses you?"

"These days they'd be the last pair cast in a buddy movie." Cameron took out his notepad and scribbled in it. "There must have been a radical turn somewhere along the road."

"Yes." Tricia sighed again. "Over a woman. They both loved the same one." She reached down and pulled two straggling weeds poking up out of a crack in the circle of stones on which the bench sat.

"Annie."

Tricia nodded. "Taylor won her heart over Jason. Up till then, it had been okay that Taylor was the better athlete and more popular, better at school . . . But after Jason's heart was broken, Taylor became the villain, and no matter how hard he tried, Jason wouldn't let go of his bitterness. He was drafted after high school and went to Vietnam. Taylor hoped he'd be different when he came back but he was worse.

"Taylor married Annie right after college, hoping Jason would be his best man, a way to mend the wound, a way to put the pain behind them and move on, but Jason refused.

"Two years later she died, and Jason blamed Taylor for her death. He tried to prove it in all sorts of ways, but of course it was simply a horrible accident. A month or so later, Jason vanished. Nobody heard a whisper about him till twelve years ago when he moved back fully immersed in the New Age movement and determined to see the future and create a new world. He's been looking for ways to humiliate Taylor from the moment he returned. He hasn't succeeded, but it's made Taylor bitter toward Jason."

"I can't say I blame him for that."

"Unforgiveness is like taking a daily poison tablet, expecting it to hurt the other person."

"Jessie used to say something like that." Cameron thought of Ann. Hadn't he just talked to her about forgiveness? "You're saying he needs to forgive him."

"He must. He has to."

"Do you think Jason can ever forgive Taylor?"

Tricia looked up at Cameron with storm clouds in her eyes. "I'm not talking about Jason. I'm talking about Taylor."

Cameron bent down and pulled up a few strands of grass. "Tell me about Taylor's wife, Annie. Who was she? How did she die?"

"I should let Taylor tell you that part of the story." Tricia stood and brushed the dirt off her knees. "Not that he'll tell the tale easily."

"Did her death have anything to do with—?"

"Don't you think we've talked enough for one day? I do."

No, he didn't. He wouldn't feel that way till he stood in front of the Book of Days reading its pages. But he followed her lead, thanked her for the time, and walked to his car.

Onions, Cameron thought as he drove toward Arnold Peasley's house. Ogres might be like onions, but people were too—always another layer underneath the last one.

Taylor was turning out to have more layers than most.

He had to find a way to peel back every one of them.

CHAPTER 29

He listened to a late-night talk show—almost too soft to hear—as he clipped his nails close and stared at them. No. Not close enough. He always liked to see a little blood when he finished. Not a lot, just a thin red line outlining each nail.

He clipped another nail and watched the blood seep from his pinky finger.

Perfect.

Nine to go.

If only it were that simple to find the book. How many more days did he have to wait? Nine? Eight? Twenty? He couldn't control the answer and it frustrated him.

Why was Cameron rock climbing and talking to Stone's wife? Why was he helping Ann Banister find her history? All of that was time wasted. And there was no time to waste.

Cameron could dig where he couldn't so he could be patient. He'd waited years; he could wait a few more days, or even weeks, for Cameron to lead him to the book. But not months.

He flicked off the television and the lights, sat in the dark, and breathed in the warm summer air.

As soon as he stood in front of the book, he would kill Cameron, kill Taylor, and there would be a worthy guardian of the Book of Days once more.

CHAPTER 30

Tricia glanced at the clock on the dining room wall wondering how much longer should she wait before upsetting Taylor? It was 5:50. She would wait a few more minutes before telling him who was about to show up for dinner.

She set down a crystal vase full of scarlet gilia from her yard, then adjusted a cluster of five lilac-scented candles in the middle of the table. That one needed to go just a pinch farther to the left. Ah yes. Perfect.

She scuttled back into the kitchen and checked the oven and the stove top. Everything looked right.

"Dinner for three? And in the dining room?" Taylor stood leaning against the doorjamb leading into the kitchen and raised his eyebrows.

"Yes."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"We'll be having chicken dijon, asparagus, and Asiago cheese bread, but we'll start with a salad and—"

"Hah."

She picked the stem stumps from the flowers off the kitchen counter, tossed them into the trash, and rinsed off her hands in the sink, her back to Taylor. "It wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, now would it?" She sidled up to him and wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed.

"Who is coming to dinner, my dear?"

"Ann Banister." She looked up and smiled.

"The TV woman? What for?" Taylor's mouth sagged, his eyebrows furrowed. "Are you kidding? I don't want her here."

"So it wasn't just stomach cramps that made you react to her like she'd snapped your favorite fishing pole in two."

Taylor jammed his hands into his 501s, wagged his head, and started to say something three times before giving up.

"She admires you. Your column might not have ever hit national syndication, but she tells me she used to read it—"

"—in The Oregonian."

Tricia nodded.

"And she's coming to dinner." Taylor paced. "I need a drink."

"You don't drink."

"I could start." Taylor held his breath. "She can't come here."

"Why, because she reminds you of someone?"

Taylor stopped pacing and stared at Tricia.

"Tell me who." She returned the glare.

Five books on the fireplace mantel leaning to the left suddenly grabbed Taylor's attention, and he strode over and straightened them up.

"You might as well get it over with. I already know who anyway. As if I couldn't figure it out with my own eyes."

"Fine! She reminds me of Annie, okay? She looks enough like her to be Annie's twin. I'm sure you noticed. Do you feel better now that you dragged it out of me?" His back was to Tricia.

"Yes, I do."

Turning toward her, he puffed out a disgusted breath and shook his head. "I really don't need her here, reminding me of Annie with that little hair flipping thing she does, talking like Annie, looking like Annie. We'll end up talking about Annie with this Banister woman—"

"What's wrong with talking about Annie?"

Taylor flopped down in his leather recliner. "I'm tired of talking about Annie. It seems like the only thing we talk about these days."

Tricia swiveled to face Taylor, hands on hips and—she hoped—lightning coming out of her eyes. "Knock it off. Annie's name has come up once, maybe twice in the past three weeks. Before that, never. Not since it happened."

Taylor folded his arms, snorted, and stared at the beige carpet. "Her dying was the most painful experience of my life. I would think you could—"

"She brightened a lot of people's lives in this town, not just yours. Why can't you share memories of this person with her friends who are still alive?"

The question hung in the room like a spotlight. She folded her arms and waited. Taylor blew out a long breath and locked eyes with her but said nothing. Finally he grabbed the remote and flicked on the television.

She'd never pressed him. Annie was the love of his life, and her death was tragic, but it was thirty-three years ago. After they'd first married, Tricia had tried to talk about Annie, but he always shut her down immediately. Once he'd hinted at why he wouldn't talk about it, something about "the power and horror of choice," but he'd refused to say more than that ever since.

When Taylor and she had started dating five years ago, Tricia only saw the charismatic charmer she'd known since they were children. The darker side didn't emerge till they'd been married half a year. Dark? No, that was the wrong word. Better described as a shadow that often hung over him; a cloud that appeared without warning, then left again just as suddenly. A gray streaked fog that had appeared with surprising frequency ever since Cameron showed up.

And had turned into a storm cloud when Ann Banister arrived in town.

Ann stepped onto the porch of the Stone's home at six o'clock sharp and rang the bell. The scent of roses from a bush on either side of the door filled the air. Next to that was a hand-painted sign—from the artists-under-seven set by the look of it—which said Welcome to My Grampa and Gramma's House.

"Good to see you, Ann." Tricia welcomed Ann and motioned her inside with swift hand gestures.

After Tricia took her coat and they had a bit of prerequisite small talk, Tricia called out for Taylor to join them. "Our guest is here, the rest of your article for Fish Fly can wait."

"In a minute," came a muffled reply somewhere toward the back of the house.

"He still writes?"

"Not much for publication. Just for a few fly-fishing magazines, a couple of Web sites, and a couple of blogs."

Taylor stepped into the living room and held out his hand. "It's a pleasure, Ms. Banister."

"No, the pleasure is mine, Mr. Stone." Ann glanced around the room. "You have a lovely home."

Taylor gave a razor-thin smile. "I see you have your manners. I can certainly appreciate it, even if the house isn't that impressive. I'm sure it's nowhere close to a big-shot TV host's home."

"I never say anything unless I mean it." Ann's eyes locked on to Taylor's.

His face stayed sullen, but his eyes twinkled for a moment as he moved his head a millimeter to the side.

Tricia cleared her throat. "If you'd like to take a seat, dinner is ready."

Ann settled into her chair, but Taylor stood and watched Tricia waltz into the kitchen. He glanced at her and his face reddened. Embarrassment? That didn't make sense. Fear? No, it looked closer to shame. Before Ann could decide, he excused himself, walked out of the room, and didn't come back till after Tricia returned with a plate piled with chicken dijon.

"So, do you like being a celebrity?" Tricia sat and spread her napkin on her lap.

"I am so not a celebrity." Ann laughed and as she did, Taylor blinked as if he'd been shocked.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Muscle spasm. Fine." Taylor patted his chest.

Taylor sat on her right, Tricia on her left. The hidden looks Tricia kept giving Taylor weren't well concealed. She was obviously concerned about something going on in her husband's head. And it was evident the something had to do with Ann. His strange behavior was definitely an interesting little subplot to add to Cameron's quest.

"I read your columns in The Oregonian growing up, and now you're writing for fly-fishing magazines?" Ann said. "Is fishing a hobby of yours?"

Taylor answered by springing from his chair and trotting over to the built-in oak bookshelves next to the fireplace. He returned with a large blue photo album and flipped it open on the table next to Ann. The pages were filled with pictures of Taylor fly-fishing, captions underneath with dates scrawled in a blue pen, and the names of at least forty different rivers throughout the western part of the United States.

As Ann flipped through the pictures, Taylor asked, "Why didn't you take the NBC job when they offered to buy out your contract? I know your show is national, but NBC had to be offering you more money than you're making now."

Ann looked up in surprise. "Wow, you really did do some research on me."

"I've been a newspaper man for thirty years. It's hard to get it out of the system, you know?" Taylor filled up Ann's water glass.

"I think success should be measured in wealth of friendships, not things. And I wanted to keep my portfolio intact as much as possible."

Tricia answered with a smile and a nod. Taylor didn't respond.

For a few minutes the only sound was the clink of forks and knives.

"So you're in Three Peaks to help Cameron look into the Book of God legend?" Taylor finally asked.

"Book of Days." Ann took a bite of salad and turned to Tricia. "That is excellent. The walnuts make it, don't you think?" She turned back to Taylor. "You didn't come to Jason's reception, obviously."

"We had to leave early," Taylor said.

"I'm mainly here on a personal matter, and I'm giving Cameron a little bit of help when I can."

"So do you think it exists? The book?" Tricia asked.

"Well—"

"Let's jump off before we go too far down this track. Talking about that book is a complete waste of conversation." Taylor folded his arms across his chest.

"I thought you just asked what she thinks about the book—"

"No, I asked her why she was in Three Peaks, not what—"

"Let the girl speak." Tricia gave Taylor a light smack on his wrist.

Ann pushed a piece of asparagus across her plate. "No, I don't think there's any chance that something like that could be real."

"Finally. Maybe you can talk some sense into the kid."

"I'm trying, Taylor." She smiled.

Tricia excused herself to get dessert and Ann got up to help clear off the table. Both Taylor and Tricia protested, but Ann carried the dishes into the kitchen anyway.

As she made her way back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, Ann considered Taylor's neonlike reactions to her. Tricia was right; Ann certainly made him feel uncomfortable, but why? She couldn't come right out and ask him, and he wasn't giving away any clues. And his odd responses to the subject of the Book of Days? As Cam suspected, Taylor was undoubtedly involved. How deep wasn't easy to guess. At least not yet.

Dessert was chocolate torte, served along with decaf coffee and French vanilla creamer. Ann struggled to eat it slowly. It slid down her throat like edible silk. Chocolate was her bane but at the same time a tremendous motivator for rock climbing to torch the unwanted calories. As long as you lived long enough to climb again.

After they finished, Tricia asked about Ann's personal reason for being in Three Peaks.

"I lived in foster homes from the time I was a kid till I went off to college. My mom abandoned me when I was eleven, and I didn't want to know anything about her." Ann sipped her coffee. "And I didn't care about where I'd come from."

"But something changed your mind?"

"Three months ago I moved from my apartment into a house. The last box I unpacked was covered with silver duct tape so old it was brittle. As I yanked open the box, I realized I hadn't seen what was inside since I was eleven. Books. All my books from childhood, full of the worlds I escaped into when I was a kid. Pippi Longstocking, Anne of Green Gables—who I've always imagined I was named after—Judy Blume's stories . . . I sat for three hours taking lap after lap around memory lane. The last book I opened—Treasure Island—was one I never read. I was a bit too young for it, I suppose. As I leafed through its pages, a picture fluttered to the hardwood floor and landed facedown.

"The back had my mom's name written on it and the date the photo was taken. I turned it over and looked at the only picture I have of my mom from when she was a kid." Ann swallowed and stared at her plate. "It's the only shot I have of her period."

"You decided it was time to find out where you came from."

Ann nodded at Tricia and took another sip of coffee.

"And that picture led you here?" Tricia said.

"Yes, and I think this picture is worth one-hundred-thousand words. If only I could get it to talk."

"What do you mean?"

"I think I know where the picture was taken, but I have no idea who the other kids in the photo are. I would love to find out. Because they might still be alive and they could tell me who my mom was and where she came from."

"Did you bring it with you?"

Ann excused herself to get the photo from her purse. This was it. Time to see if her intuition had been sending her right signals when it told her to get the photo in front of Tricia and Taylor.

She eased back into her chair. It felt like she was stepping onto a six-inch ledge five-hundred feet above the ground.

Ann slid the facedown picture into the center of the table and flipped it over.

An instant later Taylor's fork slipped from his hand and clanged onto his dessert plate.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening, Tricia." Ann stood on the porch and zipped up her Windbreaker more out of habit than need. The temperature felt like it was still in the upper sixties at least.

"Would you like to take a little stroll together? We could take in some of the night air." Tricia leaned in like a seventh grader about to describe which boy at school she had a crush on.

"Sure, I'd love to." Ann breathed in the pine-scented evening air and held it. Portland beat every other place on earth when the sun shone, but she was beginning to think Three Peaks was a close second.

"I'm sorry once again for Taylor traipsing off into his writing room right in the middle of dessert. I don't know what got into him."

"I upset him; I'm sorry."

Tricia stifled a tiny laugh. "Yes, I think you did, most of the evening." She leaned toward Ann. "I loved it."

"Do you mind me asking, does Taylor always drop his fork when thirtysomething women show old photos from when their moms were kids?"

Tricia shook her head and smiled. "That reaction convinced me of something I've suspected since the moment I first saw you."

"And that is?"

"I wonder if people get tired of me saying, 'I think Taylor better tell you more about that'?"

"Without question."

She laughed and Tricia joined in.

They walked in silence, in a warm kind of comfort. Was this what it felt like to take a late evening walk with a mother who cared about you?

"So tell me about Taylor and the Book of Days," Ann said after they'd strolled another block down the street.

"He's always felt the same way about it as you do. That it's nothing worth spending a breath on. At least that's what he's always said."

"What do you think?"

"I'll tell you what I told Cameron. My husband's been acting strange ever since the two of you came into town."

"Cameron thinks whatever the Book of Days' story is, Taylor holds the key."

"I sure hope the two of you feel that way." Tricia's smile almost turned to laughter. "If you hadn't figured that out, I'd have worried you weren't as bright as I thought."

CHAPTER 31

Two Years, Six Months Earlier

Cameron's Christmas present to Jessie that year had been a trip to Disneyland with another couple. All four had gone nonstop from the time the gates opened each morning till the fireworks of brilliant greens, blues, and reds exploded over Cinderella's castle each night. The lines were long but they worked their Fast Passes with precision, and by the end of third day, they were all wiped out but basked in the fun of being kids again.

"Great memories," one of the men said as they strolled toward Disneyland's Main Street on their way back to the hotel.

"I'll never forget this trip," his wife added.

"But we won't remember every moment of our lives, will we?" Jessie asked.

"Not all. We'll cut out the boring parts, but we'll definitely remember the highlights," Cameron said.

"So where do our memories go when we forget them or . . . when we die?"

"Oh boy," chimed in the other man. "Look out, Jessie's going deep again."

Cameron's smile faded. He'd said almost the same words to his dad the last time he saw him six years earlier.

"Where do the memories go?" the wife of the other couple said. "I thought everyone knew they went to Tasmania."

The other couple laughed. Cameron didn't and stopped walking.

Jessie stopped as well, but the other couple kept moseying along, plunking blue cotton candy into their mouths.

"Are you all right?"

"Great." She forced a smile and bonked Cameron on the head with her Mickey Mouse balloon.

"Wow, I like that, keep doing it please."

Jessie slumped onto a bench, a statue of Walt a few yards behind her, and Cameron slid down beside her and wrapped her in his arms.

"What's going on? Are you bummed because Pirates was shut down this trip?"

"I'm fine, Cam, really."

"And I'm Goofy, really."

She pulled her Mickey balloon into her chest. "Maybe God writes our memories down, hmm?"

As Cameron crossed his leg, the loss of his father welled up in his heart. Yeah it would be wonderful if God did.

He missed his dad so much. His laugh, his kindness, his quirky sense of humor. Where were his dad's memories? When he was losing his mind, did the memories float into nothingness, or were they stored somewhere for eternity?

Cameron hadn't thought about his last conversation with his dad in months, maybe a year. A book with all days in it. He sighed. If only it were true.

A hundred years from now, even fifty, would anyone remember his dad answering his phone at home with "Joe's Bar and Grill, Joe speaking"?

Would they remember the swimming contest he had with his best friend's son in the community park? Would they recall the banner hanging over the pool that said, Old Age and Wisdom Beats Youth and Hair Every Time?

"Sitting in this park where make-believe comes true, you could almost convince me your God does exactly that. I wish He did."

Jessie turned and looked over his shoulder toward the lights of Space Mountain. "What if it's true? What if it could be more than a wish? What if He does write down what happens in our lives, in everyone's life?"

"Like some cosmic high-school yearbook put together by the supreme being of the universe?"

"Something like that." She turned away.

Cameron shook his head and gave what he imagined was a melancholy smile. Jessie sure could stretch her imagination beyond the confines of normal human cogitation. "I love your insanity. One of the countless reasons I'll love you for eternity."

He watched the back of her head, the breeze making her hair wave like ribbons, waiting for her to look up at him.

"Baby?" Cameron reached out and touched her elbow.

Still no turn back.

"What is it?" He shifted till he saw her face. A pair of tears wound their way down her tanned cheeks. "Talk to me."

"Life is so short."

"Not for us. Twenty-eight now means you're stuck with me for a least another fifty years. Maybe sixty."

"So short."

Her hands were cold as he took them.

"Why are you saying that?"

"I'm okay, really." Smiling, she took his hands and placed them on her cheeks. "I'll tell you later, okay?"

"How about telling me now?"

She stood and offered her hand. Cameron took it, raised her long fingers to his lips, and kissed them.

"Just promise me you'll remember this conversation, okay?"

"I will. Always and forever."

CHAPTER 32

Cameron sat in Java Jump Start on Saturday morning tapping his foot in double-time waiting for Ann to arrive, wishing for a better camera than the one on his cell phone. One iPhone with a two-year contract? $99. A Three Peaks white chocolate mocha? $3.75. The look on Ann's face when he told her what he'd found? Priceless.

He sipped his drink and skimmed a brochure on white-water river rafting and another one on joining Broken Top, apparently one of the premier private golf courses in the area.

Where was she?

He glanced at his watch again.

Five minutes later Ann walked in with a knowing smile. She winked at him and ordered what sounded like an extra hot caramel macchiato.

After getting her drink, she slid into the dark brown chair next to Cameron. "I had a riveting dinner last night with Taylor and Tricia Stone."

"And I had a fascinating search party with Arnold Peasley." He toasted her with his cup. "Do you want to go first?"

"Sure, even though I can tell you're about ready to explode."

"Guilty as charged. But I promise to contain myself."

"I'll give you the headlines. First, Tricia confirmed that Taylor definitely knows more than he's telling about the Book of Days, and second, when I showed them my mom's photo, Taylor just about had a heart attack. He actually got up and left the room right after I pulled out the picture. I asked Tricia about it, and she said me describing that photo convinced her of something she suspected from the moment she first saw me."

"That's it?"

Ann flicked him on the forehead with her ring finger.

"Hey, that hurts!"

"Good." Ann took a drink of her caramel macchiato. "What do you mean 'that's it?'"

"I was trying to be funny."

Ann gave him a plastic smile.

"You want to hear about my visit with Arnold?" He folded his hands and leaned forward on the table.

She nodded.

"We didn't do any digging."

"You mean he wouldn't let you look, or he didn't have any papers from the sixties?"

"I mean, we didn't have to do any digging. Not only did he have the papers, old Pease went right to the three papers in question so quick I think he should rename himself Dewey."

"What?"

"Dewey Decimal, don't you remember that from library when you were a kid?"

"You're getting off track, Cameron. Tell me what you found."

"Right, we were talking about . . ." His mind went blank. Was it libraries? Why would he and Ann be talking about libraries? He took a long drink of his white chocolate mocha as the bowling ball returned to his gut. It was a nice slice of pop psychology to tell himself not to worry about the future because life could end at any time. But it didn't work so well when the loss of his mind made living in the present a nightmare.

He grabbed the edge of the table. Tight. Maybe it was time to see a doctor. Find out if his memories were disappearing because of stress or because his mind was truly—

"Do you want me to insert a drum roll here?" Ann said. "Are you thinking drawing out the suspense will make it more exciting when you tell me?"

Think! He was telling her about . . . basketball? No, was it? Someone who used to play . . . Peasley! Arnold's newspapers. Yes. The article from the sixties.

"Are you sweating?"

He wiped his forehead with a napkin and tried to smile. "Coffee that's too hot always does that to me."

"So are you going to tell me about what you found?"

Yes, he would tell her. And she would know about her history. And then they would find the book. His memories would return and his mind would be healed. Now snap out of it. Focus on Ann. Upbeat. This will rock her world.

"Are all four legs of your chair securely on the floor?"

"You think this is going to knock me over?"

"It might." He leaned in on his elbows. "Thanks to Arnold, I know who your mother was, who your grandmother was, along with a few of your other relatives."

"Are you kidding?"

"You ready for this?"

"Tell me!" Ann punched Cameron in the arm.

"Your mom's maiden name was Coffee, spelled just like the drink, right?"

"Right."

He waited for her to react but Ann sat with eyebrows raised, as if asking why this was a revelation.

"I don't hear any bells going off yet."

"And your grandmother was named Josephine. Last name Coffee."

"Okay." Ann still didn't react. The anticipation on her face remained.

Was she in shock or not surprised? How could she not be surprised?

"You're acting like this should mean something to me."

"Don't you get it? Coffee."

Ann held her hands wide with a bewildered look on her face. "I'm sorry; I'm still missing a piece of the puzzle."

"Annie's maiden name was Coffee."

"Taylor's Annie?" Ann's face went white and she covered her eyes. "Oh my gosh. Are you saying . . . Annie is my aunt?" She said it half as a statement, half as a question. "She was my mom's sister."

"Yes."

"That means . . . Taylor Stone is . . . my—" Cameron nodded as Ann fell back in her chair and clunked her drink to the faux marble table. "He's my uncle."

"Yes, he is. Uncle. Or uncle-in-law. Does he stay your uncle even though Annie isn't living?"

"Unbelievable." She put her face in her hands. "Taylor Stone is my uncle."

"Looks that way."

Ann slumped further down in her chair as her arms fell to her side. "Wow. That's about as weird as you can get." She let out a long, low whistle. "How did you figure it out?"

Cameron pulled a copy of the Post from 1963 out of his briefcase and slid it in front of Ann. On the front page was the same picture of her mom she'd showed Cameron three days earlier. The caption read, Summer in Three Peaks Always Means Kids and Swimming.

Ann snatched up the paper and skimmed the story. "Swimming spot . . . rope swing . . . where the kids . . . Jennifer and Annie Coffee, Jason Judah, and Taylor Stone enjoyed an adventure together on . . . Oh my." The paper fluttered out of Ann's hand.

She looked up at him, eyes wide. "I should have seen it. Maybe Taylor did. Maybe he's known about me my whole life."

"I don't think so. I watched him when you came onstage at Jason's reception. He looked like he'd seen a ghost, not a long-lost relative. And I think I know why."

"Tell me."

"This is the part I'm glad you're sitting down for. And the reason Taylor reacted like he did. Ready?"

Ann nodded once, her eyes riveted on his.

"Take a look at this." He held out another yellowed newspaper.

She reached out her hand but Cameron didn't hand it to her. "It would be easier to look at it if you gave it to me."

"Just making sure you're ready."

"I told you, I'm ready."

"This is a picture printed in the Post a few years later."

Ann squirmed in her chair and stared at Cameron, anticipation spread over his face. "Will this freak me out?"

"Maybe. It might be a bit of a shock, but you need to see this."

Ann looked down at the picture and her pulse spiked. It was a wedding announcement and a photo of the couple about to be married. Her head instantly felt like she'd taken a huge bite of Thai food with five-star seasoning.

She was looking at a picture of herself standing next to Taylor Stone.

"How in the world did they . . . ? It's me. Why would someone—?"

"No, it's a picture of Annie."

Ann pulled the newspaper closer and rubbed the grainy photo with her finger. "I can't believe . . . this is too strange . . ." She trailed off not knowing what to say.

"Explains a lot, doesn't it?"

Ann nodded, not sure she could trust her voice.

"When Taylor first saw you it was like seeing Annie, as if she'd come back from the dead."

"But why wouldn't he come talk to me about it? Meet me, tell me who I looked like?"

"I don't know."

"It makes no sense, Cameron. When I showed him the photo at dinner, why didn't he tell me who I was and who my mom was?"

"Excellent questions." He shook his head and shrugged.

Ann set the paper down and scooted back from the table, the legs of her chair sending out a screech like a wild falcon. "I've got to talk to Taylor."

She stood and stared at Cameron. "I've gotta talk to him right now."

CHAPTER 33

Ann wasn't sure if she should have come. Yes she was. Without question she needed to have this conversation.

She trudged over Creek Bank Park's lush green lawn, only sporadic russet strips showing where the sprinklers apparently hadn't reached with enough water. Tricia had said he'd be here; it was one of his thinking spots.

How should she open a conversation like the one she was about to have? Hi, Taylor, just thought I'd let you know I'm your long-lost niece. Would you like to catch up on the past thirty-two years?

Given Taylor's reactions to her so far, he might refuse to talk at all. She stopped and once more considered returning to her car and driving away. Finally she plodded on, scanning the park for her . . . for Taylor.

As she came around from behind a large spruce tree, she spotted him. He stood on a deck that hung over the Metolius River like the lady on the prow of a ship. A continual bath of spray misted the beams supporting the deck every few minutes from the small waterfall just beyond it, making it look like he and the deck rested on wispy clouds.

Ann watched him for a few minutes before wandering close enough for her cleared throat to be heard over the rush of the river. He turned.

As she approached, he lifted his Oregon Duck's hat off his head, placed it on his chest, and gave a slight bow. "Have you come for a time of potentially awkward conversation? If so, I think I can help."

"Is that your way of saying 'I wish you weren't here, but since you are, I'll at least be civil toward you'?"

"Blunt today, aren't we, Ms. Banister?"

"As with most days. I apologize."

"No, it's refreshing."

Ann waited till Taylor gave the invitation she suspected would come. "Why don't we stroll the perimeter of the park, and we can chat without having to look at each other every moment."

"That sounds good."

Taylor turned slightly as they strolled down the gray gravel path. "It's actually a welcome surprise to see you."

"Really?" Ann said as she crunched along next to him. "I wasn't sure how you felt about me."

"Why is that?"

"Are you kidding? Let's just say I felt more welcomed by your other half last night. And the dancing fork bit, and the subsequent vanishing act made me think—"

"That's one of the reasons I'm glad to see you. I've been thinking we could use some time to make the air between us a mite clearer."

"Good, there are a number of things I want to talk to you about."

"Do I get to see the list?"

They sauntered down the path that ran along the riverbank to their left.

Taylor Stone had charm and wit, but she guessed there was a sadness that came out when the doors were shut and the lights dimmed to black. She saw it in his eyes when he laughed.

She'd always been good at seeing the story behind the story, the mark of a good investigative reporter and television host. If she was right in this case, Taylor had a story going on so deep, she wouldn't be surprised to find Jules Verne at the bottom of it.

"Since you inspired the creation of the list, of course you get to see it. And don't worry, it's short. Only three items."

Taylor looked at her with one eyebrow raised and one eye closed.

"That's a good look."

"Thanks. I've done it since high school. Some people seem to think it's wearing thin." Taylor put his baseball hat back on and pulled it back so most of his forehead showed. "The three items?"

"First is the reaction you had when you saw me at Jason's reception."

"You didn't buy the stomach-cramps scenario?"

"Second is the Frosty the Snowman reception I received at dinner—"

"I was a little cold, you're right. But during the time I showed you my fly-fishing journal, I warmed up to a nice temperature."

"I agree."

"And the third?"

"Your dinner fork."

"Yes, that." Taylor turned and looked at her without expression. But something in his eyes moved, maybe it was behind his eyes. She'd read somewhere that the eyes were the window to the soul, and in Taylor's case at least, it was true. He was a man who wanted to talk and wanted to stay quiet in equal measure.

"Can we talk about it?"

The firm shake of his head said no, but after thirty seconds with no sound but the crunch of their shoes on the path, he apparently changed his mind.

"Yes, let's talk. But instead of me telling you why I did those things, why don't you tell me. I have a feeling you already know the answer."

"In other words, you've figured out who I am," Ann said.

"I suspected immediately." He coughed. "The moment I saw you on that stage."

"I didn't figure it out till this morning."

Taylor nodded, stared at the path in front of them, and kept walking.

Ann had expected some kind of reaction. Certainly more than nothing. It was her turn to punch the mute button on the conversation. Did Taylor want to ignore it? She looked back expecting to see a pink elephant stomping along behind them. What was the best way to bring the animal to front and center? She was glad walking down the path gave her an excuse to keep looking straight ahead.

After another minute she said, "If you know who I am, why have you been pushing me away? What is it about me you dislike so much?"

Taylor sucked in quick breath. "Ann," he started to say, and then stopped to snatch a gnarled pine branch off the ground and turn it into an impromptu walking stick. "Don't think that even for a second. I do like you, very much. It has nothing to do with you.

"But . . . seeing you stirs up a number of memories I'd rather not deal . . . I'd rather not think about. It's God's way of rubbing my nose in the past, not letting me forget my sin, poking me in the spot where it hurts most."

They continued strolling through the park in silence, Ann wanting to know so much but not wanting to press into Taylor's pain without invitation.

They continued, the scuffing of their shoes on the path the only thing breaking the silence.

"Ask me what you want to know, and I'll tell you," Taylor said a few minutes later.

"Why did my mom leave Three Peaks?"

Taylor sighed again, stopped walking, and turned to Ann. His face was white and he swallowed like someone who was choking. "Years ago I made a horrible choice, and because of it someone died."

"Annie."

Taylor nodded and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Your mom left town—angry at me, angry at herself, angry at the world. I decided to stay. I wrote to Jennifer five times during the next three years begging for her forgiveness, but she never wrote back."

Taylor took three long breaths.

"I never heard from her again. I'm not sure what I would have said if she had responded. I didn't know if she got married, had children . . . There were times when I almost got in the car and drove up to her last known address. Finally I gave up. It would only bring the memory back on both of us."

Ann drew a finger across her mouth. "Why did she become a drug addict?"

"The pain. A way to deal with it."

Pain? It was the only legacy her mom had left. Ann shook her head. But she was still her mom. Ann couldn't stop from asking the question. "Will you tell me about my mom?"

"What do you want to know?"

Was it possible to loathe someone and love them at the same time? "Everything."

"She was quiet. With one or two friends she talked with such intensity, but in public she was shy." A sad smile appeared on his face. "She was a natural athlete but preferred reading and learning to playing sports. As you might imagine she was smart, straight A's all through school."

Like mother like daughter. "What else?"

"Jennifer had a dry sense of humor. And she was very loyal."

"Loyal? To whom? She must have lost it on the drive up to Washington, because I never saw it."

"I'm sorry." Taylor shoved his hands into his coat pockets.

"She worked two jobs. Not to feed me. To feed her heroin habit."

Taylor's shoulders slumped and he let out a long sigh. "I didn't know."

"One day she shot up too much and never came home. That was her loyalty to me."

"I'm sorry, Ann. So sorry."

They tramped on, their shoes scrunching into the gravel in the same cadence.

"Have you forgiven her?"

Ann shook her head. She didn't trust her voice.

"Whether she was able to tell you or not, the Jennifer I knew would have loved you. Deeply. She always talked about wanting kids."

Ann rubbed her forearms with both hands. "Then why didn't she ever show it?"

"When Annie died it changed her. It changed me too."

Ann rubbed her hands across her cheeks. "I'm named after Annie, you know."

"Yes, of course."

"So seeing Annie in me is both wonderful and painful at the same time?" A tinge of warmth crept into Ann's face.

Taylor nodded. "Precisely."

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No." Taylor dug a hole in the gravel with the toe of his leather boot. "Of course not. God is in this. At least I know that in my head, if not my heart."

Taylor started walking again and kicked a pinecone off the path, then turned to Ann. "I need to talk about something different now. It will take a while to stuff my insides back into my chest cavity, and I don't want Tricia to see me this way."

"I understand." Ann smiled.

"Tell me about Cameron. Do you like him?"

"Are you playing Yente?"

"Who?"

"Yente from Fiddler on the Roof. Supposedly it's an old classic. I had a boyfriend in high school who made me watch it three times."

Taylor smiled. "I agree on your definition of it being a classic, but old? I was nineteen when that movie came out. So are you saying I'm old?"

"Yes. Ancient."

Taylor burst into laughter, and the mood around the man changed in an instant. "While I appreciate the humor, that doesn't excuse you from telling me about Mr. Vaux."

"He's complicated."

"All compelling men are. Are you interested in him?"

"I've loved him for seven years." Ann's face grew hot in an instant. What was she thinking? Why did she confess that? Were her emotions that close to the surface? Ugh. She needed to keep a tighter rein on them. Bury them. Treat her interactions with Cameron more businesslike. Cool, calm, collected. Please.

"Ah, I see. Don't worry; I'll keep that information to myself."

"Thanks."

"What do you see as his complications?"

"Two things. First, he doesn't follow Jesus—"

"Which is why you can't do anything about your feelings."

Ann nodded.

"And second?"

"Even if he were a Christian, he wouldn't be ready for a relationship. He wears a band of pain around his neck." She glanced at Taylor. "The same band you wear."

"Really? Which one is that?"

"One of hanging on to a past love, not able to let go of her, and letting the burden of carrying that weight affect everyone around him."

"You're doing the blunt thing to me again."

"I'm sorry, would you like me to stop?"

Taylor shook his head. "No, it reminds me of someone I knew a long time ago."

By the time they finished their third lap around the park, Ann had fallen for Taylor Stone. Would her sentiment ever be returned? Even if he wasn't a blood relative, he was her uncle; he was family.

The only family she had.

Over time he could tell her more and more about her mom, and in time she might be able to listen. But forgive? She pushed the question out of her mind.

Ann leaned into Taylor and he gave her a quick sideways squeeze. It was enough. Ann didn't care what he knew or didn't know about the Book of Days. She just hoped she'd found a friend.

CHAPTER 34

Two Years, One Month Earlier

Cameron was in the middle of voicing a corporate video for Wiley's Water Ski Shop when his cell phone rang.

Great. And the take had been perfect so far. He needed to remember to put his cell on mute when he was cutting tracks. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's me."

"Hi, babe. Love you. What's up?"

"Can you talk?" Jessie said.

Cameron glanced at Brandon sitting in the booth drumming his fingers on the mixing board. He pointed at his watch and then made a motion like he was handing out dollar bills.

"Not really, I forgot to shut my phone off. We're in the middle of recording a voice-over and this studio isn't cheap. Someday we'll get our own—"

"No problem. I'll talk to—"

"Wait, Jess." Something in her voice said it was important. "Talk to me." He held up his forefinger to Brandon as if to say "one minute."

"I want us to go to Oregon."

"Uh, we've been to Oregon, honey. Remember the coast last summer?"

"Soon, we need to go again soon."

"Sorry to repeat myself, but we've been there. You okay?"

"Central Oregon. We've never been there together."

"Can we talk about this when I get home?"

"I'm sorry, Cam. I know you're in the middle of work. It's bad timing on my part, but it's time to go."

"Why?"

"We need to look for something, find something there."

"What?"

"Something I saw when I was a kid."

"What? The thing you saw when you were ten? That thing?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"To see if it's real."

"If what is real?"

"I can't tell you over the phone."

"You took trips there when you were a kid, right? Girl Scouts?"

"Yes."

"Why the sudden interest in going back?"

"I'll explain when we get there."

"Yeah, but what is the something?"

"I told you, I can't tell you."

"Listen Jess, I'm not tracking. I'm in the middle of this VO. Can we yak about this when I get home tonight? I mean, we can go there if you want, but I gotta get this thing done, all right?"

"Sure."

"Okay, love. See you then."

When he'd gotten home that evening, Jessie was asleep and she didn't bring it up in the morning. He didn't either and the conversation faded from memory.

Cameron stood with Ann on Sunday morning at the base of a 5.10 climb, fear pinging around his stomach like a gyroscope. "Are you sure you're up for this?"

Ann nodded but didn't look at him. She'd been cool the entire drive to the climb site, responding to him with one-word answers, her head turned toward the passenger side window.

So much for the thawed-out Ann he'd enjoyed the past few days. The Ice Queen returneth.

He stared at their climbing gear laid out in front of them. They'd checked and double-checked to make sure they had a full climbing rack of carabineers, nuts, cams, and quick-draws as if that could make the fright of the last climb fade away.

The accident three days earlier had shaken both of them. But the longer they waited to get back on a cliff the more doubt would grow in the fertile soil of fear.

Ann took a deep breath. "Do what you fear most and you conquer fear."

"You believe that?"

"No, but it's one of my favorite clichés anyway." Ann frowned and jiggled her hands up and down as if she held a set of reins. "And I do know we need to get back on this beast."

Cameron nodded. "Okay, let's ride. It's the perfect way to kick off the first day of August."

Two hours later he sat next to Ann on a ridge 350 feet above the ground, the rush of the climb seeping out of him, replaced by a deep sense of satisfaction.

He stole glances at Ann as the sunlight danced on her skin. She was gorgeous. And intelligent. Intriguing in ways so different from Jessie. Tricia's words floated back to him:

"If you knew you were dying and Jessie would live many years beyond you, would you want her to live her life alone, hanging on to the cloud of your death and your memory? Or would you want her to be happy?"

The problem was Ann didn't care for him. Yes, she'd warmed up for a few days from "I despise you" to "I think I could almost be friends with you," now today back to "I'll tolerate you." Not a great romantic foundation. Plus why would she want to be with a man losing his mind? And finally, while Tricia might be right, he couldn't—he wouldn't—let his heart turn from Jessie to anyone else. He needed to get back to reality.

"We make a decent team," Ann said.

"What?"

"We climb well together."

"I agree."

Ann cleared her throat and ran her fingers through her hair. Then swallowed. Twice. "Will you ever be ready to give love another chance?"

"You mean date again?"

"I mean fall in love again."

He stared at a prairie falcon circling above them and wished the pain of losing Jessie could soar away that easily.

"I always told Jessie I could never love anyone after her."

"What did she say?"

Cameron's mind buzzed. He remembered talking to Jessie about this. Didn't he? When was it? Years ago. She'd said something strange, as if she knew she would die before him. Think. Did they talk about it, or did he only dream it? He needed the book. Please be real. Please.

"Cam?"

"Right here."

"I thought I lost you. I called your name twice." Ann tapped the top of his climbing shoe with the sole of hers.

"Sorry, I think Jessie and I talked about this. I was just trying to remember what she said." He looked down at the slight tear in his climbing shorts. Like the tear in his mind. "I'm guessing she said I'd love again."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Will you?"

He tried to drag the memory out of the corner of his mind. Where did Jessie and he have that talk? "Will I what?"

"Are you with me here? Do you think you'll ever love anyone else again?"

"I can't get her out of my heart."

Ann sighed and pulled a climbing rope slowly through her palm. "I don't think you ever have to get her out of your heart, but what about getting her out of your head?"

"She's leaving my mind. Faster every day."

Ann put on her sunglasses. "Jessie will always have a place in your heart, but as long as you keep holding on to her in your mind, you'll never be fully open to anyone else who comes along. You have to let her go."

"I know, but I don't know how. It's not like a button I can push."

"All I'm saying is if the possibility of love is in front of you, you need to open yourself to see it. And holding on to Jessie too tightly is like walking around with blinders on."

Cameron didn't respond and a few minutes later Ann suggested they head back down. After the seconds hand on his watch whirled around ten times, they stood on red-brown earth. It had been an excellent climb, without anything of note happening except how seamlessly they worked together.

"Good climb. Good call on getting us back up there, H," he said. "Are you glad we did it?"

Ann didn't answer.

The falcon swept by overhead and screeched. Cameron cocked his thumb. "At least he agrees."

Again Ann didn't comment. She picked up one of their ropes and coiled it in swift, tight motions, tied it off, and tossed it toward the car almost violently. He walked over to her and bent down to grab another rope.

"You want some help?" Cameron slid his hand around the rope on top, but Ann yanked it away and walked toward the car, coiling it herself.

It was obvious the thaw on top of the mountain was temporary. And it was getting tiring having her travel back and forth from sun to snow.

"Did I do something? Taking a wild guess here, but I think you're ticked off at me."

"You're a genius. You should write a book on picking up on women's subtle emotional clues. Book sellers would catch on fire it'd sell so fast." She dumped the rope in the trunk and strode back toward him.

"And why are you upset with me?"

Ann shook her head as she marched past him.

"Come on. Are you going to let me know what I did, or are we going to have as quiet a ride back to town as we did on the way up here?"

"Do I really have to tell you?"

Yes, she did.

"I'm sorry. You're right. It's not your issue, it's mine. You haven't done anything wrong." She picked up her day pack, strode back to the car, slammed it into the trunk of his MINI Cooper, and ambled back toward him.

"Then what's the problem?"

Ann placed both hands on her hips, and her eyes drilled into him like a laser. "You really and truly don't understand what I was trying to say up there three-hundred feet over your head, do you? You didn't pick up on any clues as we sat looking out over the valley?"

Cameron squatted down and drew circles in the dirt with his forefinger. He had every excuse to say no. Her hints would have sailed over the head of a lot of guys. But deep down he knew. During the past week and a half, her eyes had been saying the same thing they'd said years ago when he first met Jessie and her. She liked him. Wanted to be with him. And then he'd chosen Jessie, and the light in Ann's eyes had gone out. Until now. "Yes, I knew what you were saying."

"But you just let me sail it out there, gave me no response . . . let me feel like a complete fool."

"I'm sorry, I'm just not ready to let go of Jessie."

"You need to consider something, Cameron Vaux."

He looked up.

"Do you think you're the only one who misses her? You're not the only one who lost someone two years ago. She was my best friend. The sister I never had." Ann kicked the ground. "At a certain point you have to get on with life."

"Before I get on with life, I have to know if there's going to be a life to get on with!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Cameron rolled his eyes.

"You know what I think? I think you're losing more than a few memories here and there, which all of us do. You've lost a lot. You're terrified this thing will accelerate into losing your mind completely. It's why you cling to the idea of this book, even though you know there's ninety-nine percent chance it's a farce. It's a way to avoid ever really looking reality in the eye."

Ann marched over to a pine tree, folded her arms, and leaned her shoulder against it, her back to Cameron.

"I'm not losing my mind!" Cameron flung his arms wide. "You have no way of understanding what I'm going through. Just because I'm not willing to tell you about all the demons I'm wrestling with, doesn't mean I'm not facing reality. And yes, the book gives me hope in the midst of the nightmare I've lived in since Jessie died—one that I'm living more vividly now than I ever have."

Ann whirled back to face him, her eyes full of fire.

"I know. You gave your heart away to Jessie and life stole her from you. So focusing on the book keeps you from the risk of giving your heart away again. Tell me, if you could do it all over again, would you have still loved her? Still swam in the beauty of that relationship?"

She strode over to him and popped his shoulders with her palms, making him stumble back two paces. "Climbing is life, Cameron. Figure it out. At a certain point you'll have to go beyond climbing 5.10s and risk climbing 5.11s, 12s, 13s. Whether it's with me or someone else."

"What are you saying?"

"Brilliant video producer dies because he can't see the picture right in front of him. Film at eleven." She turned and strode toward the car. "You know exactly what I'm saying."

Two emotions slammed into his heart at the same time. Betrayal, of Jessie; and his growing feelings for Ann. "I'm just not ready to go there with you, with anyone." He rubbed his head with both hands. "I can't—"

"Won't." Ann turned, strode to the car, yanked the door open, and got in.

He ground his teeth together. Nightmare. Wondrous. He couldn't tell which emotion was stronger.

Cameron glanced at Ann as they bumped along the road, his car throwing up clouds of fine brown dust behind him. Was she crying? He couldn't tell with her face turned toward the window. There was no manual in the glove compartment for this kind of problem.

What could he say? "Uh, I think maybe I could feel the same way about you. In fact I'm sure I do, but you're right about my mind. It feels like microscopic drops of acid are being dropped into my mind burning away my memories. And why would you ever want to be with a guy with that problem? And I'm not over Jessie, but I think maybe kinda sorta want to pursue a relationship with you." No, would not happen.

After riding in twenty minutes of silence, Cameron said, "I'm sorry, Ann, I—"

"Forget it. My fault." She turned and gave a big smile that didn't reach her eyes. "We're wrong for each other on so many levels. We couldn't ever be together. But I needed to get what I told you out in the open, but now that it is, I'm truly good. Trust me. You and I as friends is the way it's supposed to be, and it's the way we'll go forward from now on forever and ever, amen."

"What do you mean we couldn't ever be together?"

"You know why."

"Enlighten me."

"My whole life centers around Jesus."

"So."

"Yours doesn't at all. It's not exactly a match made in . . . you know."

Cameron rapped his fingers against his steering wheel. "It never was a problem for Jessie and me."

Ann arched an eyebrow and looked at him. "Oh, really?"

"Yes really. We worked through it."

"No you didn't. You worked through nothing." Ann pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "You never saw how much it ate at her, knowing she wouldn't see you in heaven."

"How do you know there is a heaven?"

"Don't change the subject, Cameron."

"How can you be so sure heaven is real?"

Ann's gaze bore into him. "How can you be sure it isn't?"

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Ann was right. Friends only would work. He'd make that work. For both of their sakes.

"So are we still on for tomorrow?" Cameron pulled into the parking lot of Ann's hotel and helped her carry her gear to the trunk of her Prius.

She shut the trunk and smiled. "Sure. I have a little more research to do today, and if I find what I'm looking for, tomorrow I'm going to blow your mind."

CHAPTER 35

Cameron sat in the corner of Java Jump Start just before ten on Monday morning, debating whether to order a third latte or go for straight black drip when the bells on the front door jangled. He looked up. Ann. She swept inside, stopped, and glanced to the left then the right.

When her eyes found him, the corners of her mouth turned up a millimeter. She waltzed toward him, as if she knew without a doubt he'd be sitting there ready to hear what she'd discovered.

She twirled in a tight circle and, while still two paces away, tossed a bundle of papers toward him, spinning them like a Frisbee.

"Hey!" Cameron lifted his coffee and leaned back as the package smacked onto the dark walnut table and slid to a stop with a third of the papers hanging off the edge.

"Time to connect the dots." Ann grinned at him, hands on hips, sunglasses dangling from a cord around her neck.

"Apparently you're providing the pencil?"

"I am, and the pencil is a number ten out of ten. I found what I was looking for. And you will like it. A lot." She bounced on the balls of her feet and rubbed her hands together like she was starting a fire.

He looked back and forth between her and the bundle. "You've found something."

"More than something." She plunked down into the seat next to him. "Open it."

He untied the twine holding the papers together and spread three pamphlets and ten or so pages of notes out on the table along with two maps—one of the world and one of the night sky. The world map was marked in seven spots with dots of red ink.

Leaning back in his chair he took a sip of his coffee and gave Ann a little smile. "We know the seven spots on this map are the only seven spots in the world where I'd find a certain kind of stone."

"Right."

He looked from the map of the world, to the map of the night sky, back to the map of the world. "Unbelievable." He rapped his knuckles on his forehead and grinned at Ann.

"What is?"

His hands shook as he drew lines between the dots.

"What's unbelievable?" she repeated.

He looked up and her eyes told him she already knew the answer. "That I didn't think about doing this earlier."

After he finished connecting all the dots, Cameron held up the map and studied the pattern.

"You've already done this exercise, haven't you?"

"Yes. But I thought you'd like the rush of doing it yourself." She smiled.

"Now we look for the constellation that matches the pattern of the stones."

"Go on."

"And once we figure out which constellation it matches, it gives a major clue as to where we're going to find the Book of Days."

"Congratulations, Cameron, you've just won the daily double."

He smiled and compared the pattern to the picture of the night sky. Five minutes later he looked at Ann. "I'm not seeing it."

She had a smug look on her face.

"You're already ahead of me on this, aren't you?"

"Miles."

"And you've enjoyed the last five minutes of me flaying about, yes?"

"Immensely."

"So now that the fun is over, you're going to tell me what you've known for the past twenty-four hours."

"Past fourteen." Ann slid an acetate drawing of the pattern of the stones and laid it over the map of the night sky. "Do you see the pattern of the stones matching any of the constellations?"

"No, that's what I'm saying. There's no match."

"So what's your next guess?"

"Maybe it's not a constellation. Maybe it's latitude and longitude, maybe—"

Ann shook her head. "No, I took three astronomy classes in college, I actually did okay in them and if you—"

"Great idea. I'm clueless when it comes to astronomy, but I have a friend at UW in the astronomy department. I can e-mail him this pattern. He'll probably get back to me within half a day with the possible constellations this pattern could represent. If he can't give us anything, we'll move on to the latitude-longitude theory." He kept his eyes riveted on the map.

"Cameron."

"Because it might even be a combination of constellations we're not seeing."

"Cameron."

"Have you tried—?"

He was interrupted by a rolled-up newspaper hitting him in the head.

"Ow!"

"You're making me feel like I'm in a Three Stooges movie. Didn't you hear me? Now be quiet and listen."

He rolled his eyes.

"Buddy, you roll your pupils at me again and I'll whack-smack you so hard, you won't remember tomorrow." Ann looked like she was trying to keep the grin off her face but failed.

Cameron gasped. The exact words Jessie used to use when they were bantering back and forth and she wanted to make a point stick. His stomach roiled. "I have to get out of here for a moment."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Where are you going, Cameron?"

"Be right back."

He walked down Main Street to the end of the block and stood staring at the summit of Broken Top, feeling like its jagged ridge was a picture of his mind. Maybe his heart as well. A heart in no condition to be opened up to anyone. But Ann was blowing up his steel-enforced walls with everything she said and did. He'd hardly slept last night as he wrestled his emotions for Ann into submission. Until a moment ago they'd laid dormant, but now they swam through his head like a school of maniac dolphins.

No. It wouldn't happen. He would reconstruct the walls. For Ann's sake. For Jessie's. He drilled his fingers into the back of his neck, trying to massage the ropes of tension into surrender.

He took two strides back toward Java Jump Start, then did a 360 and clipped back the way he had just come. A few seconds later he turned again. He clenched his jaw and marched toward the coffee shop. There was no debate. The argument was over.

By the time he got back to Java Jump Start, his walls were back in place and thicker than ever.

"Are you going to tell me what you know?" he said to Ann as soon as he plopped down beside her.

He couldn't decipher the look on her face. "Are you going to tell me why you left?"

"Can we get this thing done?"

She stared at him for a full ten seconds. "Sure." She scooted her chair closer to the table and leaned in. "No problem."

"Sorry."

"For what?"

"For being . . . for not . . ."

"Don't worry about it." She tapped the table with her pen. "Let me show you what I think. I was stumped for a while too because I assumed it would be one constellation. But it's more than one; it's a combination just like you guessed. Whoever put this mystery together apparently wants us to work a little harder, but not much. Do you want me to show you, or do you want to take another run at it?"

"Run." Cameron went back to work and within two minutes had the answer. "It's a combination of Vela and Pyxis."

"Yes."

"So now we figure out what these constellations have to do with the areas of the world where the stones are or what it has to do with the legend of the book, and we're on our way to discovering its resting place."

"Or it leads us to another part of an elaborate goose chase someone has cleverly devised that will never get us to the end of the rainbow."

"True believer, aren't you?" He smoothed out the map of the night sky. "Since you've had some time to think about this, what are your theories?"

Ann bobbed her head and smiled slightly. "Three ideas so far. One, of course is what you just said; that the pattern points us to Vela and Pyxis and something about those constellations is a clue. Two, it's a map or pattern you lay over each area where the rocks are found and it guides you somehow. Or three, and the most likely, it's the model of a four-dimensional portal we can build with cereal boxes and a roll of duct tape that will instantly transport us to the nearest Book of Days."

"Can we stay serious for a moment?"

Ann crossed a leg underneath her and leaned in. "If you're ready to get serious, I'm more than ready."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She waved her hand at the map, the papers, and the table. "Do I really have to convince you this whole thing is a hoax? Don't you know, right here?" Ann tapped his chest.

Cameron didn't answer.

"If you're excited about this connect-the-dots exercise because it means we're drilling down to the answers to an elaborate puzzle, great. If you think we're close to exposing a game that's been perpetuated on Three Peaks, fine. But that look in your eyes tells me you really and truly believe the book could exist."

"It could."

"How, Cameron?"

"Are the stones real?"

"Yes."

He raised his eyebrows, leaned back in his chair, and flipped open his palms. "Well?"

"Come on. I can show you evidence Kennedy was shot by seven men or the CIA or the Mafia, depending on what stack of facts I want to haul out. I can prove to you, not in theory but using photos and conversations and hardcore evidence, that we never landed on the moon."

"And your point is?"

Ann glared at him.

"Maybe you're right. But does it really matter? Say it's all faked. You're curious. I'm curious. It means we both want the same thing: to find out where this thing leads. It's a great story either way. And I have to hope this book is genuine."

"Why?"

He closed his eyes. "You know why."

"Why?"

"Can't you imagine for a moment it's real?"

"No." She took a sip of Cameron's coffee. "Did you see that movie The Game with Michael Douglas? It involved an elaborate setup that took him all over the globe hunting down clues and putting his brain through a psychological blender. Coincidences and patterns were in place that looked impossible for someone to have set up. Things were real and then they weren't, upside down, right side up."

"I saw the movie."

"Did you know it's based on real life? That there really is a 'game' where Mensa-level intellectuals race against each other? It's like a PhD-caliber scavenger hunt sponsored by guys like Bill Gates. Teams of four to six people get clues they have to solve leading them to the next clue. A lot of time the clues are so intricate and choreographed they're like small theatrical productions, with hired actors to pull it off."

"What are you driving at?"

"Someone has created an elaborate game out of this Book of Days legend. He's probably waited years for someone to discover it. And we're about to win. But we won't win the chance to see our past or our future. I think the only prize we'll get is the chance to say we figured out the clues and have some mysterious game architect pat us on the back."

"Taylor Stone's clues."

Ann nodded. "That's where I'd place my bet."

"So Taylor is the architect?"

Ann shrugged and raised her eyebrows.

"You're saying Taylor traipsed all over the globe planting rare rocks to concoct—?"

"No, I'm saying he searched until he found something unusual—those rocks—and tied it all together."

"Why take all the time and energy and money to concoct something like that?"

"I don't know, Cameron! Maybe he got bored. Let's just follow the bread crumbs. I don't believe—you do—but like you say, it doesn't matter." She grabbed her purse and stood. "Listen, I have to go."

"Go? Now? You can't go; we need to figure out what the constellations mean. Where do you have to go?"

"I have a massage appointment. I'll be back in an hour and a half max."

"Massage? How can you get a massage when we're in the middle of all this?"

"If I don't work out the kinks after rock climbing, I'm sore for days." Ann flipped her hair and laughed. "Plus massages make me more beautiful."

"You're already beau— I mean you look fine."

"Thank you." She smiled.

"When will you be back?"

She sniffed out a laugh. "I just told you, in an hour and a half or less."

He lied and said, "I remember." He mashed his forefinger into his lips. Concentrate. He needed to concentrate better.

Ann sat back down, a concerned look on her face. "You're right; I do know why it's so important for you to find this book. I nailed it yesterday after the climb, didn't I? I saw it in your face then and I'm seeing it again right now. You truly are losing your mind, aren't you?"

Cameron held his breath till he had to let it out. "Yes."

"And the book will heal you?"

"That's my hope."

She squeezed his arm. "I'm sorry, Cameron."

"It's okay."

Why couldn't he tell her the truth? Okay? No. It wasn't. He didn't want to wind up in an assisted-living facility in two years, ten years, forty years—ever. He wanted a life!

Ann wove her way up the street around tourists in bad hats worried about nothing more than finding another summer adventure.

How should she navigate the one she was on with Cameron?

She'd suspected his mind was slipping more than he'd let on, but she hadn't been around him for an extended amount of time for years and didn't know how the stress of Jessie's passing might have affected his brain.

No wonder he was so desperate.

The bells on the spa door jangled as she stepped inside and stopped. "All right, God, I get it. He needs me to help him find this thing—whatever it is—so I'll do it, with everything in me. It doesn't mean I have to believe the book is real."

As soon as the front door of the coffee shop closed behind Ann, Cameron squeezed his temples, as if the pressure could jump-start the memories deep inside his brain. A soft groan escaped. He was losing it. Come on! Remember!

Cameron wiped his forehead, leaned back in his chair, and forced his breathing to slow. If only he could get more sleep. Maybe he should . . . No. He wouldn't see a doctor. Had he ever considered that? Forget it.

He was fine. He would be fine.

After pouring over their notes for ten minutes and getting nowhere, Cameron stepped outside Java Jump Start to take a break and a short walk. As he strolled north on Main Street, the sensation of being watched crept up his spine.

He did a slow spin studying the people on the street and even the windows of the stores across the street. Nothing.

Wait.

A man in a baseball hat and gold-rimmed sunglasses sat on a bench forty yards away at the end of the block. The man stared straight ahead, but he could have been looking at him a second before.

A moment later the man turned and, yes, his gaze was drilling Cameron from behind his sunglasses. He was sure of it.

As Cameron started to trot toward him, the man stood. It was him. The figure from the park. No question. Same height. Same build. Same gait.

Cameron broke into a sprint as the man ambled down a side street, then ducked behind the Grand Palace Hotel.

Cameron rounded the corner of the building. "Hey!"

The alley was empty except for an old Pepsi can rocking back and forth in the slight breeze.

The man had vanished.

CHAPTER 36

You can't hide from me, so why hide it from yourself? Whether you admit it to me or not, you and the Book of Days have a deep connection." Tricia thrust her shovel into the soil and heaved another pile of dirt out of the trench she was digging. Why did she love the man so much? He drove her nuts at times. Most of the time.

"Are you positive you don't want a hand with that?" Taylor said from the cast-iron bench he sat on in their backyard.

"One hundred percent."

"Building a pond is a great idea."

"Don't try to change the subject." She pointed her forefinger at him. "You know something."

"So what if I do? I don't see how that obligates me to tell you."

"What makes you come to the conclusion I'm talking about me?"

Taylor blinked and turned away.

"You have a newly found niece. And a young man she likes. And he likes her. And they're looking for this book which is probably a fake. But it really doesn't matter because you're not going to lift even your pinky to help them." Tricia scooped out another shovelful of dirt and tossed it at Taylor's feet. "And it's wrapped up in something you've carried around in the dark ever since Annie died, and it's time you lay the burden down and forgive yourself for whatever it is you think you did."

"Are you finished?"

"I'm just getting started, Taylor."

"Great."

"You lose Annie when you're young, Cameron loses his wife when he's young—don't you think that's an interesting coincidence? Have you considered for more than a passing moment that God might have something to do with putting you two together? That maybe He's asking you to give Cameron a little help?"

"I wouldn't be much help."

Tricia shoved her shovel into the sod and trudged over and sat next to her husband.

"We both see it, so I might as well come out and say it—Cameron is headed down the same path you've been on for too many years. Holding on to the past with a grip even death would have trouble releasing, unable to get past the tragedy of losing someone he loved.

"Helping him find this book of his would go a long way toward getting him to open up to you, and then maybe you can talk some sense into him that you haven't been able to talk into yourself."

Taylor sighed. "There are some things you can't forgive yourself for. Things you shouldn't forgive yourself for." He rose from the bench, grabbed Tricia's shovel, and started digging.

"It's amazing to meet someone greater than God."

Taylor frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"He's willing to forgive everything you've ever done, or ever will do, but since your wisdom is much greater than His, you know you shouldn't accept that kind of love."

"And if I forgive myself?"

"It would give you the ability to forgive others."

"Who haven't I forgiven, Tricia?"

She shifted on the bench, took off her work gloves, and tossed them onto the grass. "Your best friend."

"I don't have a—"

"Jason. You need to forgive Jason too."

"You're not going to start talking about that again, are you?"

"It would set you free."

"That's what you've told me."

Tricia took off her sunglasses. "It's true."

"The past is the past is the past. I'm not going back there."

"If you've forgotten the past, why do you have a vacation home there?"

Taylor dropped the shovel onto the dark soil and strode over to the edge of their property, hands on the cedar fence, face turned to the sky.

Tricia let him have a few minutes of solitude before strolling over to him. "Hello, my name is Tricia. What's yours?"

"I'm guessing there's a point to this."

"You're not you."

"Uh, I think I am." Taylor whapped his stomach with his palm. "Yep, still me."

"Do you remember when you and Annie and Susan and I were all around thirteen years old and you blindfolded us and took us down to Munson's Bridge and had us get out on the edge? You were so excited. It was only twenty-five feet up, but it felt like two hundred. You jumped first and watched as each of us jumped, but only if we wanted to. And of course we all wanted to, and when we'd all leaped, you gathered us on the shore?"

Tricia waited till Taylor looked right at her. "Do you remember what you said?"

He didn't answer.

"You said, 'I was so scared to jump, but I was even more scared to tell you I was scared. But if we can't tell each other our greatest fears, then what would our friendship be?' That was profound wisdom coming from a thirteen-year-old. Do you remember?"

"Yes." He looked back to the sky.

"I don't see that Taylor so much anymore. Do you?"

Silence.

Tricia took his hands in hers. "What happened when Annie died? And why is this book business turning you inside out?"

Taylor leaned back against the fence and sighed again. "Maybe I'll never open up. Maybe this is who I am now. Maybe it's all I'll ever be. Am I so bad?"

"You are wonderful in so many ways. But there is still so much more inside you."

"Maybe there isn't, Tricia. Maybe that part died along with Annie and is impossible to resurrect."

"I don't believe that."

"Maybe you should."

Tricia trudged up to the house and tossed her work gloves on the deck. She glanced back. Taylor walked to the shovel and picked it up again. For a few moments she watched him work up a sweat, trying to pay penance for the rooms of his heart he'd shut her out of.

"Break him open, Lord. There's gold inside, but no one can get to it but You."

Cameron glanced at his watch. An hour and a half had come and gone. At an hour-forty-five the bells on the coffee shop door chimed and Ann walked in.

"You're late," he said when she reached their table.

"Are you going to dock my pay?"

"Sorry, I'm a little hyped up here. You won't believe what I'm going to tell you."

"You could use a massage too." Ann slid into the seat next to him and squeezed the back of his neck. "You're tight."

He didn't need that. Cameron shifted in his chair and pulled away from her touch.

"Sorry."

"While you were gone, I did a little research on Vela and Pyxis."

"And?"

Cameron leaned further over the table and tapped his pencil against the constellation map like a woodpecker. "Guess what the translation of Vela is?" He slid a piece of paper in front of her.

"The Sail," she read off the paper.

"And here's the translation of Pyxis." He slid another small piece of paper in front of Ann.

"The Compass."

"Now take a look at this business card from a well-known Three Peaks restaurant."

Ann eyes went wide. "The Sail & Compass Bar & Grill. Oh, wow."

"Great burgers. But we're in the middle of the high desert. Why would someone name their restaurant Sail & Compass when it's 160 miles from the ocean? Bronco Billy's, sure. Pine & Post Bar and Grill, absolutely. But Sail & Compass? It doesn't fit. Unless they were sending out a New York-sized neon sign."

"We need to find out who started the restaurant."

Cameron nodded. "My thinking precisely."

"You already know."

"Yes, I do." Cameron bent the Sail & Compass business card in the middle and spun it on the table like a top.

"Tell me."

"Take a wild guess."

"Taylor Stone."

"He sold the restaurant three years ago, but Taylor still owns—"

"The building."

"Correct. Owned one-hundred percent by him and him alone. No partners. It's the perfect place for him to store all his large secrets." Cameron gathered up his papers.

"Are you saying the Book of Days is inside that building?"

"I'm saying we should head for the courthouse and look at the blueprints of the structure. It wouldn't surprise me to find a basement."

"Are you hoping to find blueprints that say 'Book of Days' room?"

Cameron grinned. "That would be nice."

Ann and Cameron stepped into the county courthouse at two o'clock. A large sign on the door told them the building would close at three. Plenty of time to find what they needed.

As they approached a tall counter with a black and white Information sign, the floorboards creaked, as if they were about to snap, but the bespectacled middle-aged man behind didn't look up.

After clearing his throat three times, each time raising in volume but eliciting no reaction from the clerk, Cameron looked around for another way to get the man's attention. A bell sat at the far end of the counter and Cameron stepped over to it.

A tiny sign matted down with yellowed Scotch tape said, "Ring bell for service." He looked at Ann, shrugged, and gave the bell a sharp rap.

The clerk instantly looked up from his Dean Koontz novel and smiled. "Hello! Nice to have you here today. How can I assist you?"

"We're selling hearing aids, are you interested?" Cameron said under his breath.

Ann elbowed him. "We'd like access to some public records."

"Sure, what of?" He set down his book and stood.

"The building where The Sail & Compass restaurant is."

The clerk frowned but trudged off and came back six minutes later with blueprints of the building.

"Be careful with those, please. That's Taylor—" The clerk stopped himself as if he'd been caught taking a cookie out of a kid's lunch box.

"We know Taylor Stone owns the building." Cameron spread the blueprints out on the counter and studied them.

"Do you know him?"

"What?" Cameron looked up.

"Do you know Taylor Stone?"

"Yes." He turned back to the plans. "We both do." He glanced at Ann who had a look of intense concentration on her face. "Are you seeing what I'm seeing? It looks like the basement has—"

"Does he know you're looking at the plans?" The clerk leaned in almost close enough for his head to touch Cameron's.

"I don't think so. I didn't think we had to ask permission to see items of public record."

The clerk leaned back and tapped his foot. "No, I suppose you're right. But don't you think it would nice if you asked? I do."

"We will next time. I promise. Now do you mind if we take a quick look at these without interruption? And then we won't bother you anymore."

"You're not bothering me." The clerk cleared his throat. "Much."

"We just need a few more minutes, thanks." Cameron smoothed out the plans and scanned them again. He looked at Ann and found her staring at him with a little smile on her face. She had to be thinking the same thing. The plans showed a basement with two levels with a number of large rooms.

The perfect place to hide a Book of Days.

"Could we make a copy of these plans?" Cameron said.

The clerk's face paled. "No."

"Why not? They're public record."

The clerk smacked his lips with a series of rapid pops, as if it would help him make up a story as to why not. "The copier's busted."

"Really? I used to work on them," Cameron said. "I bet I could—"

"It's, uh, time for you two to leave."

Ann puffed out a breath. "The sign says you close at 3:00 and it's only 2:20."

"I have a lot to do to close up."

"But this is a government building. You can't lock the doors until the hour stated on your sign."

"Oh yes, yes, yes I can. If I have a government errand to run, which I do, I can lock up early."

"I could get the copier fixed in a few minutes."

The clerk waved his hand at Cameron, as if shooing away a hornet. "You have to leave. Right now."

"We'd really like to get a copy."

As the clerk kept shooing them away with his hand, Ann whispered, "We don't need a copy, trust me."

"Why?"

"I'll tell you later. Let's get out of here before the clerk has a coronary."

Cameron smiled. The bees didn't buzz unless you whacked the hive. And he wouldn't stop till he and Ann found the honey.

The clerk picked up his phone on the first ring.

"What did they want?"

"The layout of Taylor's restaurant." The clerk squeezed the tip of his pencil as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

"Interesting. I was right." The phone hummed. "And did you make it seem like Taylor wouldn't want them to see those plans?"

"Yes. I think I convinced them."

"Good." The line went silent. "You've been an extremely loyal disciple, and that means a great deal to me. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"But just so we're clear, if you tell anyone anything about the, uh, observing you've been doing for me—and I mean anyone—I will slit your throat. Will that work for you?"

"Yes. We're clear."

"Excellent. I appreciate you."

The line went dead.

"Taylor has influence in this town, I'll give him that," Cameron said as they walked out the courthouse doors.

"Considerable influence." Ann batted him on the arm. "Did you really work on copiers at one time?"

"No."

Ann smiled. "So what's our next step?"

"I think we need to do a little late-night exploring."

"You mean a little late-night breaking and entering." She glared at him. "Are you serious?"

Cameron smiled. "But it's only a little exploration in a good friend's building. You think he'll mind?"

"Hello?" Ann knocked on her head. "Yes, I think he'll mind."

"I agree, but I can't worry about that. Tonight we're going to find an amazing book. I can feel it."

CHAPTER 37

A strong wind whipped down Main Street, powerful enough to give a slight bend to the lampposts spaced at twenty yard intervals. Cameron's parked MINI Cooper lurched back and forth as the wind buffeted the car. His window was open a crack and the wind whistled through the opening, as if it was trying to speak a warning.

Ann scrunched down in the passenger seat—matching Cameron's own posture—giving little shakes of her head. She looked at him. Her eyes asked if they were really going to do something as ludicrous as break into Taylor's building. He imagined his own eyes said, "I'm not sure" in return.

It was one in the morning; most of the town had been shut down for three hours. The only building still open was Take a Peak Tavern a quarter-mile down the road at the end of town, and there had been only three cars in the lot when they drove by ten minutes earlier.

"I can't believe we're doing this," Ann said.

"Why?"

"Why?" She coughed out a laugh. "Other than the fact I could get fired for doing this and we could both wind up in jail, no reason at all. I'm sure the police would be sympathetic and Taylor would certainly understand why we ended up inside his building at this hour."

"Early breakfast?"

"We're going to be careful, right?"

"Like little elves on Christmas Eve."

"Elves make the presents, they don't deliver them." Ann shifted in her seat and pulled her knees up to her chest. "Sorry to repeat myself, but I don't want to end up in jail."

"Then why are you doing this with me?"

"I'm doing it for Jessie."

"What?"

"I can't believe I'm going to confess this." Ann rubbed her face with both hands. "I don't want the book to be real."

"What are you talking about?"

Ann turned and looked out the passenger-side window. "A few months after Jessie and I met in that foster home, she said she knew when she would die. Said she'd seen it when she was a kid. She didn't know the day, or method, but she knew the month and the year. I told her she was crazy."

Ann hugged herself. "Over the years she'd bring the subject up, trying to tell me it was part of God's plan, and I mocked her for it till she gave up."

"Wow." Everyone had their secrets.

"If the book turns out to be real, how do I tell Jessie I'm sorry? Even if it's not real, how do I tell her?"

"She forgave you a long time ago." Cameron flicked his fingers. "It's gone."

"I know it. I need to believe it." Ann patted her knees once. "Shall we go?"

"I'll go in alone. You should stay on lookout—"

"We already decided to do this together; don't go back on me now."

"Ann, there's something I need to tell you first. We might be into something more dangerous than I thought. There's a guy who's been watching me."

"Sunglasses, baseball hat, looks Native American?"

"He's stalked you too?"

"Well, I wouldn't say stalked exactly, but yes."

"We need to be more careful than the elves."

"Agreed."

Cameron slowly squeezed his door handle, opened his door, and slid out. He pulled out his pack from the backseat, looked at Ann, and raised his eyebrows, as if to say one more time, "Are you sure?"

Ann nodded, got out—her pack in hand—and darted across the rough asphalt street, Cameron close behind. They sliced through the alley between The Sail & Compass and the Three Peaks Hotel around to the back of the building.

"I'm an idiot," Cameron said as they knelt next to the back door.

"Why?"

"I didn't remember to bring a glass cutter. We're going to have to break a window."

Ann scrunched up her face. "Are you teasing me?"

"What do you mean?"

"We talked about not having to worry about bringing tools to break in."

"We did?" Great. Another missing song from his brain's CD.

"We did. Watch." Ann pulled out an eight-piece lock-pick set from her pack and grinned at Cameron. After a quick study of the lock in the doorknob, she chose two picks and leaned in, her ear millimeters away from the lock.

She closed her eyes and seemed to be talking to herself. In less than thirty seconds the door was open. Ann bowed her head and extended her palm in invitation for Cameron to enter the building first.

"Another unknown skill of the resourceful Ann Banister."

"From when I was a teenager. Before I met Jessie and Jesus. Don't ask."

Neither spoke till they'd stepped inside and shut the back door behind them.

"Not to be paranoid, but let's lock that."

"Done," Ann said as she locked the door. "I need you to explain a mystery to me if you don't mind. If the book is genuine, why would Taylor hide the book in the heart of town where someone is more likely to go down to the basement and find it? Why not hide it in the basement of his home? Or in a cave out in the middle of nowhere? Or bury the thing in the ground?"

"Two reasons. The first is Poe."

"What?"

"Edgar Allan. 'The Purloined Letter.' The best place to hide something is—"

"Right out in the open," Ann finished. "I wouldn't call the basement out in the open."

"All I'm saying is you wouldn't expect him to hide it on his own property right in the center of Three Peaks."

"And the second reason?"

"The same reason we're here in the middle of the night. With this place filled all day long, seven days a week, it would be a little tough for someone to explain why they were headed to the basement, especially if it's locked, which I'm guessing it is."

Cameron moved through the restaurant's kitchen and looked for a door leading to the basement. "Taylor owns the building and The Sail & Compass?"

Ann stared at him, concern etched into her face. "No."

"But he started it, didn't he? The restaurant?"

Ann nodded. "Yes."

"I'm supposed to know this, aren't I?"

"Yes." She hugged him and whispered, "It's going to be okay. We're going to find the book and you're going to be healed."

A few moments later they found the stairs to the basement and Cameron started down them. The restaurant's dim night lights illuminated enough of the pine stairwell for Cameron to see his way down, but not much more. Two thirds of the way down he stepped on a stair that screeched like a catfight.

He glanced back at Ann. "I think you might want to avoid that step."

"Good call, H."

The quote from the K2 movie. Cameron smiled. He remembered.

At the bottom of the stairs was another door, this one with a double lock. "I'll take this as confirmation we're on the right track."

After Ann did her lock magic, they stepped through the door and snapped on their flashlights.

They stood in a large room filled with dusty cobwebs hanging from rough-hewn dark wooden beams. A light brown carpet, which might have been white once, covered the floor.

"It's a museum; no one's been down here in years," Cameron said.

"Museum is right."

Along the far wall was a series of shelves piled with an extensive assortment of Native American artifacts: arrowheads, clothing, tools, bows, cooking pots, animal skins, and numerous photos.

While Cameron studied the collection, Ann made a clean sweep of the room. "We need to go down to the next level. But I don't know how."

"You didn't find a door?"

"Not an obvious one."

"Let's start a little light stomping." Cameron started in a corner of the room, stomped the wood floor with the heel of his boot, scooted a few feet forward, and stomped the floor again. Ann did the same at the opposite corner of the room. They both coughed from the small tornado of dust they kicked up.

A little over half the room had been covered when Ann said, "I found it." She took a silver-handled Swiss Army knife out of her pack, knelt on the carpet, and sliced a perfect square in four quick strokes and peeled it back.

"Let's go a little deeper, aye?"

"Aye, captain."

Cameron bent down and pulled on the trap door. It didn't budge. Not even a quarter-inch. He yanked it again. Nothing. After grabbing a screwdriver from his pack and wedging it into the microscopic slit between the door and the floorboards, he put his full weight on the handle of the screwdriver.

A second later the door popped open and a whoosh of stale air filled the room.

"Why do I feel like we're about to lower ourselves into our own crypt?" Ann said.

Cameron flopped the trapdoor over onto the carpet, shone his flashlight down into the opening, and peered in. The concrete floor below was at least twenty feet down. "No stair, no ladder. Get ready to climb."

"This is a pretty remote location for a wine cellar," Ann said.

"It would be nicely aged by now. I think it's been a while since someone took a stroll in the bowels of The Sail & Compass."

Ann tied her ropes to one of the thick wooden beams so they could repel into the darkness. Two minutes later Cameron dropped through the opening, flashlight clamped securely in his mouth.

"The water's fine, come on down," he called out twenty seconds later.

After Ann reached him, Cameron did a slow scan of the room with his light. It was small and square, maybe six-feet across and eight-feet wide. He expected it to be damp, but other than smelling a bit musty, the room was dry. Long tapestries of mountain scenes hung high on three of the four walls, running all the way to the floor. The rest was empty.

"There." Ann pointed to a narrow black opening in the uncovered wall to the left, not more than twelve-inches wide and five-feet high.

Cameron bent down and shone his flashlight into it. "I hope your claustrophobia insurance is paid up."

Ann massaged her temple and he realized she didn't find it funny. "Sorry."

"Let's do this." Ann slapped her hips with her palms.

Cameron turned sideways and slid into the opening, with Ann close behind. He shone his light on the wall inches from his face, illuminating jagged cracks in the concrete that ran from floor to the ceiling.

"How much farther?" Ann asked after a few seconds.

"It can't be much more."

"You don't see the end yet?"

"Sorry, it curves slightly up ahead. You doing okay?"

Ann didn't answer, and for the next ten seconds the only sound was their feet scuffling along the narrow passageway.

What were they doing? Breaking the law like this was insane. All for a book that logic said wouldn't be down here or anywhere else.

But Cameron had left logic land fifteen days ago.

Moments later they stepped into a room the same size as the one on the other side of the tunnel.

"Feel better?" Cameron asked.

"Much." Ann shuddered and licked her lips. "If the book is here, how would he have gotten it through that passageway?"

"Maybe Stone built the tunnel after he got the book down here." Cameron did a slow spin on his heel as he shone his light on the walls from left to right. There was one door, directly in front of them. He stepped up to it, stretched out his hand, and slid his palm down its wooden surface till it came to rest on the brass knob.

"Here we go. Ready?" His heart pounded like a jackhammer. Could this be it?

"Are you sure you want to open that door?"

"I just realized . . ."

"I know. When you open it, you'll either be overwhelmed or devastated."

Cameron nodded. "Exactly."

There was no point in waiting. He curled his fingers around the doorknob, let its coolness seep into his damp palm, and pushed. It didn't budge. A little harder and it creaked open.

He stepped through and shone his flashlight around the room. It was large, maybe twenty by twenty feet. The room was thick with the smell of old musty papers. In one corner stood a small lamp that looked like it was made in the 1930s. A broken stool lay in the middle of the room. Two old oak desks rested next to the stool.

Nothing else was in the room.

Cameron leaned up against the wall and slid down to the floor like sap oozing down a pine tree. Why did Stone do it? Why the clues? Why would he put this whole charade together only to have the end of the puzzle result in nothing?

Cameron slammed his fist into the wall behind him.

He'd believed in the book because he had to believe; in his dad's and Jessie's God, in sometime beyond this life. If he didn't, what kind of future was left for him?

He'd had to believe he could answer his dad's final request, find his memories of Jessie, and be cured of this insidious disease.

Cameron glanced around the room. So what would he do now? He banished the question from his mind. "Are you going to say I told you so?"

"I'm sorry." Ann sat beside him.

"At least I know, and it won't haunt me the rest of my life, wondering what I might have found."

They sat in silence for three or four minutes. Then Ann patted his leg. "Are you ready to go, or do you want to sit here a little longer? I doubt we're in any danger of being caught if we haven't been already, but still, I wouldn't want to be found down here."

"You're right; we should go."

But Cameron didn't want to go. He wanted to stay and watch God's Book of Days magically appear before his eyes. He wanted to remember every moment he'd spent with Jessie and relive days with his dad—to bathe in the glory moments they'd had together.

He wanted to remember the important things Jessie had told him before she died that pounded at the back of his mind but refused to take shape any longer.

He needed to remember them. They were tied into the things going on in Three Peaks right now. Things somehow he knew he needed to know but couldn't dredge up no matter how hard he willed himself to do so.

Suddenly Ann stood. "I can't believe I almost missed it."

"Missed what?"

"I don't know what I was thinking." She paced and pressed her fingers against her temples. "Yes, yes, of course." She closed her eyes. "I can see it."

"Talk to me."

She whirled to face him. "This is the outer room, not the inner."

"I'm not following."

"There's another room in this basement. A big room."

"There's a slight problem with that." Cameron swung his flashlight around the room in a slow arc. "There's no door. No opening. No curtain for the wizard to emerge from behind."

"There has to be."

"There isn't."

Ann pulled a folder from her backpack. "Take a look at this." She knelt down and spread a two-by-one-foot piece of paper on the floor. "Did I tell you I have a photographic memory?"

Cameron hesitated. Did she? "I don't think so."

"It doesn't always work for remembering conversations or places I've been or people I've met, but with photos and papers I've seen and things I've read, I retain 90 to 95 percent of what I see."

"So?"

"Look." She pointed to the paper she'd smoothed out on the dust-choked floor.

"After we got kicked out of the courthouse, I sketched out the blueprints of this building." Ann tapped the paper. "This is where we are now. If I'm right, there has to be another room on the other side of that wall."

"You didn't think to mention your photographic memory till now?"

"Did we need it till now?"

He leaned forward and shined his flashlight inches from Ann's paper. Her simple line drawing definitely showed a room on the opposite side of where they knelt.

Moving slowly along the north wall, Ann rapped her knuckles against the wall every few feet. After Cameron figured out what she was doing, he started at the opposite wall and did the same.

Boom!

The hollow reverberation sounded like a cannon in the stillness of the chamber. He shined his flashlight on the spot. No door. He rapped the surface in front of him again.

Boom!

"I think you found it," Ann said.

Cameron ran his fingers over the surface of the wall feeling for an edge. Nothing. Ann did the same on the other side, where the edge of the doorjamb would be if there was one. "He put Sheetrock right over where the door would be."

A low whine filtered down from above them, almost too soft to register.

Ann looked up. "Did you hear that?"

"Sounds like a blender from two miles away." Cameron spun his flashlight around the ceiling. "Or three stories above us."

"And?"

"No idea, but it's pretty late for anyone to be whipping up a smoothie."

They held their breath and listened. Nothing.

"Let's get this done."

He dug into his pack for his climbing ax as Ann did the same.

The blender started again.

"You want to keep digging and I'll go check out whatever is making that noise?" Cameron said.

"Good plan."

The noise stopped the moment he turned. They listened. Again nothing.

"I'm going anyway."

Ann nodded.

He eased through the narrow hallway, stopping every few feet to listen. On his fifth stop the whine started again. Then stopped. He didn't hear it as he scrambled up the rope through the trapdoor into the first level of the basement, up the stairwell into the restaurant.

The sound didn't start again till he stepped around the back corner of the building into the shadows in the alley in between. A streetlight strobed and the element inside whined. It sounded like their blender.

How could that—?

As he followed the pole down into the ground it made sense. The pole was probably directly above where they were, and the vibrations carried down into the basement.

A car drove by and Cameron tried to push himself into the wall of Taylor's building as it passed. It didn't slow and didn't speed up. He stood in the shadows for a minute, watching the other shadows, watching for . . . nobody.

There was nothing out here. Paranoid for no reason.

Finally he shook his head, as if he could shake off the unsettled feeling flitting around his mind, and crept back into the restaurant, down the stairs, down into the second level of Taylor Stone's basement.

The light from Ann's flashlight lit up the narrow passage as he shimmed through it and the luminescence drew him like a moth.

"I see you're still among the living," Ann said as he pushed through the small opening at the end of the passageway and stepped into the room.

"Just a streetlamp burning out, sending the whine down into the ground." Cameron coughed as the cloud of dust swirled around him. "Wow, nice progress."

A pitch-black hole in the wall roughly six feet by two gaped next to Ann. "Not bad, huh?"

"Not only that, but I couldn't hear you doing it from above, which means this vault is deep enough that we can relax a bit. Any noise we make down here won't be heard above."

Adrenaline pumped through Cameron. This had to be it.

He grinned at Ann and she returned it with one of her own. "You want to go first?" he said.

"Not a chance."

As Cameron stepped through the opening, he flicked off his flashlight and turned back toward Ann. "If it's real, we should see this at the same time."

She followed his lead and shut off her flashlight before stepping through the opening.

Silence surrounded them. If he didn't know Ann stood three feet from him, he could have felt like he was the only person alive on earth. Was this what death was like?

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

Their feet scuffed the floor as they shuffled forward a few feet.

"Let's do this." Cameron snapped on his flashlight.

A moment later Ann's flicked on and their lights filled the room. They stood in a large domed space with faded cedar paneling. The back wall was covered from floor to ceiling with shelves that held piles of parchments, each stack weighted down by familiar-looking rocks.

Cameron pulled Susan Hillman's stone out of his pocket. It was smaller, but it was the same as the stones on top of the parchments. Blood pounded through his head and adrenaline pushed through his body.

In the middle of the room a thick gray canvas covered a rectangular shape at least ten-feet long and five-feet wide.

Cameron looked at Ann and grinned. She raised both eyebrows and returned the smile.

The Book of Days. It had to be.

"Taylor Stone is worthy of an Oscar. He almost had me convinced it was only a legend." Cameron interlocked his fingers. "Shall we?"

As they stood at either end of the canvas, ready to throw it back, Cameron said, "Whatever is under here, thanks for going on this journey with me."

"My pleasure."

"Ready? One, two, three!"

They yanked off the cover, a snow storm of dust dancing in the glow of their flashlights.

Yes!

Cameron's knees went weak as his lips curled up.

They'd found it.

Cameron stared at the book almost afraid to approach it for fear it would vanish off the rough-hewn table it sat on. The dark brown leather cover looked ancient. Cracks ran throughout the surface and the leather strap that bound the book shut was graying. At the far left end of the book, cords the color of damp straw wound through the cover and the pages.

Cameron blew out a long, slow breath. Unbelievable. A tingling sensation ran up and down his arms. His dad's and Jessie's words were true. Answers. Finally.

"We did it, Ann."

She shifted from one leg to the other. "I want to know, even at this size, how every event, past, present and future, of every life is supposed to be contained in this book."

"Maybe the words are really small." He smiled and circled the massive tome slowly. "Maybe the words appear and disappear depending on who looks at the book. I'm serious. This is God we're talking about. Have some faith." He winked at her.

A title six inches high ran across the top of the page in a language Cameron didn't know. He stared at the book wondering what to do next. Open it of course. But to where? How would he search for his memories of Jessie in a book this size? How would he read the words if they weren't in English? It didn't matter how. He would figure it out even if it took years.

"Come on," Ann said. "Let's open it."

"My thought exactly." Cameron moved to the end of the book. He reached out and touched the corner of the cover. Like his father and Jessie had done?

He closed his eyes as they lifted the cover and set it on the table. "For you, Dad; for you, Jessie."

After a moment of silence he opened his eyes and looked at the first page. What? It couldn't be. A sensation of fire started in his feet and moved up his body in surges. By the time it reached his head, he felt ready to throw up.

He swallowed, looked up at the ceiling, then back down at the paper in front of him.

It hadn't changed.

The parchment was still blank.

He turned to the next page.

Nothing.

And the next.

More pages.

More nothing.

There was no writing on any of them.

CHAPTER 38

A dry heave pushed up from Cameron's stomach and he doubled over, then lurched forward and caught himself on the table.

"No." His knees buckled and he slumped to the floor and bit his lip. "This can't be happening."

"I'm sorry." Ann put her hand on his back.

"Where are the words? Where are they!"

"I don't know."

"I believed, I did. I believed the book was real."

"Shh, I hear something."

"I needed that book to be real. There has to be something we did wrong. There has to be some way to unlock it, some prayer we need to say, some code, maybe it's like invisible ink . . ."

But he knew none of those things would make words appear on the faded pages.

"Let's close it and get out of here."

She was right. It was over, time to go. He was too numb to argue.

They closed the book and packed up their gear.

As Cameron slung his pack over his shoulder he said, "It makes no sense. Why would—?"

Ann snapped her hand up to cover his mouth. "Our blender has grown feet," she mouthed. "Listen."

The faint scuffle of shoes or boots echoed off the concrete walls of the outer room.

"Cameron!"

The voice rang out like a gong and he knew instantly who it belonged to: Jason Judah.

A moment later Jason stood in the opening, bowing, grinning, and bouncing lightly on the toes of his dark green military boots. "Wowee!" Jason took a slow look around the room and then settled back on Cameron, a mocking smile on his face. "I must express my great gratitude for leading me here. It is highly appreciated."

Jason stepped through the opening and continued grinning as he stared at the book. "The Book of Days, in all her glory, resting peacefully in Taylor Stone's basement. Why doesn't that surprise me even minutely?"

Jason kept his flashlight shining on the book as he strolled around it. "As you know, Cameron, I had little belief there was an actual physical book till you came along. But your dad saw it when he was a child. And children often tell more truth than most adults. Taylor Stone for example." Jason leaned back and laughed. "I love to be proven wrong and to be proven right."

"How did you know we were here?"

"I've been following you, of course." Jason studied his fingers before looking up at Cameron and Ann. "Now please, how did you figure it out? I'm curious is all."

Cameron glanced at Ann. She was pale but stood as solid as the concrete at their feet. It looked like she was holding her breath.

"You are not going to tell me. I understand. Keeping all your secrets secret, right?" Jason motioned toward the book. "Do you mind if I . . . ?"

Cameron stepped away from the book. "Not at all, I'll be interested to see what you think."

Jason looked at the cover of the book. "Did you translate it?"

Neither of them answered.

"It's Hebrew. 'The Stories of All Times.'" He ran his fingers across the cover like he was touching silk. "God's book. Thousands and thousands of years old at the least. And thousands of years still to come. Will you help me open it, Cameron?"

"Sure."

As they lifted the cover he kept his gaze locked on Jason's face to see the moment when he realized the truth.

After they set the cover down Jason started turning pages. One. Ten. Twenty. "Is this a joke?" Jason pulled back from the book and blinked. "What is this?" His eyes switched back and forth from Cameron to Ann. "Where is the writing?"

"There isn't any," Cameron said.

"Explain to me where the words are. What do you do to make them appear?"

"There are no words."

Jason stared at them for twenty seconds before pulling a knife out of his belt and flashing his light over the blade. "This is an Mtech tactical bowie knife. It's extremely sharp." He lasered his eyes on Cameron. "Tell me how it works."

"What do you want me to say? It's a fraud. There are no words on any of the pages."

With one stride Jason grabbed Ann, yanked her back, and pressed the blade into her throat. "I've always liked you, Cameron, but I will gut her right now unless you tell me how to read the book."

"I told you! There's—"

A voice pierced the darkness behind them. "From the beginning, Jason, you've understood correctly what the Book of Days is. An idea. Only an idea."

Taylor Stone stood in the doorway.

"Put the knife down. They can't tell you anything."

Jason laughed.

"Now, Jason."

He released Ann and shoved her to the side. "So you're finally going to be the answer man, Stone?"

"Try me."

Taylor walked to the book, his eyes focused on Jason. "Get farther away from her."

Jason eased a half step to the right and pointed the knife at Taylor. "There, now talk."

Taylor looked at Ann. "Are you okay?"

She nodded, her face pale.

The instant Jason let Ann go, Cameron wrapped Ann in his arms. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"That's more adrenaline than I've ever gotten during a climb."

"Cameron," Taylor said, "I tried to keep you from finding this because I knew it would dash your dreams. I'm sorry."

"Stone, I want answers," Jason said. "What game are you playing?"

"No more games."

"Then talk." Jason motioned toward the book. "What is this thing?"

"There is an old Native American legend in Central Oregon that tells of a book of stories of every man's life. So I've always guessed that settlers from the early- to mid-1800s learned of the myth, tied it to Psalm 139:16, and created this book to symbolize their beliefs. You were closer to the truth than you knew."

"Why the charade all these years? Why not tell me instead of hiding it, denying you knew anything about the Book of Days?"

"Because until Cameron came along you were content in your belief that the book was an idea, and as you can now see, you were right. But if you discovered this symbol that was created to represent a spiritual crock-pot idea, you would try to get the book declared a historic artifact and fight me to get it moved out of here into your possession. Then you and your followers could worship it and draw more followers into your cancerous religion."

"Which I will do."

"Fine. Try it."

"When did you find it?" Jason asked Taylor.

"I think you should be more worried about Ann pressing charges than when I found an old pretend book."

"I'm not going to press charges; I just want him to leave."

"Answer me," Jason said.

"Ann?" Taylor asked.

"I'm fine."

Taylor glanced around the room, then ran his palm over the surface of the book. "I haven't been in this room for more than twenty years. It is a marvelous piece of history." He cracked his knuckles. "I found it in my midthirties and brought it here shortly after."

"Where did you find it?" Cameron asked.

"That is a story for another time."

"Is this what my dad saw when he was a kid?"

"I would imagine. It's the most plausible explanation for what he told you."

"You are a platinum piece of work, Stone." Jason ran the bowie knife up and down the side of his pants.

"Thank you." Taylor stared at Jason.

Jason started to say something to Taylor, then stopped and turned to Cameron. "I still say the man is a liar and can't be trusted." He pointed at Taylor. "We're not finished."

"You're right." Taylor took a deep breath. "I need to say something to you."

Jason glared at him.

"Forgive me."

"What?" Jason shook his head.

"Forgive me." Taylor opened his palms. "For many things. For my ego, for letting myself look good and allowing you to look bad after we fell apart. For not acknowledging the pain you felt when Annie chose me over you. For not letting myself care what happened to you when you went off to war. For keeping you in your place through my silence. For carrying a bitterness toward you all these years. It's poison. Lead weights." He looked up, then back to Jason. "Forgive me."

Jason stared at Taylor for over half a minute, his eyes betraying the struggle raging in his heart. Finally he spoke. "You've got to be kidding. What do you want me to say? Let's kiss and make up? You stole Annie from me, you destroyed my life, and now you've stolen my hope of finding a real Book of Days."

"I'm sorry; I've been wrong." Taylor stretched out his hand. "Bitterness destroys the vessel it's kept in. Let's bury it, release it. Let it all go, old friend. Please. For both of us."

"I . . ." Jason's gaze darted from the book to the floor to Taylor. "You're asking me to . . ." For a moment his eyes softened and his body shuddered. He shut his eyes, then they snapped back open. "Never. I'll never forgive you. This isn't over."

"Yes, it is."

Jason pointed his knife at Taylor. "What is between you and me won't be finished till one of us is dead."

The big man turned and strode out of the room.

As soon as the echo of Jason's footsteps faded, Cameron yanked on his pack, glanced at Ann, then glared at Taylor. "Now that that's over, it's answer time. Why the elaborate game? The clues, the rocks, the whole setup?"

"Like I said, I tried to keep you away from the heartbreak of all this."

"You did a lousy job." Cameron kicked at a clump of dust on the floor. "Why didn't you just tell me from the beginning that the book existed but only as a symbol? Why let me waste all that time and stir up all my hopes?"

"Because you wanted to believe your dad and Jessie so desperately. Unless you followed the clues and went down the path of discovery for yourself, you wouldn't have accepted the truth. And also, your search these past few weeks—whether consciously or unconsciously—has been about far more things than the Book of Days."

"Oh, it has? Are you going to enlighten me as to what those things are?"

"You're searching for eternity. For meaning. For hope. You're entertaining the possibility that you can let Jessie go and move on with your life." Taylor glanced at Ann. "None of these quests would have started if you hadn't come to Three Peaks and completed your search for the book."

"But I have no answers to any of those questions."

"I don't think your journey is over yet." Taylor touched the blank pages of the book.

Nice try. How would he know? "When the path ends at a stone wall, the journey is over."

"I'm sorry. I know how much you wanted it to be real. And I believe there is a real book with pages we will open, full of words where everyone's story is written down and recorded by God's own hand for all of eternity, but it's not on this earth and it's not for the eyes of mortal man to see. Someday I believe I will see it, but not in this age, not in this life. And I believe your memories of Jessie and your dad are hidden and safe in that book."

Cameron glanced at Ann. "Let's get out of here."

He walked past Taylor without looking at him.

Cameron and Ann sat in his car, neither of them speaking. What was there to say? It was time to go back to Seattle, but he didn't want to. Go back to what? If his condition continued to worsen, he wouldn't have much of a mind to work with back home anyway. He wanted to stay in Three Peaks. But do what? Search out the Native American legend that would only lead him back to Taylor Stone's basement?

What should I do, Dad . . . Jessie? What should I do, God?

"I'm sorry." Ann touched his hand. "Truly sorry."

He rubbed his upper lip and stared at The Sail & Compass logo on the outside of the restaurant, at the needle on the compass pointing to the North Star. If only he could find a north star for his life.

Jessie would say the only North Star was Jesus. As would his dad. And Ann.

"What are you going to do now?" Cameron asked.

"I'll spend a few more days down here, then head back. I want to hang out with Tricia and Taylor for a bit. I'm still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that he's my uncle." Ann turned toward him in her seat. "And you?"

"I don't know. I should probably head back in the morning and try to get on with my life. Start working on that bid with Brandon."

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Sure."

"Tell Brandon everything that's happened. If he's any kind of friend, he'll understand why you need two more days. Then do something for yourself tomorrow. And keep your fly-fishing lesson with Taylor the day after tomorrow. You're blind if you can't see he cares about you."

Cameron fired up his MINI Cooper and pulled into the street.

She was right. His life was ending anyway. It wouldn't end any faster or slower if he returned to Seattle two days from now.

A moment later he knew exactly what he needed to do the next day.

CHAPTER 39

Two Years, Two Weeks Earlier

Cameron made himself a raspberry-and-banana smoothie and plopped down in front of the television Sunday afternoon.

Jessie clumped down from upstairs. "I'm headed out to spend a little time in the sky, but I want to show you something first. Do you have a minute?"

"Sure, always," Cameron said, but kept watching General Maximus Decimus Meridius lead the Roman legion against the German barbarians. "We haven't watched Gladiator together in a long time."

"I'm not big on the violent parts."

"Neither am I, but it's such an epic flick."

"I need to show you this."

"Uh-huh."

"This is important, Cam-Ram."

He paused the DVD and turned toward her, the light from the big screen casting a warm glow on her face.

"Sorry."

"I need you to take a good look at this." She reached into her coat pocket and held out what looked like a highly polished stone about the size of a large grape. It was slightly oval and russet colored with a small hole bored through the top, a thin leather cord threaded through it. As she handed it to him, Jessie settled down next to him in their blue two-person chair.

"It's beautiful."

Jessie nodded.

Cameron turned it over in his hand and ran his forefinger over the surface of the smooth stone. There were scratches on it, but they weren't random. It looked like some kind of pattern or writing. "Where'd you get this?"

"I found it when I was a kid. It's Native American."

Something was off. There'd never had secrets between them. "How long have we known each other?"

"A long time."

"And you're just now getting around to showing me this? I thought I knew everything about you." He winked and patted her leg.

"It wasn't the right time till now."

"And what makes now the right timing?"

"It just is."

"Okay." Cameron put his arm around Jessie and pulled her close. "And these markings?"

"I think it's some kind of language."

"What's it say?"

Jessie shrugged. "I have no idea."

"It's cool, I like it." He started the movie playing again and tried to hand the stone back to her.

"No." Jessie pushed his hand away. "I want you to have it. You need to have it."

He paused the film again. "This stone means something to you." He brushed a strand of hair away from her face and studied her eyes. They were puffy. "What's going on? Why have you been crying?"

She shook her head. "I needed to give it to you just in case."

"Tell me what the stone means."

"I'll tell you when I get home, I promise."

Pressing her wouldn't make her tell him, but he had to ask. "Just in case what, Jess?"

She placed her finger on Cameron's hairline and slowly ran it down his forehead . . . nose . . . chin . . . neck . . . chest till she stopped on his heart. "I will always be here, you know. No matter what happens in the next few weeks."

He pulled her in close and kissed the top of her head. This wasn't like her. Quiet, hidden, melancholy. And holding on to a secret that had her living in a world she rarely visited. She wouldn't tell him what the stone meant? Okay, he'd give her time. But he didn't want her to be alone today. He didn't want to be without her today.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay here today? Hang out, you and me?"

Her gaze dropped to her lap. "I can't stop living and I need to get some hours in the air."

"Tell me, Jess."

She stood and buttoned her Gore-Tex jacket. "Good-bye, Cameron." She flipped her tan scarf over her shoulder, the one he'd given her so she'd look like Amelia Earhart, and shuffled toward the door.

He squinted at the back of her head. "You sure you don't want to stay?"

"I'll be fine. I'm sure I got all worked up for nothing." She opened the door halfway and stopped, her hand resting on the knob. A few seconds later she turned and looked at him, a sad smile creasing her face. "I love you, Cam. Always and forever. Remember."

"What is it?"

She dropped her head and shook it. "Fine, I'm fine." She opened the door the rest of the way. "So are you. Always."

The front door clicked shut and the blast of cool air that had swirled around him for the last few minutes died.

CHAPTER 40

Early on Tuesday morning Cameron looked at his directions again, wondering if he'd missed the cutoff. The guide at the climbing store said the trail was tough to see, but was right past the huge boulder shaped like a peach. He wanted to find a climb no one had been to in years. A place he could be alone on the mountain.

Wait. There.

He slammed on the brakes and made a quick U-turn.

At the base of the rock was a faint trail. It looked like it had been eons since anyone had used it. Perfect. He didn't care if he remembered the climb, didn't care if he forgot it.

He just wanted a place to figure out his next move. Maybe even attempt another conversation with God.

After hiking for a little over an hour, he reached a cliff that looked at least 250 feet high. Other than a single crack that meandered up the rock face, there were no holds he could see for at least the first fifty feet. It would be a challenge. Good. He was ready.

By the time he was halfway up, sweat dripped in a steady pattern off his forehead, down his nose, then either onto his burgundy climbing shirt or slid past him to splat onto the ground 120 feet below.

He was almost bored by the time he reached the top. The climb was strenuous, but the crack had widened after the first twenty feet providing an easy hand and foothold all the way to the crest of the ridge.

Cameron sat at the top, his legs dangling over the edge. Little zings of fear bounced through his stomach as he teased himself by looking down.

"Are you alone?"

Cameron spun at the sound of the voice and his heart rate spiked.

Behind him, twenty or thirty yards away, sat an elderly man in a plaid shirt, jeans, and hiking boots. His long, jet-black hair hung to his shoulders. He looked Native American. And familiar. Had he seen this guy before?

"Wow. Didn't expect to meet someone else up here. Yes. I'm alone."

"I ask your forgiveness for startling you."

The man stood and eased toward Cameron with a slow gait. Without question he'd seen that walk before.

"You looked strong during the climb."

"You were watching me?"

"I've watched you for a while now." The man smiled and sat on a small boulder. "I pulled back from the edge a few minutes before you crested. I didn't want to scare you as you came over the top. To lose your grip just before the point of success could be extremely unsettling."

"Agreed." Cameron smiled, knowing the man was talking about more than climbing.

"My name is Grange."

"Cameron Vaux."

Grange looked out over the valley, then down the cliff Cameron had just ascended and yawned. "It makes me tired thinking about the climb you just finished. I did it often years ago, but no more."

"How did you get up here?"

"This is my land. I live here on my twenty-three acres of paradise." Grange pointed behind him with a gnarled finger. "Go far enough that way and you'll find what you might call a road. I certainly never drop by the store for an impromptu gallon of milk."

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to tres—"

"You need offer no apology. I see very few people up here anymore." Grange closed his eyes and bowed his head. "You are welcome here, Cameron Vaux."

He offered Grange a Powerade from his pack, and they sat on a rock near the edge of the cliff.

"Why did you choose to attempt this particular climb?"

"I don't really know. I was looking for something different. Something off the beaten path to explore, somewhere to get away, to get some time to think."

"Maybe you were brought here by the guidance of a higher power."

"Why do you say that?"

"Might I trouble you to look at the stone you wear around your neck?"

The guy wanted to see Jessie's stone? Grange's eyes were intense as he gazed at Cameron's chest, and they didn't leave the stone as he untied it and handed it to the man.

Grange turned the stone over in his palm. "Where did you get this?"

"My wife got it years ago. She gave it to me before she died."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"It's an unusual rock I'm told." Cameron took a long drink of his Powerade.

Grange nodded.

"Apparently it's rare."

Grange nodded again.

"But I don't know where she got it."

"I do."

"Really? Where?"

Grange's only answer was to give tiny shakes of his head.

"She thought the scratches on the back were some kind of writing, but she didn't know what language it was or what the symbols said."

"I didn't think it would be found during my lifetime." Grange studied the stone for over a minute, the midday sun sending off little flashes of light as he turned it slowly in all directions.

"Do you mind?" Grange stuck out his tongue and licked the stone, then studied it again. "I mean no disrespect; the darker shade helps me see certain nuances more clearly."

"No problem, but maybe next time you could use some of the Powerade?"

"That I would find to be too sticky."

Cameron nodded. "Good point."

After twenty seconds, Grange said, "Your wife was correct. It is a language." He turned and squinted at Cameron.

"Whose?"

"Mine."

"What?" Cameron blinked.

"It is the old markings. My grandfather was fluent in it. I can speak a little. I'm better at deciphering it."

"So you can translate the markings?"

"I already have."

"And?"

"Before I answer, I need to apologize for possibly disturbing you. It was not my intent to be seen."

Two memories splashed into Cameron's mind. The figure in the park and the one in the truck. "You've been stalking me."

"Not stalking. Watching. You and Ann. I needed to see you two. I needed to watch you for the coming time."

"What coming time? What are you trying to say?"

"As I said before, I think a power beyond yourself guided you here today. Maybe you are the new guardian?"

"Guardian of what?"

Grange tilted his head back and held the stone up to the sky. "This was marked over four hundred years ago. It tells of the place where the stories of time are told."

"Stories of time? What are the stories of time?"

"Memories. Of the past. Of the future."

Cameron stared at the stone, and his heart pounded faster than it had during the climb. He grabbed his climbing pack and rustled through it, even though he knew his notebook wasn't inside.

Hadn't Jessie said something about the stone and the book? Weren't her last words about the stone having to do something with the book? The memory flitted in and out of his mind like a dragonfly.

He needed God to come through.

If You're real, help me remember.

A moment later her death flashed into his mind.

"You have the stone?"

"What stone?"

"You must not lose it. It's the key . . . use it to find the book, okay?"

She'd known. A chill sprinted down his spine. Cameron closed his eyes and rubbed his face with both hands. She'd known where the stone would lead him.

"It's a place that records the past, present, and future?"

"One might use that word to describe it, yes."

Unbelievable. This had to be the Book of Days' legend Taylor had spoken about. Cameron wiped his hands on his pants and swallowed.

Stone had lied.

"It's real? This place?"

"Yes."

His heart rate kicked into another gear.

"Can you tell me how to get there?"

"It is a special place. It is not for everyone." Grange held Jessie's stone by the leather cord and let it settle onto Cameron's palm. "It is only for a very few."

"I need to go there."

"Why?"

How could he explain the reasons to a man he'd just met? For Jessie, for his dad, for himself. To know there was meaning to life, that there was something beyond what he could see, beyond the chemical reactions residing in his mind he called memories. To be healed.

Cameron closed his eyes and let his chin fall to his chest. "For the love of my father and the love of my wife."

"Is there anything else?"

"Just before my wife died, she told me to use the stone to find the book. And that someday I would know it's okay."

"I see." Grange stared out over the valley, sitting on the palms of his hands. "If you choose to go, please note that it is a long hike. The hike is not hard, but it is four miles from an obscure trailhead not frequented much any more. Consider giving yourself enough time to make the journey. And give yourself enough time to be there as long as is necessary."

Grange picked up a small stick from the ground and sketched the Three Peaks Mountains in the dirt at their feet. "Start here." He pointed to the base of one of the peaks. "This is where you will find the trailhead."

Wait. Grange's sketch reminded him of something. A view? Taylor . . . Didn't Taylor show him? Yes. That day at the park. Stone guided him to a specific spot at a specific time of day to look at the Three Peaks. And he'd seen a shadow that looked like an arrowhead pointing to what looked like a tunnel in the same spot Grange had just drawn.

Cameron shook his head and smiled. Taylor had been telling him where to find the book.

"Do you know Taylor Stone?"

Grange nodded. "We are friends."

"Has he been there? To the place where the Stories of Time are told?"

Grange patted Cameron's shoulder. "Let me show you what to look for along the way." And he continued drawing in the thin layer of dirt at their feet.

When he finished he asked Cameron, "Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"I pray you are able to discover your path and find the Stories of Time."

Cameron's adrenaline didn't stop pounding till he reached the bottom of the cliff and started the two-mile hike back to his MINI Cooper. He'd found it. The Book of Days and the Stories of Time were one and the same. He clutched the stone around his neck. Tomorrow he would take Ann and find his memories of Jessie and see his father again. Maybe even be cured.

After that he and Taylor Stone would have a very long talk.

CHAPTER 41

The next morning Ann called Cameron at 7:40.

"Are we still on for coffee?"

Cameron rolled over in bed, grabbed his iPhone, and punched up his calendar. SEVEN THIRTY. ANN: COFFEE AT JAVA JUMP START. Whoops. They'd set the date the night they explored Taylor's building, but he'd forgotten to set his alarm. "I spaced. Yes, we're on. I'll be there in ten."

"Good, we have to talk. There's something bothering me about Taylor's basement, and I want to work through it with you."

Ann had a white chocolate mocha waiting for Cameron when he walked into the coffee shop.

"How was your climb yesterday?"

Climb? Right, yesterday he'd gone for a solo. Wake up, Cam.

"Excellent. Great workout and great view from the top." At least there probably had been.

"Were there any other climbers?"

"Nope, my solo climb stayed solo."

Was that right? He didn't see anyone, did he? Another climber? No, but he'd seen someone . . . Cameron squeezed his head.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You look like you just forgot what day it is."

"I . . . think I did meet someone." The flash of a conversation flitted through his mind. There was someone at the top. Was that right? A wave of panic flashed through him. Something deep inside said it was critical he remember who he talked to. And what they talked about. Was it a man? Yes, he was certain it was a man. A moment later he wasn't sure he'd talked to anyone.

"Who'd you meet?"

"I can't . . ." Heat filled his body. "You have to help me." He looked up. "It's important for me to remember this." He kneaded the back of his neck. Remember!

"Was it a man? A woman? A kid?"

"I talked to this person about the Book of Days, I know it." Cameron stood and immediately sat back down. "Help me."

For the next few minutes Cameron tried to recreate the event of the previous day, but nothing more than a vague recollection of talking to someone at some point during or after or before the climb was all he could grasp.

"It'll come back. Give it time."

He didn't have time. And it wouldn't come back. "We need me to remember it now. I have to."

"Let it go."

"I can't." Cameron turned and stared out the window of the coffee shop.

"It seems like whatever it was, it's let go of you." Ann took his hands and rubbed the top of them. "It'll be okay, Cam-Ram."

He fell back in his chair as another wave of heat washed over him. "What did you call me?"

"Cam-Ram. Has nobody ever called you that before?"

He gripped his chair. "Jessie called me that."

"Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to call you something she—"

"No problem." Ann calling him that? As strange as it was, it felt right.

She squeezed his hands. "Can we talk about Taylor's basement? I think I've found something that might help us in this crazy quest."

"What quest? It's over."

"Probably, but maybe not."

"Give me a minute to clear my head."

Ann stood. "No problem. Those éclairs have been tempting me for three days. So I'm going to get rid of the temptation by eating one."

Ann seemed to move in slow motion as she weaved through the knot of people waiting to order their java jolt. When she reached the pastry shelves at the back of the coffee shop, she reached in and pulled out two chocolate éclairs and pretended they were dancing with each other.

When she got back, she said, "This éclair will do wondrous things for your mind and to your taste buds."

"Wouldn't that be nice?"

Ann took her first bite and wiped her mouth with a napkin. "I think Taylor wanted us to find the book."

"What do you mean?" Cameron took his first bite of the éclair. Wow. Tasty.

"Didn't you think it strange he wasn't upset that we broke into his building?" Ann took another bite. "He didn't even mention it. And did you see the look of satisfaction on his face as we left?"

"No."

"Trust me. It's a girl thing. Any other woman would have seen it too."

"And?"

"It was as if he'd accomplished something he wanted to see finished."

"Which was?" Cameron clicked his pen and pulled out his notepad.

"I think he wanted to keep us from finding anything else in that basement."

"Like what?"

"Something we missed."

"And that is?"

"Another room we should have seen, that should have been there but wasn't, but had to be but we didn't see it."

Cameron rubbed his forehead. "English please."

"According to the blueprints, there is one more room in that basement we didn't see. My photographic memory, remember?"

No, he didn't. "And you remember what?"

"When we dropped down to the second level of the basement, we could only go left. But there should have been a room just to the right. There wasn't."

"How big?"

"At least ten by ten, maybe bigger."

Cameron ran his fingers through his hair. Was it possible? He couldn't stop hope from stirring in his heart. "Hidden from sight just like the book room."

"That's what I'm thinking."

"You think he's stashed something in the extra room? A real Book of Days?"

"You won't be able to push me that far, Cam, but I think we're going to discover some fascinating things about Taylor Stone."

"I'm going back. Soon."

Ann dug her hands into her hips. "You mean we're going back."

"Really, even after that run-in with Jason?"

"Yes."

"I think I like you." Cameron smiled.

"It's mutual."

Finding the additional hidden room proved easier than finding the first. Behind the tapestry to their right was a small door with three ancient-looking padlocks. Time for Ann to apply her special skill again. She winked at him and two minutes later tossed the locks to the concrete floor.

"Ready?" Ann asked.

"More than."

The door scraped open and they stepped into a room the size of a small den. Cobwebs hung like layered curtains from the ceiling covered by a fine coating of dust.

"Ugh." Ann brushed them aside with her flashlight. "Someone forgot to call the cleaning crew."

"Amazing." Cameron took a slow spin, shining his light on the room's contents. "I have a whole new set of questions for Mr. Stone."

A large stack of newspapers were piled on a large oak desk directly in front of them. Hundreds of photos were tacked to the wall above the desk. On the left-hand wall was a map of Deschutes County. On the right wall hung a world map with a familiar set of dots and next to it a map of the night sky with the Vela and Pyxis constellations lined out with a white pencil.

Cameron rapped the map with his fingers. "We have just found—"

"Game headquarters."

"Take a look at this." Cameron pointed to a framed picture on the desk. It was a copy of the photo of Ann's mom flying through the air on the tire swing.

"All the secrets of Taylor Stone on display."

He continued to search the right side of the room as Ann explored the left. A few minutes later she walked back carrying something. "I think you're going to want to sit down for this, Cam. Maybe lie down. Stone created more than a game." She shone her light on an old notebook in her hand.

As Ann flipped the pages of the notebook, Cameron felt like a dentist had shot his body full of Novocain. Page after page was filled with scrawled notes on how to make leather look and feel hundreds of years old, how to hand-make parchment paper to look hundreds of years old, and notes of the fonts used in the early eighteenth century.

The realization flooded over him. "He made the book."

"Yes."

"The whole thing."

"The question is why," Ann said.

Cameron rummaged through the rest of the notes on the desk. "Native American legends of the Northwest, Native American languages, burning letters into leather . . . unbelievable. He could publish Creating a Book of Days for Dummies."

Ann didn't speak till they'd left the building, clomped the quarter-mile to Cameron's car, and slumped into their seats.

"Any ideas why Taylor would go to all the effort to manufacture that book and set up the clues? This is more than a game to him," Ann said.

Cameron stared out the window. A sick game.

"I'm guessing you'll be keeping your date with Taylor tomorrow morning."

That's right! Taylor was going to teach him to fly-fish.

"Absolutely. He'd better be ready to catch much more than fish."

CHAPTER 42

Cameron got up Thursday morning with fishing on his mind. He was the hook. Taylor Stone was the trout.

They reached the trailhead to Whychus Creek at five o'clock, meaning Cameron had lurched out of bed at a horrendous time, but Taylor said they had to get to the river early if they wanted to catch any rainbows. This didn't jell with Taylor's penchant for dropping his flies on the river at all hours of the day, but Cameron didn't argue the point. It was the perfect place to confront him about his creation of a Book of Days, and if getting up before God was awake was the price, so be it.

Here there would be no distractions. Nowhere for Taylor to walk away to. And Cameron had written down the details of what they'd found under The Sail & Compass the night before, so if he needed to be reminded of anything, he could access it in an instant.

By six o'clock they'd tied their first flies and Taylor had coached him on the fluid back and forth motion needed to cast correctly. The hole Taylor had chosen was no bigger than a large inner tube. Cameron only hit the spot two times in ten casts, and bites from the brown trout under the translucent water eluded him, but he loved it.

The only sound was the rush of the river as it meandered its way through the stones, and the smooth swish of their rods through the air.

"Slow down," Taylor said, "you're not going to whip the fish into submission by casting like that. Let the fly settle on the water and then take it back up after a two count."

Cameron slowed down.

"Much better."

After he caught and released his first trout, Taylor said, "How many years were you and Jessie married before her accident?"

"Too few." Cameron drew back his rod and made a perfect cast into the hole. "Five."

"You were with her when she died?"

"Yeah." Cameron slogged through the water back to the rocky beach and set his rod down. "All the clichés you hear on the radio and see in the movies were bottled up in her like love-lightning. Being with Jessie was like opening that bottle in every moment."

"I know that love."

"You and Tricia?"

Taylor shook his head. "I love Tricia and don't deserve all the things she's done or tried to do for me." He cast five more times before he continued. "I'm talking about Annie."

Finally he would get the story on Annie.

"Ann was named for her as you know." He stopped casting and drilled Cameron with his eyes. "I'm not sure how I feel about you falling for my niece."

"I'm not falling for her."

Taylor adjusted his U of O hat. "Uh-huh."

Cameron rammed his hands into his back pockets and didn't answer.

"Annie was all grace and toughness. Pretty as all get-out but could run faster than half the boys growing up. Vanishing from my life almost thirty-three years ago, you'd think my memories would have faded, but Annie was the type you never forget."

Taylor finished releasing the fish he'd just caught and set it back in the river. It spurted away, disappearing downstream. "Of course not being able to let go of her makes for a pretty heavy burden to carry, you know?"

Cameron knew. "How did Annie die?"

"In a car accident." This time Taylor cast eight times. "Like you, I loved the old muscle cars. And I found a favorite. When I looked at the horses under the hood of that beat-up Mustang, I knew I was the one to tame her." Taylor turned and stared at him. "You understand, don't you?"

He nodded.

Taylor yanked back on his rod, a rainbow trout dangling on his line, and pulled it in. "I bought that beauty two summers before the accident happened. That car was my passion." Taylor trudged back to shore and set his rod down. "It took me the full two years to restore it. Ran as smooth as a maple seedling twirling to the ground when I was finished."

Taylor stopped talking for so long Cameron thought he'd fallen asleep standing upright. When he spoke again, his voice was like smoke in sunlight, and he could barely make out the words.

"The morning after I'd finished it, I had to go somewhere and Annie asked if she could take the car for a drive. Of course I agreed; I'd restored the car for her."

He sat next to Cameron and rubbed his face. "A 1970 Ford station wagon with three high school juniors inside ran a stop sign going like a whirly-wind and T-boned Annie. They say she probably died instantly."

Cameron shook his head.

"Are you all right?"

"Remember me telling you I restored a '65 Mustang and gave it to Jessie for Christmas one year?"

"I do."

"She only drove it once." He breathed deep and imagined he smelled the water, a pure crystal smell with no imperfections. "On the way to the airstrip. On the day she died."

Taylor put his arm around Cameron's shoulder. "Life is funny the way it puts certain people together, isn't it?"

Taylor stood and waded into the river, the water swirling around his waders. He cast in perfect rhythm, nothing moving except for his right arm.

He was a good man, a friend even, but he'd hidden the truth. It was time to confront the lie. It was time to find out exactly what Taylor knew.

"I want to talk to you about why you created a Book of Days."

"I suppose it's time, isn't it?"

"We found the hidden door."

"I thought you might." Taylor continued casting.

"Why go to all the trouble to create that elaborate set of clues and a false book? Why did you do it?"

"I had to. It was the only way to convince anyone searching for a real book that the Book of Days was only an idea." Taylor glanced back at Cameron. "I expected they would follow the clues I'd laid out, find the symbolic book, and prove to themselves the book didn't really exist. It wouldn't be a good thing for most people to find the real book."

He gathered up his rod and smiled at Cameron. "And then you came along out of nowhere, knocking over apple carts every which way, and tracked the thing down. Well done."

Cameron stared at him. "What did you just say?"

"Yes, I did say 'real book.'"

"Are you telling me—?"

"But as smart as you were, you must extend a great deal of credit to Ann, don't you think? I don't believe you would have gotten where you did without her."

"The book is real?"

"She was an interesting twist to the puzzle." Taylor shook his head. "Having a niece show up after all these years is a definite mind bender."

Taylor turned and sloshed out of the river till he reached a boulder the size of a small ottoman and sat on it. "That stone around your neck, can I see it?"

Strange. Someone else asked to see it recently, hadn't they? "Sure." He lifted it from around his neck and handed the stone to Taylor.

Taylor studied it. "I'd lay odds these markings are Native American."

Suddenly the memory of his climb two days before surged into his mind. "Grange!"

The image of Grange studying the stone just as Taylor had filled his head. The questions about why Cameron wanted to go to the place of stories. The directions . . . He'd told Cameron exactly how to find the place. What was it called? Time Stories? The Stories of Time?

"He told me how to find it." His heart beat picked up.

"He must have liked you. And trusted you. He's probably been watching you since you got here." Taylor nodded. "Grange is a good man."

"You know, don't you? You know what they are. The Stories of Time and the Book of Days are the same thing, aren't they?"

"Yes." Taylor handed the stone back to Cameron.

"Why did you lie to me?"

"I'm sorry, Cameron, forgive me. I had no choice."

"We always have a choice."

"What did Grange tell you?"

"He said few are chosen to see the stories."

"True."

"And you were one of the chosen." Cameron tossed a rock into the swirling water.

"Yes, to my eternal regret."

"Do you care to explain that?"

"After I found the book, I used it." Taylor slid his reel down to the river rock at his feet. "I used what I saw."

"You're telling me the Stories of Time truly do tell the future?"

Taylor nodded.

"Why didn't you tell me the truth?"

"I wanted to tell you. I did." Taylor rubbed his face and sighed. "I did try to tell you in my own way."

"When?"

"In the park, when I showed you the arrowhead shadow pointing the way to the book. I've wanted you to find it for a while now."

Oh, wow. The memory swished through his mind. That's right. Taylor had tried to show him.

"But I couldn't go any further than that. I swore I wouldn't ever put someone in the position to go through the regret I've lived with for thirty-three years."

"It all comes back to Annie, doesn't it?"

"I found the book when we'd been married for two years. We had the same type of relationship you and Jessie had." Taylor shook his head. "Perfect. Even after we were married, I loved backpacking through the mountains around here by myself for days at a time. A part of me has always been built for solitude.

"One early morning in July over thirty years ago, I explored an area of the mountains I'd never been to. I came to an opening in the rocks and somehow I stumbled through them to the prettiest slice of earth you'll ever find.

"There it was lying out in front of me like a mirror. As I gazed at it I saw the past, saw the present, then I saw the future. A future where my dad would lose his legs in a logging accident the next afternoon.

"Annie was out of town and I couldn't reach her so I came home and told my sister-in-law about what I'd seen and she never doubted me."

"Ann's mom?"

"Yes."

"She told me I had to save my dad. I agreed." Taylor rubbed his face with both hands. "I was supposed to wait for Annie to get home the next afternoon, but I left her a note saying I'd gone to see my dad.

"So I tried to stop the accident. And I did; my dad never lost his legs. People wondered for years how I knew that tree would fall the wrong way. But what I set in motion . . ."

Taylor stopped and swallowed as tears seeped onto his cheeks. "What I did caused Annie's death in the moments after my father lived."

"Because she didn't go to Bend with you."

Taylor nodded.

"So you made a book and created a series of clues—"

"I realized if I could create something that people would have to work to find, I could end it right there. In the case of Jason, it worked. I don't think he'll ever figure out . . . But you, it seems you're one of the chosen."

Cameron didn't know what to believe. Was it real? Was it another part of Taylor's game?

Taylor turned to him. "You didn't tell me your wife asked you to use the stone to find the book."

Cameron frowned at him.

"You're wondering how I knew?" Taylor said. "Grange told me."

Taylor tossed a rock into the river. "Don't you think it's time to come clean?"

"About what?"

"About why you're forgetting pieces of conversations. About why you didn't start your search for the book right after Jessie died. About why you didn't think her story was more than the jumbled thoughts of a dying woman until three weeks ago."

"Because . . ." There was no spin he could put on an answer that would satisfy Taylor.

"Why didn't you remember what Grange told you?"

Cameron watched the river rush around and over the rocks, as if it knew exactly where it wanted to go. Where it needed to go.

"I'm losing my mind. My memories flit in and out of my brain like sparrows. Eight years ago my dad died of the disease, and the last thing he asked me to do was to find the book for him. His dying wish. I thought he was talking nonsense.

"Then two years ago I started noticing my memory wasn't as sharp as it had been. Little things like reading notes I'd just written and reading them as if for the first time. Not remembering if I'd brushed my teeth or not. Telling my partner the same thing three times in one morning.

"Then I started losing memories of Jessie. What we'd done, where we'd gone, important conversations we'd had."

"I'm sorry." Taylor looked at the sky. "Okay, God, I get it."

He turned and stared at Cameron for a long time before nodding twice. "I am going to do something I swore I would never do for the rest of my life."

"Return to the Book of Days?"

"Yes." Taylor massaged the back of his neck. "And take you with me. But I should warn you. You might not like what you see."

CHAPTER 43

I'm taking him to see it." Taylor sat in front of his workbench and stared at a map of the Three Peak wilderness as he spoke into his cell phone.

"When?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Do you feel at peace with that choice?"

"Yes." Taylor paused. "Your counsel helped."

"I'm glad. Is there anything else I can do?"

"I need you to be ready for Jason if he tries to follow us." Taylor ran his finger along the route Cameron and he would take.

"You believe he'll try?"

"I'd be surprised if he didn't. His skills with knives and guns are far greater than mine. And I have little doubt he would kill to possess the book."

"I agree. Do not worry. I will look out for you and Cameron."

"Thanks, Grange."

"Yes, my friend. Yes."

Cameron didn't speak as Taylor drove up the rutted logging road, only a hint of gray dawn painted across the sky toward what he said was the genuine Book of Days.

Cameron hadn't set his alarm the night before. He'd never gone to sleep. He'd considered telling Ann about his conversation with Taylor and his claim that the book was genuine, but what if it wasn't? What if it was another one of Taylor's games? Or nothing more than a beautiful spot in the mountains where Taylor felt God gave him impressions that seemed real?

Sure, Taylor's story of saving his dad seemed like proof, but what if it was nothing more than a hunch he'd acted on?

But then again, Cameron had his dad's story to go on as well as Jessie's to bolster his belief. It didn't seem as if both of them could have hallucinated about the same thing. And then there was Grange and the stone.

He sighed. His brain was exhausted from trying to analyze everything he'd gone through over the past two and a half weeks.

Something Taylor believed to be God's book was up there, but what would a book be doing in the middle of the mountains? Sure God's book would be rainproof—it could be anything proof—but it didn't make sense. Was it in a cave? Was it two thousand feet thick? Logic wasn't helping and Taylor stayed mute about the book's description.

At least he hadn't let his emotions leapfrog on him. He'd shut down any hope of seeing anything more than a stunning setting hidden in the mountains.

"How could my dad have seen this thing when he was a kid?"

Taylor shrugged. "It's a long hike, not a hard one. He probably was up in the mountains with his dad or a friend, who knows?"

"And how did Jessie find it?"

"Think about her childhood if you can. Did she ever mention Girl Scouts or—"

"She was a Girl Scout. She talked about them doing a lot of things outdoors, taking trips—maybe she even told me she came down here . . ."

"There you go."

Cameron stared at the ponderosa pine trees rushing past and thought about the last time he saw his dad. "You must find the book. Everything will make sense to you then."

I'm ready, Dad.

"Is the book real?"

"I've told you it's real. You don't need to hear me say it again. You need to choose to believe or not."

"How much longer?"

"Probably an hour before we reach the trailhead and a good three hours of hiking before we get there."

"Will you tell me anything about the book?"

"You'd like a preview?" Taylor grinned.

"Yeah."

"It's possible that some people have seen the book and not known it."

"How can you see the book and not know it's a book?"

"You'll see." Taylor paused and grinned again. "I hope you'll see."

"What does that mean?"

"You'll see."

Cameron frowned. "Stop saying that."

"You will."

Ten minutes later they turned onto a dirt road that wasn't even one car wide. Branches scraped the sides of Taylor's truck as they inched along the narrow road, but he didn't seem to notice.

When the trail ended, Taylor threw the gearshift into Park. "Let's go."

He led Cameron up what looked like a game trail. After an hour and a half of steady climbing, Taylor heaved himself up onto a large slab of granite.

Cameron joined him and looked out over the forest below them. The only sound was the pounding of blood rushing back and forth through his veins, the air as still as it had ever been since coming to Three Peaks and the scent of dry pine needles filled his nose.

A hawk screeched high above and behind them.

"How did you find the book?"

"I was praying." Taylor shifted on the rock and stretched out his legs.

"Praying?"

"Like I told you on the river, I wanted to go someplace I hadn't been before and chose this trail. I came up for some reflection, some alone time with God. I wanted to figure out where my life should go. Where Annie's and my life should go."

Taylor stood and took a long draw from his water bottle. "As I hiked along pouring my heart out to God, I reached a spot where I got an impression to stop. So I stood in the silence for a few minutes. I looked around and suddenly got this feeling I should walk toward what looked like solid rock. It wasn't a voice in my head, just the thought that I should walk right up to it. So I did, my nose inches away from the wall. That close I saw it wasn't rock. It was an optical illusion. Nature's way of hiding an entrance that was there the whole time.

"I'll let you discover the rest of the experience for yourself when we get there. Let's get moving. We're burning daylight."

CHAPTER 44

His eyes darted back and forth, back and forth, searching for the little clues telling him exactly where Taylor and young Cameron had gone. As he slogged along he massaged the handle of his knife with one hand, the handle of his gun with the other.

It was always good to check to see that his two friends were still with him, even though he knew they were. They were loyal, they could be trusted to follow directions, and they never talked back or tried to force him to listen to a dissenting opinion. And when they were called on to persuade people to his way of thinking they always performed well.

He nicked his pinky finger on the tip of the knife and watched the small bead of blood pop to the surface of his skin. After licking it, he wiped the finger on the back of his neck and slowed his pace.

Stone wasn't trying to be discreet; tracking him and Cameron was almost as easy as following a dirt bike up the mountain. And there was little point in getting close enough to be seen should one of them look back and have the right line of sight to see him.

He fell back to what he estimated was a fifteen-minute gap and tried to quell the adrenaline pumping through his body.

But this was the day he would fulfill his destiny. Finally. How much longer? An hour? Two at most?

He wouldn't enjoy killing them. There would be no joy in it. But once he knew where the book lay, it would be the right decision.

CHAPTER 45

After hiking another ninety minutes, Taylor stopped at the base of two intersecting hills "We're almost there."

A thick grove of pine trees framed Stone, who stood with his hands on his hips. A slight smile bounced over his face.

Cameron glanced at their surroundings. "I don't see any pages."

"Not yet." Taylor laughed.

"For a guy about to revisit a place that rocked his world to its foundation, you seem to be in an okay mood."

"You're perceptive, Mr. Vaux. And you're right. I am feeling good. I made a decision about something last night."

"What's that?"

"You'll see when we get to the book."

They trudged on through the trees, Taylor's stride growing wider and lighter. Whatever he'd decided must have taken a huge weight off.

Two minutes later Taylor stopped and grinned. "This is it."

"The book's location?"

"Yes."

Heat coursed through Cameron's body and he sucked in a quick breath. Stone was serious. Cameron glanced from tree to forest floor in a slow 360. Nothing. "Where?"

"I need to explain something before we take the final steps to get there." Taylor closed his eyes for a moment before continuing. "When Adam and Eve chose to disobey God in the garden, it wasn't just man's immortality that was destroyed. The earth itself fell from its original design."

"What does that mean?"

"As stunning as the earth can be, its current beauty is a shadow of its original splendor. God says the earth itself groans, longing to be restored to its original design. And one day it will be. There will be a new earth restored to its former glory. Far more beautiful than what man sees now."

"What does that have to do with the book?"

"Maybe it's my imagination, but I believe this place we're about to step into has retained much of that original design. At the very least, the presence of God is here in a way I've never sensed anywhere else."

Cameron gave a wry grin. "Should I expect a bush to start burning?"

Stone's eyes narrowed. "The ice has grown thin under your feet, Cameron. Be careful. God will not be mocked."

Cameron's face flushed. "I shouldn't have said that."

"Let it go."

"I'm sorry—"

"It's all right. Truly. He is a God of vast mercy. Vast forgiveness." Taylor smiled. "Let it go. He has."

Taylor pointed over Cameron's shoulder. "Do you see anything through the pines?"

He turned. "I see a rock wall on the other side of them."

"That's where we're going. Right through the rock."

He followed Taylor through the ten yards of trees and stopped just beyond them. Taylor motioned toward the wall. "What do you see now?"

"The same thing I saw a moment ago. A rock wall."

"That's what I see too, even if that's not what's there." He winked at Cameron. "Watch this." He took half steps up to the rock and then seemed to vanish. A moment later he was back. "Now that's an illusion worthy of David Copperfield. Are you ready to try? I'll be right behind you."

Cameron stepped forward till he was inches away from the wall.

"Step forward; trust me you'll be fine."

He took another step forward and laughed. His eyes said he was stepping through solid rock, when in reality he was stepping in between two narrow rocks so perfectly aligned and with colors that matched so precisely he couldn't tell where one ended and the other started.

He was in a thin path, between the rocks. The walls narrowed at the top creating the sensation of walking through a tunnel. Sunlight shone through the other end like a beacon.

When he exited the path he stumbled to a stop. A gasp escaped. The scene before him was staggering. They were in a small valley the size of two football fields. The jagged, snow-capped peaks surrounding them shot up at least a thousand feet on each side. Pine trees lined a crystal clear lake so still it was impossible to distinguish any difference between the real mountains and sky from their reflection in the water.

The silence during the moments of rest they'd taken on the climb up seemed like the roar of the ocean compared to this place. A sense of peace immersed him like an ocean wave, and Cameron took in long breaths, pushing his lungs to take in more of the mountain air than possible.

"This is . . . astonishing." Cameron turned to look at Taylor.

Stone shook his head and smiled wide. "I'd forgotten how beautiful it is."

Cameron glanced at the sky. "Is it me, or is the sun getting brighter? This whole valley is—"

"It's not the sun. Look." Taylor pointed across the lake to the far shore.

A circle of light the size of a pinecone hovered in the air over the water.

"What in the world . . . ?"

Taylor shrugged. "I'm not sure."

Even from fifty yards away it was so bright Cameron had to shield his eyes.

Through his fingers he watched the circle split and streak around the lake toward them, then split again and sprint toward the sky. And again and again till there were thousands of trails of light into and through and around each other till they filled the valley, arching over them and surrounding them like an ocean of light.

A roar like thunder exploded against his ears, and he covered them while at the same time holding his elbows up to his eyes in a vain attempt to block the increasing brilliance.

An instant later he lay facedown on the lake's shore, the light pressing him down and into his back, as if the weight of a thousand planets were on top of him.

And unfathomable love. He felt it. He was immersed in it . . . He opened his mouth and drank in this Presence . . . now inside him, filling him, overflowing . . . A Being so magnificent he would follow Him anywhere.

A moment later everything vanished.

The weight.

The light.

The Presence.

Cameron sat in the aftermath for what might have been minutes, or might have been hours. All he wanted was for the light to return.

Taylor sat cross-legged, looking like he'd been caught up in an F5 tornado and loved every moment of it.

"What was that?" Cameron said.

"This is a holy place."

"I felt Him." He frowned at Taylor, then smiled. "I felt God. He was . . . in me."

"Yes."

Cameron shuddered. "I . . . I don't know how to explain it."

"You don't have to."

"He's real." Cameron covered his face with his hands and blew out a long breath. "He's found me."

Taylor yanked Cameron into his chest. "Welcome to life."

After their embrace Cameron glanced around the lake, still swimming in the intensity of the moment. "Did this happen last time you were here?"

"It was different, but also the same. I'm not sure I can explain it. And it lasted much longer last time. And didn't vanish so suddenly." Taylor frowned, then smiled. "But that's okay. I'm not sure I could have taken much more anyway."

A moment later his smile vanished and his face hardened into flint as he stared over Cameron's shoulder. "We have a problem."

A voice rang out from behind Cameron along with the cocking of a gun. "Yes, you do." Laughter. "I would say you most certainly do."

Cameron spun as the figure above them twirled a knife around the fingers of his left hand and held a gun in his right as he tramped down the slope toward Cameron and Taylor.

"You're going to teach me all about the Book of Days, Stone. Then you and Mr. Vaux will unfortunately need to die."

It was Kirk Gillum.

CHAPTER 46

Kirk Gillum gazed around the valley and grinned before focusing on Cameron and Taylor. "I appreciate you two. Truly." He winked at them.

Cameron glanced at Taylor. If he was surprised at Kirk's appearance, it didn't show. Where was Jason?

"First, thank you for validating the belief I've had in a real book all these years. Not even Jason believed me till you came along, young Cameron. And second, thank you for leading me right to it; although I admit it took me a while to follow your tracks through that last part." He bowed and laughed.

"The book is the lake, right?" Kirk scratched the underside of his chin with the barrel of his Glock. "It makes sense. While I always thought a genuine book existed, I never thought it would be literal paper and ink. That's much too prosaic for God, don't you think?" He raised both eyebrows and jutted his head back and forth, as if to taunt them with the question.

"Give the idea even the slightest consideration and you realize it would have to be an immensely large book to contain the story of all the lives that have lived and are still to live, hmm? And when Jason gave me the full report on the adventure in your basement, well, that seemed awfully convenient to me."

Kirk had been speaking in a singsong voice, as if talking to children, but suddenly he leveled the gun at Taylor's head and spoke in a monotone. "Okay, playtime is over. I'm ready to dance. Back away, Stone. I'd like to take a good long look at the future."

Kirk stepped up to the edge of the lake's shimmering surface and glared at Cameron. "We could have shared this, you know. Jason never lied to you like Stone did. He even offered you friendship. Truly, I did originally consider sharing it with you, but you've clearly sided with Stone, so now the book will be mine alone."

"Yours alone?" Cameron said.

"You thought I would share this with Jason? Really?" Kirk laughed and wagged his finger. "No, no, no. He wanted the book for the wrong reasons. Besides, toward the end of this little jaunt, he got downright pushy with his opinions and that was unacceptable. In any case, it would be impossible to share the book with him at this point since he's no longer with us. So sad. But I do appreciate the work he did for me. I don't think I've ever seen someone play the front man with more passion."

Cameron's stomach lurched. Gillum was insane.

Kirk kept the gun pointed in Taylor's direction as he gazed into the pool, expectant rapture on his face. The silence of the valley pressed in, the only noise was his steel-toed boots shuffling over the shale surrounding the pool as he sidestepped along its edge.

"How do I read it? What should I be seeing?"

"It was never real in a literal sense, Kirk."

"Nice try, Stone. Tell me how I get it to work." He pointed the gun at Taylor's head again.

Taylor walked toward Kirk.

"Stop!"

Taylor opened his hands. "The few who find this place do hear from God, but only when they slow down long enough to listen. He is alive and this"—Taylor motioned to the mountains surrounding him—"testifies to His glory and the magnificence of His creation. But there is no magic in the pool, no special chant that will tell you your past or present or specific details about the future unless you are willing to—"

"As you've probably figured out by now, I'm willing to do anything."

"No, Kirk, you're not. You must choose—"

"Shut up!" A shot whizzed by Taylor's head a foot to the right and splintered a tree behind him. "Tell me how it works!"

"You're not here to kill me."

"Really?"

"All right, if you are, then shoot me." Taylor took another step toward Kirk.

"What?"

"If it's truly what you want, shoot me." Taylor put his arms out to the side. "Go on."

Rage, sorrow, and fear passed over Kirk's sweaty face, all three emotions blazing out of his eyes in seconds. Then only rage remained. "You're ready to eat a bullet?"

"Yes."

Kirk's trigger finger shook.

"He's lost it, Taylor," Cameron said. "Don't make him snap."

Kirk snorted. "You're next, Cameron." He waved the gun back and forth between Cameron and Taylor, his finger still twitching. "Tell me what I need to do and we can all live happily ever after."

"You can put the gun away. And both Cameron and I will forget you ever came here."

"I'm finished with your games, Stone." Kirk's gun exploded with another shot, this time the bullet streaked by Taylor's head by no more than six inches. "Will you start talking, or do you want to see how close I can get to your head with each progressive shot?"

"There's nothing here for you to see."

Kirk turned and walked back toward the pool, glancing over his shoulder at Cameron and Taylor every few feet. He stared at the water as his eyes grew cold. When he finally turned back to them, the blood had drained from his face.

"Not acceptable. This doesn't make sense. This can't be all there is. The book has to be real." He bent down and touched the lake, then stood and flicked his fingers, drops of water arcing against the sun.

"I'm going to count to one. After that I will shoot you in the leg. If that doesn't convince you to talk, I'll shoot you in the arm, then the stomach. If that doesn't scare the cat into letting go of your tongue, I will start shooting Cameron." He grinned and spun toward Cameron. "In fact, maybe I should start with your new young friend."

Kirk turned the Glock on Cameron and moved his finger over the trigger.

The sensation of floating surged through Cameron and his mouth opened. He gave a tiny shake of his head and whispered, "Not yet."

As he glanced from Kirk's trigger finger to his face to the barrel of the Glock, time slowed.

It's not time. I'm not ready to die, Jessie.

An instant later something large smashed into Kirk from the side knocking him to the ground. A blur of clothes. A man, now on top, blocking a punch, driving his knee hard into Gillum's throat, and in the same fluid motion grabbing the gun out of his hand. The man bounced to his feet and took three rapid steps backward, the weapon trained on the mayor's head.

Dark hair, wiry build—it was Grange.

The Native American turned to Taylor, breathing hard. "Gillum has talent. He lost me for a time and his tracks were difficult to follow."

"My friend." Taylor grasped Grange's forearms as Grange clasped Taylor's. "Thank you."

"Of course."

Kirk lay moaning, holding his neck with one hand, his ribs with the other. Cameron guessed at least a few of them were broken.

Grange held the Glock with both hands and said to Kirk, "Get up. We have a long hike ahead of us." He looked over his shoulder at Taylor. "I will explain to him in detail the way things must be."

Taylor nodded and they watched Kirk stumble up and out of the valley, Grange following, the gun steady in his hand.

Cameron stared at Taylor. "What is that little smirk on your face for?"

"It's not a smirk. It's a smile."

"Why?"

"Forgiveness." Taylor eased over to a boulder and sat. "For Kirk."

"Are you kidding? You're okay with what he just did to you?"

"I'm letting it go."

"What if he tries to come after—?"

"He won't. Grange will keep an eye on him. And once they trace Jason's murder to Kirk, the mayor's schedule will be full for a very long time."

Forgiveness.

Cameron stared at the craggy top of the highest peak surrounding the lake, locked his hands behind his neck, and paced back and forth.

Could he do it? Right here, right now? Could he forgive Taylor for telling him the book was real and bringing him here only to shatter his hopes? He'd believed. Taylor had convinced him the Book of Days existed.

But he'd felt God. He was real. Maybe it was enough.

"So the book is a place of beauty and solitude." Cameron spoke it more to himself than Taylor. "And a place of holiness. A place of God's presence. But not a place of memories and not a place where the future can be seen."

Taylor gazed at Cameron the way his dad used to. With joy, pride, and love shooting out of his eyes like lightning. "You are a good man, Cameron. We will talk about the book in a bit. But first the lake and I need to do some business."

CHAPTER 47

Taylor walked to within a few paces of the water and squatted. A moment later tears fell from his cheek and dropped onto the dirt at his feet.

"Do you want to be alone for this?"

"No. I'd like you to be here." He motioned Cameron to join him and waited till they crouched together on the edge of the pond.

Taylor reached into his pocket and pulled out an oblong object wrapped in a powder blue handkerchief. He motioned to it. "One of Annie's handkerchiefs from when she was a little girl." He unwrapped the object slowly, as if to lend some anticipation to what was inside. But Cameron already knew.

Taylor twirled the window crank around his fingers to catch the reflection of the sun, but he closed his eyes as the sunlight flashed off it, flared against his face. He let it settle into his palm. He sighed, and without opening his eyes brought the handle to his lips and kissed it.

Then in one quick motion he flung the crank out over the water like a discus thrower, tiny swooshes of air echoing back at them as it floated through the sky. Time seemed to slow as the handle spun clockwise, perfectly horizontal with the water's surface.

Then it was gone, the ripples fading fast, as if time had sped up, and silence filled the air. A silence of peace. Of forgiveness, of hope.

"Good-bye, Annie."

Taylor stood and nodded. "Take a moment, my friend, more than one, and let this place talk to you. Soak it in."

"Who is doing the talking?"

"Often I find that depends on who is listening."

"It was never real, was it?"

"The book? We will see. I want to give you the time you need. The time to possibly do some business with the pool of your own."

Cameron sat back on the turf that ringed the edge of the lake, listening to Taylor's fading footsteps as his friend thumped along the shoreline to his left, leaving him with his thoughts.

When Taylor reached a spot directly across the lake from him, Cameron decided his friend was right. He'd known it since the night before, maybe longer. It was time.

He took Jessie's stone out of his pocket, held it in his palm. It felt lighter than it usually did. Then heavier. A few seconds later he couldn't tell how it felt.

He held it out over the lake, his palm up and open, stretching his hand out till his arm ached and still he pressed harder.

Letting go wasn't letting go of her. It was releasing himself to live whatever life he had left, with whatever memories he could hold on to. Even if there wasn't a Book of Days, it didn't matter. Even if there was no direct portal into the mind and heart of God, telling of the past and what the future would bring, it was still the perfect place to choose freedom.

The lake was glass. No ripple, not a hint of wind. The mirror image of the surrounding peaks and wispy clouds was so brilliant, the images seemed more real than what it reflected.

Cameron glanced across at Taylor, then back into the lake. He saw why Taylor had convinced himself that the pool gave visions of what was recorded in the heavens. The presence he'd felt in this valley was real, and it was a place he could imagine God speaking.

Cameron drew back his arm—held it still for a moment—then flung the stone toward the center of the lake as hard as he could. It arced across the sky, a black dot against the sun, then fell in slow motion toward the water, almost seeming to stop before it melted into the deep and disappeared.

Once again the ripples faded almost instantly, and the lake returned to its reflection of a perfect mirror image of the craggy peaks and cobalt sky above him.

"Always love, Jessie. Always and forever."

Suddenly an image appeared on the surface of the water. Cameron's heart surged.

What?

The clouds and mountains vanished, replaced by a 1965 Mustang driving along a wet street, its lights ramming into a pounding rain. It was daylight, but the rain buried the scene in a blanket of gray.

Cameron staggered forward and braced himself against a tiny pine tree.

It seemed so real. The clarity was better than HDTV could ever hope for.

Jessie?

But it wasn't her Mustang, was it? No, Jessie's was different.

"Taylor, get over here!"

The view zoomed in from a wide shot where Cameron saw the street and the car to a close-up of the driver who seemed to be singing.

It wasn't Jessie.

It was . . .

Ann?

It couldn't be. The driver wore a tie-dyed T-shirt with every color of the rainbow and a scarf straight out of the seventies. Not Ann, the hair was too dark. But the eyes, the nose, the shape of her mouth, so similar . . .

He glanced at Taylor jogging toward him, now only ten yards away. Cameron kept his eyes on the image as he heard Taylor's footsteps thud up to him. "Look."

Taylor struggled for air, would have sprawled onto his backside if Cameron hadn't steadied him.

"Annie," he whispered. "It's my Annie."

Annie's diamond ring flashed as she took a corner, her hands smoothly turning the wheel, then reaching to adjust the radio. She flipped her hair back and joined in with whatever song she'd switched to. The light ahead of her was green and the car sped up.

As she reached the intersection, the scene slowed and the view pulled back. A station wagon plowed into the intersection to Annie's left.

She looked to her left—her face full of fear—and slammed on the brakes, but it was too late.

The scene slowed further as the look on Annie's face turned to one of wonder.

Her smile seemed to fill the lake, then her head fell back and laughter poured out of her.

She nodded once to whatever she was seeing and turned to look up, seemingly out of the lake as if searching for someone, light radiating from her face.

"It's time. Don't hold on. Let me go."

Cameron could read her lips. He didn't hear the words, maybe Taylor did. It didn't matter. They were as clear as if they'd been shouted.

Annie smiled, closed her eyes, then slowly opened them. "I love you, Taylor Stone." She closed her eyes for a second time and didn't open them again.

Just before the station wagon smashed into the Mustang, the image faded back into the surface of the water.

"Taylor?"

Taylor looked through him, as if he was still seeing Annie talking to him, and staggered backward, his eyes watering, his hands groping out behind him as though he might fall at any second.

He turned and found a pine tree to lean against as he gasped for air, and words sputtered out of him, too soft for Cameron to make out. But the peace in his eyes as he looked back said enough.

Movement out of the corner of his eye made Cameron whirl back to the lake.

He gasped as a new image formed on the surface.

Jessie and he sat on top of Mount Erie in northern Washington, gazing at the lush green farmland five hundred feet below them.

"What if I told you something you'd never believe?"

"I'd believe it."

She tickled him. "God is real."

"You have proof?"

"I've seen something He made. Something amazing."

The scene faded into the time they sat on the shores of Lake Chelan, the remains of barbecued salmon on plates to their right.

"You know how you always said you couldn't live without me?"

"True."

"You can."

"Uh-oh. This is where you tell me you've fallen in love with your old high school tennis coach and you're about to leave."

"You'd make it without me." Jessie gazed up at him, eyes sad.

"I'm not going anywhere and neither are you."

"Okay." Jessie buried her head in his chest. "I want to believe that."

"Why wouldn't you?"

"It's still years away. I'm not going to think about it."

She nuzzled in tight to his chest and he stroked her hair. "I love you, Jess."

"Always, Cam-Ram. Always and forever."

He glanced at Taylor who sat at the base of the tree, legs crossed, smiling. Cameron turned back to the lake.

The scene shifted and Jessie and he were sailing in the San Juan Islands.

"How old were you when the fantastic happened?"

"Ten. I saw something about us. About me."

"So that's how you knew to accept my invitation for that first date."

"This is serious, Cam."

"I'm being serious. I'm just . . . You have to admit it sounds a little woo-woo that you saw us when you were ten."

"I saw someone die." She drew a quick breath. "Someone we both know."

"It was a dream from a ten-year-old. Let it go."

The surface of the water shifted again.

"What's going on? Are you bummed because Pirates is shut down for the night?"

"Maybe God writes our memories down, hmm?"

"Sitting in a park where make-believe comes true, you could almost convince me God does exactly that. I wish He did."

"What if it's true? Not a wish? That our lives are written down, recorded, everyone's life?"

"Like some cosmic yearbook put together by the supreme being of the Universe?"

"Something like that."

"I love your insanity. One of the countless reasons I'll love you for eternity."

The scene ended and melted into Cameron taking a call on his cell phone as he recorded a voice-over with Brandon.

"I want us to go to Oregon. We need to go soon. We need to look for something, find something there."

"What?"

"Something I saw when I was a kid."

"What? The thing you saw when you were ten? That thing?"

"Yes. To see if it's real."

The scene shifted once again and Cameron watched the scene from the day Jessie gave him the stone. The day she died.

"I want to show you something."

"It's beautiful. Where'd you get this?"

"When I was a young kid. It's Native American."

"And these markings?"

"They told me it's a kind of language."

"What's it say?"

"I have no idea."

"It's cool; I like it."

"You need to have it."

"This stone means something to you."

"I need to give it to you just in case."

"Just in case what?"

"I'll tell you when I get home, I promise."

"Just in case what, Jess?"

"I will always be here, you know."

"Are you sure you don't want to stay here today? Hang out, you and me?"

"Good-bye, Cameron."

"You sure you're all right, babe?"

"I love you. Remember."

"What is it?"

"Fine, I'm fine. So are you. Always."

The scene on the surface of the pond shifted once more and the final moments of Jessie's accident played out in front of him.

"Promise you'll find it." Her eyes closed. "No tears, Aragorn."

"No. You can't leave me, Jessie."

"I have to. It's going to be all right, I promise. I love you, Cameron. Always and forever."

A moment later he vanished from the scene but Jessie remained. There was no blood and her face was more radiant than he ever remembered it. He couldn't tell if she was still in the airplane or somewhere else, but a moment later the scene changed again.

A man in a white T-shirt, his back to Cameron, sat on the stern of a sailboat, sun streaming down on him, wind whipping through his thick dark hair.

A shiver shot down Cameron's back as the man spun to face him. It was his father. Young. The way he looked when Cameron was a little boy. A massive grin broke out on his dad's face, and he threw his arms wide and spoke to the sky.

"All my memories, You've stored them for me, Lord." His dad was so full of joy it seemed to shake the rigging. "Draw Cameron to Yourself. I long to see him in eternity. And let him know I'm so proud of him, okay?"

Cameron shuddered as tears threatened to spill onto his cheeks.

The scene shifted and when the images came back into focus, he again looked at the top of Mount Erie in midsummer. But the colors were brilliant, too full to be from earth.

A woman sat with her back to him, looking out over the farmland and lakes and Puget Sound to the south. The wind tousled her hair, as if fingers were lifting it off her shoulders and setting it back down.

Jessie.

She turned and her gaze seemed to be searching for him, her eyes like diamonds, throwing off light. Was she older or younger than when he'd last seen her? Both maybe. Cameron couldn't tell. She laughed and somehow he heard it in his head.

"When I come to You and he remains, tell him it's okay. In a way he won't doubt. Let him know I'm where I'm supposed to be. And that I want him to join me. Not now. Not for a long time. But in time. Help him to seek, to choose life in the years that have been recorded for him on earth, and might he always love. Always and forever."

Jessie's face melted into the water and only the mirror image of the mountains surrounding the lake remained.

Cameron slumped back off his knees to the ground.

"I'd forgotten. Every one of them. She'd been trying to tell me all along."

"Are you okay?" Taylor stood next to him.

"I don't know. Maybe. Yes, somehow . . . How can I not be?" He looked up at Taylor.

"What happens if the memories of Jessie fade again?"

"It doesn't matter. She's right. It's okay." Cameron smiled as he cradled the back of his head with his hands.

"I think there's more for you to see." Taylor motioned toward the water.

The reflection of the mountains melted into another mountain, a different one, bathed in early morning sun. A climber clung to the side of it, too far away to tell if it was a man or a woman.

The view moved in.

Could it be?

Yes, it was Ann, laughing as she scaled the sheer face of a cliff, which ended in a domelike rock.

He knew the spot. It was Liberty Bell, right off the North Cascades Highway in northern Washington. Just a few days earlier Ann and he had talked about how she'd never been there and that they should climb it together. The view widened. Twenty feet below her was another climber. Male. The scene moved and he was now looking at a profile of Ann and the other climber. Himself.

Adrenaline filled his body; it felt like he was floating as he watched himself pull up toward Ann, a smile plastered on his face.

The image of Ann and he climbing Liberty Bell—was it the future, already recorded in God's book? Her future with him in it? Two weeks from now? Two months? A year?

But why would he do that to her? It wouldn't be right to burden her with his disease. No, maybe God had written it down, but Cameron would rewrite future history just as Taylor had.

The water swirled and he stared at a New York skyline as if from a plane. The view zoomed in to Ann sitting at a dark wood table at a restaurant with a man who toasted her and laughed. As she raised her glass, Ann's mouth smiled but her eyes didn't.

The scene shifted again and Ann sat in her car staring at a picture of Cameron taped to the dashboard. She sighed and yanked the picture free and stuffed it in her glove compartment. She dabbed her eyes with the backs of her hands and shook her head.

Another shift and Ann lifted an Emmy above her head.

The water changed again and Cameron watched himself editing a video in what looked like a home office, the clock on the wall reading 1:07 a.m. Three awards lay stacked on their sides on the desk next to him.

Another shift. Ann sitting at a dinner table with two beautiful girls who looked like her and the fourth spot at the table empty. Then the phone rang and Ann answered saying she understood, pain in her eyes as she hung up the phone, her back to the girls, then turning and forcing out a smile.

Cameron again, hair gray and thinning, sitting in a dim room alone watching television, a slight shaft of daylight piercing into the shuttered living room. Piles of books. A dusty coffee table. Bloodshot eyes.

So the future would be as bleak as the past. He wouldn't end up with Ann. With anyone. Sad. Her future looked better than his, but he couldn't shake the image of the empty chair at dinner. Was it him missing? Or the man he'd seen with Ann in the New York restaurant?

It was okay. It was his destiny to be alone.

Cameron squatted down, his head slumped forward, and a soft moan seeped from his lips. He sank deeper into himself to the quiet place where he couldn't lie to himself.

He loved Ann. And he couldn't stop loving her.

If she would have him, diseased mind and all, he would go to her and pour his heart out to her for the rest of his life.

He looked up. Taylor's eyes were riveted on the water. "Look."

Cameron turned.

The lake boiled for a moment, then cleared. Scenes of Ann and Cameron flashed across the surface.

She and Cameron stood on a ledge overlooking a tropical valley, an azure sea beyond that. "I think I like Costa Rica," she whispered. Her head was wrapped in small golden and crimson flowers, her turquoise dress was whipped by a strong wind, and Cameron held a diamond ring between his fingers.

A Christmas scene with Ann and him skiing the Swiss Alps with two other couples. The following summer they would rent a houseboat on Ross Lake, and Cameron would get so sore water-skiing he would slather BenGay over his entire body.

A child was born: a boy. Then another boy and a year later a daughter.

Now Cameron was speaking to a packed house at UCLA film school. Ann sat in the front row, her hair up, face radiant.

"What did you do?" Taylor grabbed Cameron's arm.

His lips slowly separated as he turned and stared at Taylor. What had he done? He'd changed his mind, surrendered to the longing inside and dreamed of building a life with her.

"I didn't do . . . I decided if she'll have me, I'm going to love Ann the rest of my life."

Speaking it out loud made him shiver. He shouldn't have said it. That made it real and real was too frightening.

Cameron closed his eyes and shut down the feeling, then shut down the choice to move forward. No. He couldn't do that to her. Even if she chose to be with him . . . So much better for her to find someone whole.

"It's changing back again," Taylor said.

Cameron opened his eyes and stared at the lake.

The scene had changed back to the one with Ann in New York with a smile and sad eyes. The man at the table opened a Tiffany's box and she nodded.

Cameron standing on the top of El Capitán alone.

Ann dropping off the girls for a weekend with their father.

Cameron old and flipping through channels on a television screen that covered his entire wall.

The water shifted and there was nothing to see except the placid still waters. Cameron watched and waited for five minutes but no other scenes came.

Cameron stared at Taylor as both men let what they'd just witnessed sink in.

"I saw myself years into the future, still alive. I was doing things you have to have a memory to do. Does that mean I'm going to be okay?"

"I don't know, my friend."

"Have I been cured?"

Taylor shook his head. "I don't know."

"I need to know."

"I don't think you can."

Cameron rubbed his face and stared at the surface of the water. "Tell me," he said to it, even though he knew there would be no answer.

Jessie. She was right. It was his choice to live or not to live.

Cameron gazed at the mountains, the trees, and finally the lake before looking at Taylor.

"So what future will you choose?" Taylor finally said.

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

"Life."

"Does that life include Ann?"

"I don't know. She has her choices to make. I have mine."

"Well said."

Cameron closed his eyes, lifted his head, and drew in a long breath of the pure air surrounding them.

"We need to head back," Taylor said.

As they made their way out of the valley, Taylor threw his arm across Cameron's shoulders. "You're free, my friend."

"As are you."

Taylor turned for a last look at the lake. "I'll see Annie again soon."

"But not yet."

"No, not yet."

CHAPTER 48

I didn't hear you leave this morning." Tricia shook out the porch mat and flopped it back down next to the front door as Taylor meandered up their walkway. The setting sun framed his silhouette. And even though his face was obscured, she saw something about him had changed.

"I left rather early."

"Just you, or did you bring along a guest?"

"I brought a guest." Taylor rubbed his chin with his forefinger.

"Where did you and Cameron go?"

"I took him to see the Book of Days."

Tricia smiled and took his hands in hers. "And what did you find?"

"I made an amazing discovery." Taylor grinned and wrapped her up in his arms. "I found the Taylor Stone you used to know. Apparently there is nothing that can't be forgiven."

"I've suspected that for a long time." Tears welled up in her eyes as she squeezed him as hard as she could.

After separating, Taylor stood with his hands in his coat pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. "How would you like to go for a walk with me?"

"On a gorgeous summer evening, why is that something I'd want to take the time to do?"

"Because you love me."

She reached into his coat pocket and slid her hand into his. "Well, there is always that."

They strolled down the street, Tricia not knowing where they were going and not caring. Her husband had come home. The change in his countenance was stunning. Even the air around him seemed lighter.

Taylor slid his hand into hers and squeezed twice as they continued down the road. She kicked a stick out of their way. "So the Book of Days is real."

"Very."

"And it shows you every memory and your entire future."

"No, the book shows you what you need to see. I didn't need to see the future, but I did see some things from the past."

"Like Annie."

Taylor nodded.

"And?"

"It's okay." He squeezed her hand again. "I'm okay."

"Why do I sense a hint of regret in your eyes?"

Taylor massaged his forehead, then left his hand covering his eyes for a long time.

"It looks like Kirk Gillum killed Jason."

Tricia stumbled. "No . . . no."

Taylor nodded and told her what happened at the lake.

"I'm sorry." She leaned into his chest. "Are you all right?"

"I will be. Even though Jason didn't . . . we didn't . . . I found my peace." Taylor sighed. "Let's talk about Cameron, okay?"

"Did he see his future?"

"Yes."

"So he knows what will happen?" Tricia asked.

"He knows he has a choice."

"So will they choose each other?"

"I'd love to eavesdrop when they talk, but I don't think we're invited."

Cameron and Ann's future. It would likely be set during their next conversation. She prayed they would choose wisely.

CHAPTER 49

The two o'clock sun warmed Cameron's back on Saturday as Ann and he sat at the top of the cliff where a little over two weeks ago, her silhouette had stopped him from trying to join Jessie early. He dug into his backpack, pulled out two blackberry PowerBars, and offered one to Ann.

"Thanks." She took it with a smile.

"Did I ever mention you saved my life here?"

"No."

Cameron unwrapped his bar and stared at the forest floor far below. "I gave considerable thought to 'losing my grip.'"

"You're serious."

"Yeah." Cameron started to put on his sunglasses but turned and looked Ann in the eye. "When I looked up and saw your silhouette, it stopped me from . . . Thanks for making the climb just before me."

"My pleasure."

"Apparently I have a few more pages to add to God's book."

Cameron had led them up the face and to the top in a leisurely fashion, taking time to savor the brilliant early August morning, feeling the magnificent strain on his arms and legs as they worked together in a smooth rhythm—clipping in carabineers, roping and unroping, suggesting holds and routes, and tossing smiles back and forth across the cliff face.

Now sitting at the top of their climb, having told her how close he'd come to killing himself, he let the peace of the moment settle over him. Only one more confession to go. But not right away.

"It still amazes me that the Book of Days is real." Ann breathed deep. "It's hard to let go of how insensitive I was to Jessie about it. I refused to believe her."

"So you haven't forgiven yourself for that?"

"Are you my spiritual advisor now?" Ann punched him lightly in the shoulder.

"How about forgiving your mom for what she did or didn't do?"

She leaned back, bracing herself on her hands, and smiled. "As a matter of fact, I have. I let it go. What my mom did to me . . . what I did to Jessie."

"How does it feel?"

"I feel free." Ann smiled and looked at the sky.

Cameron let the scene around him soak into his memory. A memory he might be able to hold. If not, God would hold it for him.

"Taylor says when he and Grange are gone, someone needs to be the guardian of the book. I think he handed the baton to me. I wouldn't mind having a partner in that venture."

"You're asking me?"

"Would you like to go there?"

"To the lake? Without question." Ann grabbed his hand. "Will I see anything?"

"Yes, I think so. I . . . I don't know." Cameron fumbled for the words. "It's not like I had any control over what it showed me or didn't show me." Cameron smiled. "I would love to see what it would show you."

"And you couldn't see everything it contains?"

"I thought I'd be able to. I thought it would tell the story of every soul on earth. That I'd be able to access every memory I'd ever had and look into my entire future. But the book is far smarter than that. I only saw glimpses, quick scenes of what was, what is to come, and what could come. Like I said, it only showed me what it wanted to show me."

Ann arched an eyebrow and quirked her lips. "It?"

"God."

"So He's real, then?"

"Most definitely."

"What are you going to do about that?"

"Learn, explore, follow Him."

Ann laughed, threw her arms around him, and squeezed tight. "As soon as you picked me up this morning, I knew it. It's all over your face." She pulled back and studied him. "It's over all of you."

"That's a good thing?"

Ann nodded and squeezed him again. "Would you mind terribly if I called you Wesley? It sounds so much better than Farm Boy."

He knew those names. Where were they from? He laughed. Of all the things to remember. "The Princess Bride."

"Yes." She leaned her head against his shoulder. "What did His book show you about us?"

"That we have a choice to change what might become."

"You sound like Dickens."

"What does that mean?"

"Scrooge changed things after his visit from the three ghosts, didn't he?"

"Ah yes." Cameron slid his arm around her and pulled her into his chest.

"So the future is fluid."

"If you like those words, yes."

"In this fluid future, if we both choose the way you'd like us to, where would we end up?"

Time for his final confession.

"I had hoped God would cure me at the lake. I have no idea if He did. It feels like something has changed, but that could be only my imagination." He took her hands in his. "I never thought I could let Jessie go." He reached for the familiar sensation of the stone around his neck, but his fingers found nothing. "But I have. And even though my mind might be gone in a month or a year, whatever time I have left, I want to spend it with you."

Ann didn't respond for a long time. When she did, she stood, pulled him up, and held both his hands in hers. "Do you regret the years you spent with Jessie? Even if you'd known the future, would you have pushed her out of your life, or would you have still savored every moment?"

She gazed toward Three Peaks in the distance. "I met a guy once who had a near-death experience. He was a white-water rafting guide on the Rogue River in southern Oregon. Going through Blossom Bar, he made a rookie mistake and ended up underwater for five minutes. They revived him and now he goes around speaking about living life to the full today because tomorrow it could be gone."

Ann slid her hands up Cameron's arms. "At the time I wrote it off. Carpe diem and all that has always seemed like a cliché to me. But it changed when you and I were on the side of that cliff dancing with death.

"I have no idea if we'll be dead tomorrow. We could die tonight. But I do know every moment we don't live to the full now, will be a moment we regret for the rest of our lives; however short that might be. So let's live, Cameron. While we have today—let's live."

Cameron smiled. "That's a good speech. Maybe just a hint of melodrama, but overall an excellent speech."

Ann whacked him on the head, and he pulled her in tight.

Wind whipped through his hair as he lifted her chin and kissed her for a long time. A very long time.

"Ann Banister, let's go record an amazing life together."

Dear Reader,

Why do we take hundreds of pictures of our spouses, kids, and friends?

I believe it's because of a universal desire to record our lives, to somehow keep the ravages of time from eroding our most treasured moments.

It was around 2000 that my family realized my dad had started losing his most treasured memories. As parts of his mind slipped away, it only caused the joy inside him to be released in fuller measure—that part was a gift. Even so, the pain of watching him walk down the path of the long good-bye was wrenching.

As the disease progressed, I started to wonder where my dad's memories were going. Were they mist? Or could God somehow, someday restore them? When I found Psalm 139:16, it was a huge comfort. I knew that his memories would be returned to him when he crossed over into eternity. God had recorded them in His book.

Then I thought, what if God's book could be found on Earth? From that question Book of Days was born.

If the mind of someone you loved or love is melting away, my desire is you find hope in this story, that you will embrace the idea that not one of the treasured moments you shared together is lost.

In the age to come God will restore memories and relationships, and He will revive the most joyful events of our lives to be celebrated again and again.

With great anticipation of reading His Book of Days in eternity,

James L. Rubart
www.jimrubart.com

Discussion Questions

1. What character in the book can you relate to most? Why?

2. Which character in Book of Days most surprised you?

3. What themes did you see in the novel?

4. Cameron is losing his memories of Jessie and it terrifies him. Do you worry about losing some of your memories? Read Psalm 139:16. What does that say to you about memories in light of eternity?

5. If God has forgiven our sins, do you think those parts of our lives will be edited out of God’s Book of Days? (See Psalm 103:12.)

6. Both Cameron and Taylor Stone have to let go of their late wives to be free. Why do we hold on to things from our past that weigh us down? Is there anything or anyone you’ve been holding on to that you need to let go of?

7. Taylor Stone likes Cameron from the start, but he tries to push him away because of the memories that are stirred up. Have you ever shunned a friendship because of a painful memory it reminds you of? What keeps you from dealing with painful memories?

8. Have you ever had a Jason Judah in your life? How did you deal with them? What did it teach you about other people? About yourself?

9. We tend to be harder on ourselves and offer far less forgiveness than other people give us. Why do you think that is? Are there areas of your life you need to forgive yourself for? (See Col. 1:13–14.)

10. Ann has to choose to be with Cameron or not be with him even though his mind might slip further away and their days together might be few. What would you do in such a situation?

11. Do you think Jessie made the right choice by trying to tell Cameron about the Book of Days and her future slowly? Or should she have told him all at once in clear language?

12. If Jessie had told Cameron bluntly, do you think he would have believed her? Why or why not?

13. Do you think the future is fluid, as Book of Days implies? Can we change the future by our choices, or is the future already set?

14. Were you surprised when you found out what the Book of Days really is? Why or why not? Did you like or not like what it turned out to be?

15. Have you thought about the idea of recording a life? What kind of life do you think you’re recording? (See Eph. 2:10.) On a scale of 1 to 10, is it the life you had hoped to record?

16. What do you need to change to record a life you’d be more proud of? (See Matt. 25:14–30.) In light of this parable, consider what one thing you would like to do differently from this moment on.

Praise for The Chair

“James L. Rubart is one of my new favorite authors. The Chair has the same depth and creativity as Rooms, and it was impossible for me to think of anything else until I finished it. I can’t wait for his next book!”

—Terri Blackstock, author of Intervention and Vicious Cycle

“The genius behind Rooms has struck again, leaving his readers hanging on for an extreme ride that rushes to conclude with a surprise, but satisfying twist.”

—Harry Kraus, MD, best-selling author of The Six-Liter Club

“The Chair is a compelling story that will draw the reader’s attention immediately and hold onto it until the end. I’ve enjoyed all of James L. Rubart’s books, but this may be my favorite.”

—Tracie Peterson, best-selling author of the Striking A Match series and Song of Alaska

“My kind of story: Thought provoking, filled with the truth of humanity and the compassion of Christ.”

—Bill Myers, best-selling author of Eli and The God Hater

“James L. Rubart has taken an inanimate object—a chair—and built a page-turning story around it, interweaving romance, danger, mystery, betrayal . . . and most of all, a message of healing and restoration. Taking readers far beneath the surface, Rubart masterfully paints a picture of God’s depth of love and longing for relationship with even those who are running away from Him as fast as they can. A tale of unimaginable sacrifice and unconditional love that will tug at your heart long after you’ve completed the last page.”

—Kathi Macias, award-winning author of Deliver Me from Evil and A Christmas Journey Home

Other Novels by James L. Rubart

Rooms

Book of Days

The Chair, Digital Edition

Based on Print Edition

Copyright © 2011 by James L. Rubart

All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America

978-1-4336-7152-4

Published by B&H Publishing Group

Nashville, Tennessee

Dewey Decimal Classification: F

Subject Heading: SPIRITUAL HEALING—FICTION \ CHAIRS—FICTION \ SUSPENSE FICTION

Scripture taken from the Holman Christian Standard Bible® Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2002, 2003, 2009 by Holman Bible Publishers. All rights reserved.

Publisher’s Note: The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

For my Good Buddy, and for the gift of restoration

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Dear Reader

Discussion Questions

Acknowledgments

Hold a true friend with both your hands.

NIGERIAN PROVERB

CHAPTER 1

On Tuesday afternoon at five thirty, an elderly lady strode into Corin’s antiques store as if she owned it and said, “The next two months of your life will be either heaven or hell.”

The corners of her mouth turned up a fraction. It was almost a smile.

“Excuse me?” Corin Roscoe stared at her over the mound of bills in front of him and stifled a laugh.

White hair, deep smile lines etched into her high cheekbones—she had to be at least mid-seventies. Maybe eighty, but she moved like she was in her forties. She wore a dark tan coat that bounced off her calves as she strolled toward Corin, ice blue eyes full of laughter. She didn’t look crazy.

“I’ve brought you the chair, you see.” She stared at him as if that statement would explain everything.

Corin brushed his dark hair off his forehead and slid off the stool behind his sales counter. “What chair?”

The woman looked around the store like a schoolteacher evaluating a new classroom of students. Her eyes seemed to settle on the pile of precisely stacked books from the 1700s. “I love books, you know.”

Something about her was familiar. “Do I know you?” He took a step toward the woman.

“No.” Her laugh had a tinge of music in it. “I hardly think so.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a fortune-teller, right? And think a little heaven and a little hell is coming my way. Can’t I just subscribe to your newsletter?”

She drew a circle in the air with her forefinger, cherry red nail polish flashing under the halogen lights of Corin’s antiques store. “Probably an interweaving of the two realms. And I believe you’ll discover the hope of restoration. The final outcome will, of course, be your choice.”

Corin smiled. “You know, people think I’m a little crazy because of what I do for fun, but I don’t think I have anything on you.”

She didn’t react; only stared at him, utter confidence in her eyes.

The lady had a sophisticated air about her in contrast with her odd proclamation. Since opening the store in his late twenties, Corin had entertained seven years of the occasional strange customer, but this lady was more than unusual. Her confidence and striking looks made her words almost believable.

“You need it.”

“I think this is the moment you tell me who you are or I kindly ask you to leave.”

The woman gazed out the windows toward Silva’s Ski Shop across the street. “It is with regret that I cannot do that yet, but be assured eventually I will.” The hint of a smile returned. “Now, I must be going, so if you could help me get the chair inside, I will extend you great appreciation.” She motioned toward the front door of the store. “It isn’t heavy, but we will want to be careful. It is priceless.”

Just outside the door a tan sheet covered what must be the chair the lady referred to.

She stared at Corin, waiting, as if there were a contest going on to see who would drop their eyes first.

“I didn’t order a chair.” Corin opened his palms. “Sorry. And wouldn’t you know it? I’m overstocked with them this month already.” He smiled. “Thanks anyway.”

“Listen to me.” She intertwined her fingers, brought her thumbs up under her chin, and pointed her forefingers at him.

“Okay.” Corin chuckled.

“This is a very special chair.”

“I’m sure it is.” Corin cocked his head and winked.

“Don’t mock me.” Her eyes locked on to his.

Corin took half a step back. If her eyes were lasers, smoke would already be curling skyward above his lifeless body. “My apologies. I’m sure your chair is exceptional, but my warehouse on the east edge of town is full of antique chairs that have collected dust for over six months. There isn’t a big demand for chairs in my store right now.”

Corin studied the lady. The lines carved into her light skin hinted of joy and pain, both in full measure. Her eyes, fire a moment ago, had softened and spoke of compassion and longing. Would it hurt to help her a bit?

“If you have any desks, I’ll take a look at those. I could buy two or three, maybe more depending on their condition. And I can take the chair on consignment if you like. No charge whatsoever to display it.”

She looked at Corin as if observing a small child. “You’ve misunderstood. I am not asking you to buy the chair. I am giving it to you.”

“Why would you do that?”

“You are to have it.” She motioned again toward the door.

“I am?” Corin slid his hands into his jeans and eased toward the woman. “Who made that decision?”

She stared at him and gave a faint smile but didn’t answer.

“And what if I don’t want this gift?”

“You do.” She closed her eyes and bowed her head for a few seconds. What was she doing? Praying? “You will.”

“You seem confident of that.”

“Most certainly. It is a stunning piece.” She looked down, laid a finger on the edge of a nineteenth-century French walnut side table to her right, and drew her finger slowly across the wood. “It was made by the most talented tekton craftsman the world has ever known.”

“And who would that be?”

“You’ll figure it out, Corin.” She looked back up at him, the knowing smile back on her face. “I believe in you.”

He didn’t need to figure it out. He needed to get back to figuring out how he would keep the bank from saying, “Thank you very much. The few items from centuries past that you still have in your possession are now ours.”

The lady continued to stare at him.

It was obvious she wouldn’t leave till she got what she wanted. And what would it hurt? Free? The price was right. And if it was hideous, he could use it in the fire pit in his backyard. Or give it away as a white elephant Christmas gift in a little over two months.

“Okay, you win.” Corin grinned. “How ’bout I take a look at it and tell you what I think?”

“Of course.”

She stepped outside to get the chair, and a burst of cool autumn air swirled through the front door. Colorado Springs was normally in the low sixties this time of year, but it felt more like mid-fifties today.

Corin followed her out. “Here, let me get it.” Thin twine ran up and over the sheet that covered the chair and around its sides holding it in place. He leaned over, grabbed the arms of the chair, and immediately felt a mild shock, like he’d shuffled his feet double-time on carpet, then touched something metal.

“Wow!” Corin stumbled back a step and rubbed his fingers.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine, just a little, uh, electric shock.” He leaned over and picked up the chair.

“I see.” She raised her right eyebrow.

The woman held open the store door for Corin as he carried it inside. She strode to a spot near his picture window that faced the street and motioned toward the floor with her hands in a big circle. “Here. It should go here.”

Corin set the chair down and stepped back.

With a miniature pocketknife the woman cut the twine and let it tumble to the floor, then grabbed the middle of the sheet covering the chair. “Ready?”

“Sure.” Corin held back a smile. He almost expected her to play a piece of classical music before pulling off the sheet. The lady glanced at him, then uncovered the chair as if she were revealing a glass-blown unicorn from seventeenth-century Venice.

Corin wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Most talented craftsman the world has ever known? Certainly not for this piece. Describing it as plain would be generous. The only thing intriguing about the chair was the age. It looked older than any antique he’d ever seen. Made of olive wood, most likely. He strolled toward the chair, then circled it.

His first assessment was wrong. As he studied it longer, he realized its minimalism masked a complex beauty.

Interesting.

And its finish was . . . he didn’t know. He’d never seen one like it before. Almost a translucent gold.

He stepped forward and rubbed his finger along its back. Again a tingling sensation ran through his fingers, lighter this time as if he’d stuck his finger in an electrical socket with a minimal current flowing through it. But the feeling wasn’t painful. It was almost warm and tinged with energy. An instant later he felt . . . refreshed. As if he’d just taken a twenty-minute power nap.

He pulled his hand back and rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “Strange.” He turned to the woman.

“Did you feel something when you touched the chair?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Like electricity. And energy.”

She nodded as if she expected his answer and wanted him to continue speaking.

“What did I feel?”

“It’s a very special chair.”

“Why is it special? Why did it do that to me?”

“I hope you find out, but that will, of course, be your choice.” She eased over to it and placed both her hands on top of its back and slowly slid them down the sides as she knelt. The woman sighed and again bowed her head.

“Where did it come from? Who made it?”

She stood. “I told you. A craftsman.”

“His name?”

She kept speaking as if she hadn’t heard him. “Who lived long ago.”

“What was his name?”

She looked up. “It’s not important right now. In time it will be. So give this the time it needs.”

She smiled, Julia Roberts wide, then turned and walked toward the front door of his store.

“You’re leaving?”

“I’m sorry, Corin. I must.”

“I’d like to ask you a few more questions about this chair.”

“I would like that.”

“Great.” Corin pulled out his cell phone and punched up his calendar. “When can we set a time to—?”

“I am sorry; I have to go now.” The lady put her hand on the doorknob.

Corin walked toward her. “Do you have a card?”

“No.”

“And if I want to reach you?”

“Don’t worry, my dear Corin. I will be in touch. I am very curious to see how this whole drama turns out.”

“How do you know my name?”

“You are sharp, aren’t you?” She laughed. “There isn’t much you miss I imagine.”

“You aren’t going to tell me.”

“No, not right now.” She opened the door and stepped through it, then turned. “Oh, and Corin?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t worry about sitting in the chair till you’re ready.” She strolled away and faded into the late-afternoon sun.

Corin closed his front door and stared at it till the bells on it went silent.

This one deserved a page in the manuscript of his book Strange Antiques, Stranger Customers. Maybe a whole chapter.

He shook his head and sighed. When he was her age, he hoped his eccentricity would be more self-contained than what he’d just witnessed.

Corin spun on his heel and eased back to the chair. Had he really felt something?

No question. And it wasn’t a buildup of electricity on his carpet since his floors were made of ash hardwood.

He reached out, like he was sneaking up on a butterfly, and stopped with only centimeters between the tip of his forefinger and the chair.

After sucking in a deep breath and holding it for ten seconds, he let it out slowly as he leaned slightly forward and touched the chair.

Nothing.

He ran his fingers up and down the sides and along the edges of the seat.

This time there was no sensation. Did he imagine it? He’d been positive a moment ago.

Corin trudged back toward his six-by-six-foot office, past the sales counter, which had been sleepy for far too long, and slumped into one of the nineteenth-century black harvest stenciled Hitchcock chairs he’d restored four months back.

Two years ago the chair would have brought him a fifteen-hundred-dollar profit on a bad day. Now it seemed to be nothing more than a conversation piece for the curious window-shoppers who wanted to dream of older, better days when the world wasn’t filled with chaos but who didn’t feel a need to sacrifice any coin of the realm to acquire it for their homes.

Better days.

A distant memory professionally.

An ancient memory personally.

Corin opened his desk drawer and stared at the framed eight-by-ten picture resting on top of a thick stack of photos. Two men in their mid-twenties on street luges screamed around a corner at seventy miles an hour in matching black-and-red leather coats, inches from the ground, one thumb up and grins beneath their helmets. At least he thought Shasta had been smiling. Corin had been.

His brother had signed the shot, just like they signed all of their photos documenting their abundant adventures, and they’d added the caption, “To insanity and beyond!”

That had been their catchphrase, inspired by seeing Toy Story when they were teenagers. Buzz might go to infinity and beyond; their taste for extreme sports had taken them farther.

Too far.

Corin closed his eyes, tossed the photo back into the drawer, and slammed it shut.

Never again.

No more riding the thermals up to seventeen thousand feet on their hang gliders. No more flinging themselves thirty feet into the air on their dirt bikes. No more repelling into caves they might never climb out of.

All thanks to Corin Carter Roscoe.

His cell phone shattered the moment and he pushed the pain from his mind. Good. Time to get back to the present. “Hello?”

“Cor? It’s Robin.”

“Hey, how are you?” Corin shook his head. Speak of the devil and Shasta’s strawberry blond wife ends up on the phone a few seconds later.

“Good. You?”

“Fine.”

“Can I ask a favor, Cor?”

“Anything. You know that.”

“I know, but only if it won’t cut into any other plans you might have.”

“What do you need?”

“I have buyers who have been looking at one of my listings who are willing to sign right now, and I don’t want to lose this one. And I need someone to pick up—”

“My favorite nephew.”

“Yes.”

“That means I’d have to drop him off at your house.” Corin opened the drawer and stared at the photo again.

“Yes.” Robin sighed.

“Which means I would probably have to go inside to make sure—”

“Don’t go inside. He’s been working on a big case, and he’s due in court next week and—”

“I know. You don’t have to make excuses.” Corin pushed the drawer with his pinky finger and watched it slide shut with a soft click. “It was only an idea.”

“Not a good one.”

When would it ever be good? Corin tried to swallow the regret, but it stuck in his throat. “I’ll leave right now.”

“Thanks.” She took a long breath. “And Cor?”

“Yeah?”

“Have faith. This life isn’t over yet. Shasta could still come around.”

Corin hung up, glanced at his calendar, then his watch and swore. Tori’s class would start in twenty minutes. There was no way he could pick up Sawyer from his Pee-Wee football practice, drop him off at his brother’s house, and get to Tori’s class on time.

This would be the third time this month he showed up after she’d started. Tori rarely complained about it, even though he often saw the frustration in her eyes. She always said don’t worry about it, that she had her faults too, but he did worry about it. Women like her were as rare as the 1876 Winchester Deluxe rifle sitting inside the locked vault hidden at the back of his store.

After dropping off Sawyer and waiting till he stepped inside his brother’s six-thousand-square-foot home, Corin glanced at his watch and mashed his gas pedal. No problem. He didn’t have to be late for Tori’s class. If he could average ninety-five mph across town, he’d make it just in time.

CHAPTER 2

Corin caught Tori’s piercing eyes the moment he stepped inside the dojo. She didn’t look mad. Not much. She glanced at her class, then back to him. Jet black hair. Almond-shaped eyes. Beautiful skin. There was something about Asian women that turned him into a moth, and Tori was Queen of the Flame.

“Hang on,” she said to her students and jogged over to Corin. She cinched up the belt surrounding her gi and grinned. “You’re late.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Tori stood on her toes and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “On the other hand, because of it I’m going to kick your hind quarters tonight.”

“I am worried about it. It’s my second time this month.”

“Nah, I only kicked your caboose once in the past thirty days.”

“I’m talking about being late.”

“I know, and it’s been four times so far this month.”

“Really? I’m sorry.”

“We’ve already started.” Tori nodded, then jerked her head toward the mat filled with ten students ranging in age from mid-teens to mid-forties. “You better get changed.”

“Right.”

He’d agreed to take the class with Tori for three reasons: to learn self-defense. To be around Tori more. And to be around Tori more. He really didn’t care about the first reason.

And not only because she was the polar opposite of his ex-wife in every way.

They’d met three months ago, but it was tough keeping his brain from imagining at least three decades together.

At five-three she was almost a foot shorter than him and weighed almost a hundred pounds less, but she’d proven the old adage about size not mattering when it came to martial arts. And she didn’t think his obsession with BASE jumping, hang gliding, and other insane outdoor activities was, well, obsessive. She even joined him on many of his leaps into the rarefied air of courting Lady Death through extreme sports.

After fifteen minutes Tori had the class pair up to practice sparring.

“Faster!” she called out. “Strike then retreat with focus. With speed. All the time considering your next counterattack.”

Corin’s partner, an African American kid who couldn’t be over fourteen, said, “Aren’t you kind of old to be learning this stuff?”

“Thirty-four isn’t old.”

“Yeah it is.”

Corin laughed. “Remind me in twenty years to ask if you still feel the same way.”

After ten minutes Tori called the class together. “Are you ready to learn a new move?” She paced back and forth, her dark black ponytail bouncing in rhythm to her steps.

Most of the students nodded. Corin shook his head no. He knew what learning a new move meant. Pain. And humiliation.

“Do we have a volunteer? I need someone big and strong. An athlete. Someone who might have rowed on a crew team in college.” She meandered her way back and forth till she stood directly in front of Corin. “Someone who’s still in pretty decent shape. Someone who likes living on the edge.”

Tori pretended to glance around the room before her eyes settled on Corin. She leaned forward, hands on hips, staring at him. “Anyone? Is there anyone here who fits that description? Come on, show me that hand.”

“Sure,” Corin said. “How ’bout me?”

“You?” Tori leaned back and frowned at him. “I didn’t even see you there.” The class laughed.

She led him to the front of the class and they squared off, their profiles to the students. “I want you to come at me. Hard. No holding back, okay?”

It still felt strange attacking a woman, especially one he was growing so fond of, but past experience told him he’d feel a greater degree of soreness the next day if he didn’t and there was little danger of hurting her.

He lunged forward and launched his fist toward her stomach.

Wham!

An instant later he stared up at her dark brown eyes, the back of his head pounding like a bass drum.

“You okay?” She winked at him.

“Super. This is better than bungee jumping any day.”

AFTER A QUICK shower, Corin strolled out of the dojo with Tori and headed down the street to find a reward for their physical exertion.

“You need a haircut.” She reached up and ruffled his dark brown hair.

Corin rubbed his head where she’d messed his hair. “A little long is okay. I’m a fashion pioneer. Longer hair will be coming back.”

“At least you know how to shave your whole face.”

He picked up a Gambel oak leaf from the sidewalk and held it up to her. “For you.”

She took it and slid it under her Tech^40 sports watch. “I’ll treasure it always.”

Corin reached over and rubbed the back of her neck as they walked. “Are you thinking about stopping by Jamba Juice for a Blackberry Bliss, or does an Oreo cookie milkshake at Dairy Bar sound better?”

“Jamba. You need something healthy after a workout like that.”

“Oreos are healthy.”

“This ought to be good.” Tori smirked.

“Emotionally healthy. They make me feel happy.”

“And your gut big.”

Corin patted his stomach. “What have you got against my one-pack?”

“Nothing. It’s stunning.”

“Hang on, I’ll be right back.” Corin glanced both ways before jogging across the street to Dairy Bar where he ordered a large Oreo cookie shake.

Tori poked her finger at him as he jogged back and joined her on the sidewalk. “You can’t take that into Jamba Juice.”

“Sure I can. Watch.” He opened the door for her, and she scowled at him as she walked in.

Jamba Juice was empty except for one customer. Tori ordered a Caribbean Passion and they slid into a booth at the back of the store.

“It was a good class tonight, don’t you think?”

“You kicked my butt. In front of everyone. Again.” Corin sucked in a mouthful of her smoothie. “It’s a little embarrassing getting handled like that in front of all your students.”

“Why?” She grinned at him. “Because you outweigh me by at least one hundred pounds and are a foot taller?”

“Something like that.”

“Karate isn’t about size—”

“It’s about technique, I know.”

“Why were you late?”

“A slight emergency.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Good to know.” Tori stared at him over the top of her straw as she swirled it around her cup. Her eyes asked him to say more, but her mouth stayed silent.

Thank you for not pressing me.

“Anything fun happen in your store today?”

Corin downed a large gulp of milkshake as a teenager in a wheelchair inched past their table. He couldn’t get away from it anywhere. Constant reminders of his idiocy. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. It happened, yes. But it was eons ago. And he couldn’t go back in time to fix it.

So let it go.

Most of the time he could. Not most. Some.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Corin offered a smile that was only half forced. “And yes, as a matter of fact, something fun did happen. Peter Parker’s aunt came by the store with a gift.”

“Peter Parker?”

“You know, Spider-Man, Peter Parker. He has an Aunt May he lives with, or lived with, before he and Mary Jane got connected. This lady looked like her. Only prettier.”

“I’ve never really gotten into comics.”

“Didn’t you see any of the movies?”

“Sorry.” Tori shrugged. “I know they killed at the box office.”

“We’ll watch them sometime.”

“I can’t wait.”

Corin laughed, reached for Tori’s hands, and squeezed twice. She gave him two back.

“What was the gift?”

“A chair.”

“I’ll bet it was an antique.”

“Lucky guess. She gives me all this cryptic mumbo jumbo about the chair, how special it is, how the greatest craftsman who ever lived made it, etcetera.”

“She didn’t say why it’s so special?”

“She was a little strange. Wouldn’t give me her name, number, nothing.”

“Maybe she’s playing hard to get.”

“Ha.”

“It’s old?” Tori slurped up the last of her Caribbean Passion and tossed the cup at the nearby trash can. It hit the rim and tottered in.

“From what I can tell, really old. There’s nothing special about it at first glance. The design is simple, but I’m going to give it a thorough exam this week. There’s something about it that’s different.”

“How so?”

Corin hesitated. Should he tell her? No. Why not? Because he didn’t want her thinking he was a whacko. He rubbed his fingers together where the tingling sensation had shot into his fingers and up his arm. He still couldn’t decide if he’d imagined the feeling.

He hadn’t known Tori long enough to predict how she’d react to his telling her an ancient chair provided by an enigmatic elderly lady was throwing off electric current.

“Maybe it was the way she looked at me. Or what she said. Might just be my imagination, but I think there’s an energy around that chair. I’ll probably have the thing dated to see exactly how old it is. I’m curious.”

“Energy from the chair? Are you going New Age on me?”

Corin shook his head. “I just want to find out more about it.”

“Is she trying to sell it on consignment?”

“No, it was clear she wanted me to keep it. She said I had been chosen to have the chair.”

“Doo doo doo doo—doo, doo doo doo.”

“Is that supposed to be the theme music from the Twilight Zone?”

“I knew you’d recognize it.” Tori thumped his forearm with the edge of her palm, fingers out. “Hey, changing gears, are you dead set on going this weekend?”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to hold your fingers straight when you gave a karate chop.”

“It’s okay when it’s a sign of affection.” Tori smiled and reached for Corin’s milkshake. “So you’re set on going?”

“Yes, it’ll be a killer adrenaline rush.”

“Hmm.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Nothing.” She looked at the table and chopped his arm again. “What time are we taking off on Friday?”

Corin waved his hand in the air as if to wipe away the question. “Who do you think is the greatest chair maker who ever lived?”

“I know what my slightly deranged parents would say.”

“Really?” Corin leaned forward. “Who?”

Tori took a drink of Corin’s milkshake, the chocolate staining her upper lip. “If we’re talking about the absolute greatest, the answer is pretty obvious.”

“And that would be?”

“Jesus.” Tori shrugged.

“Son of God, Jesus?” Corin laughed. “Wasn’t He more into the doing miracles thing and walking around from town to town with His band of merry men?”

“That’s Robin Hood.”

“Whatever.”

“He did the carpenter thing until He was thirty. So who says He didn’t make a bunch of tables and chairs?”

“So a chair is going to last for two thousand years?”

“I don’t know. You’re the expert on old furniture, Corin. You tell me. If it’s treated right the wood isn’t going to rot, is it? Plus He probably put some kind of spell or blessing or whatever on it.”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

“They say with God all things are possible.”

“I didn’t know you were into Christianity.”

“Are you kidding? I’m about as far away as you can get. But I grew up with my parents forcing me to go every Sunday. I gave it up the moment I headed off to college.” She took a last drink of his Oreo shake and stood. “I’m still spiritual, but I bailed on the church long ago.”

Corin creaked out of his seat, soreness already creeping into his quads. “Your reason?”

A darkness flashed over Tori’s face almost too quick to notice.

She shrugged. “Too much religion. Too narrow minded. Everyone else except Christians are going to hell because they weren’t born in the right country and weren’t raised that way? Nah, I can’t buy that. And I think Christians are way more excited to judge others for all their sins and tell them why they’re wrong than love them. You know, the typical reasons.”

She said the words with sincerity. But something about them rang false.

They stepped outside and eased back toward the dojo’s parking lot where their cars were parked.

Tori spread her hands and gazed at the sky. “I don’t think there’s a singular God. I think God is in all of us, so collectively the good in people makes up something I call God.” She gazed at him. “And you? Where are you at spiritually?”

“I definitely think there’s something bigger than us. Maybe God. I think there’s a force—”

Tori laughed. “Da duh, da da da da duh, duh duh duh, duhhhhh. Luke, I am your faaaather.”

“Just because I like Star Wars doesn’t mean I’m going all Lucas on you.” He joined her laughter and slid his arm around her shoulders.

“I think it would be cool if you had a chair made by Jesus. You could start a cult. Pretend it gives people visions if they sit in it. Hey! Make them pay to sit in it to get their visions and make a few bucks. Or build duplicates, put them in the store and up on your Web site, and sell ’em.”

“So you’re still up for launching ourselves off that mountain this weekend?”

“Absolutely.” She stared at him from under her eyebrows. “Kind of.”

“Explain.”

“Just promise me you won’t go crazy on me again, okay?”

Was it that obvious? His penchant for buddying up to the Reaper? Probably. But he couldn’t stop it. Maybe he didn’t want to stop it. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“That’s what concerns me.”

She was right to worry. But he’d never admit that to her. He barely admitted it to himself.

CHAPTER 3

At nine o’clock the next evening, the sound of thunder ripped through Corin’s house, making him think once again they must have constructed his walls out of papier-mâché. The lamp on his workbench flickered. Welcome to late October in Colorado.

“No.” Corin shut his eyes. “I don’t need this. I want to get this piece finished.”

A second peal of thunder reverberated through the room, and the lights went out for half a second, then back on.

Corin yanked open a drawer and pulled out a flashlight.

If the power went out, it meant another delay in finishing the table and getting it on his sales floor.

He ran his hands over the top of the Top Swan carved end table. It was turning out beautiful. Researching the type of stain that had originally been used had taken days. Finding the stain took longer. In the end he had the stain custom made. But there was no point in restoring the piece to its almost-original condition. Exact was the only acceptable standard.

He plugged in his sander and fired it up. In a few minutes he’d have all the rough spots smoothed out on the final leg of the table. Corin glanced at the lights. Just give me power a little bit longer.

The lights flickered again.

Corin turned the sander on high and went to work on the leg. Three seconds later all the lights in his shop went out. Corin sighed, set his sander on his workbench, picked up the flashlight and turned to the door of his workshop. “What?” Dim light reached him from his kitchen. Oh no. The power hadn’t gone out. He’d blown a fuse.

Corin swore, closed his eyes, and jammed his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking.

Every time this happened he promised himself he’d cut a door from the outside of the garage so he could get to the fuse box without having to face the tunnel of fear that insisted on burrowing its way into his mind.

Sweat trickled down his forehead as he walked into his living room and stared at his couch. Maybe he’d sit in it for five or ten minutes—it’d give him time to work up his nerve.

Sure it would.

And at least three of the Fantastic Four were real and living in New York City.

Couldn’t he even reset a fuse without morphing into a six-foot-two mass of fear?

What had the psychiatrist told him a few years back? Think open thoughts. Close his eyes if possible and think about meadows, the ocean, mountaintops with nothing but sky surrounding him. Yeah, right.

He took a deep breath. Something about holding his breath kept the claustrophobia at bay till he let the air out. Holding his breath meant he wasn’t breathing in . . .

No. No point in going there. He relived it often enough in his nightmares.

Corin wiped the perspiration off his forehead again and shook his head.

Why couldn’t he have a simpler fear like being scared of the dark?

The lead box for that kind of kryptonite was simple. Night-lights, flashlights, spotlights.

He roamed toward the garage door and reached for the knob hating himself for the slick coat of perspiration he left on it. As he stepped into the belly of the beast, he took another deep breath.

Corin eased toward the crawl space between the back of the garage and the wall that created an extra, hidden storage area. Shouldn’t the home have been built with an easily accessed fuse box? Wasn’t it important to get to these type of things? Or did the previous owner build this wall without getting permits?

I so appreciate what you constructed, pal. Thanks a bunch.

When he reached the spot where the wall started, he rubbed the Sheetrock with the palm of his hand and muttered for the 2 millionth time, “There’s no logical reason to be afraid.” And for the 2 millionth time it didn’t help.

He clutched his knees to stop his legs from bouncing.

Why couldn’t he shake this?

Closed spaces had nothing to do with water. He puffed out a quick breath. Yes, they did. It’s why some people couldn’t scuba dive or even snorkel. It felt like the water was closing in.

Corin shook the summer of 1987 out his mind, lied to himself, and pretended the two incidents weren’t related.

He flashed his light at the opening. It was only fifteen feet to the fuse box. There was an abundance of air to breathe between here and there. And he could hold his breath long enough to get to the switch, flip it, and get back to the safety of the open garage.

He wouldn’t allow himself to pit out another one of his Crazy Shirts just because he swallowed a few lungfuls of water when he was a kid. Big deal. Get over it. Be a superhero, face the fear, and get on with life. But he couldn’t. Counseling, hypnosis, even acupuncture. Nothing had helped.

He sucked in a rapid breath and held it, closed his eyes, and imagined open fields. Why did his mind always flood the fields with water?

Go!

He turned sideways and shimmied in between the walls, almost hopping as he sidestepped toward the fuse box. In six seconds he reached it.

Flip the switch and get back.

Corin yanked the fuse down for his shop, then shoved it back up. It snapped into place.

Yes! Done.

Now to escape the confines of the crawl space before the air in his lungs forced its way out. As he reached the halfway point, his jeans caught on the head of a nail sticking out of a two-by-four. Its dull shape dug into the side of his shin sending a sliver of pain up his leg.

He swore and the air in his lungs burst out and panic rushed in.

His palms went clammy and the walls pushed in, crushing him, sucking the—No. Stay calm. The walls weren’t moving. They weren’t crushing him. If not for the nail, he would have made it in and out and been fine.

He jerked his leg forward, but the nail held and the tear in his jeans lengthened. He closed his eyes. Open spaces. Think open spaces. He opened his eyes, reached down, and yanked his jeans free of the nail, his legs shuddering. Hang on. Just a few more feet.

As he stumbled out of the crawl space, he lurched forward and fell across the hood of his car. Sweat covered the back of his shirt and his pulse must have been 140 plus.

A minute later he stood, pulled off his shirt, and trudged upstairs to the shower. When he reached the bathroom, he peeled off the rest of his clothes and turned on the water, waiting till thick steam filled the bathroom and shut out the haunted look he saw in the mirror. This shower would be long and hot. A reach for relaxation—and the smothering of his past.

After drying off and changing into sweats and a T-shirt, he sat on the front porch wishing he could talk some sense into himself.

He hated his claustrophobia. It didn’t matter that as much as 7 percent of the world fought the dread of small spaces. It made him feel weak. Helpless. Vulnerable.

Corin went back inside and grabbed a drink. As he stumbled back onto his front porch, he pushed all thoughts from his mind except the jump that weekend. A jump that would make him forget all about his scrambled, neurotic brain.

Just before heading for bed, a meteor streaked through the earth’s atmosphere.

When you wish upon objects in the sky,
Not knowing if you’ll live or die,
Heal my heart and heal my head,
And for once sweet dreams,
When I crash in bed.

Fat chance.

Corin stood and headed for his bedroom.

The amber plastic bottle that sat on his nightstand seemed to stare at him. His doctor had prescribed the pills to help him sleep, and more important, sleep with no dreams. Most nights it worked. Most.

Corin picked up the bottle and rattled the two pills left. He was only supposed to take two or three per week at the most. For the past month it’d been seven every week.

Because the dreams were getting worse.

Sleep covered him in minutes, but his pill once again decided to take the night off.

CHAPTER 4

Corin’s eyes were slammed shut, but he didn’t need them open to feel the cold water trying to thrust its way into his mouth.

An icy current surged against his face from the left, then another from straight on. Corin felt someone beside him and he forced his eyes open.

A blurry figure. A monster? Human?

Yes.

A hero.

His dad. Rescue. This time he’d be pulled to the surface, sputtering, but alive.

His dad grabbed the strap of Corin’s life jacket, yanked him off the handlebars of the upside down bicycle, and pushed for the surface.

A few more feet, six, maybe seven. Then sweet air.

The light filtering through the water grew stronger. He saw the wavering forms of his mom and brother above the surface, kneeling on the pontoon boat, peering down at him.

Faster. Please.

Go faster, Dad!

Just a little more.

But an instant later the strap wasn’t the strap of a life jacket any longer. As his dad pulled on it, it melted into a long strand of black licorice that snapped into pieces and floated down into the darkness of the lake.

Corin’s life jacket turned to lead, and he sank like a boulder racing for the bottom of the lake.

The blackness reached up for him and accelerated his descent.

He spun deeper, holding his breath till the pressure of the deep water forced the air out of him and he gulped in lungfuls of murky, icy water.

Then darkness.

Then nothingness. Always the nothingness.

Then . . .

Corin woke drenched in sweat. Fear swallowed any rational thought of it only being a dream. Not a dream, a nightmare. He glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand: 4:15 a.m. He staggered out of bed, stumbled into his bathroom, and splashed cold water on his face.

Might as well try to wake up. Sleep was over for the night.

CHAPTER 5

Corin sat hunched over his desk doing a bill-juggling act and trying to ignore the article on the front page of the New England Journal of Medicine that kept screaming at him. He glanced at it for the eighty-ninth time that day, and for the eighty-ninth time felt a bowling ball take up residence in his gut.

New Surgery Working in High Percentage of Spinal-Cord Injury Cases.

It was wonderful news as long as you had three hundred thousand dollars fluttering down your chimney into your Christmas stocking.

But the insurance Grinch had stolen the stockings, and the only green flowing into Corin’s life these days was his penchant for herbal green tea.

A moment later the bell on his front door announced the arrival of a shopper, thankfully interrupting the melancholy mood he’d let himself slip into. Corin stood and shook his arms. Must wake up and be charming. Smiles, everyone, smiles.

He walked out of his office in time to see a woman and a boy holding hands clump down the two steps inside his front door onto the main showroom floor. It was obvious the woman wanted to keep holding hands; the boy didn’t. He tugged on her dilapidated purse with his other hand.

“Can I let go? I won’t run, Mom, okay?”

She looked mid-thirties, reddish brown hair, jeans, and a faded T-shirt with a photo of three boys ironed onto it that said, “Sane Women Stop at Two.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes!” The boy bounced on his toes as he pulled on his mom’s hand.

The woman released him and the boy stared up at her as if to show her he meant to keep his word. His blond hair was cut short and his brown eyes were full of energy.

“Hi, I’m Corin, welcome to Artifications. Have you been here before?”

“No, this is our first time.”

“Can I answer any questions?”

The woman motioned toward the boy who wandered toward the back of the store. “He can’t run because of his asthma.” She gave a tiny shake of her head. “Not that he should be running in a store anyway, but there’s something about the aisles of a store that make him want to race up and down them.” A wave of sadness swept over her face and in that instant she looked fifty.

“I remember loving to do that as a kid.”

“Me too.” The woman shrugged and sighed.

“That has to be tough.”

She gave a glum smile. “It’s especially hard on him because his two older brothers are both basketball players and he’d love to be one too. He wants to follow in their sneakers, but with his asthma there’s just no way.” She sighed again and brushed back her hair. “He can’t even play baseball, which is his favorite sport. So when there are game days or basketball practice like this afternoon, my husband goes with the two older ones and we look for places to go while his brothers play.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Us too. It’s all he’s wanted to do since he was little.”

“What’s his name?”

“Brittan. I’m Tracie.”

“Nice to meet you.” Corin stepped toward the small refrigerator next to his sales counter. “Would you like a bottled water?”

“No thanks.”

He watched Brittan’s head swivel from left to right as he strolled down aisle two gazing at the antiques. “How old?”

“I’m not sure you should be asking how old I am.”

Corin smiled. “I meant . . .”

Tracie burst out laughing. “I know, I’m just being silly. He’ll be seven in two months.”

A joyful shriek came from the back of the store. “Hey, Mom! Look!”

They turned as Brittan streaked down the aisle with a Boston Red Sox game program from the 1950s wrapped up in thick plastic. “Look at this! Can we get it?”

“You can’t run like that, Brittan!”

Seconds later the boy reached the end of the aisle and stumbled to his knees in front of them, wheezing in and out like a plugged-up vacuum cleaner. A moment later he crashed onto his side and gasped for air.

Corin staggered back and sucked in two quick breaths.

Out of air.

He was fine.

The kid is out of air.

Plenty of air to breathe all around him.

Relax.

Corin laced his fingers and squeezed but his hands still shook.

“Brittan!” His mom skittered over to him, fell to her knees, and jammed her hand into her purse. “Where is it?” She turned to Brittan. “Do you have your inhaler?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She continued to rummage through her purse obviously looking for one.

“Mom,” Brittan wheezed, “I’m okay.” The boy took an inhaler out of his pocket, placed it in his mouth, pumped it three times, then fell forward on his hands and continued his labored breathing.

His mom pulled him up and wrapped her arm around his shoulder. “Relax, you’re going to be okay. Deep breaths if you can. Relax, Brittan.” She turned to Corin. “I’m sorry about this.”

Corin slowed his breathing and blinked. “What?”

“I’m sorry this happened in your store.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t fine. The anxiety waterfall rarely buried him except right after having the dream. He wasn’t used to having it attack in public. He ran his hands over the top of his head and forced out a smile. “What can I do?”

She glanced around the room. “Can he sit someplace?”

“Sure, of course.” Corin buried his fear and knelt next to the woman. “Does he need a soft—?”

“Anywhere is fine.”

The closest piece was the chair the elderly lady had brought on Tuesday and Corin motioned toward it. “Let’s sit him right here.”

They settled him into the chair and Corin stood and took a step back. A moment later Brittan’s breathing returned to normal and the boy smiled. “I feel good. I feel warm inside.”

“You scare me when you do that, Brittan.”

“I’m sorry for running, Mom. But look.” Brittan coughed once and held up the program from an era when baseball players were true heroes, and if they did anything unheroic in their private lives it never made the papers.

“That’s a good-looking program.”

Brittan beamed, then looked at Corin.

“Do you like Ted Williams, mister?”

Corin stepped forward and knelt on one knee. “I do. I guess you do as well.”

“Are you kidding? He’s the last major leaguer to have a lifetime batting average over .400. He’s a legend!”

“I’m impressed. A lot of kids your age wouldn’t have any idea who he is.”

Brittan smiled again, a big innocent smile only kids could deliver. “I know about Lou Gehrig and Joe DiMaggio and Roger Maris and Willie Mays is my favorite . . . and I’m only six years old. Almost seven.”

Corin laughed. “How many home runs did Maris hit to set the record?”

“Sixty-one.”

“And in how many games in a row did DiMaggio get a hit, something that no one has broken for over seventy years?”

“Fifty-six!”

“And how many teams did The Say Hey Kid play for during his major league career?”

“Mr. Willie Mays played for the New York Giants and the San Francisco Giants and the New York Mets.”

“Folks, this kid is unstoppable.” Corin glanced at Brittan’s mom, who was all smiles.

“Okay, here’s the bonus question for all the money and title of Grand Champion Baseball Trivia Quiz Master of the Entire Universe.” Corin started a drumroll on the edge of the chair. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Really ready?”

“Yeah!” Brittan clutched the seat of the chair and leaned forward.

“Here we go.” Corin stopped drumming and spoke in his best announcer voice. “Who holds the all-time home-run record in the major leagues?”

“I’ve got this one easy.” Brittan smiled and wagged his finger at Corin. “Hank Aaron.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. I don’t care how many home runs Barry Bonds hit, Mr. Aaron did it without putting funny stuff into his body to make it easier.”

Corin shook his head and laughed. “You have an amazing kid there.”

“Can we get it, Mom?” The boy held up the game program.

“Do Mommy a favor, Brittan, and rest for a minute, okay?”

“I don’t need to; I feel really good.”

“Brittan.”

“Okay, Mom.”

She rubbed her face. “I don’t know what we’d do without that inhaler. It seems like we’re always using it. Brittan can’t keep from running when he gets excited and I can’t blame him, you know? What boy doesn’t want to run?”

Corin balled his hand into a fist and mock punched Brittan’s forehead. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

“Me too, but I wish this would go away. I hate asthma.”

“Did you know that almost everybody has stuff in their life they don’t like dealing with? And stuff they’re scared of?”

Brittan whipped his head up and stared at Corin. “Do you?”

“Sure.”

“What?”

“I don’t have asthma, but guess what I have to deal with?”

“What?”

Corin put his hands together like he was holding a ball and brought them up next to his face. “I don’t like tight spaces.”

“You have claustrophobia?”

“Wow, you know that word?”

“I’m almost seven. I know lots of big words.”

“I’m impressed. Most kids twice your age wouldn’t know what that word means.”

“Are you afraid of anything else?”

“I’m not too fond of water.”

“Really? Why not?”

Corin grimaced. “That’s a long story we probably don’t have time for today.”

“Okay.” Brittan leaned against the back of the chair so his feet stuck out and he closed his eyes. “I feel a little sleepy.” A peaceful look settled on his face.

“Even though I’ve been through it hundreds of times, it still scares me when an asthma attack hits.” Tracie leaned over and brushed Brittan’s head. “I think this is the fastest he’s ever recovered.”

“He’ll be okay now?”

“Fine. Until the next time he runs.” She smiled her sad smile again, then spun to her right and looked down aisle two. “Now, I’d love to see if you have any other baseball treasures from the 1950s and 60s.”

“I might have a few things.” Corin motioned with his hand down the aisle. “After you.”

Ten minutes later they returned to Brittan with a LIFE magazine with Ted Williams on the cover and a signed Joe DiMaggio auto card.

Brittan’s eyes were still closed and his breathing was deep and rhythmic.

“I think he might have fallen asleep.”

“Brittan?”

The boy’s eyes fluttered open and widened as he stared at the magazine. “Wow, where did you get that?”

“I don’t have a lot of baseball things, but this is definitely a classic. It’s the issue from September 1941 and even has pictures inside of Ted’s famous swing.” Corin opened the magazine and held it out for the boy. “Take a look.”

“Is that his signature?” The boy glanced back and forth between Corin and his mom.

“The genuine article.”

“What’s an our tickle?”

Corin laughed again. “You’re a great kid, Brittan.”

“Thanks, I think you’re a great mister.”

Tracie said, “Thanks for your kindness toward Brittan. Most people don’t know what to say when he has one of his attacks.”

“My pleasure. I hope he grows out of it someday.”

“Me too.”

Tracie turned back to Brittan and gazed at her son. So did Corin. Innocent, full of wonder and anticipation. How do you protect a kid like Brittan, or any kid, from the ravages life would pitch at them?

“He looks good in that chair and it’s beautiful. I don’t see a price tag on it. Is it for sale?”

“It should be soon. I think.” He hadn’t decided whether he would sell it or not. But he needed the cash. The elderly lady’s statement floated back to him about the chair being for him, but he batted the thought away. “I just got the piece in and need to determine how much it’s worth.”

“Well, I doubt we’d be able to afford it, but we can at least dream, right? It would look good in Brittan’s room. When do you think you’ll be ready to put the chair up for sale?”

“It should be ready for purchase in two or three days at the most.”

“There’s something special about it, don’t you think?” She ran her fingers down the back of the chair.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Tracie gathered up the baseball antiques, walked over to Corin’s sales counter, and set them down.

Corin glanced at Brittan, then strolled behind his sales counter and rang up the items. “Four hundred thirty-seven dollars and eighty-two cents.”

“Oh yes.” Tracie’s face flushed and she stared at her purse. “I should have asked. We can’t—”

Brittan’s face pinched together but he didn’t say anything.

“Wait, I forgot to tell you about our discount.” Corin smiled. “You didn’t realize this, but anyone who becomes Grand Champion Baseball Trivia Quiz Master of the Entire Universe gets a 70 percent discount on anything in the store.”

“What?” Brittan said from across the room. “So I helped with my mom’s finances?”

“You did, champ. Nice work.”

“No.” Tracie looked up and whispered, “You don’t have to do that. I know these things are valuable and you’re in business to make money.” She fumbled in her purse, her fingers bumping against what looked like a VISA card. “They have to be—”

“Seventy percent off.” Corin motioned toward his office. “I can show you the official company policy if you like.”

“I . . . we . . . I’m not sure what to say. Thank you.”

“You and Brittan are entirely welcome.” Corin placed the items into a large plastic bag and handed them to Tracie. “Just make sure you keep loving on Brittan his whole life.”

Tracie closed her eyes and smiled. “Thank you again. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

“Are we going now?” Brittan slid out of the chair and skipped toward his mom.

“Brittan!”

“Sorry, going fast is my favorite thing.”

“Can you say thank you to Mr. . . . ?”

“Roscoe.”

“Thanks, Mr. Roscoe. Maybe I can come back sometime and we can talk more baseball together.”

“I’d like that, Brittan. And if it’s okay with your mom, you can call me Mr. Corin.”

Brittan glanced at his mom and she nodded. “See you soon, Mr. Corin.”

Corin gave him a two-finger salute as Brittan and his mom eased out the front door. If God was still alive in the twenty-first century, Brittan would get Corin’s vote for being healed.

CHAPTER 6

That evening Corin picked up the November 1963 issue of The Amazing Spider-Man, brought it over to his couch, and escaped into its pages. Spidey versus The Lizard. Their first battle. Why did he still read these things? The counselor he saw for the first year after his divorce would say the explanation was easy. Corin still felt like Peter Parker inside, the skinny scared kid who finally became something more. Who overcame his fears and became a hero. Became more than he ever expected himself to be. And Corin longed to be those things.

Longed to have special powers that would free him from the mundane place the world had become. A power that would crush his fear of tight spaces and the lake.

A power that would give him the ability to slay The Dream and keep it from torturing his nights ever again.

The power to heal a kid like Brittan and let him run with abandon every day of summer.

The power to heal his brother and make things go back to the way they’d been before.

Or maybe he still read comics because he simply liked being a kid again, pretending there were such things as superheroes. Maybe it was because it made him feel like doing things only superheroes could do. That wasn’t a maybe. It was a definite. One reason his marriage fell apart.

She never could understand his obsession with extreme sports. Every time he went skydiving she shouted, “You’ll never fly like the Human Torch.” She thought he’d “grow out of it.” It didn’t happen. In their final months together, he tried to explain why he did it, but how could he get her to understand the reasons when even he didn’t know what they were?

Of course, her choice of extracurricular activities didn’t exactly solidify the marriage either.

He closed the comic and looked at the cover again. Spidey was in fine form, web shooting out from his wrist, hanging forty stories above Manhattan.

He pushed the self-analysis from his mind and decided on option number two. He loved comics simply because he longed to go back to being ten again.

The way he was before the day he had died.

When it happened there was no white light. No soloing angels with voices of silver. No gates welcoming him to a garden of utter bliss.

There had been only nothing.

He wanted to return to the innocence before he’d sputtered back to life, hacking up brackish lake water and having his world turned inside out.

Corin’s thoughts drifted to the chair sitting in his store. What if Jesus really had made the chair? Would it be full of power? Tori had been joking, but what if she was right? The lady had talked about him sitting in the chair when he was ready. Maybe it could give him visions about the future.

Sure, and maybe there was hidden gamma radiation trapped inside the chair that would turn him into the Incredible Hulk.

At the very least he’d give it a close examination in the morning. Corin rubbed his thumb and fingers together—to see if the tingling feeling returned.

CHAPTER 7

How did she ever get this old? It was criminal.

Nicole gazed into the bathroom mirror and stared at the old woman looking back at her. Inside she was still twenty-eight. Maybe not twenty-eight, but thirty-eight at the most.

Certainly not the eighty-eight years the calendar claimed.

At least she didn’t try to wear clothes made for women in their fifties. Not a chance. She stuck with the clothes styled for women in their forties. Because she could pull it off.

Nicole walked out into the hallway then into the kitchen where she eased into the oak chair next to the table in her breakfast nook and picked at a spot of strawberry jelly she’d missed the day before.

Had she given the chair to Corin too soon?

Maybe.

But when would the time have been right? If not now, when?

She had prayed for days, seeking confirmation this was the time, but the only answer was a hollow silence in her soul.

And why give it to Corin when Shasta was the logical choice, the one who seemed to need the chair more?

But while doubts skittered around the edges of her heart, deep down she knew what God had told her and she believed it. Corin was the one. He was older.

She shook her shoulders as if to throw off any last vestiges of doubt that might try to imbed their claws in her faith and rip it away. Of course he was old enough.

She was much younger than him when she’d been given the chair. And more foolish. She laughed. Certainly more foolish. But God had seen her through it. And He would see Corin through his leg of this never-ending journey. She would finish the race strong and then trust that Corin would continue on.

The clock on her wall above the table chimed eleven o’clock. Not much time before the day was done. How much time did she have left on this earth? Years? Days? It didn’t matter. His will would be accomplished.

She reached for the picture of Corin that sat in the middle of her breakfast table and turned the photo over. Summer 1996. His hair was longer and there were no lines in his face yet. But he didn’t look much different now fifteen years later. There was strength behind his eyes. And fear. The fear she had watched him struggle with most of his life. The fear she would ask him about when the time was right.

Soon she’d reveal herself to him. Not all, but enough. As much as he needed.

Was he strong enough to face the trial coming his way? Was his fear too great for him to break through to the other side?

She stood a moment later and pulled the worn leather-bound journal off the bookshelf lining the walls of the nook, sat again, and started to write.

Half an hour later she shelved the journal and patted it twice before turning and walking out of the kitchen.

The journal would be his someday. Lord willing.

CHAPTER 8

On Friday morning Corin walked into his store and stopped just inside the front door and looked toward the chair. He’d covered it with the tan blanket after Brittan and his mom left; he wasn’t sure why. It just felt right. Maybe because if there was something more to it than just an ancient hunk of wood, he didn’t want every shopper through his door pawing at it.

More than just an ancient chair.

Right.

He needed to stop his comic-book imagination from flying into the realm of the ludicrous.

Corin glanced at his watch. Nine o’clock. An hour before opening. Plenty of time to give the chair a meticulous examination.

After dropping his keys and wallet on his sales counter, he flipped on the radio to 88.7 KCME FM. Classical seemed the appropriate music to set the mood.

He eased over to the chair, drew back the blanket, and started with a visual inspection. Like before, the coloring captured him. It was surprising even for a chair this old, that there were no cracks in the finish.

Beautiful. Looking at it stirred images of standing on Pikes Peak as dawn broke into the eastern sky.

Time to touch the chair. See if the tingling in his fingers was imagined.

Corin walked around to the back of the chair and held his fingers just above it. Then he lowered them to the chair as if he were touching a newborn’s cheek.

He waited.

Nothing.

He slid his fingers back and forth over the surface. Still nothing.

Must have been his imagination. Had to be. At least that’s what he told himself.

He circled around to the front, then placed both palms on the sides of the seat and slid them back and forth.

Still nothing.

After twenty or thirty more seconds he shrugged, leaned in close, and ran his forefinger along the seams where the legs met the seat of the chair.

Then where the seat met the back.

Marvelous.

It was so precise it looked and felt machine created. No gaps anywhere; no bumps where the pieces came together; no cracking in the wood, which meant previous owners over the years had either taken great care with it or the wood had been cured in such a way that the changes in climate and ravages of time hadn’t adversely affected the chair in even the slightest degree.

He pulled out a small tape measure and studied the chair’s dimensions.

Amazing.

The dimensions were perfect. Absolutely even distance along every centimeter between the edges of the seat. The legs were the exact same length. Exact.

After another ten minutes of examination, he stood back, gazed at the chair, and smiled. He needed to do research before he could set a price, but his instinct told him he had a piece worth thousands on his hands. Maybe hundreds of thousands.

God’s chair? Maybe not, but it still might be manna from heaven.

Could he sit in it? Was it sturdy enough? The woman had said he shouldn’t sit in it till he was ready, but what did that mean?

Brittan sat in it, why couldn’t he? He couldn’t be more than 120 pounds heavier than the kid.

Corin grabbed the back of the chair with one hand, the seat with the other, and gave it a gentle twist. Solid. He set it down and leaned into it with most of his weight. No movement. No creaking. It was as if the chair was carved out of a solid block of wood.

He squatted in front of it and rapped the seat with his knuckles. It could take his weight easily. Corin stood ready to sit but something stopped him. The feeling was like the time in high school where he’d been part of a trip to the state capitol and had been invited to sit in the governor’s chair. The same nervousness he’d felt twenty-one years ago filled his mind.

Corin sniffed out a laugh at his foreboding and sat.

It was comfortable and fit his body well.

Another few seconds and he’d need to get up and open the front door. But he didn’t want to. He wanted to wait for . . . what?

Don’t be an idiot.

What was he expecting? A spiritual massage? A vision from heaven? It was just a chair.

Old, yes, maybe very old, but just wood.

It felt like a thousand other chairs he’d sat in over the years. Hard seat. Constructed well. End of story.

But still, the lady was right; whoever crafted it had considerable skill. And to make the sales copy more interesting when he started advertising it, it would be nice to know who built it.

After grabbing his camera and taking thirty or thirty-five shots of the chair from all angles, and then ten more with his cell phone, he threw the cloth back over the chair and clipped toward his front door to welcome the hoards of customers who would fling cash his way today.

Early next week he’d spend some time on the Internet and maybe head for the library to dig up any info on the chair.

If he lived through the weekend.

CHAPTER 9

The sun crept over a small tree behind their camp at 5:45 a.m. and splashed its light on Corin’s face, reminding him where he was. Seven thousand nine hundred and forty-one feet above sea level. But not for long. He stretched and breathed out a hard yawn. Too early for most Saturday mornings, but this wasn’t most Saturdays.

He was already awake—thinking about the jump—and the sunlight peppering his eyelids convinced him to get up. A hint of blue spruce filled his nostrils and the deep cold of the morning almost felt like splashing water on his face.

He glanced at the others. Still sleeping but he’d need to wake them as soon as he made coffee. Instant java yes, but it was still coffee. The forecast said no wind, but he didn’t want to take chances. This would be the lowest jump he’d done in two years, and he didn’t want any uninvited breezes to crash the party.

The lower the jump, the higher the adrenaline factor. He smiled and rubbed his hands together.

By the time the water boiled like a minicauldron, Tori had crawled out of her sleeping bag and sat on a boulder next to the Soto OD-1R Micro cooking stove.

“Morning,” Corin said.

“Barely.” Tori frowned at him. “Ugh.”

“I love you too.”

“Remind me.” Tori pulled off her stocking cap and ran her fingers through her tangled hair. “Why did we hike for three hours yesterday to get up here?”

“Are you kidding? Look at this view.” Corin motioned to the stunning display of the Rockies in the distance. “Plus no one has ever BASE jumped from this spot.”

“I’m feeling better already.” Tori extended her coffee cup and Corin filled it halfway.

“No, I paid for a full cup. I need it to the brim.”

He laughed and complied.

“This coffee looks thin.” She stared into her cup.

“Jittery and jumping should get close to each other only in the dictionary.”

“Coffee doesn’t make me jittery. Jumping does.” She took a sip and grimaced. “Should I get the others up?”

Corin rubbed his head and squinted at her through the sun filling their small campsite. “The other night, when we were talking about that chair I got the other day, you said your parents would say it was made by Jesus.”

“So?”

“Do you think it’s possible?”

“That He made the chair the lady brought you?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know; why does it matter?”

“I took a good look at the thing yesterday. She was right. Whoever made it had considerable skill. It’s a fascinating piece. The quality is a little mind-blowing.”

Tori stood, drained the last of her coffee, and dropped her cup at Corin’s feet. “You’re making my head hurt. Too early for comic-book talk, okay?”

“Agreed.” Corin laughed and picked up her cup. “But not too early for jumping off a cliff. Let’s get the others up.”

Twenty minutes later Corin, Tori, and six others stood in a circle, arms and hands locked onto each other’s shoulders.

Corin glanced around at their bright eyes staring back at him. “Ready?”

In unison they chanted, “Some people snort for it, some people eat mushrooms for it, some people mainline java. All we gotta do to get that wonderful wired feeling is jump, baby, jump!”

The group broke up to put on their parachutes, and the only sound for the next five minutes was the cinching of harnesses and the deep breathing of people scared enough to feel like they had to pee, even if they’d gone two minutes earlier.

“All good?” Corin asked.

After hearing agreement from the other seven, he led them to the edge of the cliff, then put his arm around Tori. “You want to go first?”

“Be my guest.” Tori motioned to the edge and Corin laughed.

Tori looked over the drop-off. “This never fails to get my heart beating five hundred times faster than it should be.”

“Heart rate up without exerting yourself. It’s the noncardio, cardio workout,” offered another of the jumpers.

Corin looked over the edge and his heart pounded like an Olympic sprinter after running the hundred meters. No matter how many times he’d flung himself over the edge of a cliff, his hands still went damp the moment he looked down.

And every time an image of himself lying broken on the rocks below seared itself into his mind. And every time he pushed the image from his head and refused to give in to its morbid portent.

It was all part of the game. A game he had to play.

A game he had to win.

The canyon floor was only 465 feet below the cliff, which meant they needed to release their chutes almost immediately after jumping.

Which meant they had to leap out at least twenty feet away from the cliff to avoid having their chutes catch on anything sticking out from the cliff wall. Branches, rock outcroppings, everything.

Which meant there was no room for even tracing paper-thin errors.

It heightened the terror factor considerably more than most of them were comfortable with.

But it also shoved their brains into the higher reaches of the thrill-zone.

Krystal’s eyes ping-ponged back and forth between all three of them. “This is good? We’re going to be all right? We’re going to survive?”

“No doubt. It’s just like taking a stroll through Riverside Park,” Peter said.

“Twenty feet out,” Corin said. “That’s our target distance. Which means you sprint as hard as you can toward the cliff’s edge and push off with your foot like a trampoline when you jump and you’ve got two seconds max before releasing your chute. There shouldn’t be any wind in the canyon, but if there is, it will be updrafts that will help us, not hinder.”

Corin looked around at his friends. Rush time. “Anyone want to say a prayer?” Wow, this chair business was frying his brain.

They all laughed except for Krystal. “I think that’s a pretty good idea.”

Corin looked at her. “Are you serious?”

“You weren’t?”

“Not really.”

“I’m scared.” Krystal hugged herself. “This is the craziest thing we’ve ever done. Jumping from this low is . . . crazy.”

“We’re just upping the rush a little.” Corin smiled. “Nothing to be scared of.”

“Just death.”

“I’m not scared of dying.” He looked toward the edge. “Not at all.” He ignored the increase in his heart rate that seemed to beat inside his head instead of his chest. “The only thing I’m scared of is not living while I’m still alive.”

The instant Corin said he wasn’t scared of dying, a shadow seemed to drown out the sun and his mind felt like it was wrapped in lead pulling his head to the ground. Where was this coming from? He wasn’t scared of dying. It’s what allowed him to dance on the razor’s edge without slicing his feet open. It’s what freed him each time he jumped or rode or luged or glided or took part in any of his insane adventures.

He shook his head and swallowed. Time to roll before his mind told him another lie. “Let’s do it.”

Corin strode back twenty steps, spun on his heel, and without hesitating sprinted toward the edge of the canyon, every step pumping another nitro-shot of adrenaline into his veins. Launch codes were locked and loaded. Ten feet. Three. None.

Go!

An instant later he was airborne, wind racing past him like a hurricane, the river and the shore below rushing up to meet him like a giant silver snake ready to strike.

One thousand one.

One thousand two.

He should pull.

No, half a second longer.

Pull! His mind screamed.

A little longer.

What are you doing!

Corin stared at the ground streaking toward him at warp speed, a surge of panic ripping through his body and he released his chute. Too close. He’d waited too long. Why wasn’t his chute opening?

C’mon!

A second later his chute opened with a familiar thwap, sounding like a muffled shotgun blast arresting his free fall.

Twenty feet till impact. He would hit the ground hard. Fifteen. He gritted his teeth and pulled hard on his side cords to give himself as much lift as possible.

“Uhhh!”

He landed hard in a tiny grass clearing fifty yards from the edge of the river and rolled to lessen the impact.

It didn’t help much.

That hurt.

He rolled to his left like a slug and stared at a row of rocks three feet to his left. That would have hurt even more. A lot more.

He stood, stepped out of his chute, and squinted up at the others floating down.

“Whooooohooooooo!” Tori’s scream echoed off the canyon walls. Then Krystal’s, then the rest of them.

Corin grinned. Another good time enjoyed by the crazies he called friends.

TORI’S FOLDED ARMS and scowl complemented her silence nicely, but after half an hour of it Corin was through. “I’m tired of getting a blast of freezing air from your left shoulder. Do you mind turning up the heat?”

“Very clever.”

“Are you going to tell me what you’re ticked off about?”

Tori pulled her feet off the dashboard of Corin’s truck and turned in her seat, keeping her arms locked to her chest. “I know we’ve only been dating for three months, but I’ve grown to like you a lot in that time.”

“Me too. What’s your point?”

“You almost killed yourself today.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Do you want me to call the other six witnesses to the stand who let out a collective gasp as they watched you this morning?”

“They actually gasped?” Corin grinned. “Cool.”

“It’s not funny, Corin.”

“I think you’re overreacting.” He flicked on his headlights for safety and pulled on his right ear. “I was fine.”

“What is it with you?” Tori turned back and stared out the passenger window. “You want to kill yourself? Do you have some death wish you haven’t told me about?”

“No.”

“Then what were you doing out there?”

What could he tell her? There was always the truth. Might as well.

“I honestly don’t know.” He gripped the steering wheel hard.

But I need to find out.

CHAPTER 10

Corin pulled up the Internet early on Monday morning to get his local news fix as he chowed on a sausage-egg-and-cheese English-muffin sandwich. The weather would be decent for the next few days. Nice. And the Broncos won again. Amazing. The temperature in hell must be dropping.

He was about to click to a new page when a headline made his finger freeze.

Boy Cured of Asthma. Family Says Miracle.

That’s what his new pal Brittan could use. Corin clicked on the story, took a sip of his chai green tea, and started reading.

Colorado Springs—A young boy in our city has lived with severe asthma every day for nearly seven years. No more. His parents say something extraordinary happened to him four days ago. They claim it is nothing less than divine intervention. Last Thursday evening, when they went to give their son his daily asthma medicine, young Brittan Gibson . . .

“What?” Corin lurched forward splashing green tea on his table and his English muffin. He snatched a napkin and dabbed at the spill and kept reading.

. . . said he didn’t need it, that his asthma was gone. At first they didn’t believe him, but after he insisted he show them what he meant, they gave in and allowed him to give a convincing demonstration.

The story was cut in two by a still of a video. Corin clicked on the Play button, and a few seconds later he was watching video of the front yard of a middle-class home with a freshly cut lawn and a white minivan in the driveway.

The next shot was of a young boy.

Corin leaned in and stared at his computer screen. No question. It was the kid from his store.

“Just like he did for our cameras, Brittan Gibson ran the length of his yard back and forth for his parents. He was winded, yes, but nothing more than what any healthy young boy would experience after sprinting around his front yard.”

Corin rested the side of his face in the palm of his hand and glanced at a picture of the chair he’d tacked to the bulletin board in his kitchen.

The reporter said, “His doctor confirms Brittan did indeed have severe asthma and is at a loss to explain how or why the asthma vanished.”

The video cut to the doctor.

“Sometimes asthma will slowly leave children in their late teens or early twenties. I’ve never seen a case like this, but I suppose it’s possible for it to leave this rapidly. There’s always a first time. The Gibsons aren’t calling it outgrowing the disease; they’re calling it a miracle.”

The video cut to Brittan’s mom and a reporter.

“Did you do anything unusual earlier that day?”

“We went shopping. Brittan had an attack inside an antiques store. He took a short nap sitting in a chair inside the store while I bought him some baseball memorabilia, and we went home. That’s it. Four hours later his asthma was gone.”

Corin slumped back in his seat and gazed at the photo of the chair again, arms folded.

The kid sits in the chair. Boom, a few hours later he’s healed.

It was beyond odd. It was fascinating. An amazing coincidence.

But somehow he knew it was more than chance.

CHAPTER 11

Pastor Mark Jefferies tossed his black leather jacket onto the back of one the two tan leather chairs in front of his cherry wood desk and checked his black hair in the mirror to the left of his office door. Not bad. Spike it up a little more. He massaged it with his fingers till it looked perfectly disheveled. Nice. He spun and strode to his desk.

Thirty-seven wasn’t too old to go for the emo look. Besides, not only did he pull it off, YouTube hits had rocketed up 17 percent per week after he adopted the new style. Plus people said it made him look thirty. Had to carry the image to carry the crowd.

And the church crowd in La Jolla loved him. Along with the five satellite churches spread through the rest of the greater San Diego area.

Rent a building, give ’em lightning in a Bible every Sunday morning and Sunday evening, and church growth was inevitable.

After he plopped into the chair in front of his desk, picked up his Bible, and kissed it, he pulled up his Facebook fan page. Sweet. Three hundred and seventy-two more followers since yesterday. Probably time to put up another post on how he loved taking his wife out on dates.

Always got strong responses to those types of posts. Then follow up with a post about boys becoming men, men becoming leaders, leaders becoming kings, kings expanding their kingdoms.

Talk about strong men, men who knew where they were going and why. It was true. They needed that kind of inspiration. Don’t tickle their ears, drown them in a Super Bowl Gatorade bucket of truth.

It wasn’t like he didn’t believe in what he served up for worldwide consumption. He did enjoy taking his wife out. And he believed what he preached. It was right and it was true. But all the better if it endeared him to his legion of fans. All the better if it ticked some people off, especially those far-left whackos who wanted to turn the world over to the democrats and love gurus. Because that gave him press and press gave him attention. People wanted a figurehead to rally around. And he was the figurehead who would lead them back to God. Maybe America was going to hell in a handbasket of intolerant tolerance, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to reweave the thing on the way down.

He shook his head. It was only six years ago when he had been preaching in his living room to his wife and three other couples. And now thousands and thousands hung on every word, every YouTube video.

Did a part of him long for those early days when the pressure of being an icon wasn’t squeezing him like when he did his scuba diving thing at 120 feet below the Pacific? Absolutely.

Had he been ready for the church to explode as fast as it had? Probably not.

But someone had to be the point of the wedge.

And if he had to become a star to accomplish what needed to be done, so be it. The end most assuredly justified the means.

A rap on his door frame startled him and his head snapped back. “What?” He looked up to see Ben Raney standing in his doorway, a stack of papers in his hands.

“Are you ready to meet?”

“It’s time already?” Mark glanced at his watch and scowled. Time was always sprinting too fast and too far ahead of him, and lately it seemed time had lengthened its lead.

“Yep.” Ben tapped his watch with his pinky finger.

Why did the kid do that? Made him look so metro.

“Three p.m. on the button.”

“Give me ten minutes.”

Ben turned to go.

“Wait, why are you smiling?”

“I’ll tell you when we meet. You’re going to love it.”

“Tell me now.” Mark slid out of his chair, sauntered around the end of his desk, and leaned back against it.

“It can wait. I’ll be back in ten.”

“I’m ready now.”

Ben smirked, so slightly Mark almost missed it.

“Have you studied the local news feeds from around the country yet?” Ben pushed his dark red hair off his forehead, which flopped back down a moment later.

“No, I pay you to look at it for me.” Mark folded his arms.

“Ah yes, that’s right. I’ll be back in three minutes. I might have missed a story or two.”

Passive-aggressive little snot. He hated passive-aggressive behavior. Straight aggressive worked faster and kept people in their places more effectively. When he shot people, at least he had the courage to shoot them in the chest.

“Ben, what do you think you’re doing? Do you think God condones that attitude?”

“What attitude?”

“Cut it. We both know what you’re pitching me and it won’t fly. If you want to be sitting where I am someday, you have to submit to my authority. Got it? Not just your actions—your attitude. Are we clear, or do you need to start looking for another job right now?”

“I’m sorry, Mark. You’re right. I totally get it. Forgive me.”

Grace. He needed it himself. So he needed to give it. Even when his emotions screamed to do the opposite. Breathe deep. Offer grace, c’mon.

“Done. It’s over, forgiven, forgotten.” Mark clasped his hands behind his head. “Now talk. Tell me about this story.”

Ben set a printout of a news story onto Mark’s desk. It featured a picture of a young blond boy with what must be his parents on either side. The headline read, Boy Cured of Asthma. Family Says Miracle.

“So what?” Mark pushed the paper back at Ben. “God still heals people these days.”

“I believe He does as well. But when the healing comes from involvement with a certain type of inanimate object I believe you have an absorbing fascination with, it makes the whole scenario much more interesting.”

Mark’s pulse spiked. “If you’re grinding my gears—”

“I’m not.” Ben shook his head and tapped the paper. “I’m betting the chair that kid sat in before he got healed was a chair you’re extremely familiar with.”

“You’re serious.”

“Yes.” Ben tapped the article again. “It was an antiques store.”

Mark leaned forward and read the entire article, raked his fingers through his hair, and said more to himself than Ben, “So this mom and her son wander into an antiques store, the boy had an asthma attack, the kid sits in a chair, and four hours later he’s healed.”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“Where is the store?”

“The article didn’t give the name of the store.”

“Yes, I know.” Mark smacked the article with the back of his hand. “I can read. But the article is out of Colorado Springs, right?”

“So you want me to—?”

“Get on a plane tonight. Fly out there and find the store. Then charm the owner and find out everything you can about this chair.”

“And you’d like me to do it yesterday.”

“Precisely.”

Ben turned to go. “Anything else?”

“Nope.” Mark rubbed his mouth. “Wait.” He went to his desk and slid open the top drawer. “I’m booked tomorrow night, so I can’t use these.” He handed Ben two tickets to the OneRepublic concert.

“Are you serious?” Ben’s face spread into a grin. “I love these guys.”

“I know.” Mark patted him on the shoulder. “Enjoy.”

Mark stood at his office window and stared at the unsightly souls trudging up and down the sidewalk in front of his building. Most of them had no awareness of the eternal. No realization that immortality was all around them. That certain inanimate objects could set them free.

If it really was the chair, he’d need to move fast.

Yes, the legend was obscure. The odds of the store owner knowing what he had, if it truly was the chair, had to be close to zero. But there might be others fascinated enough to watch the tabloids and the news and would be ready to move almost as fast as he was.

He smiled. With any luck, Ben should be able to grab the thing for a few hundred bucks and have the chair sitting in his office by tomorrow afternoon.

This could be it. With the chair he could finally slay the beast forever.

CHAPTER 12

Corin drove toward Tori’s house trying to decide whether to tell her about the chair healing Brittan. Maybe he should, maybe he shouldn’t. And not because she was down on Christianity. But because part of him deep down wanted to believe the chair could heal, and talking about it made the belief grow. Then when an inevitable rational explanation for Brittan’s healing surfaced, he’d be left with another crystal hope for his brother dashed into tiny fragments.

He pulled onto the freeway, shifted into fourth gear, and glanced at his watch. Why did she have to live so far outside of town? Why did he have to be such a bad judge of time?

Corin rang Tori’s doorbell at 6:10. Ten minutes, only ten minutes.

She flung the door open and frowned. “Are you okay?”

“Why?”

“Only twelve minutes late, something has to be wrong.”

“Ten.”

“Twelve.” Tori tapped her watch. “But twelve signals improvement. Won’t you come in?”

Corin offered her what he hoped was a plastic smile and trudged over the threshold into her entryway.

Tori brushed past him into the kitchen. “Would you like some wine?”

“No thanks.”

“Really?”

“If I’m going to figure out what’s going on, I gotta keep my head clear.”

“Ah, one of those days. In one word how would you describe it?” She called out from the kitchen.

Should he tell her? “Disturbing.”

“That sounds interesting. Would you like to talk about it?” Tori walked back in with a glass of dark red, the rest of the corked bottle under her arm. “You don’t mind if I have a glass without you, do you?”

Corin shook his head and tried to decide if he wanted to talk. Did he? Yes. Besides, since he knew little about Christianity and Tori did, she might be able to spill some rays of sunshine on what had happened to young Brittan Gibson.

They stepped outside onto Tori’s covered porch and settled into the two Adirondack chairs nestled in the far right corner.

Corin stared at Cheyenne Mountain in the distance and let the tranquil image of the setting sun sink into his shoulders. “It’s peaceful out here.”

“So it’s worth the long drive to get here?”

Corin smiled and nodded. He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss.

She toasted him, then flicked the edge of her glass with her fingernail. The ching filled the cool early evening air. “So are you ready to give me your definition of disturbing?” Tori crossed both her legs, took a sip of her wine, and leaned forward.

Corin continued to stare at the jagged peaks to the west. “If Jesus made an object during the years He was doing the carpenter thing, would it be possible for it to have healing powers?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Are we talking Indiana Jones here or real life?”

“Real life.”

“How would I know?”

“You told me you did the church thing all the way through high school. I thought you would know if religious artifacts had healing powers.”

“Sure!” She laughed. “Ask me anything you want to know. And don’t forget, I know all about UFOs too.”

“I’m serious.”

“That kind of stuff is for guys making movies, not kids traipsing in and out of Sunday school. Can we move on to other subjects?”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to talk religion.”

“Why?”

“I told you already, religion was my parents’ thing, not mine. When I left for college I left it too. I’m not into talking about church or God’s love or Jesus or any of that stuff.”

“I’m not talking about church or God; I’m talking about whether religious objects somehow have some kind of super powers.”

“Real life isn’t like those comic books you love so much.”

“I realize that. It’s why I’m trying to have a conversation with you about it so I can learn something.”

“Fine.” Tori flopped back in her seat. “Let’s talk about the chair that old lady dumped in your store a few days ago.”

“She’s not old.”

“I thought you said she was in her seventies.”

“She’s elderly, not old.”

Tori laughed. “Sorry. The chair the elderly lady said was made by Jesus.”

“She didn’t say it was made by Jesus. She implied it. You’re the one who—”

“Whatever.”

Talking about God turned Tori into the ice queen. Why? “So if Jesus did make this chair, could it heal a little boy?”

Tori leaned forward again, a frown etched into her forehead. “Did someone get healed?”

Corin pulled the Internet article on Brittan out of his back pocket. “Did you see that story about the kid who was cured of asthma?”

“No.”

Corin handed her the article.

She uncrossed her legs and took small sips of wine as she read the paper. When she finished the story, she set it on the armrest of her chair and smoothed it out with her palm. “What a joke.”

“What?”

“Are you saying you actually believe your chair healed this kid?” Tori leaned back again and folded her arms.

Corin waggled his head back and forth. “I’m saying it might be possible.”

“You’re serious.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“A few hours before the supposed miracle hit, he was in my store. He fell asleep in it. So maybe it healed him.”

“So you’re saying catching a few winks in that chair helped get rid of his asthma?”

“I don’t know; I’m just exploring the idea.”

“Do you think if I fell asleep in it thinking about my feet, I wouldn’t get any more ingrown toenails?”

“I’m serious, Tori. I think the chair has something to do with his getting cured.”

“Okay.”

“Answer me, from what you know, do religions believe artifacts like this chair have healing powers?”

Tori took another sip and stayed silent. The scowl that had taken up residence since they started talking about the chair shifted into sadness.

“You all right?”

“I’m good.”

“So do they?”

Tori stared into her glass, her lips pressed together.

Corin stood and walked to the end of Tori’s porch, tapping his fingers on the railing as he moved. “Okay, I get it. No talk. Listen, don’t worry about it. I can start Googling this stuff. I just figured you might know something about it since you grew up in the church.”

Tori ran her fingers through her black hair and tugged on the ends. “Yes, there’s a bunch of people who think religious objects have miracle powers.”

“Like?”

“Haven’t you seen those pieces of toast where Mary shows up in them? Or Jesus appears in a piece of avocado?”

“Are we going to talk about this or not?”

“I’m serious. People think that.”

“I was hoping for something a little more substantial than food.”

Tori pulled her dark hair back into a ponytail. “Yes, there are serious stories about healings being tied into religious artifacts.”

“Like?”

“In ancient days up through the Middle Ages, most Christians believed amulets or blessed objects had healing powers. At times Christians used the Bible like a talisman in desperate situations, like when someone was dying. They’d put it under the bed, thinking it would heal the person.”

“Anything else?”

“The Shroud of Turin. People claimed just looking at it had cured them.” Tori stood and pointed at his stomach. “Do you have any room in there for some Brie and crackers?”

“Sure, love it.”

Tori kissed Corin’s cheek and scuttled into the house.

Hot . . . cold. Doesn’t want to talk about it, then willing to talk about it. Then prickle city again. What did she have against religion? Those kind of prickles didn’t come from nowhere. The more someone railed against something, the greater the odds that the something burned them at one time. What scars of religion did Tori carry under her usually perky personality?

She returned with the cheese and crackers. “I have a question about your healing chair.” The sadness had been replaced by a curiosity, a longing in her eyes for something.

“Okay.”

“Have you sat in it yet?”

“Yes.”

“Did it heal you?” Her eyes made him imagine her as a little girl in a pretty dress, traipsing off to Sunday school.

“The only injuries I’ve ever gotten are minor bumps and bruises, and I’ve never had a chronic illness, so I’m not sure what it would heal me of.”

“What were you thinking you wanted to be healed of when you sat in it?”

“You should do that?”

“I’ll bet if you ask that Brittan kid, he’d say he was wishing he could be healed of his asthma when he was sitting in your chair.” Tori brushed her hair back from her face. “That’s what happened in the Bible. I remember there were these guys who begged Jesus to stop as He walked down the road, and He turned to them and said, ‘What do you want?’ and they said, ‘We want to see.’ So it makes sense that you should know what you want to be healed off when you sit in the chair. You need to believe it’s going to happen.”

He smiled. “It almost makes me wish I had something to be healed so I could test the chair that way on myself.”

Tori arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Do you want to elaborate?”

She shrugged. “No.”

“Please elaborate.”

“Well, who’s to say the chair can’t work on mental conditions as well as physical?”

He smirked at her. “You’re saying I’m mental?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.”

Tori took his hands. “If I’m setting my feet on Fantasy Island for a moment, yes, I would love to think your sitting in a chair or lying on a bed or swinging from a rope would help rid you of some of those fears swirling around in your conscious and subconscious mind. Wouldn’t you?”

“I told you about those?”

“Yep.”

Corin popped a piece of Brie into his mouth and watched a Flicker dart back and forth between two limber pine trees.

Yes. He would like to be healed. More than she could imagine.

But Brittan’s healing was physical, not emotional.

Tomorrow he’d call a few local churches. See if they knew anything. Also, do a little Internet research on the healing powers of religious artifacts as well as what the Bible said about healing.

And maybe he’d take another ride in the chair.

CHAPTER 13

A rap on the door of Mark Jefferies’s den made him jerk.

“Hey, honey, dinner is almost ready.” Mark’s wife stood in the doorway smiling, her black hair cascading over her shoulders.

“How soon is soon? Can you give it to me in minutes, please?”

Irritation flitted across her features. Mark thought about pointing it out, then decided to ignore it. Give her grace. Grace was always a good choice.

“Ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Which one?” Mark turned back to his computer. “Ten or fifteen?”

“Fifteen.”

“Perfect. Thanks.” He looked up and winked at her. “You’re awesome.”

She smiled and turned to go.

“Hey, I almost forgot.” Mark leaned back, hands cocked behind his head. “Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue should be hitting our mailbox in the next few days. I don’t need that garbage filling my brain.”

“True.”

“So I need you to make sure you pick up the mail for the rest of this week, and when it gets here, burn it or toss it, whatever.”

“A lot of men would take that mag—”

“I’m not a lot of men.” Mark picked up his remote, turned on the TV, flipped to ESPN, and smiled.

“I’m grateful.” She walked over to Mark and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll keep an eye out for it.”

“And burn it.”

“Don’t worry; you’ll never see it.”

“Thanks, gal pal.”

AT MIDNIGHT, MARK woke, slipped out of bed, and wandered into his study. He glanced at the shelves packed with books from the past five centuries, then wandered over to his black leather chair, sat, and flicked on the lamp sitting on the end table next to the chair. The warm light fell on the small book sitting next to the lamp illuminating its worn brown leather cover. Mark picked it up and ran his finger along its surface.

If this Corin Roscoe truly had The Chair, Mark’s prayers had finally been answered. All the clues he’d collected in the small journal would prove true.

He tried to rein in his hope but after a few minutes let his emotions run.

If it was real and if it truly had the power to heal? His life would never be the same.

Tomorrow. Ben would find Corin’s store tomorrow and start digging. And depending on what he found, Mark would make Corin Roscoe his new best friend.

He stood, went to his desk, woke his MacBook Pro from hibernation, and started surfing. Facebook was quiet. So was Twitter.

He pulled up Sports Illustrated.com and pretended he was interested in the predictions for that weekend’s games, pretended he didn’t care about the banner ad promoting the latest issue of the magazine about to arrive in millions of homes, pretended his mouse clicked on the ad by itself.

Mark glanced at the door to his office and beyond it. No lights. His wife and kids were long asleep.

Just a peek. Just a quick look; that’s all he needed. It was okay; it would be forgiven. He was only doing it to see what the men in his church would be fighting against for the next month or three. He needed to know the enemy so he could battle against it.

Instantly photos of stunningly beautiful women splashed onto his screen adorned in little more than inches of fabric, staring at him with eyes so provocative his pulse spiked.

He clicked through the pictures like popcorn popping. Just a glance. Nothing more. No harm, no foul, no guilt.

It wasn’t wrong. It was just like going to any beach in the world and stopping for a moment to admire what God had created. Just a slice of the Creator’s beauty on display to be admired.

Stop.

The thought rose from his heart into his mind like lightning.

Why?

It was nothing he wouldn’t see on any of the exotic trips he and his wife would take in the next year. Nothing thousands, millions of men weren’t looking at right now on computer screens across the globe.

What if that were your daughter? Would you want men slobbering over her like you’re slobbering over these women?

He wasn’t slobbering.

What if they were daughters of the men you supposedly lead?

The thought ripped through his mind and stabbed at his heart.

But they weren’t his daughter. He thanked God he had sons.

After fifteen minutes he stopped fooling himself, slammed his laptop closed, swore, and slumped back in his chair. It was the last time he’d do it. Never again. Never. But he didn’t believe the lie.

Mark rubbed his face with both hands and rested his elbows on his desk and let out a soft moan. When he sat up again, his wife stood in the door of his den and his heart shifted into double-time. How long had she been there?

“Are you all right?”

Did she know? She couldn’t. There was no reflection for her to see what he’d been looking at, but maybe his face had already betrayed him. “Wow, you startled me.”

“Sorry, I woke up and you weren’t in bed. Are you okay?”

“Fine, just trying to figure out what I’m preaching on this Sunday.” Mark stretched his neck to the right and then the left. “And I’m a little tense.”

“What’s on your heart?”

“What?”

“On your heart, what are you hearing from God?”

Hearing? That he hated himself for not being stronger; hated himself for failing his kids, his wife, his church; hated the image of who people thought he was.

“Lots.”

“Then preach on that.”

Right. And lose his church. “Okay. I’ll be back to bed soon, sweetie.”

His wife shuffled away, undoubtably with an angelic smile on her face.

She was pure, a good heart, believed in him, even though he didn’t believe in himself.

He needed healing. Deep. They said admitting it was the first step.

And the chair might be the second.

CHAPTER 14

As the sun crested a ridge to the east, Corin stood with A. C. Avena at the top of a long winding road, adrenaline pumping through his body. This would be a rush of nitro proportions. A great way to start a Tuesday morning.

“Are you sure about this run?” A. C. looked at him with the crooked smile that drove girls nuts when they were in high school.

“Shasta would have done this with me in half a nanosecond.”

“Only after you talked him into it.” A. C. pulled on his leather luging gloves and stared at Corin. “I heard you got a little crazy up near Pikes Peak last weekend.”

Corin grinned. “Wish you could have been there and done the jump with us. It was cool.”

“I heard you almost got yourself killed.”

“Not true.”

“Uh-huh.”

They’d driven the length of the road—two and a half miles—three times, studying the curves and the slope.

“Perfect hill.” Corin rubbed his hands on his thick leather pants. “Let’s shoot it from the top with a no-brakes pact.” He held out his forefinger toward A. C. and bent it in.

“Are you crazy?” A. C. took a step back.

“Yes.”

“No brakes, no do.”

“Why not? I thought we wanted to get a serious adrenaline rush.”

“There’s no way you can hold the corner on that final turn.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I read about this road. Five guys have tried it and each one has ended up with an asphalt beard.” A. C. frowned and grinned at the same time. “We both read the same pieces on this run. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

“So the sixth time should be the charm, right?”

“You think you’re Superman, don’t you? Nothing can touch you; nothing can take you out.”

Corin frowned. “No I don’t.”

“Someday kryptonite is going to spring out of nowhere and kill you.”

“I can make it.”

“You don’t want to do this without braking.”

“Yeah I do.” Corin locked his fingers together and squeezed till his hands hurt. “I have to.”

“Why do you always push the envelope so far it tears?”

He cocked his head. “I might have stretched it a few times, but it’s never torn.”

“Not yet.” A. C. picked up his street luge and spun the wheels. “This shoot has paper shredder written all over it. Sometimes I wonder if you’ve got some kind of weird desire to hurt yourself.”

“I don’t care if I get hurt.” Corin stared at the shoot. “It would be good for me.”

“I’m not tracking with you here, Cor. How does getting hurt do anyone any good?”

Corin didn’t answer. He set his board on the ground and sat on it, then snugged up the strap on his helmet and flipped his visor down. “You coming?”

AS CORIN TORE through the final corner, the one A. C. said would make him Mr. Hamburger Face, Corin reached for the brake, his fingers trembling. No. Can’t do it. He didn’t deserve the chance to be safe.

He leaned to the left, the centrifugal force of rocketing down the road at seventy miles an hour trying to fling him off the edge of the road to his right.

C’mon, stay with it! Lean in!

His wheels skidded across the pavement as he leaned harder to left. Too close. The edge of the road just feet away a moment ago was now just inches.

Rolling over the edge at seventy miles an hour. Not good. Not healthy.

Three more seconds. Hang on. No brakes, no brakes.

An instant later he was through the turn and streaked straight down the road, relief flooding his mind and body.

Two minutes later A. C. skidded to a stop beside him.

Corin whipped off his helmet and grinned at his friend.

“You did it, didn’t you?”

He nodded, still grinning like a kid at his first pro baseball game.

“You’re insane, you know that?”

Corin nodded a second time. “It’s my calling.”

“What are you going to do when a call comes that you can’t answer?”

Corin swung his helmet up to his shoulder, bent to grab his sled, and admitted a small piece deep in his heart hoped that call would arrive soon.

CHAPTER 15

On Wednesday morning Corin made coffee and plopped onto his couch ready to play artifact detective. He pulled up Google and punched in “chair of Christ” and in .24 seconds got nothing. Nothing on Bing or AltaVista either. “Chair made by Jesus” didn’t bring any hits either. Jesus made furniture, didn’t He? Tables, plows, benches, chairs. Isn’t that what carpenters back then did? He had no idea.

Then he stumbled across an article talking about a saint named Justin Martyr who lived in Galilee during the second century. Martyr said it was still common during his lifetime to see farmers using “plows made by the carpenter Jesus of Nazareth” into the second century.

Good. This was promising.

If a plow being battered daily by dirt and weather could last one hundred-plus years, why couldn’t a well-cared for chair last till today?

When he typed in “religious artifacts” things got even more interesting.

He clicked on a link that said Sudarium of Oviedo and started reading.

Fascinating.

The Sudarium was a blood-stained cloth thirty-two-by-twenty inches that Jesus’s head was supposedly wrapped in after He died. And tests on blood from the cloth confirmed a common blood type among Middle Eastern people but rare among medieval Europeans.

Pollen residue showed strong evidence the cloth was at one point in the Palestine area.

Corin read further. Nothing about the Sudarium healing anyone.

Next was a link to the Image of Edessa, a picture of Christ allegedly sent by Jesus Himself to King Abgar V of Edessa to cure him of leprosy, with a letter declining an invitation to visit the king.

Now he was getting somewhere.

But as he read on, it was clear rampant speculation far outweighed the facts.

Corin kept clicking.

According to legend The Veil of Veronica was used to wipe the sweat from Jesus’s brow as He carried the cross and rests in Saint Peter’s Basilica.

He skimmed the research.

Nothing about it having healing powers.

He clicked past the Holy Grail. Indiana and Henry Jones had taught him all about that one. But at least that legend supported the idea Christ objects could have healing powers. No, actually, it didn’t. That was a movie and as he read further, it confirmed his feeling. There was less evidence for the existence of a real chalice than for the Sudarium, Image of Edessa, or the Veil.

He skimmed over articles on pieces of the cross, nails from the cross, the Coat of Christ, and the Crown of Thorns.

Again nothing about those objects healing anyone.

Corin sighed and stretched. The best he’d come up with in three hours of research was maybe something Jesus made could have lasted until today.

Time to see what the Bible said about healing.

His fingers flew over his laptop keyboard and he watched Google splash multiple Bible verses onto his screen.

Twenty minutes later he smiled.

He copied three verses into a Word document, saved it, then printed the page and read through it, his smile growing into a grin. At least according to the Bible, the idea of a chair with healing powers was very, very possible.

Acts 19:11–12: “God did extraordinary miracles through Paul, so that even handkerchiefs and aprons that had touched him were taken to the sick, and their illnesses were cured and the evil spirits left them.”

Matthew 14:35–36: “People brought all their sick to him and begged him to let the sick just touch the edge of his cloak, and all who touched it were healed.”

Mark 5:27–29: “When she heard about Jesus, she came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, because she thought, ‘If I just touch his clothes, I will be healed.’ Immediately her bleeding stopped and she felt in her body that she was freed from her suffering.”

Corin leaned back and smiled. Handkerchiefs, aprons, and clothes. Why not chairs? Especially one constructed by Christ.

And it sat in his store smack-dab in the middle of the picture window.

Not good.

When he got to the store he would move it to the hidden vault at the back of his store.

What next? He needed to talk to someone who knew more than Tori. But who? Corin strolled into his kitchen, stuck two pieces of eight-grain bread into the toaster, and brainstormed. Before the toast popped up he had an answer.

After slathering both pieces with a robust amount of strawberry jam and pouring himself a glass of nonfat milk, he settled back onto his couch, Googled churches, and dialed the first one listed.

“Hello, Cold Canyon Community Church.” A woman with voice two ticks beyond perky answered.

“My name is Corin Roscoe and I’d like to talk to someone about . . .”—what should he say, ‘I found a magical chair that might be healing people?’—“a possible religious relic.”

“What is it?” The perkiness dialed down four pegs.

“A chair. Very old.”

“Have you talked to an antiques dealer?”

Corin sighed. “I am an antiques dealer.”

“So why are you calling a church?”

“I think it might be tied into Christianity.”

“I see.” All perkiness was gone. “And how is that?”

“The person who gave it to me said it was made by Christ.”

The receptionist sniffed out a laugh. “That must be a very old chair.”

“It is.”

“She told you it was made by Jesus?”

“She didn’t right out and say it. But she strongly implied it.”

“I see.”

The woman didn’t offer anything else.

Corin rubbed his eyes. “Would I be able to talk to someone about it?”

“What would you like to know?”

“If there’s . . .” Corin hesitated. What did he want to know? If it was real? If it had really healed Brittan? “Did you see the story in the paper the other day about the kid who was healed of his asthma?”

“Yes.”

“The chair he sat in was mine.”

“I see.” The woman again offered nothing more.

Corin shifted the phone to his other ear. “I was hoping to talk to someone who knows about religious artifacts . . . someone who might be able to explain if this whole sitting-in-the-chair thing and him getting healed is a coincidence or if some kind of miracle really happened.”

The line buzzed for ten seconds.

“I’ll tell you what,” she finally said. “If you’d like to give me your name and number, I’ll find out who the best person is to talk to and have him give you a call back. Will that work?”

“Fine.” Corin gave her the information, hung up, and stared at his cell phone. No one would be calling back.

He dialed two more churches and had the same conversation.

Corin didn’t blame them. It sounded like something out of The Amazing Spider-Man. Who was he kidding? He should probably just stick it on the floor with a hefty price tag, write up copy offering up the idea it was made by Christ, and make some coin.

Who could he talk to about it if not someone from a church? Tori he’d already dismissed, he didn’t have any friends who were religious, and the lady who gave it to him hadn’t followed up on her promise to stay in touch.

A moment later Corin laughed. He knew exactly who to talk to about it. Maybe not someone who knew about ancient healing chairs, but definitely someone he could probably talk into experimenting on: A. C.

A. C. rode with him on all his extreme adventures. Why wouldn’t he go on this one? When A. C. dropped off that rolltop desk this afternoon, Corin would get his friend to go for a little ride in the chair.

CHAPTER 16

A. C. stepped through the back door of Corin’s store that afternoon at three thirty, lugging a rolltop desk as if it were made of balsa wood. “Hey, Cor, got your rolltop; where do you want it?”

Corin jogged toward the shipping entrance. “Need a hand with that?”

“Nah, only weighs about three hundred pounds.” A. C. grinned and carried it over to the door outside the prep room. “Can I set it here?”

“Perfect.”

Forty-one years old and still built like an NFL middle linebacker. Slightly damp strands of his blond, still-teenage-thick hair fell across his forehead, the only indication he was straining at all to carry the desk, his taut biceps pressing into the sleeves of his Where the Wild Things Are T-shirt.

If Ultimate Fighting had been as big ten years ago, before A. C. had kids, he would be dancing around a caged ring and ripping his competitors apart like they were made of cardboard. In fact a large part of A. C. was still considering getting into the ring.

A. C.: The Aqua Cowboy. The nickname their mutual friend Jeff Stucky had given him because of the way he rode a tube called the Extreme anywhere there was a body of water big enough for a ski boat. The tube was the bronco and A. C. was the bronco buster. Most tubers gave the kill sign at twenty-five knots. For A. C. that was warm-up speed. Same thing on a water ski. Barefoot as fast as the boat could go was his comfort zone.

Ironic that his best friend would be named for going extreme in an arena Corin would never enter again.

“Thanks for dropping it off.”

“No problem. You’re right on the way to the job I’ve got going.”

“What are you working on these days?”

“Nothing fancy. Pouring sidewalks and driveways for a new housing development up north.”

“One of the few I’m guessing.”

“Work’s been a little lean, but not bad.” A. C. rubbed his hands on his jeans. “How about you?”

“Still the same. Skeletor lean.”

“Sorry.”

“No worries. People will start buying again.”

“Do you believe that?”

“No.”

They both laughed.

“How was the weekend hanging out at Disneyland?”

“Fun. Sticky, but fun. Kids loved it. Dineen loved it. I loved it.” A. C. ambled over to the coffee pot, grabbed an oversized cup, and filled it to the rim with black tar.

“That coffee’s six hours old.”

“Perfect.” A. C. glanced at his watch. “I should hit the pavement. I want to avoid afternoon rush hour if possible.”

“Before you go, let me ask you something.”

“Sure.”

“Are you scared of anything?”

“What?” A. C. gave Corin his trademark crooked grin. “Did you pick up a copy of Psychology Today recently? How to examine your friends for cracks in their psyches?”

“No, I have a reason for asking.”

A. C. threw back a big swig of his coffee. “How long have you known me? Twenty years? You ever seen me scared of anything in all that time?” He smirked. “How about you? Is there anything that keeps you up nights?”

Corin’s face instantly felt scorched. He’d never told A. C. about the drowning or even about his fear of tight spaces, but if A. C. noticed he didn’t say anything.

“Nothing? Public speaking? Heights? Clowns? Death?”

“That’s it, clowns.” A. C. nodded. “You got me.”

But Corin had seen the fear in A. C.’s eyes when he’d said “public speaking.”

“Talk to me, buddy. I have a real reason for asking.”

“What did you smoke today?”

“I want you to try something for me.” Corin rubbed his knees and leaned toward A. C. “Something that might get rid of that fear.”

“You picked up a hypnosis course on the back of a matchbook, right?” A. C. folded his arms and laughed. “And I’m your first patient.”

Corin took his keys out of his pocket and walked toward the vault at the back of the store where the chair now rested. When he reached it he inserted a key as A. C. strolled up behind him.

Corin spun the combination on the vault door and swung it open.

“What’ve you got in the inner sanctum these days?” A. C. said.

Corin motioned with his eyes for A. C. to follow and stepped inside the room.

“Nice chair.” He joined Corin inside the vault.

The chair sat in the center, nothing else within ten feet of it.

“I want you to sit in it.”

“Oooooo.” A. C. grasped at the air with his hands. “Let me guess. After I sit you’ll say the magic words and instantly I’ll be over whatever fear you think I have.”

“Precisely.” Corin smiled. “So tell me the fear and we’ll get started.”

“Nah, I don’t think so.” A. C. shook his head.

“What?”

A. C. rarely held anything back. Even the uncomfortable things. My Life Is an Open Book should be a bumper sticker on his car.

“I’m not sure I want to admit that fear to anyone.”

Corin studied his friend. There was no one more loyal than A. C. As well as wise, heroic, and larger than life. No wonder the kids on his son’s football team called him Mr. Incredible. He even looked like the Pixar creation. Corin wouldn’t ever try to push him into something he didn’t want to do. As if he could push A. C. into anything.

“No worries. You can tell me about it another time or never. This was just a stupid experiment.”

A. C. didn’t move. “You’ve brought up a memory I rarely think about.” He rubbed his face and frowned. “In fact, if I didn’t like you, I’m not sure I could resist the temptation to break your face for making me think of it.” The frown turned into a smile.

“Face-breaking day is tomorrow, isn’t it? So let’s—”

“But maybe I should talk about it.” A. C. folded his arms and suddenly grew an intense interest in his tennis shoes.

“Nah, later.”

“I’m okay, Cor. Really.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” A. C. gritted his teeth, shook his head, and after another ten seconds began speaking. “When I was in sixth grade we did a unit on speaking. I liked doing it. Three speeches to the class, and I nailed every one of them, but then we gave our fourth talk in front of the whole school. The kids in my class were cool, they liked me, but . . .”

A. C. glanced up at Corin. “I had a pretty bad lisp back then. The rest of the year, every time I stepped on the playground for recess kids said things like, ‘Howth it going lithpee?’ I beat a few of them up which felt good, but it landed me in the principal’s office every other day. I stopped hitting kids but they didn’t stop saying things.”

A. C. unfolded his arms and locked his hands behind his head. “That summer I worked on getting rid of the lisp and by fall it was gone, but so was any ability or desire to get up in front of a crowd. Scared for life.” A. C. tried to laugh but it died on his tongue. “So even thinking about speaking in front of a group makes me want to mainline Prozac.”

“Sorry.”

“Forget it.” A. C. straightened up and rubbed his shoulder. “I’m over it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Fine, I’m not. But since no one is demanding I go on the motivational-speaking circuit, I’m not too worried about it.”

Corin eased up to his friend. “Do you want to get rid of the fear?”

“You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“What, I sit in your chair here and suddenly I’m booking a show at Madison Square Garden and making like Demosthenes?”

“Exactly.”

A. C. looked at him, his crooked smiled mixed with a frown that said, “Do you need a white jacket with thick leather straps?”

“Are you reading the local news these days?”

“No.”

“Let me show you something.” Corin handed him the story on Brittan.

A. C. studied the article, then stared at Corin, a quizzical look on the big man’s face. “You’re saying your chair healed this kid?”

“I’m not saying it; I’m just wondering. And I am saying it’s a pretty interesting coincidence, and why not try it with someone else?”

A. C. stared at him for twenty seconds before answering. “You are serious.”

“Yep.”

“And I’m your guinea pig?”

“Yep.”

“Have you sat in it?”

“Yeah.”

“And what happened?”

“Nothing, and that might be what happens with you.”

“Right.” A. C. looked back at the story and tapped twice. “You don’t really believe this, do you?”

“Most of me, no I don’t, but again, what would it hurt to try?”

A. C. ran his fingers along the back of the chair then moved to the front and stared at it for a good thirty seconds. “What the heck, let’s do it.” He turned and eased onto the chair. “Where’d you get it?”

“It was donated to me last week from some lady. Totally out of the blue.”

A. C. gazed up at him. “What was her name?”

“She wouldn’t say.”

“Was she cute?”

“She’s probably in her seventies, maybe eighties.” Corin thought back to her eyes that had no age. “But yes, beautiful.”

A. C. grinned up at him. “You’re not going to chant anything, are you?”

“Maybe I’ll sing you ‘The Pickle Song.’ The extended concert version. If you’re lucky.”

“My eardrums can’t afford that kind of pain.”

Corin folded his arms and leaned back against the workbench along the back wall of the vault.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I really have no idea, but I’m going to suggest thinking about what you want healed. That’s what I think the kid did when he got healed, and from studying the Bible that’s what people who got healed by Jesus did.”

“You’re studying the Bible?”

“I’m almost a scholar, baby. I’m now up to fourteen verses in my entire life.”

“Okay, here we go.” A. C. leaned his head back slightly, took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. A second later an emotion flitted over his face. Surprise? Peace? Corin couldn’t tell.

“Not bad. This is more comfortable than I thought it would be. It’s a perfect fit.” A. C. patted the sides of the chair and breathed deep again.

“Nice to know.”

As Corin watched, his friend’s countenance slowly changed, as if a layer of worry was melting off of him, revealing the little boy A. C. had once been, before the concerns of life had etched themselves into the lines on his face.

“Wow, I like this.”

“Like what?”

“I just . . .” The transformation continued. A. C. looked more relaxed than he’d seen his friend in years. A look of contentment was smeared all over his face. “It feels like I’m sitting on a beach in Costa Rica with nothing to think about but how my tan is developing.”

It was the same type of reaction Brittan Gibson seemed to have had. So why hadn’t Corin had the same sensations when he’d sat in the chair?

“Anything else?”

“Not at the moment. Other than I think I could sit here forever.” A. C. let out a contented sigh. “What happens now?”

“I go back into the store and wait for a customer to come in and drop ten grand on a chair and desk set from the mid-1700s and you hang out in here as long as you want.”

“That’s it?” A. C. frowned. “Don’t I have to recite some prayer or something? Something to make the magic work?”

Corin smiled. “Whatever you feel like doing.” He walked out of the vault. Yeah, why didn’t it heal him? It healed the kid.

If his theory was right, it couldn’t heal him unless he thought of what he wanted to be healed from while he sat in the chair. And when Corin had sat in it, he didn’t know.

After helping a customer buy a pair of cuff links from the early 1920s, he wandered back into the vault to check on A. C.

His friend’s eyes were closed, the peaceful look still on his face. As soon as Corin cleared his throat, A. C. looked up, his face groggy as if he’d been asleep.

“Anything?”

“This is a great chair. Don’t sell it. I could sit in it for hours.”

“Did it do anything?”

A. C. laughed. “Other than make me relax for the first time in forever? Yeah, absolutely. I have a sudden urge to talk to the UFC about being a ringside announcer.”

“I guess it worked then.”

“Sorry.” A. C. stood slowly. “But I liked sitting in it.”

“Thanks for trying it.”

“No worries.”

SIX HOURS LATER as Corin drove home he called A. C. “Anything now?”

“You mean did I get healed?”

“Yeah. It took four-plus hours for the chair to work on the kid.”

“Listen, Corin. We’ve been friends forever, so let me shoot straight. With the financial problems you’ve got screaming in your ear, this isn’t the time to get distracted with ideas of chairs that heal people. Like I said, nice chair. It really did feel comfortable, but I’d leave the X-Files and Fringe fake-healing stuff for the movies and the televangelists, okay? It’s a good-looking chair. People will like it. Sell the thing and make a little cash or a lot of cash if you can. You need it.”

Corin sighed and hung up. A. C. was right. He’d put it on the floor tomorrow.

It would take a neon sign to convince him otherwise.

CHAPTER 17

Corin pulled the covers over his chest and sank into the dream almost immediately. He stood in his store staring at the chair, a short man, slightly hunched over, stood beside him.

“That chair is valuable. Worth a great deal of money. And we both know you need money. I believe you could sell and wipe out a good portion of the debt you currently swim in. That’s the wise decision.”

“How much is it worth?” Corin said. The figure of the man wavered like Corin was looking at him through water. “How much could I sell it for?”

“Tell people the chair was made by Christ and let the religious fanatics bid its price up into the hundreds of thousands.” The man shrugged. “Or I could take it off your hands for you. In fact, I’ll confess, that is most assuredly the best plan.”

Corin turned to face the man, but in the next instant he sat in the back corner of his store, a cup of coffee in his hands, the lady sitting directly across from him.

“We should go from here,” she said, and in the next moment they stood side by side on a cliff overlooking a stretch of ocean, wind whipping through his hair.

The water seemed to pull at him as if it wanted to seize him and wrench him over the edge. Pull him to the bottom and hold him in dark arms.

“You must protect the chair with everything in you. You must guard it with all your heart. Do you understand?”

“Why?”

“You must. Do not let it go. Ever.”

“Why did you give it to me?”

“You are the one.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know. I am sorry I cannot say more.”

“Who are you?”

“Someone who has waited long to know you.”

Was it the woman? The one who gave him the chair?

An icy wave crashed onto the beach in front of them . . . or was it—?

He woke to a strong, cold wind pouring through his open window, the blinds smacking into his sill like waves.

Corin sat up, rubbed his eyes, and sucked in a deep lungful of air.

Great, now the chair was invading his dreams.

He pushed the dream out of his mind, turned over, and started counting chairs. No help. After ten minutes of doing the alligator roll, he threw off his covers and staggered into his kitchen. The green numbers on his microwave read 1:55 a.m.

He tapped his laptop to bring it out of hibernation and glanced at the e-mails that had stuffed his in-box since he last checked it.

Junk.

Junk.

Junk.

Corin carried his laptop over to his tan couch where he settled down and stared out the window at the wind whipping through the cottonwood trees.

Why couldn’t he get that stupid chair out of his head? Or his dreams? It was just a chair. Just a chair no one else would be interested in.

But he knew that wasn’t true.

Not even close.

CHAPTER 18

Corin had just finished restoring a mahogany bookcase from the early 1900s when a man walked into the store with a light brown leather notebook under his arm, a venti-sized drink full of something of a raspberry color in his other hand, and a furtive look on his face.

“Hello, may I speak with the owner?” He set his drink and notebook on a Victorian burr walnut round dining table, shoved his hands in his pockets, and rocked back and forth on his heels.

“Speaking.” Corin wiped the stain off his hands and looked at the man. Five eight or nine, white polo shirt, pressed khaki pants, pointy Italian shoes that looked uncomfortable, and dark red preppy-boy eighties-styled hair. The hair didn’t fit. “What are you selling today?”

“Selling? Nothing.” The man glanced around the store as if looking for something specific, then frowned.

“Most people don’t come in here looking as polished as you do carrying a notebook unless they’re selling something.”

The man shook his head. “Like I said, I’m not selling.”

“Then can I help you find something?”

“I’m not buying either.” The man strolled forward, grinned, and stuck out his hand. Corin didn’t shake it.

“I see. So what can I do for you?”

“You’re the owner?” The man brushed his hand on the side of his pants as if pretending he hadn’t been dissed.

“Yes.” Hadn’t he just told the guy that?

“You’re Corin Roscoe?”

“Who are you?”

“I represent the senior pastor of a church in southern California who would like your cooperation, and in turn we would like to assist you.”

“Assist me with what?”

“Whatever you might need.”

Interesting. Maybe this was fortuitous. Maybe this guy would be able to fill in the considerable blanks in his “Does This Chair Heal?” dissertation. But something about the guy bothered Corin. Phony? Yes, but it was more than that. Something used-car salesman about him seeped through the GQ clothes and looks.

“Whatever I need? Uh-huh.” Corin tossed the rag he’d used to clean his hands into a bright orange plastic bucket. “And why did this pastor send you? He didn’t want to be seen in public with me?”

“Whatever you say to me will stay in strict confidence. I will not repeat a word of it. You have my honor on that count.”

“I’m thrilled to know that.” Corin walked behind his sales counter and leaned forward, his hands spread wide on the counter.

“I’m not someone who abides sarcasm well.”

“And I don’t abide well someone who comes into my store and insinuates I have to accept his counsel when I’ve never met him before.” Corin stared at the man.

“That’s valid.”

“Do you have a name?”

“You can call me Ben.”

“What do you want, Ben?”

“A few short questions and I’ll be on my way. Okay?”

Corin opened his palms.

“Thank you. We understand you came into possession of a unique chair recently.”

“How do you know that?”

Ben held up the news article from the Internet.

“I see.”

“Is it true? Did sitting in your chair heal Brittan Gibson?”

“I have no idea if he’s healed. I know he and his parents claim he’s healed.”

Ben opened his notebook and scribbled on the white lined paper. “Where did you get the chair?”

Corin strolled over to a collection of wood radios from the 1930s. Beautiful pieces. None of which worked when he’d brought them into the store. Now they all did, reception as clear as on the day they were made. He even replaced the tubes with the originals. Those had taken ages to track down. He turned the knob on one of the radios to 103.9 FM, even though the radio wasn’t plugged in.

“Explain something to me, Ben.”

“I’ll try.”

“Why is any of this any of your business?”

Ben smoothed his hair back and tried to smile. “It isn’t.”

“Exactly right. Glad we agree on that.” Corin offered a thin-lipped smile. “Tell me the truth about something else. You’re here to talk to me about the chair instead of your pastor because he doesn’t want his reputation soiled by being seen talking to a guy about a subject straight out of Science Fiction Theatre.”

“Something like that.” Ben shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Our pastor leads over ten thousand followers every weekend, and he would never do anything that would make one of his flock stumble. And for a rumor to start that implicated him as seeking something as outlandish as a chair that heals people when they sit in it, well, that wouldn’t be a wise choice.”

“I never said the chair heals people.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“I already told you once, I have no idea. Why aren’t you talking to the mom of the kid who was supposedly healed?”

“I might do that.” Ben picked up his notebook and drink. “Before I go, would it be possible for me to look at the chair?”

“I’m guessing you already know the answer to that question.”

“True.” Ben smiled, a genuine one this time. “I know how it must look, me barging into your store asking all these questions. But truly, our intent is to help, not to hinder.”

Something about the way Ben said this rang true. He didn’t trust Ben, didn’t like him, but Corin was curious about the offer.

“If I did decide to accept your help, what do you think you’d be able to assist me with?”

“I don’t think you know what you’re dealing with.”

“And you do?”

“No.” Ben shook his head. “I don’t think we do either. If the Holy Grail showed up in the crypt of a European cathedral, we wouldn’t know what to do with it. If pieces of Noah’s ark were discovered in Turkey, we would be extremely presumptuous to say we knew what we were dealing with.” Ben lifted his raspberry concoction to his mouth and looked over the top of it. “But I will say we likely know more about what to do with supernatural relics than you.”

“Probably true.”

“And we know more about the supernatural aspects of Christianity.”

“I’ll give you that as well.”

“And we could examine the chair, give you our thoughts, and store it in a safe place for you.”

“You want me to give you the chair?”

“Not give, just protect.”

Before the dream and Brittan’s healing, Corin would have walked the guy right into the vault and showed him the chair. Probably would’ve offered to let Ben borrow the thing and report back in a few days or a week what he found out.

But maybe God spoke to people in dreams. Hadn’t he seen that in a movie once? So for the moment he’d take the dream as a warning and err on the side of the lady’s advice. Because he couldn’t get the idea out of his brain that his benefactor and the lady in the dream were the same person.

Corin strolled toward his front door. “Thanks for stopping by, Ben. I appreciate it. And if I have any questions I’ll know who to talk to.”

“Right.” Ben frowned and handed Corin his card. “Thanks for your time.” He pushed open the front door, stepped through, then turned back to Corin. “My pastor is a powerful man. Influential. And driven to get what he wants.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“It wasn’t a warning; it’s an invitation to accept his help.”

Corin turned and walked back toward his sales counter. “Thanks for the warning, Ben. If I need to, I’ll be in touch.”

When he drove home that night, the bed of his truck held a tightly wrapped and very secure artifact from ages past.

CHAPTER 19

Corin picked up his cell phone on the way home and dialed his brother’s house to see if the gift he’d sent had arrived. It was a way to be a part of Shasta’s family, even if it was only looking through darkened windows. Plus his nephew was an amazing kid. Robin answered on the first ring.

“Hey, Cor. Sawyer once again thinks you’re the coolest uncle ever.”

“I had to send it. It’s his birthday. Every ten-year-old boy needs Race Town III on his birthday.” And every ten-year-old boy should somehow be protected from what Corin went through at that age.

She laughed. “I think his hands are going to fuse into the shape needed to hold the controller.”

“But you’ll limit his playtime to three hours a day, right?”

“Less than that. I’m not sure I want him to grow up to be a thrill junkie like you.”

Corin hesitated. “Maybe someday soon I’ll be able to play the game with him.”

Robin didn’t answer.

“Sorry, had to say it.”

A short sigh floated through the phone in concert with his own.

Should he ask the follow-up question? He knew the answer, so why did he always ask? “Will you and Shasta and the kid be coming to my house for dinner next weekend?”

“I think you know the answer to that one.”

“Yeah. What did he say this time?”

“That he’s busy.”

“You’d think he’d have a better excuse by now.” Corin kneaded the steering wheel. “Does he miss Mom and Dad? The anniversary of their passing was six weeks ago.”

“I know.” Robin coughed. “He misses them a great deal.”

“But that same emotion isn’t extended my direction.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Hang on a second.”

Corin heard a door shut through the phone, and when Robin spoke again it was in a whisper. “He still cares about you. And I’ll never stop talking to God about it.”

“Right.”

“Deep down he does. I see it in his eyes when your name comes up.”

“All I saw in his eyes during my last impromptu visit was apathy. A healthy dose of it. It’s not that he hates me; it’s that he’s devoid of any type of emotion toward me.”

“He cares.”

“If I died tomorrow, he wouldn’t cheer, he wouldn’t break down. He wouldn’t do anything.”

Five seconds passed.

“Do you know what he had restored to pristine condition and keeps out in the garage?”

“No idea.”

“His Honda CRF 230.”

A memory flooded Corin’s mind as he considered the implications of Shasta keeping the Honda. His brother had almost killed himself on that bike on that August morning in 1994.

“You always have to push me a little farther than I want to go, don’t you?” Shasta tried to pretend he was frustrated, but Corin knew underneath his helmet his brother was laughing.

They sat on their dirt bikes, revving their engines, staring at an eastern Colorado gorge with a seventy-foot drop to a thundering river.

“Not a little, a lot farther.” Corin shifted into first gear, revved his engine, and let out the clutch. The wheel of his Honda CR 500 popped into the air and the bike screamed forward, the rush of acceleration making him laugh. The jump wasn’t long, but being short wasn’t an option. He let the whine of first gear get to ear piercing, then shifted into second, then third. He needed to be going at least forty-five when he hit the ramp, fifty would be better.

The wind whipped against his chest and he leaned forward in the seat.

Thirty feet to the ramp. Twenty. Five more feet. Launch!

The ground vanished and he flew thirty feet into the sky.

Corin’s landing was perfect and he skidded to a stop forty yards on the other side of the gorge.

He threw his bike into first gear and raced back up to the edge of the cliff and shouted across the gorge. “You coming, little brother?” Corin shouted.

Shasta revved his engine in response. Corin imagined he could see Shasta rolling his eyes under his helmet.

“Just don’t be slow, little bro.”

Shasta hit the ramp dead center but Corin’s heart clenched. The bike didn’t have enough speed.

C’mon! Be enough.

Time slowed as Shasta arced across the ravine, body and bike in perfect form.

Be enough.

An instant later the back tire of Shasta’s Honda smacked down high on the ramp sending a mini dirt shower into the air. Shasta threw his hands up in victory.

He yanked off his helmet, long dark brown hair swirling in the wind, and grinned at Corin after skidding to a halt twenty yards away. “Yeah, baby!”

“I don’t need a heart attack, bro. What were you thinking?”

“What are you talking about?”

Corin jogged up the ramp to see where Shasta’s tire had landed. He coughed out a frightened laugh when he reached the edge. A foot and a half, maybe two. He stared at Shasta.

“More speed next time.”

“Hey, I wanted to make it interesting for you.”

“Too interesting.” Corin jogged back down the ramp over to his brother and slapped his hands down on Shasta’s shoulders. “That kind of interesting I can do without.”

“I was just curious how riled up I could make you.”

“This cat doesn’t want to get killed.”

“But I was satisfied.”

“Get serious, did you do that on purpose?”

Shasta took off his gloves and stuck them in his back pocket. “True serious?”

“Yes.”

“I blew it back there. Thought I had enough speed. I’m sorry, bro; didn’t mean to scare you. That one even made me nervous.”

“Don’t do that to me. Losing you would not be good for my mental health, get it?”

“Got it.”

“Cor? You there?”

Robin’s voice sliced through the memory and brought him back to the present.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

The image in his mind of the dirt bike jump faded into a picture of the ski slope. “I made him do it.”

“It was his choice.”

“I forced him into it.”

“You pushed him down the hill? Forced him up that ramp?”

Corin massaged the knots in the back of his neck. “Nice try. I appreciate it.”

“I’m not trying to placate you. Yes, you were probably persuasive, but in the end it was his choice. He chose to launch himself into the air; you didn’t choose it for him.”

“Life would be different if I hadn’t talked him into it.”

“Promise me something,” Robin said.

“Anything.”

“You’ll never stop trying.”

“Never.” Corin looked at himself in the rearview mirror and studied his haunted eyes. “I’ll die first.”

CORIN STRODE THROUGH the doors of Tori’s dojo early Friday evening determined to talk to her about the chair. She wasn’t warm to the subject, but things were getting too weird and she was the only one who he could trust.

Hey!” She bounced up to him in a bright blue top and black gym shorts and planted a kiss on his lips. “Ready for a slash-and-dash workout?”

“Slash and dash?”

“Slash through this thing and still dash out with plenty of time to enjoy that dinner you promised me at your place plus get to the theater in time to catch a late flick together.” She glanced at the clock on her wall over the mirrors that ran the length of the dojo, then trotted over to the gray workout bags hanging from the ceiling.

As Corin peeled off his sweats he said, “I need to talk to you about something.”

Thwack! Tori gave her bag a roundhouse kick. “Talk.”

He jogged over to the bag next to Tori and struck it like a boxer.

“This isn’t boxing, bub; it’s mixed martial arts.”

“Right.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“The chair.”

“Again?”

“A guy from some megachurch came in today wanting to, ‘Give me expertise in what I’m dealing with.’”

“What are you dealing with? Is the thing going to explode?”

“Then he insinuated I would be wise to let him study it and keep it for me.”

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Tori kicked the bag three times in rapid succession, then finished with a shot from her fist. “Just sell the thing. Or give it to this guy.”

“Don’t you think there might be something a little weird going on here with this chair? The healing of that kid, now a sudden interest from this church?”

“Definitely something weird.” Thud, thud, thud! Tori pummeled the bag with her feet.

“I need to know if this chair can heal people.” Corin gave his bag a swift kick and followed it up with a forearm blow even Tori would be proud of. “Could it really have been made by Christ? Where should I take it? I have to talk to somebody who knows something about this. Figure out what to do with it.”

“Shut up, Corin.” Tori grabbed her bag with both hands and stared at him.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“What’s your problem?”

“The weird thing I’m talking about is you. Just because a kid gets healed, you’re suddenly wanting to be Pastor Joe-Bob and start preaching to the world.”

“Hello?” Corin knocked on his skull. “Anyone home? What’s wrong with you? I’m not wanting anything but to know what this thing is and what I should do. Doesn’t it freak you out at all that I might have a miracle chair sitting in my basement? Wouldn’t you want to find out more about it?”

Tori let loose with a double shot to the bag with her fists. “Sorry, I’m just getting tired of all this God talk.”

“It’s not God talk.” Corin popped the bag so hard his fist stung. “It’s chair talk. Why are you stonewalling me on this?”

“I’m not stonewalling; I’m just not into talking about religion. I told you that.”

“This isn’t religion. It’s a chair. That might be doing bizarre things. I’d like some answers.”

“Call James Randi.”

“Who?”

“Founder of J.R.E.F. The James Randi Educational Foundation. He has a standing offer of a million bucks to anyone who can demonstrate any psychic, supernatural, or paranormal ability of any kind. I bet he’d be able to prove your chair isn’t anything more than a nice-looking piece of wood.”

“I’m not calling some celebrity.”

“Fine.” She gave her bag three sharp kicks. “But can we be done talking about it now?”

They stopped talking and Corin pounded away, hoping to take out his frustration on the bag. She’d locked him out. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t keep trying to pick the lock.

“I don’t want to talk about the chair anymore.”

“Good.” Tori pounded her bag.

“I want to talk about who made it.”

“C’mon, Corin.” Another three kicks.

“It’s one question.”

She whirled to face him. “One? Only one?”

“Yes.”

“After this can we be done talking about your chair?”

Corin delivered three kicks of his own. “I don’t understand why this is such a sore spot for you.”

“It’s not; it’s just boring talking about it all the time.”

“Last question.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because I’ll probably have one more question after this one.” He grinned. “But at least not today. I promise. Guaranteed no more religious questions until at least twenty-five hours have passed.”

Tori rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. “What?”

“Is it possible Jesus was who He said He was? That He really was the Son of God?”

“He never said that. He didn’t ever say He was the Son of God.”

“What?”

“He said he was the Son of Man, that ‘I AM,’ that ‘I and the Father are One,’ but He never said I am the Son of God.”

“What’s your point?”

“That maybe He was just a man who got really close to God, so people started saying He was God.” Tori snatched her sweat towel off the top of her workout bag and turned toward the back of the dojo. “Are we done?”

“That wasn’t all of the question. There’s a second part.”

“Sorry, that’s the only one you get today.”

“But—”

“Fine!” Tori tossed her towel to the ground.

“What burned you so deeply about Christianity?”

“That’s off-limits.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Drop it, Corin. I’m serious.”

“So am I. The preachers who rail against gay people the hardest are the ones who are meeting other guys behind locked closet doors. The ones always talking about staying away from porn are the guys racking up hefty Internet bills.”

“What’s your point?”

“I think you see my point.”

“I’m going to take a shower.” Tori kicked her towel into the air and grabbed it as she strode toward the locker room. “See you at your place in thirty-five.”

CORIN’S DOORBELL RANG thirty-four minutes after he’d left Tori’s dojo and he smiled. She was always on time.

“Come in, Queen of Precision.” He opened the door.

“Are we okay?” Tori hugged him. “Sorry I got so riled up.”

“We’re good.”

Tori gave him a quick kiss, then strolled through the door and into his living room and stopped in front of his brick fireplace. “This mantel is stunning.” She touched it with her fingers and leaned in to take a closer look. “Really beautiful.”

“I put it up yesterday.”

“Where did you get this piece?”

Corin smiled and ran his fingers over surface of the mantel. “You’ve seen it before.”

“No.” Tori gave a tiny shake of her head and eased over closer to him. “This I would remember.”

Corin laughed. “Let me show you something.” He turned and clipped toward his den, snatching a manila folder off his desk when he reached it, then turned and strode back to Tori. “Take a look.” He handed her an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven piece of paper with two photos on it and folded his arms.

She glanced back and forth between the two pictures. “Same mantel,” she said, more to herself than to Corin. “Amazing. You’d never know. It looks like junk in the before picture.”

“Yep.” He tried to keep from smiling.

Tori tilted her head and stared at him. “You didn’t tell me your talents including restoring old furniture. I thought you only sold the stuff.”

“The dream starting out wasn’t to sell the pieces; it was to make them.”

“What happened?”

“Not enough profit margin in selling new pieces. When someone sees something old they think it’s worth more than something new.” Corin rubbed the mantel. “I’ll give them that. The history, imagining who might have stood or sat or eaten at a piece hundreds of years before gives it a value you can’t hang a price tag on, but I’ve never thought it was ten times the value of a new piece. I think some things are better when new, then you can grow old with them.”

Tori slid her arms around Corin’s neck and kissed him. “Like relationships?”

“In some cases yes.”

“Any specific piece you’d like to restore that you haven’t been able to yet?”

Corin gazed at a picture on his wall of his brother and him skydiving over the badlands in North Dakota. Their photographer on that jump caught them with the sun lit up behind them like a trillion-watt spotlight. Two-man star formation, rocketing toward the earth at a million miles an hour.

“Some pieces can’t ever be restored.”

“We’re not talking about furniture anymore, are we?”

Corin snatched his car keys off the mantel. “Let’s get out of here; we don’t want to miss the previews.”

He squeezed his keys so hard they bit into his fingers and sent shoots of pain slinging up his arm. Why did he have to be reminded of his brother in every moment? Between thinking about Shasta during the day and fighting The Dream at night, he was ready to crack.

And no amount of wood glue could fix him.

CHAPTER 20

No!”

On Saturday morning Corin lurched up and out of bed and moved toward his door, dragging damp sheets with him, then crumpled to his bedroom floor as his legs were caught in the blankets.

“Oh, wow. Hold on, hold on.” The words puffed out of him like blasts of steam from an old train. Corin tried to slow his breathing and raked his hands through his hair, as if he could tear the images out of his mind—of a torrent of water cascading into his lungs till they burst, the terror of it suffocating him, burying him in darkness.

The Dream hadn’t been this bad for three years. Maybe more. He rose to his knees and held his head.

Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream.

“Whew.”

C’mon, get a grip, Cor.

After a few more deep breaths he glanced at the blue numbers on his digital clock: 3 a.m. Later than normal.

He sunk back against the side of his bed and waited for his pulse to settle.

The darkness rocketing out of the bottom of the lake had been thicker than he’d ever felt. Deeper, and the nothingness more consuming. He shook his head.

Corin went to his bathroom, splashed water on his face, examined his puffy eyes, and cursed the face in the mirror.

He’d slept long enough that he’d have to count a million sheep to get back to sleep, but he hadn’t gotten even close to enough rest to be up for the day.

Besides, he wasn’t ready to submerge himself back into dreamland with the emotions of the drowning still churning through his gut.

He stumbled into his living room and grabbed Demon: A Memoir off the coffee table, a novel he’d picked up at Barnes & Noble earlier that afternoon. He’d asked one of the clerks about the supernatural being real and she recommended that book along with The Screwtape Letters.

After three chapters he set the book down and considered the implications. Demons and angels flitting around the world, taking on human form? Right. And little green Martians would be visiting his store tomorrow to pick up some European antiques for their home planet.

And more chairs made by God would show up on his doorstep.

His laptop pinged. He got up and ambled over to his kitchen table, reached over, and tapped the space bar to wake up the screen and see who was e-mailing him at three in the morning.

From: NicolerIIV@gmail.com
Subject: Good fortune
To: CorinR@artifications.com

Translation: Another Nigerian trolling for suckers who had been living under a rock for the past ten years and might still believe a fifty-eight-year-old Chinese woman dying of cancer wanted to share her vast fortune.

He turned, trundled back toward the couch, and picked up his book. He’d plow through another couple of chapters and then try to get back to sleep. With no dreams.

Another ping.

He spun on his heel. Maybe it was the Tooth Fairy this time.

Same name.

Different subject: One more thing.

He slumped into the chair in front of the table and wiggled the mouse. Why not?

He set his book down and opened the first e-mail.

Hello Corin,

I hope you are well, although I would guess you are going through a number of strange mental machinations at the moment.

Do not worry; there is purpose in what you’re experiencing. It is good fortune and favor on you that has drawn you into this journey. Believe this. And keep asking. Keep seeking. Answers will come.

Keep pressing forward, will you now?

Your friend,

Nicole

Corin rubbed his jaw. It had to be her. He opened the next e-mail.

Corin,

One more thing: I’m sure you know this, but trust is to be earned and not given lightly with regard to everything and anyone having to do with the chair.

Exercise caution in all you do, will you? With everyone you interact with, yes? In both the natural realm and the realm of the spirit.

Your friend,

Nicole

Friend? She wasn’t his friend.

He pulled up Google and plugged in her e-mail address to see if he could trace her e-mail address to a phone number or address.

Corin didn’t think she’d be that careless. She seemed savvy enough to block his efforts to try to track her down. But it was worth a shot. Fifteen minutes later he gave up and typed a response back to her e-mail.

Nicole,

You’re right; strange things are happening and I don’t know where to go for answers.

When can we meet?

Can I at least call you?

Corin

A moment after sending the e-mail a noise from his basement startled him. It sounded like a stuck door being forced open, the latch scraping against the doorjamb.

He stared at the door that led downstairs. A dim light came from under it. He didn’t remember leaving a light on down there. Corin set his laptop to the side and slowly rose without taking his eyes off the light under the door.

His pulse spiked. The light along the bottom wasn’t steady. It ebbed softer and brighter with the rhythm of a slowly beating heart.

A moment later the light vanished and didn’t come back on.

Corin glanced furtively around his living room, then stood and eased over to the basement door. He placed his hand on the knob and listened. Nothing.

A fly buzzed past his head as he opened the door and flicked on the light at the top of the stairs.

He swatted at the fly and descended the fourteen steps like each one was a thin layer of ice he was scared of breaking through.

An electrical problem? The house creaking as it settled into the fall season? Maybe. An older house like his had quirks.

When he reached the basement he flicked on the light and glanced around the main room. Nothing was out of place. But he let his imagination roam anyway. Could it have been the chair? Throwing off some kind of supernatural glow? Mocking him, teasing him about its secrets?

No. Knock it off. The dream and the novel had scrambled his brain.

He looked toward the padlocked door at the back of the room where he’d put the chair yesterday. It was open a few inches. Hadn’t he shut and locked it? Corin wasn’t sure. No light came from within.

A moment later the room grew brighter, then immediately dimmed. Corin whirled toward the source of the light.

The incandescent lamp in the far corner of the room flickered to life, then sputtered off, then back on again. It buzzed and started through its routine of off-on, off-on again.

Corin sighed. Of course. If you turned the knob too far the lamp would come on and off, sputtering and humming as the current to the bulb ebbed and flowed.

He sat on the lowest stair and rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe he’d move the chair to his storage facility east of town. That way his overactive comic book mind wouldn’t create bizzaro scenarios out of nothing and play ping-pong with his emotions.

He turned his focus to the door behind which the chair sat. Corin wandered over to it, pushed it open wider, and flicked on the light just inside the door. The chair rested in the same spot he’d left it in the day before.

Resting? Same spot? Did he except it to jump up and dance the rumba? It was an inanimate object! He sighed. But if the Son of God had made the chair, wouldn’t it be more than a chair? It would be alive in a sense. If His hands had touched it, crafted it, maybe even blessed it, it could hold a spark of His divine power.

He stepped farther into the room and eased up to the chair. “Are you real?” Corin pulled up a small stool, sat in front of the chair, and stared at it. At the perfect lines. The intricate patterns in the ancient wood.

“Where have you been over the centuries? And if you are a chair formed by a Jewish carpenter, how did you end up here? Talk to me.”

Corin laughed at himself, but soon the moment of levity vanished replaced by a sense of foreboding. If it wasn’t the chair of Christ, he should sell it for as much as he could and be done with this strange adventure. But if it was formed by the Son of God . . . he needed to know more about it, needed to know what to do next.

An ocean of questions was forming and Corin was drowning in them. He needed someone with skills to navigate the uncharted waters he now swam. He needed a boat.

But where could he find one?

A name popped into his mind.

Yes. Why hadn’t he thought of Travis days ago?

He trudged back up the basement stairs, across the living room to his laptop. After three minutes he hit Send, slinging off an e-mail to Travis. If anyone could provide a few answers it would be him. Not religious speculation but rock-hard, scientific answers.

Which meant tomorrow he would reluctantly do a bit of necessary surgery on the chair.

PASTOR MARK JEFFERIES jammed his finger into his cell phone’s End button. He didn’t like hanging up on people, but when they pushed the right buttons his reaction was automatic. And having women in his church challenge his authority was the hottest button in his brain.

He stood and paced in front of his corner windows, gazing out on the trees littered with gold and red leaves about to fall and clutter the street with their failure to stay on the tree.

A few minutes later he picked up the phone and hit redial.

“Hello?”

Mark clenched the phone. “Eric, it’s Mark again. Listen, I lost my temper. It shouldn’t have happened.” He sucked in a quick breath. “But you need to keep your wife in line. It isn’t her place to challenge me.” Mark paused. “Or any man in the church.”

“All she was doing was expressing her opinion. She wasn’t saying you were wrong, just saying how she felt.”

“That’s fine. Everyone is entitled to his or her feelings. But it has to be done in the right context. And a woman expressing her feelings to the senior pastor of the church during a small-group gathering with almost seventy people in attendance is not the place or the time. Are we clear on that?”

The phone went silent.

“Are we clear on that, Eric?”

“Listen, Mark. You’re a man of God and you’ve helped both of us a tremendous amount, but we’re done. Best to you.”

Mark rubbed his forehead and with his other hand mashed his Bluetooth deeper into his left ear. “You’re leaving the church? Over this?”

“A lot of things, but this straw probably weighs the most.”

“What other things?”

“Good-bye, Mark. Thanks for all you’ve done.”

Click.

Mark waited a moment, then yanked his Bluetooth out of his ear. People leaving the church: his second hottest button. He should have kicked them out before they could quit.

He lurched back to his windows, clenched his arms across his chest, and seethed, staring at nothing.

A knock on his door broke him out of his daze. “What!”

The door opened a few inches and Ben poked his head into Mark’s office. Mark motioned him in with his head.

“Bad time?”

“No. Perfect.” Mark didn’t speak again for over a minute. “You know, Ben. I hate it when I’m the quintessential example of Balaam’s donkey.”

“You’ve been prophesying?”

“No, I was referring to the species as representative of my behavior.”

“Excuse me? I’m still not tracking.”

“Forget it. Sit. Just in a bad mood today, which makes me do things I regret soon after. Happens to everyone, right?”

“Everyone.”

“Coffee?” Mark motioned toward his espresso maker, which sat on the counter that lined the wall to his left.

“No, thank you.”

Mark strolled toward the counter and stuck his half full vanilla latte in the microwave next to the coffee machine and punched in forty-five seconds. “Talk to me. What did you find out about this antiques store owner?”

“He’s not stupid.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’s not begging for our assistance.”

“Pity.” Mark paced in front of the microwave. “Is he a Christian?”

“I highly doubt it.”

“Does he believe in God?”

“I don’t know.”

“We need to know.” Mark drilled Ben with his eyes. “You should have asked.”

“I’ll find out.” Ben shuffled his feet. “Sorry.”

The microwave dinged and Mark marched back to snag his drink. “Does he know what he has?”

“If he does he’s not letting on.”

“Do you think the chair is genuine?” Mark settled back in his leather chair and took a sip of his coffee.

“You mean do I think the chair sitting in an antiques store eight hundred miles away is the one you’ve been searching for most of your adult life?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. He didn’t let me see it.”

Mark downed another slug of his coffee and wiped his mouth. “I want you to keep a watch on this guy. You know what I mean, right?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Corin Roscoe.”

“I want to know where Corin goes, who he hangs out with, who he talks to, everything. Understand?”

“It’s done.” Ben cocked his head. “Do you mind me asking what you’re going to do with his chair if it does turn out to be the one?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Yes, you did.” Mark took another drink of his coffee. “But it’s okay. I admire your ambition. I’d want to know the same thing if I were in your shoes. Well done.”

Mark opened the top right-hand drawer of his desk, pulled out a full-sized notepad, and began jotting down what he’d learned from Ben. After few moments he glanced up at Ben. “Yes? Is there something else?”

“No, I, uh.” Ben shifted his notebook from one hand to the other. “I thought you were going to tell me why the chair was so important to you.”

“You thought incorrectly.” Mark leaned back in his chair and glared at him.

Ben narrowed his eyes. “If you want me to help you with this little side project, don’t you think I should know a mite more than you’re telling me?”

“Excellent. Well done, well done.” Mark stood and clapped. “That is assertion and courage in the face of opposition. The kingdom of heaven is violent and violent men take it by force.”

“Thank you.” Ben gave Mark a thin-lipped smile. “So are you going to tell me?”

Part of him longed to tell someone. About the darkness inside that stabbed at him with daggers made from anger and ego that melted into mist when he tried to destroy them. The longing that welled up in him to know he was truly forgiven for his sins and accepted no matter what. The craving to be the man he pretended to be. About the hope of what the chair could do.

But he couldn’t tell this kid. He couldn’t tell anyone.

As soon as Ben left, Mark spun in his chair and slid back a bookcase behind which sat a safe. He spun the combination and opened the door a crack, spun to make sure the door shut completely behind Ben, then opened the safe door the rest of the way.

He pulled out a notebook and flipped toward the middle and turned pages back and forth till he found the page he wanted. If the true chair had surfaced, then the lady had to be close by.

He needed to meet her.

And he needed to meet Corin Roscoe and use considerable powers of persuasion to get the guy to give him the chair. After a few minutes of contemplation, Mark smiled. He knew the perfect instrument of influence to use on Corin.

CHAPTER 21

The next morning before heading to the store, Corin descended into his basement and twirled the combination padlock on the door at the back of the room, his hands shaking. Why? Because of what he was about to do? Or because he felt like he was sliding into quicksand and this would only speed up his descent?

The door squealed open and he stood at the entrance and stared at the chair.

Move. He needed to do this. It was one of the best ways to know if he was dealing with a legend come to life or a hoax out of this Nicole woman’s fertile imagination.

He strode up to the chair and circled it counterclockwise, hands on his hips. “I somewhat loathe to do this, but I have to find out more about you. Starting with your age.”

He stopped, turned, and continued circling, now clockwise. “Which means I’ll need to take a small sample to send to the lab. A friend of mine will discover myriad facts about you through the process. I hope you can understand.”

What was wrong with him? He was talking to the chair like it was alive, like it was a golden retriever he was about to do a biopsy on. It was a hunk of wood. Maybe old. Maybe beautiful. But probably nothing more than finely turned pieces of wood from centuries ago.

Or maybe only decades ago.

Or maybe it was the greatest archaeological find of the century.

He stopped walking, pulled a small blade from his pocket, and knelt in front of the chair. As he touched the inner left leg—where taking a sample from would be the most hidden—the air in the room seemed to grow warm, then back to its normal temperature a moment later.

Mind games. He wouldn’t let his brain start playing tricks on him again.

With wood this old he needed to be careful. If the blade bit too deep, he’d end up taking off more than he wanted to. Corin ran his finger over the section he was about to cut into.

The wood was hard; he’d have to apply more than the usual pressure to remove a piece.

He pressed the edge of his knife into the tip of his left forefinger. Sharp. Should he sharpen it more just to make sure? No. It was an excuse to keep him from marring the chair. But he didn’t really have a choice.

He set the blade into the wood at a twenty-degree angle. All he needed was a sliver. To his amazement the blade slipped under the surface of the wood like he was carving on a cube of butter. No resistance. After a quarter of an inch, he pulled up on the blade and watched a thin slice tumble into his palm.

He stared at the spot on the chair where he’d taken the sample and pressed the edge of his blade gently into the cut. It was rigid. He pressed harder. Where before the wood had been softer than Play-Doh, now it was like pressing into stainless steel.

Corin fell back on his heels and focused on the chair.

Weird was getting weirder.

Was there a faint glow around it now, or was the light playing tricks? He got to his feet and shut off the lights to see if the glow remained.

Nothing. Complete darkness.

He pulled a glass vial from his pocket, slid the sliver in and capped it. After shutting and padlocking the door, climbing the stairs, and locking the door to the basement with a keyed dead bolt, he poured himself his eighth cup of black coffee and picked up his cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Travis, it’s Corin. Did you get my e-mail last night?”

“I got it.”

“I just took a sample. Can I drop it off this afternoon even though it’s Sunday?”

“Of course.”

Corin stared at the door to his basement. He eased over to it and checked the dead bolt again. Still locked. He laughed at himself, wandered back past his espresso maker, and grabbed his car keys off the kitchen table. “How soon can you have the results back?”

“Soon.”

“How soon?” Corin shut his front door and strode toward his car.

“Do you want the full workup or just its age?”

“For now just how old.” Corin fired up his truck and started down the road in front of his house toward I-25.

“You think you have a fake antique on your hands?”

“Something like that.”

“What year is it supposedly from?”

“Can’t tell you yet.”

“Me?” Travis laughed. “You can’t or you won’t?”

“Both.”

“Now I’m really curious.”

“I will, just not yet.” Corin veered to the left on Mesa Road to pass a slow-moving yellow Slug Bug.

“At least tell me what the piece is from.”

Corin paused. He’d known Travis for six years. They weren’t friends, but he’d easily have a beer with the guy if they bumped into each other on the street. And he was trustworthy.

“It’s from a chair someone gave me the other day. Probably Middle Eastern. If I’m right, it’s old. Very old. And it has me curious enough to want to get some details about it.”

“Disappointing. I was hoping it was something from King Arthur’s armor.”

“Now that would be worth keeping secret.” Corin pulled up to a stoplight and glanced at the wannabe cowboy in the Nissan truck next to him. Had the guy just been looking at him? Corin put on his sunglasses.

“You’re bringing it in now?”

“I have a few stops first, so I should be there in about an hour.”

Ten minutes later he pulled into Hardline Hardware to pick up a few home-surveillance cameras for the store and for his house. He’d been meaning to do it for a while, and now that Ben Raney and Nicole had heightened his senses regarding people potentially after the chair, it was time to get cameras installed.

Corin shut off his engine but didn’t get out of his Toyota Highlander. Six rows over sat the same truck he’d been next to at the stoplight. A few seconds later the cowboy got out of the truck and ambled toward the hardware store. He didn’t glance at Corin, but Corin couldn’t shake the feeling the cowboy purposely didn’t look his direction.

As Corin drove away to drop off the sliver of wood with Travis, he tried to relax.

Whew. He needed to get a handle on his emotions. When had the seeds of suspicion grown into a fully grown redwood of paranoia?

But his gut told him someone was planting an entire forest.

CHAPTER 22

As the sun hit the top of the sky, Corin grabbed his in-line skates and set off on Sundance trail in the Cheyenne Mountain State Park thinking he’d get away from everyone. Nice plan for a Sunday afternoon.

An hour and a half later—after tackling six more of the park’s trails—he slumped to a bench and let his heart rate return to normal. The workout cleared his head, and during the time on the trails, he didn’t think about the chair more than once.

Those were the type of moments he needed to steal more of.

A few minutes later two men in black leather jackets strode over the grassy rise directly across the path from Corin and marched in his direction. The man on the left looked like a wannabe emo-version of Bono, the guy on the right looked like a genuine wiseguy.

When they were twenty-five yards away, the Mafia man peeled off and stopped to lean against the trunk of a quaking aspen.

The other man continued on, staring straight at Corin, a knowing smile on his face, intensity in his eyes. Corin was about to turn and look behind him to see if the man was walking toward someone else when the man lifted his hand, pointed his finger like a gun, and pulled the imaginary trigger.

When the man reached Corin, he looked down at him and said, “Hello, Corin.”

His hair was jet black, his eyes a placid green. He was just over average height, five ten maybe five eleven, with one of those lanky builds that hid extra girth under a layer of clothes. At first glance he looked mid-thirties, on second Corin guessed early forties trying to look mid-thirties.

“Who are you?”

“Mark Jefferies.” He stuck out his hand. Corin didn’t take it.

“How do you know my name?”

“An associate of mine met you the other day.” Mark motioned to the bench. “Do you mind if I sit?” He didn’t wait for an answer and sat beside Corin.

“Ben.”

“Yes.”

Corin slid a few feet away from Mark. “So the pastor comes out of hiding to meet the keeper of the chair face to face. Then again, this isn’t exactly Times Square.”

Mark turned toward Corin, slid his arm onto the back of the bench. “My talking to you in private is as much to protect you as it is me.”

“From who?”

“The others who might come after the chair.”

“Why would people come after the chair?” Corin knew the answer. But he was curious how Jefferies would answer the question.

“You don’t think a kid getting healed by your chair has brought or will bring a few whackos out of the woodwork?”

“Like you?”

Mark glanced at his Mafia-looking pal, then back to Corin. “No one talks like that to me.”

“I just did.”

Anger flared through Mark’s eyes but settled a moment later.

“Are you going have your pal over there shoot me now?”

“You have a decent sense of humor, Corin.” Mark crossed his legs and reached into his inner coat pocket as if he was going to pull out a pack of cigarettes. Almost. It was a tin of Kodiak chew. “Like I already said, we want to help you, protect you. So we’re keeping our eyes open. Watching to see if anyone is tailing you.”

“So the cowboy I noticed yesterday—?”

“You noticed him following you?” Mark stuck a wad of the chew into his cheek. “I’m not surprised. He’s not too discreet.”

“What is a pastor doing with the kind of people who know how to track others?”

“When you get to my level of fame, you have a target on your back. A lot of people love me and a lot of people hate me. So I protect myself with people in every city I visit across the country who have skills I don’t.”

“So that guy over there, he’s your bodyguard?”

“Yes.”

“Looks like he has a rap sheet.”

“He does.” Mark spit. “I think all people have things in their past they need forgiveness for. In their present as well. And they need to be extended grace for what they regret.”

They sat in silence for a minute except for Mark’s occasional spitting.

“So if I wait long enough, I suppose you’ll tell me why you’re here. But since we probably both have a few more places to go today, why don’t I ask?”

Mark smiled and drummed his fingers on the back of the bench. “I’ll say it a third time, I’m here to help you.” He opened his palms and looked out from under his eyebrows.

“What kind of help?”

“If this chair truly healed that boy, then you’re dealing with powers you don’t understand. You need someone who understands the power behind the chair, how to contain that power, and how to keep it and yourself safe while you have it.”

“How to Handle God’s Chair for Dummies, huh?”

“You could have in your possession one of the most powerful artifacts ever to come out of the church age. A chair I’ve been hoping to see my entire life. A chair that can do miraculous things. You could help a lot of people with that chair, Corin.”

“You don’t think this is something I can handle on my own, hmm?”

Mark pulled a small, worn Bible from his back pocket. “First, I’m going to guess I know more about this chair than you do. Hmm? And more about this book.”

Corin nodded but didn’t say anything.

“Second I would guess I’ve studied the legend of the chair more than most.” Mark chuckled. “My wife would say I’ve obsessed over the chair more than most.” He paused. “Which is probably true.”

“What legend?”

“You just proved my point.”

Corin leaned forward. “What’s the legend?”

“I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it.” Mark stared at him as if he were reading Corin’s mind. “You probably haven’t heard that some people believe the Apostle John is still alive, or that the true Ark of the Covenant is hidden beneath the Temple Mount accessible through a series of secret underground passages.”

“People believe those things?”

“Passionately.” Mark nodded. “And they have extensive evidence to back it up. The only reason you’ve heard of the Holy Grail or the Ark of the Covenant is because Monty Python and Steven Spielberg deciding to turn those legends into entertainment.”

“So if I trusted you, which I don’t, what would you want to do?”

“Educate you on the legend. Coach you on what you should and shouldn’t do with the chair. Introduce you to the Person who created the chair.”

“And come see it.”

“Eventually, yes.”

“Examine it.”

“I’ve spent the past twenty years scouring the earth for stories and clues about where this chair might be. I’ve interviewed hundreds of people, most who knew nothing that could help me. I’ve poured my life into this mystery.” Mark’s eyes bored into Corin’s. “So yes, I would like to examine it.”

“And take it with you. To test your theories.”

“No. The chair would remain with you. It is not mine to take unless you want to sell it or give it away. If God has chosen you to have it, it should stay with you till you choose to turn it over to someone else.”

“How do you know it’s the chair you’ve been searching for?”

“I don’t. Maybe it’s not the genuine chair. If it isn’t, then I’ll stop wasting your time and mine.”

“And if I ever did let you see it, how will you know if it’s authentic or not?”

“I’ll know. And so will you.” Mark leaned toward Corin. “Maybe you already do.”

Corin pawed the ground with one of his skates, sending the wheels spinning. Jefferies wasn’t a guy he could ever trust, but something about the pastor was magnetic. He could see why thousands of southern Californians worshiped Mark Jefferies on Sunday mornings and thousands more on the Internet.

But Corin wouldn’t be one of the faithful. Jefferies should have Loose Cannon tattooed on his forehead. The man was dangerous.

“Let me ask you, did the lady who gave you the chair tell you her name?”

“No,” Corin lied, “she didn’t.”

A satisfied look passed through Jefferies eyes and his mouth formed into a thin smile. “I see.”

Jefferies stood and offered his hand again. This time Corin shook it. “Think about it. I’m on your side.” After jotting down a number with a Montblanc pen, Mark handed him a business card. “You can reach me at anytime at that number. Any time.”

Jefferies turned and strode down the path leading out of the park. He didn’t stop at the tree his bodyguard leaned against or even look at the man.

There was no meandering. No stopping to smell the dandelions. No pretense to form an impression before a conversation. Mark had found out what he had come to discover. If only Corin knew what it was.

No one but Tori and A.C. knew how he’d gotten the chair. And Corin had just told him about the lady.

Jefferies had gone fishing and Corin had taken the bait.

CHAPTER 23

Corin weaved through traffic on the way home, changing lanes like Speed Racer looking in his rearview mirror every five or ten seconds and glancing at every car that passed him.

Was Mark’s Colorado contingent of Mafia pretenders still following him? Probably.

Corin smiled at the woman looking at him from her car sitting next to him at the stoplight. She was adorned in a pink stocking cap that looked like it was knitted in the 1970s. He didn’t think she was one of Mark’s minions. What kind of self-respecting tracker would wear something like that? Of course that would be the perfect reason to wear something like that.

For the hundredth time since Nicole had appeared outside his store, he told himself he had to find someone he could spill the whole story to that knew Christianity and knew history.

And knew something about this legend Jefferies referred to.

Corin felt like he was an Egyptian standing at the bottom of the Red Sea after the Jews had passed through. He needed to ask questions of someone he could trust, get answers from someone who would know what they were talking about. But who? Trustworthy genius historians weren’t hanging out on street corners offering insight and the unraveling of ancient mysteries for food. And he wouldn’t be calling Mark Jefferies.

Wait.

A moment later he threw back his head and laughed. Of course. If anyone could help it would be Tesser—if the guy was still alive.

Corin pulled up his contacts on his cell phone and typed in his old professor’s name. Corin rubbed his face and sighed. Not in there. Maybe the university would have his last known phone number, even if it had been eighteen years since he taught there.

Or he could simply take a shot and call Information.

Two minutes later he dialed Tesser’s number. It rang seven times before his old friend’s voice came on the line. Yes. He was still among the living.

“Tesser, Tesser, I’m a professor. Are you? Well, I used to be. But maybe you aren’t what you were anymore either.” Beep.

“Tesser, it’s Corin Roscoe.” He paused. “It’s been a few years.” Sure ten was more than a few, but why point that out? Corin hesitated. How much should he reveal on voice mail?

“I’ve stumbled onto something that’s soaring way over my head and I need to come see you about it. Soon. Any time that works for you will work for me.” Corin gave his cell phone number and hung up.

He couldn’t think of anyone better than Tesser who had expertise in archaeology, history, and anthropology. If anyone knew about a legendary chair from the time of Christ, it would be his old professor. He could be a human Google, if Corin was able to keep Tesser on point.

TWO HOURS LATER Corin’s phone vibrated. He glanced at the caller ID. Tesser. Sweet. “Hello?”

“Corin Roscoe?”

“Yeah, it’s me, Professor.”

“Oh my, a delight to hear from you. It hasn’t been a few years, you know; it’s been ten. Ten, my dear Corin. That’s too many. You never call me. Never. But now that you need something, I’m suddenly on your speed dial.”

“Did you break your fingers?”

Tesser laughed his staccato-chuckle bringing back memories of him filling the streets of Greece with it as they wandered though its glories a lifetime ago. “Touché, yes, I could have called you. Point taken. So let’s forgive each other, extend grace, and be grateful we’re talking while I still have a modicum of my brain left and we can enjoy each other’s company again after too many years. Hmm?”

“Fine.” Corin laughed.

“Splendid.” Tesser cleared his throat. “Now let’s see, when to meet. How urgent is this?”

“Very.”

“All right then. Let’s say six tomorrow morning. At my house. It’s the same one as last time we saw each other. I think. Let’s see, I haven’t moved for forty-three years and I last saw you . . . yes, same house. I’ll persuade you to tell me all about what kind of waters you’ve muddied your feet in, and I’ll tell you about the trouble I’ve led skirmishes into for the past decade.”

Corin inwardly groaned. He’d forgotten Tesser’s penchant for early morning meetings. Night Owl meets Crack of Dawn Man. But the price was small. If anyone could pull back the layers on the chair it was the professor.

CHAPTER 24

That night Corin served Tori a spaghetti dinner with three different sauces and tried to ignore the anxiety pressing out on all sides of his chest like an overinflated soccer ball. Would Tesser have any answers? He needed them.

By the time they polished off their bowls of Cookies and Cream ice cream, he’d successfully shoved his worry to the back of his brain but it refused to vanish completely.

“Great dinner, we need to get a picture of it,” Tori said.

“But the meal is over. We should have taken a shot before all the bowls were empty.” He motioned toward the red-stained bowls and plates sitting on his seventeenth-century seven-foot Jacobean oak table.

“Nah, now is the best time; it shows we enjoyed it.”

Corin smiled. “Okay, I’m with you.” He laid his camera on his built-in bookshelf and set the timer for ten seconds, then scuttled back to Tori, put his arm around her waist, and smiled.

Ten seconds later the camera flashed and Tori pranced over to the camera and pulled up the shot. “Nice!”

“Let me see.”

Where they’d stood obscured most of the dishes, but years from now—if they were still together—they’d be able to remember it was spaghetti.

Tori studied his camera. “You have 238 pictures on here as far back as three months ago. Don’t you ever download your photos?”

“I should, but I never seem to get around to it.”

“I’ll do it for you right now if you want.”

“Sure, you get that going and I’ll clean up the table and get the dishes taken care of.”

A few minutes later Corin stood at his sink hand washing the dishes from their meal. It’s not that he didn’t appreciate his dishwasher. There was something about washing dishes by hand that was therapeutic, as if he could wash away the regrets of the past and photos he wanted to wipe out of his memory forever.

He glanced through the kitchen door at Tori sitting in front of his laptop. Would they be together in two months? Two years? Two decades? Did he want to be with her that long? Maybe. He didn’t know and suspected she didn’t know either. Three months together wasn’t long enough to know. Actually it was, but he still needed time to . . . He stopped, plate in one hand, a light blue scrubber in the other.

He needed time to fix things that never could be fixed.

He shook the thoughts from his mind and turned off the water.

“Hey!” Tori called from the living room, “I got ’em all downloaded.”

“Great. Thanks.” Corin wiped his hands on a dish towel and joined her.

“Is this where you keep all your photos?” Tori sat on the couch, studying his laptop, her legs crossed on the coffee table in front of her.

“What?”

“On your laptop, is that where you keep all your pictures?”

“Yeah.” Corin sat beside her and propped up his legs next to hers.

“And where do you keep your backups?”

“Backups?”

Tori flicked him on the shoulder with her forefinger. “You are not going to tell me you don’t back up your photos.”

“No, I would never tell you that. I’ll let you come to that conclusion on your own.”

“Tell me you’re kidding.” Tori clicked on a folder opening up some year; he couldn’t tell which one unless he squinted and he didn’t feel like squinting.

“I’m not exactly a technowizard when it comes to computers.”

“I understand. It’s quite a challenge to stick a blank DVD into your computer, drag your photos over into a file, and hit Burn.”

“Ha.”

“I’ll do it for you if you like.” She opened another folder and spun through a set of photos. It looked like his backpacking trip to the top of Castle Peak.

“You would?”

“Sure. And you should back them up into the Cloud too.”

“The Cloud?”

“You have to know what the Cloud is.”

“Storing it on someone else’s server where people can steal your images.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back into the softness of his leather couch.

“We’re talking pictures here, Corin. Do you really have such valuable pictures that people would try to steal them?”

“Probably not.”

“Wow.” Tori bumped him with her elbow. “I didn’t know you skied.”

“I don’t.” Not for the past ten years.

“This isn’t you in this picture?”

Corin opened his eyes and looked at the computer screen. His heart rate accelerated and his face grew hot. How did she find that? “What?”

“Right here.” Tori pointed to the picture filling his laptop’s monitor. “Looks like a wicked jump. You have to be twenty-five feet in the air. Nice. Who’s that with you? It is you, right?”

Heat continued pouring into Corin’s face. “Where did you find that? Why did you dig that up?”

“What’s your problem? It wasn’t hidden; it was right there in that folder with a bunch of other pictures from long ago and far away. Are you one of those people who puts dead-end signs on memory lane?”

“Delete it.” Corin reached over and slammed his laptop shut. “I . . .” He got up, strode to the front door, yanked it open, and spilled down his steps into the front yard.

Not cool. Not right for that photo to pop up out of the past and grab him around the throat. Especially with Tori there. He spit on the ground. Why did she pull that thing up?

He grabbed the aspen tree at the end of his walkway and squeezed. He needed to get a hold of himself. It wasn’t her fault. He should have deleted the picture a long time ago, but he’d buried that part of his life and hadn’t remembered the photo was still on his computer. It must have been transferred over when he did the dump from his old desktop.

Corin turned and stared through his living room window, the warm glow of the lamps on either side of his couch bathing Tori in a soft light. He would have to tell her something, but what? How the day that photo was taken was the darkest of his life? How he’d unsuccessfully wiped its existence from his memory? How a few minutes ago his heart had once again been ripped from his chest and doused in forty thousand gallons of guilt and regret and she’d just lit the match?

As he hiked across his lawn, up his front porch stairs, he decided to tell her as little as possible.

She looked up as the front door creaked open. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” She gestured toward the laptop.

“No.”

“You should.”

“I know.”

“Talk to me.”

Corin stumbled over to the couch and slumped down beside her. “Did you delete it?”

“I get the feeling it’s not mine to delete.”

“I suppose not.” Corin leaned his head back again and clicked his teeth together as if he could bite the emotions coursing through his soul in two and make them die.

“You need to let some light into whatever dark closest you’re hanging out in at the moment.”

“You can’t image how dark.”

In the next moment the entire memory flooded his mind as if it had happened yesterday.

“That’s a double black diamond just begging to be conquered,” Shasta said after he skidded to a stop at the top of a narrow chute barely ten yards wide and sidestepped over to Corin.

“You think it’s enough of a challenge for us?”

“Hardly. But for the next week I can’t do anything pegging on the far side of mildly challenging.”

“No worries; I’m not taking you down it. We have other plans.”

“And you’re going to tell me about them when?”

“When we get there.” Corin motioned with his ski pole toward the lift that would dump them at the top of Heaven’s Gate. “Let’s go.”

A minute later they settled onto the lift and lurched up the mountain at a forty-five degree angle, the sun creating a blazing white carpet dotted with cliffs and bristlecone pine trees.

“How are your feet?”

“Toasty.” Shasta laughed. “I’m so ready to marry Robin.”

“Good. Then coming up here wasn’t a waste of time.” Corin swung his boots and skis to keep the circulation in his legs moving.

“The place we’re going isn’t packed with our usual insanity, right?”

“Nope. We’re going someplace special.”

“Why doesn’t that bring me any comfort?”

Corin smiled. “If after we’re done, if you don’t agree it was the absolute right call to do this, I’ll eat one of my gloves.” He shook one of his blue-black gloves in the air and shouted, “Chow time.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

Four minutes later they skidded to a stop at the top of the lift and gazed out over the miles of slopes below them. A pin-thin road slalomed through the white miles to their right, to their left were bright red signs proclaiming DANGER.

“Right or left?” Shasta asked.

Corin grinned. “Left.”

“Why did I know you were going to say that?”

“Because I’m your brother.”

“Nothing crazy.”

“Nope, nothing crazy.” Corin raised his dark brown sunglasses and winked. “Trust me.”

After tightening his boot buckles, Corin shoved off and traversed over the edge of a small cliff just past the danger sign, and the sound of the lift vanished. They’d have to take it slow for the first fifty yards, but after that the slope was more than manageable for skiers of their ability.

He led them down a narrow, tree-lined path that stayed high on the ridge. Six hundred or so yards later, they emerged into an open bowl offering another panoramic view of the resort two thousand feet below them.

Corin threw his arms wide and gazed from side to side at the snow-shrouded mountains. “Nice scenery, huh?”

“Gorgeous.”

Cars crept along the winding highway just beyond the resort. Tiny specs, dark against the pristine slopes, were skiers and snowboarders carving up the snow, looking for a slice of fun on the frozen water.

Corin smiled to himself as he squinted toward the spot he’d picked out last week a half mile away. This day was perfect. No snow, only sun creating the perfect setting. Shasta would love it.

“Ready?”

Shasta nodded and Corin shoved off across the face of the bowl of virgin powder. Five minutes later they reached a long chute with a moderate slope.

“We’re here.”

“You ready to reveal your grand plan?”

Corin pointed to a rise at the bottom of the slope and Shasta studied the area below them.

“You’ve found a jump.” Shasta took off his sunglasses and squinted against the glare ricocheting off the snow. “A big one.”

“That I have.”

“I can’t do it, bro, you know that.” Shasta put his sunglasses back on. “How would I look walking down the aisle with crutches?”

“Stylish.” Corin grinned. “C’mon, you want to do this. Last jump before you’re locked in forever.”

“Locked in?”

“In a good way.”

“Why do you always do this to me?” Shasta sighed. “For the last few years you’ve been making us skate on paper-thin ice.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means we’re getting older and you’re like a junkie always having to find a higher high.”

“You’re not saying you’re getting scared in your old age are you?”

Shasta stared at him. “I’m saying there’s an edge over which adventure turns into leaving any kind of control too far back in the rearview mirror.”

“It’s one jump.”

“Besides, Robin will kill me if I’m sitting in Jamaica with my leg wrapped in a thirty-pound cast.”

“They don’t do casts like that anymore; it would be four pounds max.”

Shasta glared at him.

“You really want to bag out on this?” Corin spread his arms, palms up. “Last jump as single brothers?”

Shasta dug his ski into the snow. “How big?”

“Twenty-five, thirty feet high. Sloped landing, forty degrees. Perfect. I was here last weekend to check it out and did the jump three times.”

“That’s the jump?” Shasta asked as he gazed down the slope.

“Yeah, you’re looking at the right one. Straight down the chute, just to the left of the jagged rock about two thirds of the way down.”

“I shouldn’t do this, Corin.” Shasta zipped up his coat to his neck. “I’m not doing it.”

“You have to.”

“Why? We’ve jumped off millions of these things. Why is this one so important? Why can’t my wedding take priority?”

Corin pointed down the slope. “See anyone moving down there?”

Shasta moved his head to the left, then to the right as he peered down the slope. “Yeah, I see someone. You know him?”

“It’s Tony Budiseski. I asked him to come.”

“Why?”

“It’s your wedding present from me to you, bro.” Corin smiled. “When we launch ourselves into the air, Tony is going to snap a thousand high-speed shots. We pick the best one, blow it up into a poster, and you put it on the wall of your garage so you can remember us when you’re all domesticated. ’Cause after we do this, life will never be the same.”

“You’re a piece of work.”

“I sure hope so.” Corin waved to Tony, who waved back. “Hey, before we do this, look behind you.”

Behind them sat a wall of snow and trees so faultless it was like a painting. The sun lit up the snow so brilliantly it was blinding, and gray-black rocks poked out of the snow in a chaotic, beautiful pattern.

“That’s the background I want for this picture.”

“How long did it take you to find this spot?”

“Only three weekends.”

“I love you, bro,” Shasta said. “Even though you revel in making me dance on tightropes I don’t even want to put a toe on.”

Corin adjusted his sunglasses. “Ready?”

“Let’s do it.”

Side by side, four feet apart, they sliced through the snow carving almost identical turns. Fifty feet from the jump they glanced at each other and turned straight downhill. Four seconds to launch.

Corin glanced at Shasta as the jump surged toward them. Only seconds before they’d be captured on film for eternity. Three, two, one . . . then the snow disappeared and he and Shasta were eagles, soaring together forever.

Corin let out a whoop, arms and legs splayed out like he could stay in the air for ages. Seconds later his skis whapped onto the steep slope and he slid into a hockey stop, skidding to a halt twenty yards down the chute.

He let out a victory shout and spun to find Tony. “Did you get it?”

Tony didn’t answer. He stared over Corin’s shoulder, face pale, eyes wide.

Corin whipped around searching for Shasta.

His brother lay face to the snow, fifteen yards down the slope, skis still on his feet, one arm on top of his back, the other splayed out to his side.

“Shasta, you all right?” No answer. No movement. Corin tore off his skis and tried to run through the snow but kept falling as he struggled to keep his feet from sinking into the soft powder. “Shasta!”

The only answer was a soft wind that pushed up the sheet.

A minute later he reached his brother and fell to his knees next to him. “Talk to me, brohan.” Corin ripped off his gloves and placed two fingers on Shasta’s neck. He had a pulse. Weak, but it was steady.

He turned to Tony. “We need to get him out of here fast!”

“There’s no one out here and with no SAT phone—”

“Ski down; you’ll have to get the ski patrol!”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t move him.”

Corin nodded and turned back to Shasta. His breathing was shallow but rhythmic.

“I’m here, bro. Wake up. Please.” Corin sat back on his heels as heat washed over him. This couldn’t be happening.

Corin checked Shasta’s pulse again, keeping the sun from his face, trying to keep the panic rising in his chest from boiling over.

What have I done?

“Hey,” Tori said. “Where’d you go?” She rubbed his shoulder and tilted her head.

“Sorry.” Corin shifted forward on the couch and scratched his face. “That photo brought it all back.”

“Brought all what back?”

Corin stood and stared at the front door. “I gotta go. I mean, I need to be alone with this.”

“You’re sure?”

He nodded, walked to the front door, and held it open. “Sorry, it’s not something I can talk about right now.”

Fifteen minutes later he lay in bed, willing sleep to take him, but when Z-land came, it was worse than the memory of Shasta’s accident.

CHAPTER 25

Corin stood on the edge of the bicycle raft trying to step away, but his legs and feet felt wrapped in saltwater taffy. “Move!” he screamed into the air, but no sound came out of his mouth and his mom and dad and Shasta just smiled at him.

“Let’s switch so I’ll be with Shasta and you can be with Mom . . .”

“No, Dad, it will tip!” Corin shouted as loud as he could, but the words dropped to the surface of the water and disappeared.

“Here, let me help you, Corin.” His dad cradled Corin’s elbow in his palm and pulled.

Corin yanked his elbow away.

“What’s wrong?” His dad frowned.

“It’s going to tip and I’ll be caught underwater and I’ll drown. We need to stay where we are!”

An instant later Corin stood on the other pontoon with the rest of his family. No! His mom and Shasta started to step off onto the other pontoon, smiles on their faces.

“No! Don’t!” But it was too late. Corin tried to jump into the water, but his feet were superglued to the pontoon.

Time shifted into slow motion as the pontoon flipped. His stomach churned and he tried to suck in a breath before the water swallowed him, but his mouth was locked shut and a moment later he was under. The chill of the water threw its tentacles around him.

Sound vanished as he sank into the lake.

The dark water spun, like a whirlpool sucking him ten feet deeper in a blink. Then twenty, thirty. Corin forced his gaze upward. The light filtering down through the green water grew hazy, then vanished as the lake pulled him farther into the dark.

“No!” He tried to shout out but water surged into his mouth and lungs choking his cry. Then darkness. And nothingness. Always the nothingness. Thicker this time as if it had fingers pulling him down and pulling the life out of him.

Pulling his soul out of him.

CHAPTER 26

Corin pulled up to Professor Tesser Lange’s home at 5:55 a.m., excited to see his old friend and glad he’d made it a few minutes early. The professor didn’t like people to be late. Especially on the first day of the week. Or he didn’t use to. Had it really been ten years since he’d seen the old man?

He’d meant to come by more often, but there was always something urgent pounding at him, keeping him from dropping by. Growing the business. Taking care of the business. Trips overseas to find exotic treasures people would pay thousands for, which translated into bread on his table and a car in his driveway. Going through his divorce. The tyranny of the urgent subduing the important and memorable.

Corin trod the walkway leading to Tesser’s house and smiled. The home still needed painting. The dark brown paint was peeling in a thousand places. The lawn needed mowing. Strike that. The lawn needed a machete taken to it. His roof could probably be sold in Corin’s store for a hefty price it looked so ancient.

Professor Ted C. Lange. Tesser hated the name Ted and had told his students on the first day of class to call him Tesser or nothing. He and Corin had struck up a friendship that grew from frequent visits in the professor’s office at the university into dinners at his home that lasted late into the night into three trips together to Italy, Greece, and Spain.

Corin saluted as he climbed the cracked steps leading to Tesser’s front door. It was good to be back.

Corin pushed the doorbell right at the same moment he noticed a tiny sticky note in the middle of the door.

Come in, Corin; it’s always unlocked, you know that.

He did. They’d argued countless times about Tesser leaving his door unlocked even when he went on trips. Corin tried to convince him that with the valuable volumes on his shelves and priceless artifacts stored in glass cases throughout his home, it was like giving a standing invitation to people with no interest in respecting other people’s property.

But the professor said if people wanted the books and antiques that bad, they could have them.

The door squealed as Corin pushed it open, but not as loudly as he expected it to. Maybe Tesser had discovered WD-40 in his old age. “Professor?”

No answer.

He glanced around the large entryway to a dark wooden staircase curving up to the four bedrooms no one slept in to the hallway to the left leading to a vast kitchen that probably hadn’t seen a meal cooked in it for over five years.

And the hallway to the right, leading to Tesser’s massive library and study, where high odds said he’d find the old professor bent over an even older book.

Corin tiptoed—he wasn’t sure why—down the corridor and peeked in each room on his right and left as he passed. Nothing had changed. The smell of musty books floated through the air and he breathed in memories of pouring over hundreds of those tomes with Tesser during his college days.

“Tesser? Are you here?”

All was dark wood, and though a number of lights were on, the house still felt like it was lit with forty-watt bulbs when it should have one hundred watters in the sockets.

He was almost to the study and still no answer. “Professor?”

“Coming!”A voice finally called out from the study.

Tesser was at least ninety years old. He wore white slippers, yellowed with age, that were at least two sizes too big for his feet, which made him shuffle when he walked. The public never saw him without his tattered baseball hat with Find It! stenciled across the front, wispy white hair sticking out from underneath it in all directions.

Behind his back they called him eccentric.

To his face they called him brilliant.

Tesser was both.

No one meeting him for the first time would guess Googling his name would pull up 10,543 entries and an extensive Wikipedia entry.

When Tesser and he used to frequent coffee stands together, the old professor often brought a stack of newspapers to sell to tourists in town for a smile and a memory. He’d pepper the people with jokes, tell them he was famous and to look him up on the Internet.

Corin tried to imagine the looks on the faces of those who did do a Google search. What did they say when they discovered the person they thought was a homeless man peddling newspapers to survive was really a renowned professor revered in academic circles?

Gold wire-rimmed glasses—more silver than gold where the color had worn off—sat halfway down his miniature hawkish nose. As soon as Tesser spotted Corin he stopped and cocked his head. “You’re on time.”

“I’m trying to form a new habit.”

“Excellent. I’m working on a few right now myself.” He ran his palms down the sides of his cheeks. “You’ll notice I shaved today. That’s twice this week alone.”

“Congratulations.”

He shuffled over to Corin, reached up, and patted him on the shoulder. “You look sprightly.”

“That was going to be my line.”

Tesser laughed. “No, I look old.”

It wasn’t true. At least no older than when Corin had last seen him. It seemed some people hit a certain age, and as the ravages of time passed, it didn’t cause them to look older.

“Look, look, look.” Tesser pointed to a series of photos lining the wall to Corin’s left.

“What?”

“That one in the middle.”

Corin squinted. Tesser and he were toasting each other with glasses of red wine.

“Was that Italy?”

“Yes, good memory.” Tesser grabbed his elbow and led him back the way he’d come. “A fine trip that was, yes? Pompeii was a highlight. As was Capri. Although I didn’t get to the Blue Grotto with you. I should have gone.”

“It was the trip of a lifetime.” Corin glanced at the other photos on the wall. “What’s this one?” He pointed to a grainy picture on the far right.

“Munich 1972.”

Corin stared closer at the picture. “Is this from the hostage crisis?”

“Yes, yes, what a fiasco that turned out to be.”

“I’d describe it as more than a fiasco.”

“Horrible mess.” Tesser rubbed his forehead and looked at the ground.

After ten minutes of catching up, the professor clasped his hands. “We’ll do more chitchat later, but I think it’s time to talk serious.”

“About?”

Tesser rolled his eyes. “Your mystery!”

“Right.”

Corin pulled the photos of the chair he’d taken the day before out of his briefcase and handed them to his old friend.

Tesser stared at them for over a minute in silence. “Whew.” He squinted up at Corin from under his glasses for a moment, then turned back to the photos. “You’ve got something here all right.”

“What?”

“Amazing. When did you take these?”

“Just last night. With my cell phone.”

“These were taken with your cell phone?” Tesser stared at him with suspicion. The old professor poked at them with a vintage Waterman pen, then pulled a magnifying glass out of his oak desk and studied each picture again.

“Well?” Corin said.

“Fascinating.” He set down the photos with a look of amazement on his face. “Utterly fascinating.”

“Tell me.” Corin’s heart pounded. Finally it seemed he’d get answers about the chair. “What?”

“It’s truly incredible what I’m seeing here.”

“I got that part. Talk to me.” Corin leaned in. “What’s incredible?”

“That these photos could be taken with a phone.” Tesser tapped one of the photos again. “The detail is astounding.”

Corin let his head fall back and he groaned. “Tesser, I need to get your thoughts about the chair. Where it came from, who could have made it, how old it is.”

Tesser laughed. “You used to enjoy my playful side.”

“I still do, but can we get to the subject of the pictures?”

“Of course.” Tesser picked up the photos and lined them up next to each other in a row. “This is an unusual chair.”

“I figured that part out on my own.”

“Where did you get it?” Tesser stroked the sparse clumps of hair coming out of his chin he called a goatee.

“An elderly lady showed up one day and dropped it off at my shop with no explanation.”

“A lady?”

“Yes.”

Tesser scratched the tip of his nose and was silent for a long time. “She said nothing?”

“Not really.”

“Tell me what she said when she gave you the chair.” He pulled his glasses off his face—the first time Corin had ever seen him do it—and rubbed his ninety-two-year-old eyes. “Her exact words.”

As Corin told Tesser what the lady had said, he gave slight nods and motioned with his hand toward his head as if to invite every word into his mind. When he’d finished Tesser stood and paced in front of the fireplace rubbing his hands and muttering to himself.

After a few minutes of pacing he stopped and drilled Corin with his eyes. “Did she say why she was giving it to you?”

“Something about I was the one who should have it.”

“Fascinating.” A muted chuckle floated out of Tesser’s mouth. “Anything else?”

Corin considered telling Tesser about the strange tingling sensation he’d felt when he touched the chair but decided against it.

“Did she say during what age the craftsman lived?”

“No, just that it was a long time ago.”

Tesser picked at his lower lip for a few seconds, then spun and gazed at Corin. “What did she look like?”

“Did you see the Spider-Man movies?”

“No. Should I?”

Corin shook his head and described the woman. As he did, Tesser’s eyes went wide then narrowed then back to wide.

“Hang on.” Tesser grabbed a pencil and an artist’s sketch pad. “Tell me again, with as much detail as you can remember.”

As Corin described the lady again, Tesser’s pencil dashed over the pad like a water skimmer in heat. When Tesser finished he held up the sketch to Corin. “Does this resemble her?”

Now Corin’s eyes widened. The drawing depicted his elderly visitor with such precision, he was shocked at how fast Tesser had drawn her image.

Tesser tossed the sketch pad onto his desk and whistled. “I never thought this day would come.” He pointed his forefinger in the air and smiled. “But I wanted it to.”

“What day?”

Tesser pointed at the notebook. “I know her.”

“What?”

“I mean, I don’t know her.” He coughed. “I didn’t give in much to my hope they still existed—most think the last one died one hundred years ago—but I’ve always believed she was out there somewhere, waiting to reveal herself at the right time.” Tesser patted his stomach in a quick rhythm. “Your friend bears a striking resemblance to the ladies in the book.”

“What book?”

Tesser ignored his question. “I’d like to meet her.”

“What is she?”

“She’s a spiritual being . . .” Tesser seemed to consider his words carefully “She’s the holder of a spiritual legacy.”

“You’re saying she’s an angel?”

“No, no.” Tesser waved his hands high in the air and shook his head. “Not like an angel. She’s as human as you and I. But she’s been chosen by God. This lady friend of yours could be the one. She certainly could be.”

Tesser shuffled off at twice his normal gait toward a large stack of books in the far corner of his office next to the door. “When I show you this book, it’ll feel like two tectonic plates have snapped into place inside your mind.” When he reached the stack he took a hard right and trundled out the door and into the hallway.

“Where are you going?” Corin leaned to his left to see if Tesser was going to stop. “Am I supposed to follow you?”

“Bathroom first, solving the mystery second. Not solving it. I’ve already done that. Explaining it, showing you what I know about that chair of yours. That’s what I meant.”

Corin looked at the ceiling and shook his head. Tesser was on an intellectual level with Hawking but on a social level with Mr. Magoo.

Tesser trudged back in rubbing his head through his baseball hat. “Ah, I feel better. Do you?”

“I didn’t go to the bathroom.”

“Right, of course.” Tesser winked at him and pulled a small wooden step up against the middle of the shelves along the back wall. He strained to reach the highest shelf, balancing on one foot, and teetered like he was seconds from falling.

“I can help you get that if you want,” Corin said.

“Now where is that smiggily tome?” He yanked two thick books off the shelf and let them tumble to the hardwood.

Wham! Wham!

They sounded like gunshots as they hit the floor.

For a man who revered books, Tesser didn’t show much respect for those that filled his library.

As if reading Corin’s mind Tesser said, “Those books are now rubbish. Disproven three times over. But at the time they were published, people, me included, revered them.” He drew his fingers along the books one shelf down. “Makes one wonder what books we bow down to today will be thrown on the fire tomorrow, doesn’t it?”

“Sure.”

A few seconds later Tesser pulled a thick volume off the shelf and stroked the cover. “Ah yes. Here it is. Please don’t drop it.” He held it up for Corin to see, then tossed it toward him like a Frisbee.

Corin stuttered forward and caught the book just before it struck the floor. The title of the book was written in faded jade calligraphy. Underneath was a subtitle. “What is this?”

“It might help us. You, I mean. Understand what your chair is all about. I’ve already read it.”

Corin pointed to the cover. “It would help if I could read it. What’s the translation?”

“It’s Latin and roughly translated says, ‘Ladies of the Christ Chair: Order of the Ones Who Are Known 1785–1969.’ There are other volumes of course.” Tesser creaked down from the step onto the floor. “But that’s the only one I can easily get to. The others are locked away.”

Corin’s body tingled as if his skin was being peppered with mild electric shocks. Unbelievable. The chair legend was real. “I Googled everything I could think of having to do with a chair Christ made and didn’t find—”

“Pshaw.” Tesser waved at Corin and scowled. “Everyone thinks typing a few words into Google and hitting return is research. No one looks in books or libraries anymore. It would take too much time. Wikipedia is the teacher of the world, without the credentials to back it up.” Tesser stared at Corin. “Hmm?”

Corin ignored the comment. “So there really is a fully formed legend about the chair.”

“Yes, absolutely of course, of course, as you can see from the book in your hand. The Holy Grail gets all the press, but there are other legends of other artifacts surrounding Christ that have been passed down through the ages—things He touched, or used during His time on earth—along with one about a certain chair.” Tesser held out his hand. “Let me see that.”

Corin handed him the book and the professor thumbed through its pages, stopping on some for a few seconds, flipping through others with only a short glance. When he got about halfway through he set the book down and pointed to a line drawing. Corin blinked. It was Nicole.

“Unbelievable. That’s the lady who gave me the chair.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, yep, that’s right.” Tesser rubbed his chin and nodded in double-time. “You’ve found her or she’s found you. Can you get to her?”

“No. She e-mailed me and I wrote back asking to meet, but so far she hasn’t written back.”

“Let’s hope she does.” Tesser picked up the book again. “Guess what the legend says about the chair?”

“Tell me.”

“It isn’t just a chair that Christ made.” Tesser’s face sobered. “It is supposedly a chair Christ sat in after He rose from the dead and appeared to the Twelve. The same meeting where Thomas had said he wouldn’t believe till he saw the scars in Christ’s hands. And the legend says it’s a chair that contains all His power.” Tesser got a distant look in his eyes.

“You’re kidding.” Heat washed through Corin as he thought of Brittan. Shasta. Was it possible?

“According to the legend He gave the chair to Peter before the Ascension. When Peter was crucified upside down, the chair was passed to John, who took it with him when he was banished to the island of Patmos.”

“Do you think it could heal people?”

Tesser ran his fingers over the open pages and kept talking as if he didn’t hear Corin. “Think about that. If only it were more than a legend. Christ’s power placed in that chair.” Tesser snapped his fingers and stared at Corin, bouncing slightly on his toes.

“Think about the army you could have if the legend were true!” Tesser swiped his hand through the air as if it held a sword. “No nation could stop that kind of power.”

“So what supposedly happened to the chair after they tried to kill John by boiling him in oil?”

“I’m impressed. You do know a bit of church history.”

“A very little bit.” Corin held up his thumb and forefinger with a small space in between them. “I learned that in one of your classes.”

“So you did listen off and on.” Tesser thumbed through more of the book. “Just checking to see if my memory is accurate. Ah yes, here we go.” He tapped a page three times. “Apparently after John miraculously survived the boiling incident, he and the chair went to Patmos, and after he died it stayed there, tucked away for over three hundred years till it slowly slipped from consciousness. It wasn’t till early AD 400 when a small band of Christian women discovered the chair and bought it from the owner of the building in which it sat who didn’t realize what he had. They formed a sect or an organization and called it Custodis of Chair, which in English means ‘Keepers of the Chair.’”

Tesser turned another page. “Their goal was simple. Protect the chair. Keep its location secret. Use it only in times of great need.”

“Use it?”

“Didn’t you hear what I said about it containing Christ’s healing power? They believed the chair had special powers. That is a key component of the legend. It was proof the chair was made by Christ.”

“Such as?”

“The usual. Healings. Deep insights into the human condition. Visions given to people who sit in the chair. Seeing Christ appear as they sat in it, those sorts of things.”

“And these things were written down?”

“Right here.” Tesser picked up the book and waved it in the air.

“So where did the chair end up?”

Tesser spread his hands and chortled. “You have it.”

“Seriously.”

“I’m not kidding. Kind of not kidding. I mean, okay, I am kidding. I think. But who knows? Maybe you really have it sitting in your . . . ?”

“Someplace safe.”

“Where is safe?”

“I appreciate the concern.” Corin patted Tesser on the arm. “But don’t worry; it’s safe.”

“Let’s find out what supposedly happened to it before it was given to you.” Tesser pawed through more of the book. “It might give us a clue as to whether your chair is one and the same.” For a few minutes the only sound in the huge library was of Tesser turning pages. “Okay, here we go.”

Corin stared at the seconds ticking off the Seth Thomas Queen Anne clock on Tesser’s wall as the professor scoured centuries of legend.

“Here we be, yes indeed.” Tesser repeatedly tapped the upper half of the page with his forefinger. “After the women found it on Patmos, they held it there, one generation passing it to the next. Then around AD 820 the Catholic church heard of the legend and came after the chair. But the women were warned and took the chair to France.

“Throughout the subsequent generations, they claimed the chair had been passed down from mother to daughter along with the secrets of the chair and an oath to protect it above all else.”

“And the lady who popped up on my doorstep is supposed to be a descendant of these ladies?”

“Apparently.”

“Why come to America with the chair?” Corin meandered over to Tesser’s fireplace and held his hands out to be warmed by the flames leaping off a large pile of crackling logs. “Wouldn’t they want the chair close to the Holy Land? Why risk taking it across the ocean?”

“I’m sure it was a matter of debate among the ladies, but America makes sense.” Tesser waved his hand over a map of the world that hung on the wall behind his maple desk. “I would guess the chair was brought over in the late 1850s. By that time the country was well established. Laws were in place to protect people’s property. And if you were going to hide something from prying eyes, would you rather hide it in a country so vast it would take eons to search every nook and cranny?”

It made sense. Corin turned and let the flames from the fire warm his back. “Here there’d be fewer unscrupulous treasure hunters. The Holy Land is rife with them. And America was a place where fewer people had ever heard of the legend.”

“Exactly. Then as the eastern seaboard filled up with people, they decided to take the chair to a place farther west.”

“Why Colorado? Why not Seattle? Or Los Angeles?”

“It’s just a guess, but with visions of gold swirling around every claim and every curve of the creek bed, why would someone bother to get excited about some old chair?” Tesser sat back and folded his hands across his chest. “And the chair continued to pass from mother to daughter.”

“But now, the chain is broken with me.”

“Maybe she doesn’t have a daughter.”

“But why me? I’m not ready to be a guardian of some miracle chair—”

“It’s a legend, Corin!” Tesser laughed. “It would make a good movie, but it’s fiction. You’re not starting to take the healing part seriously, are you?”

Corin sighed as he stood and strolled back over to Tesser and sat next to his old friend. “No, of course not.”

But he had. For a moment, as he thought about the lady’s eyes and the intensity in them, he believed she could be the keeper of the genuine chair of Christ. That her ancestors formed an order that had passed a chair from one generation to the next for over sixteen hundred years. If a chair built by Jesus still existed, Corin would vote her as curator. And when he read the story about Brittan being healed, he’d believed for more than a moment.

Tesser patted Corin’s knee. “For this next part, take a deep breath, all right?”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

Tesser turned to the middle of the book and spread the pages with both palms but didn’t lift them for Corin to see. “Ready?”

“For?”

Tesser lifted his hands slowly as if he were a conductor raising his baton to start a symphony.

Corin leaned forward and looked at the four sketches on the pages. “Oh, wow.” He fell back in his chair as heat instantly raced to every corner of his body. The drawings—drawn from four angles—were exact representations of the chair locked in his basement.

“That’s my chair.”

“Yes, I know.” Tesser held up the photos Corin had given him earlier and gazed at them. “See why I’m saying your chair could be the one in the legend?”

“Whew.” Corin rubbed his forehead and let out a long breath. He stared at the drawings. There were two possibilities, maybe three. His was the chair of legend, it was a duplicate made from these drawings—he couldn’t think of a third option.

“You wanted a little excitement in your life, right?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Oh sure you do. Everyone needs a little excitement now and again.” Tesser rubbed his hands together as his head bobbed.

“Do you?”

“Yes, and you’ve just given it to me. One more adventure to go on.”

“And if the chair turns out to be the real thing?”

“Why I’ll sit in it and live forever.” Tesser smiled.

“You think it can cure death? That the power in the chair means—?”

“No, Corin.” Tesser patted Corin’s hands again. “Fiction, remember? But humor an old man, eh? I won’t believe in the chair’s healing power till I see it with my own eyes, but I’m certainly fascinated by the legend. And even if your chair is only a duplicate made from these drawings . . .”—he laid his palm on the book—“we’ll have fun tracking down this mysterious lady. Find out if she’s real or a fake. And figure out why she gave the chair to you.”

“Is there anything else I need to know about the legend?”

“Yes, I think so.” Tesser closed the book and waddled over to his old maple desk, set it down, and patted it once. Then he sat and picked up a stack of mail.

“Well? Are you going to tell me?”

Tesser glanced up as if seeing Corin for the first time that day. “Let’s save something for next time, hmm? I think you have enough to digest for one day. But we should get together again soon.” He glanced at the book. “I’ll read through it again during the coming week and see if the other things I remember being between its covers are indeed still recorded there.”

Corin was tempted to tell Tesser to read through it in the coming day, but he stayed silent and left without comment.

CORIN DROVE AWAY from the professor’s house with conflicting emotions bouncing through his mind. Could this really be happening? Could such things as a chair containing Christ’s power really exist? Ridiculous. But hadn’t Brittan been healed?

He got to his store just in time to open but got little accomplished all day. He couldn’t stop thinking about the chair sitting in his basement.

By the time he locked the store’s front door and climbed into his Highlander, it was close to eight thirty. Time to head home and crash.

As Corin pulled out of the parking lot, he glanced at his cell phone. Whoops. He’d left it in the car all day. He picked it up and pushed the button to pull it out of hibernation. Wow. Five voice mails had come in while he was at the store. He pushed the recorded messages icon and stared at the little red dots seeming to scream for attention. All five calls were from Travis DeMiglio. That could only mean one thing.

The results of the carbon dating had shocked him.

CHAPTER 27

Corin played the first message: “It’s Travis; I have your results. Very strange. Call me ASAP.”

He deleted the call and played Travis’s next message.

“It’s Travis again. Call me about what I found out about your piece as soon as you get this. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Delete.

“Corin, sorry to bug you, but we have to talk about this chair of yours. It’s weird.”

Corin pulled into traffic and cued up the next message.

“Travis again. Listen, I ran the tests again and they came back even weirder. Let’s talk as soon as you can.”

He played the last message.

“Corin? Travis. I want to see that chair. Call me.”

He glanced at his watch: 8:35. Travis had probably left the lab at least two hours ago, but what could it hurt to try? He could at least leave a message. He tapped Call Back on his phone and waited for his Bluetooth to kick in. A moment later Travis answered.

“Hello?”

“Hey, you’re still there—”

“Tell me all about this chair, Corin. Where you got it, how long you’ve had it, where it’s from, what it’s made of—forget that last part I know what it’s made of—but I want to know everything else.”

It almost sounded like Travis was panting through the phone. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Travis’s pen or pencil was tapping on a hard surface sounding like a woodpecker through the phone. “Not exactly.”

“You’re all worked up over some lab results?” Corin heard papers shuffling in the background and then something crash to the floor. It wasn’t like Travis. He was organized to a fault. “You okay?”

“Fine, just dropped some papers. And my briefcase.”

“You’re not drunk, are you?”

“Hah.”

“Whatever you found really has you flummoxed.”

“You could say that. More excited than anything else.”

“About the results from testing my chair.”

“Yes.” Travis sighed through the phone and stopped talking.

“Are you going to tell me?”

“I’m just trying to figure out where to begin.” For ten seconds the only sound was the hum of the phone. “How important is this chair to you?”

“Important.”

“Something you want to keep?”

Corin considered the question. Before he’d met with Tesser? He might have sold it if he could get some serious money. But now? No way. He wasn’t letting go.

“Definitely want to keep it.” Corin swerved around a slow-moving dark blue Infiniti G35. Those cars were fast. What was the guy doing going forty in a forty mph zone? “So tell me.”

“No actually, I’m not going to tell you.”

“What?”

“Not over the phone I mean. We need to do this face-to-face, all right?”

“What, you think your phone is bugged?”

“In person.”

“Fine. When?”

“Now.”

“You’re forty-five minutes away from me and it’s eight forty-five. You sure?” Corin hoped Travis would say yes. He didn’t want to wait to find out what Travis had discovered.

“If you meet me halfway, it will only be twenty-two minutes and thirty seconds for each of us.”

“Where?”

“Palmer Park. West end.”

“A park? Why a park? Why not a restaurant where we can get a drink and catch up?”

“You’re not getting it, are you? There’s some weird stuff going on around the piece you gave me.” Travis paused. “Very weird.”

“Okay, see you in twenty minutes.”

Travis was a scientist. Logical. Not easily blown by the winds of emotion. But something about the chair was pounding gale force winds at his friend’s sails.

The saga of the chair was growing stranger by the hour.

CORIN PARKED HIS car and walked toward the west end of the park. Before he’d walked thirty yards he spotted Travis standing under the going golden leaves of an aspen tree, glancing furtively around the park and up at the trees, as if the squirrels were about to start firing missiles his direction.

Corin sauntered up behind Travis and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Whaaaaa!” Travis spun and popped Corin on his shoulders with the palms of both hands. “Don’t do that!”

Corin laughed and shoved his hands into his 501s. “Sorry, all this cloak-and-dagger stuff brings out the practical joker in me.”

Actually it didn’t bring out the joker, it brought out the formidable Stress Man, able to double Corin’s heart rate in a single bound. Sneaking up on Travis, keeping the moment light, should keep his foe subdued, but something told him the carbon dating info he was about to learn would wake Stress Man back up again.

“This isn’t a joke.”

“What isn’t?”

“Your chair.”

“Yeah, I get that part. Something has you a little spooked. So why don’t you let me get behind the curtain with you and maybe I’ll join you in your paranoia.”

“I’m not spooked and I’m not paranoid. I just want to make sure our conversation stays between the two of us.”

Corin pulled a small piece of bark off the tree. He wouldn’t be telling anyone. Maybe Tesser. “I’m guessing my chair is older than this aspen?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.” Travis rubbed the sides of his nose and tried to smile. “I’m not even 10 percent sure.”

“What does that mean?” Corin repeated.

“We ran the test eighteen times and got eighteen different results.”

“Is that possible?”

“No.” Travis dug in his ear so hard Corin thought his friend would lose his finger.

“You’re saying you got eighteen different ages?”

Travis nodded.

“From the same piece of wood?”

“Yes.”

“What was the oldest date?”

“Over thirty thousand.” Travis said it more as a question than a statement.

“Years old?”

“Yes.”

“You’re joking.” Corin leaned forward to be able to see Travis’s eyes.

“No.”

“And the youngest?”

“Today.”

“What?”

Travis rocked his head back and forth as if he were a bobble-head doll. “The tests came back saying the wood from the chair came from wood harvested sometime in the past year.”

“That’s insane.”

“Now do you see why I called you incessantly?” Travis held his fist up to his ear as if it were a phone.

“And the dating ages in between?”

“Five thousand five hundred years, three hundred and seventy-five years, thirty years . . . like I said, each time the results were different.”

“How can that happen?”

“It can’t.”

“Never?” Corin paced. Three steps to the right, then three back to the left.

“And one of the tests came back 50K plus.”

“Meaning?” Corin rubbed the bark on his chin, just hard enough to register an unpleasant sensation.

“Our dating can project back forty five to fifty thousand years. Anything older we classify as greater than 50K.” Travis opened his hands and tilted his head.

“You’re saying the reading came back saying this piece is older than your instruments can date it?”

“Exactly.”

Corin stopped pacing. “Explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain. The reading says this piece of wood is fifty thousand years old or maybe a million years old.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means everyone around here is begging to have whatever that piece came from brought in here.”

“You weren’t supposed to tell anyone you were testing this. I thought my e-mail made that clear.” Corin broke the strip of bark into pieces and tossed them to the ground.

“I couldn’t help it. We typically run three nine minute tests and average the three to determine the age of the object. They’re usually within a few years of each other. So when your readings started bouncing all over the universe, well, people noticed.”

“I don’t need anyone else noticing.” Corin kicked at a small pile of leaves on the ground.

“Where did you get that chair?”

“It was given to me.”

“By who?”

“Some lady named Nicole.”

“Have you talked to her since then?”

“Not really. She sent me an e-mail. That’s it.”

“Do you have a way to get a hold of her?”

“No.”

The implications of Travis’s findings swirled through Corin’s head. Of course a chair imbued with the essence of God would have no age and every age. If Christ had made the chair and Tesser was right—that Jesus’s power flowed throughout it—wouldn’t the chair somehow be outside of time?

“What would the age of the chair be if you took an average?”

“There’s no point in doing—.”

“But if you did.”

“Well . . .” Travis’s gaze moved up and to the right. Corin almost expected smoke to come streaming out of the man’s head. He was a human computer. He had all the results packed into his brain and his mental hard drive was accessing the data and crunching numbers.

“The average would be two thousand years old.”

Corin let out a puff of a laugh. “That makes perfect sense. If the chair was built by a certain carpenter.”

“What?”

“This Nicole lady who gave me the chair called him a carpenter.”

“Who was a carpenter?”

“The guy who made the chair. Two thousand years ago.”

“Two thousand years ago? That’s good.” Travis laughed. “Next you’re going to tell me Jesus Christ was the carpenter in question and part of the family business was making tables and chairs and you’re the proud owner of one of His dining room creations.” Nervous laughter sputtered out of Travis.

Corin stared at his friend.

“No, you’re joking.”

Corin shook his head.

“Seriously?”

Corin shook his head again. “I’m beginning to believe.”

“No wonder you wanted me to keep it quiet.”

Corin peeled another piece of bark from the tree. “You didn’t tell them what the sliver was from?”

“I told you I wouldn’t.”

“Danka.”

“What?”

“It means ‘thank you’ in German. I got in the habit of saying it back in high school when I learned the language and sometimes it still slips out.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Travis grinned and scrubbed his thinning brown hair with his fingers. “But I should tell you, toward the end of the day I overheard a phone call that sure sounded like the person on the other end was asking about your chair.”

“What?”

“Yeah.”

Corin popped the tree like it was one of Tori’s workout bags. Great. Another chair stalker. “Tell me who called.”

“I only heard one end of the conversation.”

“What did you hear?”

“My boss was saying we test a variety of things, but if the person wanted to call back in a few days, he’d let them know the items that have been tested during the past week. It seemed like he knew the caller.”

“Is your boss religious?”

“Yeah, how’d you know that?”

“Lucky guess.” Corin jammed his hands in his pocket and bit his lower lip. His cell’s ring tone sliced through the night air. He glanced at caller ID. It was A. C. He let it go.

“There’s a pastor from Southern California who is overly interested in this chair.” Corin glanced around the park. “And you know that story the other day about the kid being healed of his asthma?”

“No.”

Corin rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t anyone read the news anymore?”

“I don’t have time.”

Corin gave Travis the Reader’s Digest version.

“So even if the chair wasn’t the thing that healed him—”

“If the dating of the chair thing gets out, combined with the insinuation that it healed the kid, it’ll have the religious nutcases storming my store like it’s the Bastille.”

“I hope it’s no longer in your store.”

“It isn’t.”

“I gotta get going.” Travis pointed over Corin’s shoulder at the parking lot and they walked toward it. “If it’s genuine it could also be worth a lot of money.”

“If it’s real it’s priceless.”

“How is your store doing these days?”

“I could use the money.” Use? Had to have was more accurate. For the store. For Shasta. For any hope of a future.

“So why not sell it for everything you can?”

“It’s a serious consideration.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“A lot of potential money mixed with religious zealots often means people winding up dead.”

“I’ve thought of that too.” Corin glanced around the parking lot, not sure what he was looking for.

“And if the chair really does have power to heal people—you’re in over your head.”

“So far it’s just an idea. No proof.” Unless you counted the kid, which Corin was willing to do, but coincidences were a part of life, maybe even more than miracles.

“For your sake I hope it stays just a legend.”

Corin’s cell phone vibrated. Text message. From A. C.

WE NEED TO TALK. I’M FINE, JUST A LITTLE WEIRDED OUT. CALL ME IF YOU’RE STILL AWAKE.

A wave of heat passed through Corin’s body. He turned to Travis. “I’m sure that’s all it’ll end up being.”

They reached their cars.

“Then how do you explain the results I got at the lab?”

“I have no idea.”

“Keep me posted on this thing, Corin.”

“Absolutely.”

Corin drove out of the parking lot and hit one of the new favorite numbers on his cell phone.

“Hello there, Tesser, everyone’s favorite professor.”

“You need to get a new line. That one’s wearing so thin it’s translucent.”

“The better to see me with, my dear.” Tesser coughed. “How are you, Corin? How is the quest going?”

“Getting weirder.”

“That’s good.”

“Good?”

“When you’re ninety-two you’ll hope for weird things to make life interesting just like I do. What’s the latest?”

“The age of the chair.”

“You want to know how old it is?”

“Since you know all about this chair, how old do you think it is?”

“If it’s genuine, we know how old it is. At least within a few years.”

“So you’re saying my having it carbon dated was a waste of time?”

“No, you didn’t take a piece off the chair. Tell me you didn’t. Not smart. Not wise. Foolish to the fifth! To the ninth. To the googolplex.”

“It was a small piece, Tesser.”

“How small?”

“It’s just wood.”

“If it’s the real McCoy, you’ve just desecrated a chair made by the Son of God. What idiot told you to have it carbon dated?”

“Me.”

“Ffffffffhhh.” The sound coming through the phone sounded like the air had been let out of a tractor tire. “Aren’t you far enough down this path to realize it could very likely be much more than just a chunk-a-hunk of wood?”

“No. One minute I think it’s real, the next moment I’m not sure.”

“Oh, for crying in my ice cream Sunday with a gallon of Hershey’s syrup on top. Yes, you are.”

Corin sighed. “Do you want to know what the carbon dating says?”

“I don’t need to.”

“Why, because if Jesus made the chair the carbon dating will show that it’s two thousand years old?”

“Precisely.”

“The year Jesus was born.”

“Most competent historians place the birth of Christ around 4 or 5 BC, not the year AD 1. When the church decided to assimilate one of the pagan holidays, they moved—”

“Tesser, I love your history lessons, but can we focus on the chair?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“So does this mean it’s real?”

“The evidence is building. I’m not saying it has healing powers, but I’m certainly saying you might have a genuine religious artifact that was made by the historical figure known as Jesus Christ.”

Corin’s cell phone buzzed again. He glanced down. A. C. again.

GOING TO BED. WILL BE AT YOUR STORE FIRST THING IN THE MORNING. I HAVE TO TALK TO YOU. PLEASE BE THERE.

“Tesser, I gotta go, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Corin hung up and called A. C. No answer. Must have turned his ringer off as soon as he sent the text.

A. C. wasn’t easily bothered, but he was bothered about something now.

And Corin would be there first thing to find out what it was.

CHAPTER 28

You all right? Your face is acting like a split personality,” Corin said as he approached his store.

A. C. stood at the front door, the expression on his face shifting from bewilderment to joy back to confusion every few seconds.

“Fine. I’m good.” A. C. shifted his weight from one leg to the other and rubbed his shoulder.

“Then why’d you say you were freaked yesterday and why do you want to talk first thing this morning?” Corin opened the front door and they walked inside.

“Something has happened.”

“To you?”

“Yeah.” The alternating emotions on A. C.’s face morphed into an all-out grin.

“And the cause of your apparent happiness?” Corin flicked the switch on the coffee maker behind his sales counter.

“You,” A. C.’s eyes fixed on Corin, “and the chair.”

Corin sucked in a quick breath. “Talk to me. What happened?”

“It worked.”

A chill played rugby up and down Corin’s back as he studied A. C.’s eyes. Was his friend trying to be funny? Hardly, it wasn’t A. C.’s style. It wasn’t a joke; A. C. was serious.

“You’re saying you’re healed.”

“Yep.”

“You’re no longer scared of public speaking?”

“Yes.” A. C. rubbed his left ear, his eyes full of laughter.

“Yes what? You’re still scared? Or you’re not scared?”

“I’m still not a fan of getting up in front of a crowd of more than one person.”

Corin’s heart rate settled back to normal. “I’m not following you. I thought you said the chair healed you and you’re ready to go out on the speaking circuit.”

“Not exactly.” A. C. ambled to the vault at the back of the store and glanced inside. “Where is the chair?”

“I took it home and locked it up.”

“Good idea.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You need to keep it in a safe place.” A. C. walked back to Corin and settled into a Hepplewhite dining chair from the early 1900s. “I’ve never been a religious person, but if God were to come down out of the sky and fill me up with Himself, sitting in that chair is what I think it would feel like.”

“What are you saying?”

“As soon as you left me alone the other day, the chair started giving off this electrical charge or something—I felt like I was wrapped up in this ocean of warmth and peace. Wow, it felt good. Then this light sweeps around the room—yeah, I know light doesn’t sweep a room like that; I’m just telling you what I saw.”

A. C. closed his eyes “It was like a merry-go-round made of light, and I was in the middle slowly spinning as the outside of the ride whipped by like cars at the Indianapolis 500.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“Because I didn’t know if I’d imagined it or not.” He laughed. “And I didn’t want you to ask what kind of mushrooms I had on my omelet that morning.”

Corin poured himself a cup of coffee into his Thor coffee cup and offered A. C. some as well.

A. C. shifted in his chair. “You know why I didn’t end up playing pro ball, right?”

“You blew out something, your knee if I remember correctly.”

“Shoulder.” A. C. squeezed his left shoulder and stared at Corin. “It never healed right and I couldn’t hit like I used to. Cortisone shots, physical therapy, three operations. Nothing helped. I couldn’t get used to the pain shooting through my shoulder every time I crunched a running back. I missed my window.” He pushed on his shoulder with his fingers and gave tiny shakes of his head.

Where was A. C. going with this? That’s why A. C. was freaked out? Because he got some spiritual buzz? Because his brain played a few tricks on him while he sat in the chair? Corin opened the blinds and let the October sun stream in and light up the dust particles swirling through air. “I need to change the air filter again.”

“Listen to me, Cor.”

He turned toward A. C., then back to the blinds. “I’m listening.”

“No, look at me.”

Corin faced him and gazed into eyes more intense than he’d ever seen in A. C.

“In all the years I’ve worked concrete or helped you haul furniture back and forth, I’ve never lifted anything without a dull ache reminding me of that shoulder injury.”

Corin sat and took a drink of his coffee as he realized what his friend was about to tell him. Tesser’s words reverberated in his mind: “Healing power.”

A. C. stood and grabbed a Sheraton Revival mahogany coffee table with his left hand and hoisted it over his head. “No ache.”

Corin stared at his friend.

A. C. set the table down and grasped his shoulder again. “I went to the gym this morning and benched 350 pounds. No pain, not even a shadow.”

“You’re telling me—”

“It’s healed.”

“You’re serious.”

“You’ve got something in your house,” A. C. jerked his thumb to the north, “that’s out of control.”

Heat surged through Corin’s body. It worked; it had healed again.

And this time it wasn’t some kid he didn’t know.

He needed to find Nicole. He needed answers. And he needed them now.

CHAPTER 29

Corin sent Nicole three e-mail messages before he closed the store and another just before leaving to meet Tori for dinner at Dale Street Bistro Café.

No response to the first three. Probably not to the fourth either. On the way he called Tesser.

“It healed your friend?” Tesser’s breathing quickened through the phone. “Are you sure?”

“If A. C. says his shoulder is healed, it’s healed.”

Tesser let out a long, low whistle. “You need to get that chair in a safe spot.” Tesser coughed. “You should bring it to my house.”

“Don’t worry, it’s safe.

“Good, good.”

“What do I do now?”

Corin could hear Tesser clicking his pen like a metronome set on high speed. “You should contact the lady.”

“I’m working on it.”

“I’m headed out of town for a few days, but we need to meet again as soon as I’m back.”

“Agreed.”

“And, Corin?”

“Yeah.”

“Trust no one. I mean that.”

Corin hung up and weaved through traffic as the image of his brother kept pounding through his brain. A chair of healing. Since it had healed A. C., it could heal Shasta. Couldn’t it? But the chair didn’t heal A. C. of public speaking; it chose to heal something else. The thing seemed to have written its own agenda. It wasn’t a comforting thought because that agenda might contain items he would want sent to the paper shredder.

TORI WAS ALREADY seated at a table when he arrived. “Don’t worry, you’re not late. I was early.”

Corin sat and pulled his napkin off the table. “How were your classes today?”

“Same as always.”

“You’re bored?”

“A little. The gold is wearing off this adventure a little bit.”

“Then come join mine. It’s getting more intense every day.”

“No thanks.” Her eyes told him she knew exactly what adventure he was talking about and she didn’t want any part of it.

After their waitress came and took their order, Corin said, “I think there’s something to this chair thing, Tori.”

“What makes you say that?” She slumped back in her seat.

“A. C.”

“What, he got healed or something?”

Corin nodded.

“Come on, you’re not serious.” She shoved her knife toward him and scowled.

“He walked into the store this morning and laid the whole thing out. He sits in the chair, starts feeling all warm and fuzzy. A few hours later the pain in his shoulder from an old football injury? Claims it’s gone.”

“And you believe him?”

“He lifted a hundred pound coffee table over his head with his bad shoulder, no pain.”

“And you believe he did it without hurting?”

“He’s lying to me?”

“No, I think he’s convinced himself the pain doesn’t exist.” Tori tore off a piece of sourdough bread from the loaf in the middle of the table and dipped it in a mixture of oil and balsamic vinegar. “What was it you told me about A. C.’s wife? That she was dead set against him doing UFC because of his old shoulder injury?”

“So?”

“So? So?” Tori smirked. “Haven’t you heard of cortisone? He tells his wife about his best friend’s magical chair, then a few days later gets a cortisone shot in his shoulder, then goes home and shows his wife how he’s been healed so now he can fight.”

“Why would he lie to me?”

“A secret is kept by one.”

“A. C. wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What about Tesser and his verification of a legendary chair being passed down since the time of Christ?”

“Who is Tesser?”

Right. He hadn’t told her. Corin explained who Tesser was and what he’d revealed about the chair. “There’s enough evidence piling up here that I have to be open to it being real. First the kid with the asthma, now A. C. I’m supposed to ignore that?”

The waitress brought their order and they ate in silence. Tori would fight him all the way on this thing and he still didn’t know why. Sure, she decided to leave the church because she was tired of Christians being hypocrites. But there had to be more to it than that. She wasn’t indifferent. Under the surface she was hostile. What happened to her?

He stabbed a baby red potato with the tip of his steak knife. “If this chair contains genuine healing power, then it’s hard not to conclude God is real.”

Tori averted her eyes and sliced off another piece of her halibut. “Can we for once talk about something other than that chair of yours?” She dropped her fork and it clanged against her plate. “I have to use the restroom. When I get back I’m sure we’re going to talk about something else.”

So be it. It wasn’t his goal to tear off whatever scab covered her abhorrence of God, but at some point the time would be right. If he was going to have a future with Tori, he needed to know what it was.

After Tori returned, her usual brightness had reemerged, and she smiled at him, any hint of animosity had vanished. “Let’s talk about this professor of yours. You’ve never told me about him.”

“I haven’t seen him for eons.”

“He had a major impact on you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I can see it here when you talk about him.” Tori reached across the table and wiggled her finger in front of his eyes. “Admiration. Respect. Fondness.”

“Yeah, I liked the guy. Still like him.”

“I think it’s deeper than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m using my college degree at the moment.”

“Psychology.”

“You had dad issues, didn’t you?” She winked at him.

“What?”

“You know, dad issues. He wasn’t there or was there and was always drunk or didn’t pay attention to you or beat you up verbally or physically.”

Corin shook his head.

“Every man has dad issues.” Tori took a long drink of her water.

“I didn’t have a father for very long. He died when I was twelve.” Corin offered a weak grin. “So no issues here.”

“Classic!” Tori smacked the table with both hands. “You have the ol’ didn’t-have-a-dad-as-a-teenager-on-up syndrome so you looked for father figures most of your life, and none of them could measure up to your romanticized fueled-by-the-movies image of what a father would be . . . until you met Tesser. And since you were mature enough by that point to realize no man could be the perfect father, Tesser became the dad you always wanted even with his faults, and you and he lived happily ever after.”

“Do you enjoy psychoanalyzing people?”

“Thoroughly.”

“Fun hobby.” Corin finished his steak and pushed his plate back.

“Am I right? Did you look for father figures?”

She was dead right. Tesser was the closest thing he’d had to a dad, and he’d be loyal to the old professor forever because of it.

“We only spent five or six years really hanging out, but yeah, it was good.”

“During and after college?”

Corin nodded.

“Why’d it stop? What happened?”

“Nothing happened. We saw each other three or four times a year after I graduated, but then I stopped calling as much or he did, and we gradually wound up just talking on the phone every few years. Then it sort of trailed off.”

“You don’t resent him for fading out of your life?”

“Resent him? No. Do I regret not being with him more? Do I regret not picking up the phone or dropping by to see him more often? Sure. But that’s my fault, not his.”

“Your fault?”

Corin shook his head. “He’s been a great friend. There for me whether I called or not.”

“He could have called you. Dads are supposed to pursue sons, not the other way around.”

“He did. And I got busy with life and marriage and would forget to return the call, or I’d put it on my to-do list and never get to it.” Corin slipped his credit card to the edge of the table. “Like I said, my fault.”

“Have you ever told him how you feel? What he meant to you, what he probably still means to you?”

“No.” Corin folded his arms. It might be fun for her—pitching him all these probing questions—but it felt like he was the baseball and Tori was the bat. “Don’t you think it’s about time to tell him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

It was the obvious question. Without an obvious answer. The real reason? Because he was making excuses for Tesser and had just lied to Tori. Tesser hadn’t called after college. Corin had. And Tesser was the one who was poor at returning phone calls. Finally Corin got tired of being the one who picked up the phone and he stopped. He figured Tesser would eventually call, but after a year crawled by, Corin realized he never would. So he stuffed the father figure into the back closet of his heart and hadn’t opened the door again till he’d been inside Tesser’s home yesterday.

But it was okay. Truly. It didn’t matter if Tesser had called him or not. Corin still loved the guy. And he could tell Tesser’s affection for him had never changed. Being with him yesterday had confirmed it.

Corin smiled. “Tesser knows, and so do I.”

After paying their bill, they strolled out of the restaurant and Tori said, “You’re hitting the skies tomorrow with A. C., right?”

“Yep.”

“Who’s watching the store while you’re flying like an eagle?”

“Hailey, as always.”

“Are you looking forward to it?”

Corin drew his hand through the air as if it was a wing cruising on the wind. “Can’t wait. It’s been too long. I’m just hoping A. C. doesn’t talk about anything too deep. I just want to have a nice simple adrenaline rush.”

“What makes you think he’ll—?”

Corin smiled. “Because A. C. said he needed to talk to me about something deep.”

CHAPTER 30

Should be a stellar day for soaring across the sky.”

Corin and A. C. tore along the dirt road in Pikes National Forest toward the top of Badger Mountain, flinging up a dust curtain behind them. Corin rolled down his window and stuck his arm out. Warm for this time of year. The thermals should be strong which would keep them in the air for hours.

A. C. hit a pothole that sent Corin toward the ceiling of A. C.’s Jeep. “Hey, think you could keep it under fifty going up this road?”

A. C. laughed. “No problem, we’re only going forty-eight right now. I won’t speed up.”

“Most people crawl up this thing at twenty.”

“We’re not most people.” A. C. threw his head back and let out a whoop.

Sometimes Corin thought A. C. was even crazier than himself. He patted his pants pocket and sighed. “I think I left my cell phone in my truck.”

“So? We’ll touch down at our landing site in an hour. I’m sure your truck and cell phone will be waiting for us down below with big smiles.”

Four trucks and a van came into view to their right as they crested the final rise and pulled into the dusty open space one hundred yards to the right of the mountain’s peak. Three hang gliders looked ready to launch. Another two were doing final testing and checks. Good sign. Other gliders meant the air was handing out thrill-ride thermals for the taking. And Corin was ready to take.

When he was streaking through the air with no sound but the ripple of the wind buffeting his glider and nothing but sky for thousands of feet below him, he never thought of the dream, never thought of Shasta, never thought of his business going bankrupt.

Before A. C.’s Jeep came to a stop, Corin threw the door open, ready to step out into his favorite recipe for freedom.

Twenty minutes later he stood next to A. C. ready to launch, their hang gliders resting side by side, only waiting for the two of them to hoist them up, strap in, and go.

“You have your oxygen?” Corin said.

“Why, you think we’re climbing to fifteen thousand feet or higher?”

“Absolutely.” Corin stared at the sky. “You ready?”

“Did I tell you I went to the doctor?” A. C. patted his left shoulder.

“What for?”

“To have him take a thorough look at my shoulder.”

“I thought it was healed.”

“It is.” Contemplation filled A. C.’s eyes.

“So why’d you go?”

“I wanted the doctor to get in there and look at every muscle, every fiber. To see if it really had been restored. To see if this chair of yours did more than mental gymnastics on me.”

“And?”

“He’s never seen anything like it. He called in three other doctors to see me.” A. C. rubbed his shoulder with a red-gloved hand. “He even pulled up the old X-rays and shot new ones so he could study them side by side.”

“What did he say?”

“He wouldn’t call it a miracle, but he kept saying, ‘This shouldn’t be, this shouldn’t be,’ as he pointed to one X-ray, then the other.” A. C. laughed. “It made me think of that old Sesame Street song: ‘One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn’t belong.’” He shook his head, then cocked it to the side and pulled his goggles off his face. “Do you know why I’m telling you this?”

“Yeah, because it’s unbelievable.”

“Because I don’t want you to have any doubt I’ve been 100 percent healed.”

“Okay.”

“Because when it really sank in that I’ve been restored, I couldn’t help thinking of something.” A. C. stared at Corin, eyes intense.

“What?”

“It’s made me think of someone.” A. C. glanced at the slope in front of them and out toward the shimmering lakes ten miles into the distance, then back at Corin, his eyes still throwing off light like a Fourth of July sparkler.

“Do I want to hear this?”

“No.”

“Then don’t say it.” Corin knew the path his friend was about to jump on and try to go down. But it was so overgrown, the sharpest machete in the world couldn’t cut through the underbrush choking the trail.

“You know I have to.”

“If you’re a friend you won’t even think about suggesting it.”

“If I’m a friend I’ll make you think about it.”

“I’m not going there, A. C.”

“When’s the last time you talked to him?”

“Are we going to catch these thermals before the wind dies?”

“When?”

“I’m not having this discussion.”

“Yeah, you are. If I die on this flight and you don’t, I’ll at least know I talked to you about this and you’ll have to wrestle with making the right decision.”

“That’s a road that has Dead-End signs packed in so thick, a Hummer couldn’t plow through them.”

“When?”

“You don’t think I try? Every week I find an excuse to call his house.” Corin took off his gloves and spiked them onto the ground. “Every week I send an e-mail. I pick up his kid. I send gifts. He’s never. Going. To. Respond.”

“He’s your brother. And he was your best friend.”

“What’s your point?”

“Friendships are worth going through hades for. They’re worth fighting for.”

“I am fighting. And I’ve been through the deepest part of the darkness so many times I could draw you a map.”

“How hard are you fighting?” A. C. cinched up his harness and looked at his glider.

“Hard.” Corin kicked a clump of dead grass at his feet. “It rips me up inside.”

“When is the last time you showed up at Shasta’s front door and refused to leave until he talked to you?”

Corin didn’t answer. He stared at the launch path they would run down in a few minutes that would send them into the sky. His escape route.

“When?” A. C. repeated.

“This isn’t any of your business.” Corin picked up his gloves and put them on again.

“When I see my best friend being shredded emotionally and see a possible way to make it stop, yeah, it’s my business.”

Corin walked to his glider and hoisted it up.

“And when sitting in some weird chair heals me, I can’t help but think if you don’t use any and every way possible to get your brother in it, you’re crazy.”

“Can we get into the air?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it during these past three days. That you haven’t gone to sleep thinking about it. And woken up thinking about it. And thought about it twenty times a day.”

“Of course I do.” Corin stared at A. C. “I know you’re trying to help, but what happens if I ask him and it doesn’t work?”

He turned to the launch path and started down it without looking back. Twenty seconds later the earth fell away and the only sound was the swish of the wind against his glider—and the echo of A. C.’s words in his mind.

Sure, he could stand on his brother’s front porch and wait for eternity before Shasta would come out. Or he could break the front door down and stand in his brother’s den staring at the back of his head and his electric wheelchair wishing he could go back in time and change what he’d done.

And Shasta would never settle his chin on his wheelchair control and turn to face him. Corin could speak of a fantastical chair that healed his friend and a little kid, and Shasta would laugh at him and reel off all the mystical and magical cures he’d tried—mostly at Corin’s urging—during the year after the accident.

And it would shut his brother down even further—if that was possible.

Once again Corin would be reminded of how utterly he’d destroyed their friendship for the rest of their lives.

No thank you.

If God really wanted to help him, He’d have two hundred and fifty thousand dollars show up on the seat of the chair. The surgery was something Corin would fight for. At least that had proven science behind it, and it had worked two-thirds of the time. Sit in the chair? Shasta would laugh at the idea no matter how many people were healed.

But a small part of him knew A. C. was right. A part that was growing. A part that said he had to find a way for Shasta to be healed. And that meant thinking of the chair as one option.

Corin shook his head. This was where he was supposed to be free. For the next hour he was. He pushed consideration of Shasta and the chair from his thoughts and let his mind soar along with his glider on the thermals.

A. C. was to the left and slightly ahead of him. Corin radioed him on his walkie-talkie to confirm their landing spot was about three miles ahead. After another fifteen minutes he focused on Badger Flats where A. C. and he would land. It looked good. Wait. What was that?

A figure stood in the meadow near Corin’s truck. Odd. It was the first time anyone had been waiting to greet them after one of their flights.

Whoever it was, he hadn’t been invited to the party.

Corin radioed A. C. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“If that’s a scarecrow he’s come to life.”

“Any idea who our welcoming committee might be?”

A. C. laughed. “You’re going to get followers, buddy. Probably some groupie from the chair fan club.”

“Let’s hope not. Some of them are more stable than others.” Corin leaned to his left and started a long, sweeping turn that would bring him around to see the figure from the front.

Thirty seconds later and three hundred feet lower, he got a good look at the person. A. C. was right. But it wasn’t just a member of the fan club. It was their president.

Corin’s radio squawked and A. C.’s voice poured out of it. “Can you see who it is?”

He saw. And it made him wish his hang glider was equipped with a cloaking device. Or lasers. At least one of the Green Goblin’s exploding pumpkins. Why was the guy so relentless? Corin was grateful he hadn’t taken this sky spin solo. “It’s my number one fan.”

“Mark Jefferies?”

“Bull’s-eye.”

Mark stood with feet a bit more than shoulder width apart, arms folded, black sunglasses matching his black leather jacket. He stared into the sky, his gaze shifting back and forth between Corin and A. C.

Corin finished his turn, straightened, then banked again. He considered landing as far away from Mark as possible—make the pastor trudge across the lumpy field in his European shoes—but what was the point? The pastor of Stalkerville wouldn’t leave without cornering Corin so he might as well get it over with.

He landed fifty feet from Mark, his back to the pastor. The crunch of Mark’s shoes grew closer, then stopped—maybe fifteen feet behind him. “How was your flight?”

“Good, how was yours?”

“Fine.”

“Too warm for you in La Jolla?”

“No.”

“How did you know we were going to land here?” Corin slid off his harness, his back still to Mark.

A. C. glided in on his left and landed fifty yards away. Corin motioned him closer. If Mark ever got physical, Corin was confident he could handle himself, but having A. C. next to him would be a nice backup, both physically and verbally.

“There are only a few places around here to land,” Mark said. “This is one. I have friends at the other in case you landed there instead.”

“You’re still tracking me.”

“Yes.”

“What do you want, Jefferies?”

“As I’ve said before, to help you.”

“We’ve been over this. If I need your help, I’ll ask.”

“This is a different kind of help. A kind I haven’t given yet and I don’t offer lightly.”

A. C. trundled up and set his glider down next to Corin’s. “Are we having a party?”

Mark ignored him. “You want this kind of help, Corin.”

“A. C., meet Mark; Mark meet A. C.”

Both men stared at each other, neither spoke. A. C. finally nodded in Mark’s direction and the pastor nodded back. “How’s your shoulder?”

A. C. frowned. “What about it?”

“The left one. Better than usual?”

“They’re both fine.”

“I’ll bet.” Mark laughed. “Look, I’m not one for games, so let me be blunt. I have a lot of friends in this town in high places. So when a miracle happens to someone’s shoulders or carbon-dating samples come back with bizarre results, I’m going to hear about it. Clear? So don’t play the coy card, all right?”

“Unless you want to infuse my business with a large influx of cash, I’m not interested, ”Corin said.

“It is cash.” Mark folded his arms and raised his chin. “As you say, a large influx.”

“What, you’re going to give me five hundred thousand dollars for the chair?”

“Eight.”

“What?” Corin stared at Mark, then glanced at A. C., who looked back with raised eyebrows.

“Eight hundred thousand dollars. I give you the money; you give me the chair.” Mark took off his sunglasses and hooked them on the front of his midnight blue T-shirt.

Corin blinked and studied Mark’s face. The man was serious. “Why?”

“Because as you know, the chair is an obsession for me and I’ve come to believe in its authenticity. Because I want the deal done now and that kind of cash shows you how serious I am. And because this will help your current circumstances considerably.” Mark motioned as if handing out dollar bills. “I know you need the money.”

This guy wasn’t just the pastor of Stalkerville. He owned the place. Corin folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. “You better explain how you know that.”

“I need to know what’s going on in your life, Corin.”

“In other words you’ve had your personal Mafia delving into everything about me.”

“Precisely.”

“But none of them are here now.” Corin held his palms up. “I’m guessing you don’t want anyone else to witness this suggestion of what you do with the church’s money.”

Mark walked up to within a foot of Corin. “This kind of money could dig you out of the debt your store is in.” He leaned in, his face now only six inches from Corin’s. “But that’s only secondary to the primary thought bouncing around your brain right now.” Mark glanced at A. C. and lowered his voice. “You’re thinking this money could pay for an operation that insurance companies won’t touch because of its experimental nature. An operation that has worked for 60 percent of the patients who have gone under the knife. An operation that might put someone’s life back together.”

Corin’s body temperature notched up two degrees as two thoughts flashed through his mind. First, how did this guy know so much about him, and second, how absolutely correct he was. Eight hundred thousand would take care of the store and provide the funds for Shasta to have the surgery. If his brother would try it. It was a Mount-Everest-sized if. But getting him to sit in the chair would be a trip to Jupiter.

“Talk to me, A. C. What do you think?”

A. C. strode slowly behind Mark, who kept his eyes fixed on Corin. “I don’t trust the guy. More importantly, you don’t trust the guy.”

“How do you know that?”

“Let’s see, I’ve only known you for twenty years.”

Corin studied his friend. “In other words, you’d want to see the money in the bank before you turned over the chair.”

“I wouldn’t turn over that chair for eight hundred million dollars.”

Jefferies spun toward A. C. “But you’re not the one whose brother sits in a prison every waking hour of the day knowing you were the cause of it, are you? And you’re not the one who is about to lose his business.”

Jefferies was right. A. C. wasn’t drowning in debt and didn’t have a seven-course meal of guilt every morning. “How soon could you have the money?”

“I could have it in your account before nightfall.”

“I’ll think about it.” Corin carried his gliding gear to his truck.

“I want an answer by nine tomorrow night.”

“I’ll give you an answer in a week.”

“Two days.”

“Three.”

“Fine.” Mark whirled and strode toward his car. “Three days. Not four. Not three and a half. At the stroke of midnight on the third day, the offer turns back into a pumpkin and your glass slipper will shatter on the ground.”

Corin didn’t answer. He stared at the back of Mark’s silver Cadillac DTS till it faded from sight behind a cluster of golden aspen trees. Churches must be paying well for him to rent a car like that.

As they drove back up to the butte to retrieve A. C.’s Jeep, their entire conversation consisted of three lines.

“Will you sell it to him, Cor?”

“It would solve a lot of problems.”

“What’s the biggest problem it would solve?”

Corin didn’t answer.

Three days to decide.

Tomorrow he would drive out to the lake—he hadn’t been there in over a month—and make himself face his demons.

CHAPTER 31

Early the next evening, after closing the store, Corin drove out Sky View Drive toward Woodmoor Lake—as he normally did every two or three weeks—to go another three rounds in the ring with his old buddy Terror.

He would keep wrestling the fear till it crashed to the mat, he choked it to death, and he was free of the memory. “Face your fears,” that’s what his counselor had said.

And now he had a new psychological opponent in the ring. To sell the chair or keep it.

Woodmoor Lake was nearly the same size as Lake Vereor, maybe a few acres bigger. Woodmoor Lake served as an excellent substitute for what had happened at Vereor when he was ten. He closed his eyes and bit his upper lip. A trip there wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.

He shuddered.

Lake Vereor.

The lake he’d drowned in.

Died in.

Where his heart had stopped and he hadn’t filled his lungs with anything but water for over five minutes.

When he arrived at Woodmoor Lake, he parked his car in his usual spot, then sat in his car for ten minutes. Get out and face the fear. Wrestle with the dream demons and crush them under your heel.

After throwing on a raincoat and scrunching an old Rockies baseball hat onto his head, he got out and meandered up the small grassy rise shielding the lake from the parking lot. When he reached the top, Corin jammed his hands in his pockets and squeezed his fingers into fists.

The sun briefly poked through gray clouds as it slithered its way down into the night and Corin blinked against the intermittent moments of brightness.

His breaths shortened as he stared at the lake and he forced himself to breathe slower.

No fear.

Nothing to fear.

Nothing he couldn’t conquer.

If only it were true.

NICOLE WATCHED CORIN settle onto the bench overlooking the lake as she’d done for the past nine years. How many hours had she prayed for him as he sat there? Probably hundreds if they were added up. Finally time to see if those years of prayer would bring healing or hell.

So much good surrounded the chair. So much evil drawn to it because of its power. Impossible to have one without the other.

Had he discovered the chair’s healing power yet? Most likely yes. Corin had to realize the boy with asthma was healed because of the chair. She walked toward him, determined not to reveal too much of who she was, even though she desperately wanted to.

Nicole asked once more for wisdom before she would enter Corin Roscoe’s life and stay in it no matter what happened.

CORIN LET THE memory of the drowning flood his mind, let the fear wash through his heart, and tried to fight the terror that seemed to claw at his brain.

No, it’s over; you lived. You have nothing to fear. Nothing to fear. Nothing to fear.

But it didn’t help. It never helped. The dream would still come.

Why couldn’t he shake it? Why couldn’t he accept the fact he didn’t die in the lake that day; accept the fact he’d lived and get over the fear? He’d been to counselors who kept asking him, “How do you feeeel? How do you feeeel?” without ever giving him concrete steps to eradicate the incident from his mind.

The sky shifted, a set of dark clouds cobbled across the sky, and a few minutes later a fine rain drizzled onto Corin’s Patagonia jacket, the bench he sat on, and the grass that surrounded him. A minute later the rain thickened. He was about to get up when the sound of drops dancing on an umbrella made him spin to the left.

Nicole.

She stood ten feet to his side, a smile shining under her intense eyes. Eyes that seemed to drill into his soul. Eyes that seemed to know him beyond what they should.

She stepped toward him and stopped in front of him.

“Do you mind?” She motioned toward the bench.

“Please.”

Nicole sat, her umbrella covering both their heads. She wore a black raincoat, which contrasted sharply with the sun-bleached bench. Black gloves covered her hands.

“How is your life progressing these days, Corin?”

He studied her face. Joyful. Serious. At the same time. One moment she looked thirty-five, the next she was ninety.

“I e-mailed you back. I’ve been dying to talk to you.” Corin rammed his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. “Is this the point in the script where you tell me exactly why you showed up at my store two weeks ago and gave me the chair? And if the chair was really made by Christ? And if you’re one of the legendary Keepers of the Chair, some kind of spiritual being?”

She laughed—a kaleidoscope laugh that made him think of a rainbow. “I am no angel. Of that you can be certain.”

“Why did you give me the chair?”

“That is something I am anxious to tell you, but not before the time is right.” She removed her gloves and reached over and patted his shoulder. “We don’t want to move too quickly, I don’t think.”

“Maybe you don’t. I’m ready to slide behind the wheel of a Ferrari and mash the accelerator to the floor.”

“The faster you go, the higher the chance of an accident.”

“I’m willing to take the chance.”

Nicole turned her gaze to the lake. “Why do you come to the water?”

“Is the legend true? Has this chair been passed from mother to daughter for centuries?”

Nicole nodded.

The rain pinged the surface of the lake as it grew darker. “And does it truly contain the healing power of Christ?”

“At this point it doesn’t matter what I tell you; it matters what you believe.” Nicole adjusted the umbrella so it covered Corin’s legs. “Has it healed anyone?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

Corin hesitated. “Yes.”

“I see.”

They sat in silence, as the clouds continued their trek north across the sky and the rain returned to a drizzle, then stopped.

“Why do you come to the water?” Nicole repeated her question.

“I think you already know.”

She smiled. “I don’t know everything about you.”

“How much do you know?”

“Enough.”

Corin stared at the dark undulations in the water’s surface, mocking him, laughing at him, daring him to enter the lake.

“Do you know what happened to me when I was younger?”

Nicole shook her head. “Only that you almost drowned. I know none of the details.”

Corin leaned back and pulled his baseball hat farther down his head. Tell her? Why not?

“When I was ten my family took a camping trip to Lake Vereor. The third day of the trip we rented these pontoons with bikes welded on top of them side by side. They looked like they were made by someone in their garage who took a shot of whiskey with every weld. You pedaled the bikes and they moved underwater paddles that propelled us around the lake. I was with my dad; my brother was with my mom.”

Corin rubbed his face. “We all had life jackets, being safe you know. After we tooled around for fifteen or twenty minutes, we decided to switch. I’d join my mom, my brother, Shasta, would push the pedals with my dad.”

Corin closed his eyes as the memory pressed into his mind as if the Incredible Hulk was squeezing his brain into pulp.

“You step here next to me, Corin,” his mom said.

Corin hesitated, then stepped on the back of the pontoon next to his mom and brother.

“That might be too much weight . . .” His dad stared at them.

Corin glanced at the pontoon as it sank into the dark green water, then back at his father. “Dad?”

“Get off!”

Too late.

“Jump! Before it flips and hits you—”

His dad’s words were smothered as the combined weight of his mom and him flipped the craft over and Corin was pulled underwater.

Something thumped him on the head and he started to go dark. No, he had to get to the surface. He kicked hard but didn’t move. Corin opened his eyes and looked up. The pontoon was upside down, and he was next to one of the bicycles. Next to the handlebars. He kicked again.

Nothing.

Then he saw why. One of the straps of his life jacket was wrapped around a handlebar of the bike.

He yanked on the strap. It was like a steel cable.

Suddenly, movement beside him. He whirled to see his mom next to him. She grabbed the strap and yanked on it. It didn’t budge. She pulled again. Nothing.

She wrapped the strap around her hand and wrenched on it a third time. Slight movement. Too slight.

He was running out of air. Please, Mom! Get me to the surface!

Twenty more seconds. He could hold his breath twenty more seconds.

She motioned with her hands as if to tell him to stay calm and then swam for the surface.

No! What are you doing? Don’t leave me!

Fifteen more seconds before his air was gone.

An instant later his dad was next to him, grabbing the strap with his iron hands and yanking it so hard the handlebars bent.

Ten seconds.

He was still tied to the bike. He clawed at his dad, tearing into his skin, not caring, only knowing he had to breathe.

Seven seconds.

Another heave with all the strength his dad possessed. Corin kicked his legs as hard as he could, knowing it wouldn’t help but unable to stop himself.

Three seconds.

Another pull by his father. Corin grabbed the handlebar as if he could break it in two. His eyes went wide, his mouth opened to scream.

One second.

A moment later Corin let out his air and sucked in the coldness of the lake.

His dad was still pulling on the strap when the darkness took him.

Corin laid his shaking hands on his jeans and tried to smile. Although he’d relived the memory thousands of times, when awake and in his dreams, it was the first time he’d told the story out loud.

“You didn’t almost drown that day.”

He shook his head.

“You died.”

Corin nodded at Nicole and sucked in a quick breath. “Clinically dead for five minutes. Revived and the doctors said there was no damage to my mind.”

“Except for your fear of the water.”

Corin took off his hat and massaged the Rockies logo with his thumb. “If there is a God behind this chair of yours, He certainly has a sense of humor.”

Nicole tilted her head and glanced at him. “How so?”

Corin let out a bitter laugh. “Did you know that Olympic-caliber coaches can spot an athlete with innate natural talent as young as three?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“I was picked out of a crowd of four-year-old boys as having exceptional talent, and I exercised that talent for the next six years.”

“What was the sport at which you showed such aptitude?” She asked the question as if she already knew the answer.

Corin stared at the water for a few seconds before turning and looking at Nicole. “Swimming, of course.”

“I’m sorry.” Nicole sighed and gave a tiny shake of her head. “Do you ever miss it?”

“Never.”

It wasn’t true. Swimming wasn’t an extreme sport, didn’t give him the rush that hang gliding or BASE jumping or street luging did. But in the water he’d always felt free, alone with the surge of the water as he pulled himself to another record-breaking time for eight-year-olds, then nine, then ten-year-old boys. While the water terrified him now, an atom-sized part of him missed the water, missed what it used to be to him.

“Did your mom carry guilt for what happened?”

“She had giant backpacks stuffed with guilt and she carried them everywhere she went till the day she died.” Corin picked up a handful of gravel and started tossing the pieces at the water. “I never stopped trying to convince her to let the guilt go, but she couldn’t ever watch Olympic swimming after that. She blamed herself for my not wearing gold around my neck. Never could accept that the accident wasn’t her fault.”

“Then whose fault was it?”

“Everyone has some kind of kryptonite in his or her life. I suppose that’s one of mine.”

“So you need a lead box in which to mute its power?”

Corin rubbed his collarbone. A lead box? Sure. If only the solution for his life could be as simple as it was in his comic books. “Are you offering?”

“In a way, yes.”

“How so?”

“The chair.”

“It can heal me, huh?”

“It is a way to healing.”

“What does that mean?”

Nicole patted his hand. “I’m sorry; I can’t tell you that part.”

“I have to figure that out on my own.”

She nodded. “A man who is told learns with his head; a man who experiences the lesson learns with his heart.”

“Who said that?”

“I did.”

Maybe it was time for him to sit in the chair again. He wasn’t sure what had kept him from trying it a second time. Maybe he was scared it wouldn’t work. Maybe he didn’t know exactly what to believe for when he sat in it. Maybe it was because it might peel back a fear so deep he’d never faced it.

Then again, maybe it was time to sell it. “There’s this pastor of a megachurch who wants to buy the chair.”

“I see.” Nicole glanced at the sky and folded up her umbrella. “Do you think you should, or is there something or Someone orchestrating a symphony here greater than you know? Can’t you feel it?”

Corin hesitated. The obvious answer was to say yes. But was there? Emotions were not reality, and even though he’d felt an affinity toward Nicole, felt hope after A. C. was healed, felt a sense of wonder after little Brittan was supposedly healed by the chair, it didn’t mean some Higher Power was directing the whole thing.

And what if God was behind all of it? Maybe Mark’s offer was God’s way of sending him a boat to rescue him from the encroaching waters. A path of hope he could offer Shasta that might lead to a healing that seemed insane to hope for two weeks earlier. “I don’t know if something greater is going on here.”

“When does this pastor want his answer?”

Corin smiled at her. “You know who the pastor is. I think you’re tracking me.”

“I’m watching out for you.”

“It seems a common hobby for people these days.”

“Quite.”

Corin tried to stir up a feeling of mistrust toward Nicole. Impossible. Tesser had said to trust no one, and the counsel was wise, but with Nicole he couldn’t help it. “I have three days to decide. And one of them has already passed.”

“Why would you sell it?”

“I need the money to keep my store from going under.”

“Anything else?”

Corin shrugged. “A friend of mine has to have an operation.”

“Has to?”

Corin hesitated. “Yes.”

“And this money could pay for it.”

“Yep.”

“Why not have your friend sit in the chair?”

“Because from what I’ve seen, the chair decides what it wants to heal and what it doesn’t want to heal, and I can’t risk this friend sitting in the chair and getting nothing.”

“Why is that?”

Corin stood and stepped toward the lake. Sorry, no one got that story. After two or three minutes he sat again.

“Have you sat in the chair, Corin?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“It didn’t heal me of anything.”

“Did you believe it would heal you?”

Corin didn’t answer.

“Maybe you should sit in it again.”

“I don’t have anything wrong with me except a stiff knee.”

“That’s all the healing you need?”

“It’s rarely stiff.”

“Healing is healing. Western culture makes the distinction, but God does not. What good is an arm or leg that is healed when the mind is still broken?” Nicole paused till Corin looked at her. “Also, you might consider your sitting in the chair might not be only about your healing, but about someone else’s.”

“Can you explain that with fewer cryptic drapes covering up the meaning?”

“I think we’ve had enough time together for the moment.” Nicole stood. “We’ll talk again soon, Corin, I promise.”

On the way home, he gripped and regripped his steering wheel as if he could strangle it into giving him an answer as to what Nicole meant. But he didn’t need it to speak. He already knew.

It wouldn’t surprise him if Nicole knew all about Shasta. Why did she want Corin to push his brother into sitting in the chair? Did she truly believe it would heal him? And why would his sitting in the chair help his brother?

It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be dragging Shasta to the table inside the restaurant of Hope-U-Get-Healed. If God wanted that done, He would have to do it Himself.

But maybe Corin would sit in the chair again.

Maybe tonight.

CHAPTER 32

Corin strode through his front door, tossed his keys onto his couch, and stared at the door to his basement.

Should he? Shouldn’t he? An old football injury stiffened up his knee a few times a year. The forefinger on his left hand ached sometimes due to breaking it when he was in the sixth grade. That was it. Sit in the chair for those things? No. And certainly not for his fears.

Healing for those? Sorry, Nicole, I’ll get through my mental torments on my own. He’d learned to live with his kryptonite.

No you haven’t. You need to sit again.

The thought flashed through him with such clarity, Corin’s head snapped back and he blinked.

No, he didn’t need to.

He needed to sell the chair to Mark and use the money to get Shasta that operation.

He didn’t need healing.

He didn’t.

But the lie kept sticking halfway down his throat and refused to be swallowed.

He paced in his living room, trying to decide whether to face the truth or build himself a web of self-deception. After three minutes he admitted the real reason he didn’t want to sit in the chair. He was just like his brother.

For twenty-four years Corin had tried to get healed of his claustrophobia and fear of water. Through hypnosis, acupuncture, counseling . . . And just like Shasta, he wasn’t willing to release even a sliver of hope that would once again only be obliterated.

Come sit.

The impression was stronger this time.

Great. Now he was hearing voices.

Come.

Corin strode over to the basement door and yanked it open.

Fine. He would sit in the chair. And he would believe. And prove to himself the chair wouldn’t heal anything inside him.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he went to turn on the lights, hesitated, then left them off. He could use the light from his cell phone to unlock the padlock on the door.

Corin slid his cell phone into his pocket as he eased the door open and stepped inside. He could almost feel the chair ten feet in front of him. One more step. Then another.

What was he thinking? He was sneaking up on an inanimate object. But the next moment he smiled as a faint light emanated from the middle of the room.

No question. The chair was glowing. The faintest of lines ringed its outside edges and the light seemed to be creeping counterclockwise.

After two more steps the glow faded and vanished.

Darkness enveloped him as he stepped forward and felt for the chair. There. He had it. Its surface wasn’t hot. Wasn’t cool. It felt normal.

He slid into the chair without hesitation, closed his eyes, and waited for . . . what? Corin didn’t know. What had Avena said? A. C. had seen a light show, a feeling of warmth and peace.

After a minute Corin still felt nothing.

Two minutes. Still nothing.

“God? Did Your Son make this chair?”

Silence.

“Did He?”

Then a tingling in the chair, so soft he couldn’t tell if it was real or imagined, but at the moment he decided it was real, it vanished, and again he wasn’t sure if it happened only in his mind.

Five minutes later he still felt nothing.

Maybe he needed to concentrate on what needed healing. Isn’t that what Tori and he had talked about? As Corin let the emotions of the lake rise around him, he swallowed and his breathing grew shallow.

“Take me,” he whispered the words, then louder, “take me!”

He clenched the seat of the chair till his fingers ached, as if he could squeeze a reaction out of the ancient artifact. “Heal me. Please.”

Cynicism gave over to hope and he tried to imagine a heat coming from the chair or a great peace. A comfort. Anything.

“Do something!”

The only alteration was the seat growing slightly cooler.

He closed his eyes again and tried to relax.

Corin glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes had passed. How long had Brittan sat in the chair? A. C.? He couldn’t remember—as if it would matter.

“Change me.” The words were almost inaudible.

Again, an impression filled his mind.

Call him. Offer healing. Not through the surgery of men.

Corin gave a slight shake of his head.

Impossible. Shasta wouldn’t come.

Call him.

The thought lit up his mind like lightning; there for an instant then gone, and afterward his mind felt darker than before the idea had come.

Twenty more minutes of sitting in the chair didn’t bring any light and something told him the next day wouldn’t get any brighter.

THE NEXT MORNING, Corin grabbed a cup of straight-drip java at Jade Shot Coffee, made sure the lid was on tight, and half jogged toward his store. He was already late.

Sixty seconds later his progress was thwarted by three men who looked like the NFL’s version of the Hells Angels. Each of the four men towered over Corin by at least five inches. In the middle, with his arms folded, black sunglasses on, stood Mark Jefferies.

“Good morning, Corin.”

Corin took a sip of his coffee as his eyes bounced from one end of the line to the other. Mark motioned the man on the end with a flick of his head, and the four linebackers eased around Corin till they encircled him. Great. He would be even later thanks to this religious whacko.

“What a pleasure to bump into you, Mark. With you up here so much lately, who’s preaching back home?”

Mark motioned with his head again. The mountain men moved two steps closer.

“I see you flew in some of your congregation.” Corin took another sip of his coffee. “What do you want?”

“To talk. To see if you’ve made a decision on my offer.” Mark glanced at his watch. “It expires in a little over thirty-nine hours.”

“I’d love to chat, but I’m late.”

“This will only take a moment.”

Corin glanced around the circle. “It looks to me like you’re getting ready to threaten me. Or something maybe a little bit grander than that.”

“Not at all. I only want to know if I’m going to write you a check or not.” Mark pulled a set of papers out of his back pocket. “We could sign everything right now if you like. Since we haven’t talked in the past two days and you haven’t responded to my e-mails and phone calls, I simply thought it would be good to have a little chat.”

Corin motioned toward the men who surrounded him. “Do they chat?”

“Sure. But do they need to? Or do you understand their body language?” He glanced up and down the street. If any of the pedestrians thought their gathering looked odd, they didn’t express it.

“I suppose this is the part where you tell me if I don’t accept your offer, you still want the chair, won’t take no for an answer, and your buddies here will use their body language on me in a way that is universally understood.”

“Once again you’ve misunderstood me.”

“I keep doing that.” Corin offered his finest plastic smile and gave a quick nod. “No idea why.”

A condescending smile rose on Mark’s face and quickly faded.

“The chair is yours to do with as you want. And always will be. This isn’t a TV show. I simply want you to understand how serious I am about my beliefs and about giving you the money.” Mark cracked his knuckles. “We want to understand; we want to help you. And if you don’t accept my offer, I will still continue to help you in any and every way I can.”

He suspected accepting assistance from Mark would be like living in that old Eagles song “Hotel California.” He’d be able to check out any time he liked, but he’d never be able to leave Jefferies’s clutches. “And if I don’t want help?”

Mark smiled his half smile, part of his teeth showing, most covered by his Elvis-sneerlike mouth. “You need my help.”

“To protect me.”

“Yes.”

“From . . . ?”

“Everyone.” Mark held his palms up to the brilliant October sun and spun a slow 360 on his heel.

“And why would you extend your generosity to me even if I don’t agree to your helping my bank account grow?”

“I’m not.” Mark zipped open his black leather jacket. “I’m doing it because I want to see the chair remain safe.”

“In other words, you’re not losing sleep over me.”

Mark nodded with his whole body. “I still care about you. Just not as much as the chair.”

“I appreciate your honesty.” Corin looked at his watch. “I have to go.”

“Tell me about the lady who gave you the chair.” Mark paced, two slow steps right, then two back to the left.

It made Corin feel like he was in a courtroom cross-examination during a high-profile trial. He wasn’t the lawyer. “Why?”

“Because I suspect she can tell me much about it.”

The guy wouldn’t take a hint even if it was grand piano-sized and landed on his head. Corin stepped to the side of Jefferies and up to one of his bodyguards. “I have to get to my shop. Now.”

“Are you going to allow me to give you the money that can help your store and your brother?”

“I’ll let you know by the end of the deadline. But I should tell you, the answer is probably going to be no.”

The mountain man shifted back a step and Corin slid through the opening and strode down the sidewalk.

“That’d be a mistake,” Jefferies said.

“I’m so grateful for that penetrating spiritual insight, Pastor Mark. I’ll be sure to meditate on it all day.” Corin considered the wisdom of making the comment. It would undoubtedly tick the pastor off. Corin smiled. Exactly.

THAT NIGHT AS Corin slumped at his desk and attempted to balance the books, his gaze kept falling on the papers describing the results of the experimental spinal-cord surgery. Sixty percent success rate. Sixty. It was far higher than the success rate from the two delusional doctors from Mexico Shasta had gone to in the first year after the accident. The ones promising immediate healing.

Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. And Mark was offering him eight hundred thousand.

The decision was simple, wasn’t it? He’d be able to offer Shasta the surgery and have enough left over to save the store, pay off his house, and still have enough to take that trip to the Swiss Alps he’d been promising himself forever.

So why did he hesitate to make the call?

No idea.

Corin picked up his phone and tapped in Mark’s cell phone number.

He stared at Mark’s card taped to his computer monitor and flicked it with his finger. He wouldn’t give him the chair till the money was in his account.

As the phone rang a second time, the sound of shattering glass pierced through Corin’s thoughts. “What the—?” He lurched to his feet and staggered out his office door and onto his showroom floor.

Broken glass was strewn across the desks, tables, and chairs at the front of the store, the fluorescent light making them sparkle like diamonds. A cold wind meandered through the spot where his storefront’s picture window had been.

Corin glanced around the room. Had someone shot the window?

On his second visual sweep of the floor, he spotted a rock just smaller than a baseball resting next to the leg of a burr walnut wine table from the late 1800s. He stared at it as if he expected the rock to move. Finally he strode over to it and picked up the almost perfectly round stone.

On one side were three words: We want it. On the other it said: The old Tahmahoe barn. Leave it just inside the door. Tonight after midnight. No heroes. No hurt. We both live happily ever after.

Twenty-three minutes later the police pulled up in front of Corin’s store.

The cop nodded hello, then studied the window. “When did it happen?”

“About thirty minutes ago.”

“Was anything stolen?”

“No. I was in my office and came out right after it came through the window.”

“Any idea who played John Elway with the rock?”

Corin plucked the stone off the table he’d set it on and handed it to the cop.

“I grabbed it without thinking about fingerprints.”

“Don’t sweat it; rocks like this wouldn’t take a print anyway.” The cop stared at him. “Any idea?”

“No.” Corin lied. He wasn’t sure what Jefferies was capable of, but he suspected his linebacking cabal had a certain proficiency for these type of projects.

The policeman turned the rock over and looked at the words. “What’s ‘it’? What do they want you to leave in the barn?”

Corin lied again. “I don’t know.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“I see.” The cop held Corin’s gaze long enough it was clear he didn’t believe him, then jotted a note on his pad. “There’s not much I can do other than file a report and make a few more passes through this neighborhood each week.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Do you have any enemies you know of?”

“No.” This time he didn’t have to lie.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, you do now. This doesn’t look like the work of a couple of kids. Which means whoever it is will probably be back.”

The cops stayed another few minutes, doing a quick sweep of the store, and then turned to Corin. “You get any ideas who did this, let us know, okay?”

After boarding up the broken window, Corin e-mailed Nicole and asked her to meet him as soon as possible. Then he called Tesser, got his voice mail, and asked the professor the same thing.

No way would he be dropping the chair off in some old abandoned barn.

But he needed answers. The water was closing in and he needed a life jacket.

No, he needed a speedboat.

CHAPTER 33

The next morning at eleven thirty, Corin met Nicole at Rob’s Ruby Rocket Diner, just off Highway 24 and fifty miles east of the city, focused on one thing: getting answers.

The door squealed like a pig in labor as he opened it, and he glanced around the restaurant. There were ten or eleven tables, all of them empty except for the one farthest from the front door where Nicole sat staring at him.

He eased toward her, studying her eyes, which were serious and seemed full of concern. When Corin reached the table, he slid into a red vinyl chair straight out of the sixties, folded his hands, and rested them on the table next to the salt and pepper shakers that were even older than the chairs. He brushed the remnants of a French fry off the table and interlaced his fingers again.

“Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.”

She didn’t answer, just nodded.

“Is there a reason you wanted to meet at a restaurant an hour from town in a dive that probably hasn’t seen a mop since Washington was president?”

Corin had been so focused on Nicole, he hadn’t noticed a plump blond woman in a uniform two sizes too small standing at their table, pen and pad in hand.

Whoops.

She slapped two glasses of water onto the table. “We’ve only been in business since the Lincoln administration. And we did a remodel when Roosevelt came into office.”

“Which one?”

“Teddy.” She smiled and asked what they wanted.

“You have a great sense of humor.”

The waitress nodded and winked at him.

Corin ordered iced tea and a hamburger and Nicole ordered black coffee and French onion soup.

“Why here?” Nicole said. “Because he probably wouldn’t follow you out this far and wouldn’t think of you coming into a place like this if he did.”

“Who is ‘he’?”

“The person who is after the chair and would possibly even kill to relieve you of it.”

The scene with Mark’s linebackers flashed into Corin’s mind. “Jefferies, right?”

“I’m not going to tell you who it is.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

For the first time Corin wondered about Nicole’s mental stability. She had never been anything but fully self-assured. She appeared that way now. But this was the first time she’d said something crazy.

Actually that wasn’t true. From the start her ideas had been dancing on the edge of the universe.

“Why not?”

“It’s part of your growing up. You need to learn who to trust and who not to trust rather than be told.”

“My growing up? I’m thirty-four years old.” Corin bent his cardboard coaster two ways so he could spin it like a top on the grease-stained table.

“Some people die still as children.”

“What does that mean?”

“I think you know, Corin.”

He did know. He’d heard a single traumatic incident in a person’s life could freeze his emotional age at the moment the event happened. So intellectually he might be thirty-four but emotionally he was, what? Ten? “So I’m ten years old?” The coaster slowed to a stop.

“It’s time to face your fear. You’re in the midst of doing that, which I applaud you for.”

“What does facing my fear have to do with telling me I’m still ten years old?”

“I didn’t say that, you did.”

“I’m scared of drowning. So what? I’m sure a lot of people are.” He dropped a penny in his water glass and watched it sink to the bottom. “And I am trying to face it.”

“How?”

“I sat in the chair again.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? That surprises me.” She stared at him till he dropped his eyes.

The waitress arrived with their food. A welcome distraction. It gave him time to think. Should he tell her? The revelation he’d received probably wouldn’t surprise her. Nicole had almost predicted it.

“When I sat in the chair I got the impression I should call my brother.”

“I see.” Nicole sipped her coffee and studied him over the top of her cup. “Are you going to?”

“I doubt it.” Corin devoted the next five minutes to devouring his burger and slurping down his iced tea. Nicole stayed silent but continued to laser him with her piercing blue eyes.

“Why me?” Corin slid his water glass back and forth in front of him, the penny sitting in the center of the glass, looking bigger, feeling bigger than it was. Just like his fear. “Why did you give the chair to me?”

“You were the one I was supposed to give it to.”

“And how did you determine that?”

For the next two or three minutes Nicole only looked at him as she took small spoonfuls of her soup. It was unnerving. He was about to ask again when she finally spoke.

“I’ve been watching you and the other possibility for many years now. It became clear early on you were the most likely candidate, but I couldn’t give it to you till the time was right.”

“You’ve been watching me for years?” Corin leaned back in his chair and scowled. “That creeps me out.”

“Does it surprise you?”

No. It didn’t. Based on what he knew about her, it didn’t shock Corin at all. The confidence with which she’d given him the chair and their interactions since made it seem like she’d known him all her life.

He pushed his plate to the side of the table. “Why me? Why not the other one? I’m no one special.”

Nicole smoothed her pants as a lilting laugh escaped her lips. “That is so far from true.”

“It is true. I’ve done nothing.”

“You can do a dance step around your destiny for a time, but you can’t escape it forever.”

“What destiny? What are you talking about?”

“Your destiny. To have the chair.”

“It doesn’t make sense. I’m not female for one thing. Plus I’m full of doubt, full of fears. I’ve made—”

“Mistakes you regret with everything inside.” Nicole smiled. “Welcome to the human race. Let me read you something a friend gave me many years ago.” She pulled out a yellowed envelope and from it drew out a small gray note card.

“You are no one and you are everyone. You are glorious and you are nothing. You are mountains and valleys, You are glory and sin, And even when in the heart of your glory you can’t comprehend how deep His passion for you runs, Take hold of who you are. Know it in your soul. Run before the wind of the destiny He has created for you, And seek Him in every moment.”

Nicole slid the card back into her purse and wove her fingers together. “Do you understand?”

Corin reached to his left and grabbed a French fry off his plate. “You’re saying God chose me.”

“Yes. But be careful. Death has always surrounded the chair. As has healing. Dark and light. Evil and goodness. Joy and sorrow.”

“And His purpose in my having the chair is what?”

Nicole smoothed her coat. “That is the one part of this whole drama I have no doubt I know the answer to.”

“What’s the answer?”

She slid her chair back, stood, leaned over him, and patted his shoulder. “We’ll talk again soon, Corin. Stay strong and believe.” Nicole snatched a twentydollar bill from her purse and dropped it on the table. “He is for you.”

The click of her heels on the old linoleum floor seemed muted as she walked away. Or maybe it was because his brain was spinning too loudly for him to hear well.

He popped the French fry in his mouth. It was cold and he spit it into his napkin which he crumpled and tossed onto his plate. Corin stood and glanced at his watch.

The guy fixing his store window wouldn’t be done for another two or three hours. Tesser hadn’t returned his call so this was a perfect time to get in a workout. Time to go for a long inline skate. Time to get his mind off the chair and his brother and his own nagging neuroses.

But as he left the restaurant, something in the jangling of the bells on the front door gave him the feeling he wasn’t going to get it.

CHAPTER 34

On the way to G. Peterson Park, Corin considered putting a gun to Shasta’s head. It would be the only way he’d get his brother to sit in the chair. Or maybe he should sell it to Mark and try to forget it ever existed. Or give Tesser the chair and let him figure out if the thing was real.

Or move to Mexico with Tori and live on a thousand dollars a year.

He pulled his truck into the parking lot in front of the skate path and threw his gearshift into Park. The perfect spot to get away from everything and everyone. Few people would be here this time of the year with the temperature only in the mid-fifties.

After jamming his in-line skates onto his feet, he pushed off onto the path that wove through clusters of narrow-leaf cottonwood trees, scattered red and gold leaves mixed with their brothers and sisters who still held the green of summer in their hue.

Stop thinking about the chair for an hour. He could do it. Give himself just sixty minutes with nothing on the brain except working up a good sweat.

It wasn’t going to be possible.

Five minutes into his skate a scream sliced through his mind from over the hill to his right.

“Please, help me!”

Corin pulled off his skates on the edge of the grass and jogged toward the voice. A woman by the sound of it. As he crested the hill he spotted a heavyset lady who took tiny staggering steps back and forth in front of a large drain pipe.

She turned as Corin ran up to her. “Can you help me? Will you, please?”

A muffled yapping drifted out from deep inside the pipe.

“What’s—?”

“My puppy . . . she’s . . . I’m too . . .”—she brushed her hips—“big to get in there . . . I need . . . can you crawl in? Get her, please?” The woman’s baby blue mascara was smeared with tears and her hands trembled.

Corin squatted and glanced at the pipe. Forget it. Someone else would need to be Superman today. He could fit into the pipe but not comfortably and his brain wouldn’t fit at all.

“I’m sorry, tight spaces and I don’t get along. I can’t—”

“Please? There’s no one else out here. She’s already been in there for ten minutes.” The lady blinked and rubbed her stomach with both hands.

“Don’t worry. I can go get help, send someone down here to get your—”

“She’s my only family. She’s a cockapoo, so sweet, you know?” The woman knelt next to the pipe and sobbed. “If I lose her . . .”

“How far in?” Corin gritted his teeth. Why did he ask? He couldn’t do it even if the dog was only twenty feet in.

“I don’t know. Scoundrel sniffed inside the pipe and then started to go in . . .” More tears. “She yanked at the leash—I should have bought a new one, I know—and it snapped and . . . maybe she saw a rabbit . . . And I’ve called and called and she won’t come out . . . and I don’t know if she’s stuck or hurt or—”

“Listen, I’ll run and get some help, get someone back here in five minutes, ten at the most.”

“Fine.” All emotion drained out of her face. “That’s fine. It’s fine. I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.” The woman shook her head and started crying again. “I don’t know if I can last that long. She’s probably not very far in.”

This was all too cliché. Woman’s dog gets stuck in drainpipe. Man happens along who is paralyzed by small spaces. Woman cries. Man gives in and crawls in pipe hating the woman, hating the dog, hating his fear. Why couldn’t it be a cat seventy feet up in a tree?

Corin peered into the pipe. Ten feet at the most before the darkness swallowed up the light. He could hold his breath for two and a half minutes. It was a trick he’d learned to give himself a shield of seconds against the panic onslaught. For some reason while holding his breath, the fear flitted at the edges of his mind and didn’t enter until he’d released the air. If only it worked for more than just the first lungful. “I’ll try, but I doubt I’ll do any good.”

“Thank you,” the woman whispered.

Corin closed his eyes, put his ear next to the pipe, and listened for the dog’s whimper. Nothing. How deep had the mutt gone?

Arrooo.

Faint.

Wonderful. The thing was probably three hundred yards in. Concrete could magnify the sound making the dog’s cry seem closer than it was. Maybe she was six hundred yards in by now.

“What’s the dog’s name again?”

“Scoundrel.”

Corin squinted up at her. “You don’t happen to have a treat she’d be interested in?”

The woman shook her head.

Of course not.

“Like I said, I’m not fond of tight spaces so I’m going to give this a shot, but I won’t be able to last in there very long, understand? A couple of minutes at the most.”

The woman nodded.

“You don’t happen to have a flashlight, do you?”

She nodded again, reached inside her purse, and pulled out a small pink flashlight.

“I was kidding. I didn’t think—”

“Always be prepared I say.”

Except for having a new leash. Or a treat.

Corin took the light and flicked it on. It would help. Not much, but he’d take it. At times seeing how tight a space was helped. Most of the time it made things worse.

He studied the pipe again. He’d have three or four inches on each side, but it wouldn’t be easy to turn around once—if—he found the dog. Backing out if he couldn’t turn around? Lots of fun. And twice as long to do that as going forward.

“Once the panic button in my brain starts buzzing, I’ll have to come out and I’ll go get some help.”

The woman nodded again, wiped her eyes, and pointed. “Now? Please?”

“Okay.” Corin grabbed the sides of the pipe and pulled, as if he could expand the opening to three times its size, and took three long breaths. Here we go.

He sucked in hard, filling his lungs to capacity, then slung himself into the dark tube. Corin dragged himself forward by his elbows, pushing with his feet. This situation was a good thing. Fate was training him, pushing him to overcome the fear. He tried to believe it.

Aroooooo.

Close. The dog sounded close.

Think logically. The tube won’t collapse—wrong! Not the right kind of talk. Wrong word. The tube is strong. There’s plenty of air. This will be over soon. Stay strong.

There was no sensation of panic; he felt calm. But as soon as he needed another breath the feeling would vanish, replaced by a tingling sensation that would quickly morph into full-blown terror.

The pressure in his lungs built, pressing to get out. No. Think. You have plenty of air in your body. Ignore the pain. He didn’t need to breathe yet. He’d only been in the tube thirty, maybe forty seconds and was thirty-five, maybe forty yards inside the tube.

Two minutes thirty seconds.

He could hold his breath at least that long.

Steady. Plenty of time left.

Another whimper. Closer.

Time to turn on the flashlight. He pulled it from his hip pocket, flicked it on, and shone it down the pipe. Nothing.

Wait.

The light flashed against something metallic. Ten yards away. He had about twenty more seconds before he had to turn around.

“Scoundrel, come on, girl.” Corin puffed out, letting some of his precious air escape.

Another whimper, but no closer.

He pushed farther in and shone the light toward the sound. It reflected off Scoundrel’s eyes and he smiled. Corin was wrong. He’d misjudged. Scoundrel whimpered at him only five yards away.

They were going to make it.

Five seconds later Corin reached Scoundrel.

What the—?

The cockapoo wasn’t stuck. It strained against a thin rope that ran from its collar to a small piece of rebar that stuck out of the concrete pipe. Scoundrel wasn’t snagged; she was tied. Tight.

Corin ignored the sick feeling growing in his gut and dug into the rope. Too long, it was taking too long.

Finally he got it untied and yanked the cord through Scoundrel’s collar. The dog sprinted past Corin toward the light fifty yards behind them, claws rapping against the dry floor of the pipe.

Corin mashed himself into a ball and turned around, the walls of the pipe scraping against his arms and legs, then he glanced at his watch. Fifteen seconds to get back to the opening.

Not enough time.

Come on, Superman, move!

With twenty yards to go his lungs refused to hold the air any longer and it whooshed out of him like a geyser. He gasped and sucked in air like he was hanging on to a rubber raft in the middle of a class 4 rapid.

“You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine,” he puffed out as he waited for the fabricated wall of control to be demolished and the familiar waves of panic to rip through his mind. Let the battle begin.

But panic didn’t fill the empty space in his mind.

It would. He had only seconds now.

Think about being in Belize sipping a drink with an ugly little yellow umbrella. But he knew it wouldn’t help.

As he pulled in his second breath, he steadied himself for the onslaught of panic and continued to crawl toward the opening. But the fear didn’t come. Ten more seconds passed. Twenty. Thirty. Still nothing but calm sweeping through his mind.

He pictured the walls crushing in on him. Nothing. No fear. No panic. Just a peace that seemed to swirl from his feet to the top of his head, then it reversed itself and completed the circuit through his body again.

It made no sense.

An image of the chair filled his mind.

Yes, it did.

Unbelievable.

It was real.

Thirty seconds later he looked up toward the opening, a silhouette of the woman filling the opening of the pipe, sunlight streaming past the outline of her curly hair.

“Are you all right?” she called out to him.

“I’m good. Scoundrel is okay?”

“She’s fine.” The woman’s voice seemed different. The emotion gone from it. “You seem like a kind man.”

“Thanks, you seem kind too.” Another fifteen yards and he’d be outside.

“Which makes me feel really bad.” She kicked the inside of the pipe.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m so sorry for this. I don’t want to, but they told me I had to help and if I didn’t they’d . . . Well, I don’t want to talk about that, so just forgive me, okay?” Her arm disappeared as she reached up above the pipe. A moment later the iron grating slammed in front of the pipe and echoed in Corin’s ears.

She wouldn’t.

No.

“What are you doing?” Corin crawled like a wild man, tiny specs of gravel digging into his elbows and knees. Five yards.

The woman wrapped a padlock around the grate and slammed its latch shut. “I’m so sorry; I am.” She bent down, the crossed iron bars of the grate framing her large face. “I’m supposed to say you should have dropped it off like they asked you to, whatever that means.”

“Don’t lock me in here.”

“I’m so sorry.”

The woman lumbered away, Scoundrel’s bark fading as Corin slumped back and rubbed his face with dirt-covered hands.

He’d jumped right into their web and cuddled up next to the spider.

If he hadn’t been . . . he didn’t know what to call it . . . cured? healed? of his claustrophobia, his brain might have short-circuited.

Exactly what they’d wanted.

And when they came again for the chair, he would have melted in front of them and told them whatever they wanted to know. Maybe they’d be by in a hour, or two, or three and make him a simple deal: tell them where the chair was in exchange for setting him free.

Who had set him up?

At the moment it didn’t matter. All he wanted was to escape the pipe.

Corin spun and crawled back into the blackness till he reached a T in the pipe. He flashed on the light on his watch. He’d crawled for fifteen minutes. Right or left?

Left. It just felt right. He tried to laugh at his lame joke, but his brain gyrated with too many other questions.

Why had the chair healed him? He hadn’t felt anything when he sat in it.

Was it Jefferies? He was the obvious choice, but Corin couldn’t convince himself the pastor would go this far.

Would this lead to a way out, or was the pipe closed off at both ends of the T?

Seven minutes later he had his answer as he pushed up out of a storm-drain grate on a side street. Ten minutes after that he was back at his car, firing up the engine, knowing three things with absolute certainty.

First, he wouldn’t be selling Jefferies the chair.

Second, he had to tell Tesser and Nicole about his healing.

Third, he had to find a safer place to hide the chair.

CHAPTER 35

You’d better be there, old friend.

Corin had reached Tesser the night of the tunnel episode and arranged to meet out at Seven Falls on Sunday morning before Corin opened his store.

When he arrived, the old professor was already there, sitting on a bench perfectly centered in front of the 181-foot thundering waterfall, sipping a cup of coffee.

“Why do we have to meet here?” Tesser swatted at a mosquito on his wrist, then picked up his coffee and poured a splash on his forearm to wash it off. “I hate bugs.”

Corin had asked Tesser to meet him at the base of the falls for three reasons. First, it would be private this time of year. Back in August the tourists would swarm like the mosquitoes attacking Tesser. In late October people were stacking wood and starting to think cozy.

Second, he was paranoid. Whoever had tried to scramble his brain by locking him inside that pipe would likely be watching him closer than ever now. Technology certainly made it possible for the people after the chair to bug his home, Tesser’s home, and his car, and the thunder of the falls would keep their conversation private.

Third, he didn’t want Tesser distracted by all his books and the Internet.

“They wanted me to crack open like an egg, so they could spread it in their pan and figure out where I’ve hidden the chair,” Corin said as he sat beside Tesser.

“That would be a sterling example of stating the obvious.” Tesser shifted on the thick, planked bench and stared at the falls towering above them. “Now what is this startling news you need to tell me but couldn’t and wouldn’t tell me about on the phone?”

“I’m getting paranoid in my old age.”

Tesser patted his leg. “Old age doesn’t kick in till you’re eighty.”

Corin cleared his throat. “There’s no doubt about the chair: It is healing people.”

“Has there been an addition to the pantheon of healings you’ve told me about?”

“Yes.”

Tesser tugged on his right ear, then in apparent innocence rubbed his forehead with his middle finger. “You actually think the chair is truly 100 percent grown in America, healing people?”

“Yes. Ninety-nine percent of me believes it. And there’s still the one percent that doesn’t know what to believe any longer.”

“But you seem more convinced of its healing power now than when your friend was cured. Your skepticism has waned.”

“That’s why I’m talking to you.”

Tesser leaned back and rubbed both ears this time. “You want to know what the book says about it. If multiple healings would break out like this. If this is part of the legend.”

“That and I want to know if you think it’s possible.”

“Who was the latest person healed?”

Corin stared up at the wall of white cascading down in front of him. “Me.” He turned to watch Tesser’s reaction.

If his face could have gone whiter than it already was, it probably would have.

“No, is this true?” Tesser rubbed his hands together. “It truly healed you?”

Corin told him the story of the pipe. When he finished Tesser said, “Fascinating. Utterly fascinating.”

Tesser picked up his coffee and poked at the outside of the cup with a twig for a long time before answering. “I’ve always liked you so much, Corin.” He turned and smiled. “You were my best student ever. And my friend. I’m sorry.”

A burst of autumn wind rained leaves down around them like giant gold snowflakes.

“For what?”

“That you have to get mixed up in all this.” Tesser dug into his kneecap with his fingers.

“What are you talking about?”

Tesser sighed. “No, I think I’ll leave it at that.” He stood and ambled over to the bridge that crossed over the stream that flowed out from the pool under the falls and stared down at the water.

“Uh, I don’t think so.” Corin stood and joined Tesser on the bridge, waiting till his old professor looked up. “Talk to me. What are you worried about?”

The old man puffed out his cheeks till he looked like a giant squirrel with a mouth stuffed full of marshmallows. “Think about it. Any time you get an object or an idea that purports to have powers beyond our understanding, you start attracting others like . . . like . . .” He swatted at another mosquito that landed on his arm. “See what I mean?”

“Bloodsuckers out for my chair.”

“Well, someone convinced that woman to lock you in that pipe.” Tesser rubbed the blood from the dead mosquito on his arm. “But they want more than blood, more than the chair. They want its power. They’ll be coming out of the woodwork soon. And they’ll be willing to do anything to get it.”

“I think I know who is behind all this. This religious whacko has been after me to see the chair, telling me he can protect me from its powers.”

“Oh? Who?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, I suppose not, but still.” Tesser shuffled his feet on the concrete as if he was doing an impromptu dance. “Maybe it matters. Maybe not.” His feet kept moving. “If the Mob was after it, that would be different than if it was a lady running a local day-care center.”

“Hey, some of those day-care ladies are pretty tough.”

“Tiz true.”

“It’s a guy named Mark Jefferies. Pastor of a huge church down around La Jolla.”

A startled look flitted across Tesser’s face and vanished a moment later.

“You know him?”

Tesser looked away. “No, but I’ve heard of him.”

“How?”

The professor waved his hands above his head. “Doesn’t matter, but it proves my point.”

“That people are coming after it.”

“Yes. Exactly. Which means it must be hidden well.” Tesser waved his hands again. “You must hide it. I want no part of that piece of this chaotic equation.”

Corin tapped his knuckles on the railing and watched the curtain of mist float across the pond at the base of the falls that hid the surrounding foliage.

Tesser shuffled over the end of the bridge and back, grabbing the scraggly tufts of gray sprouting out of his chin and yanking on them like he was starting a leaf blower. “Where is the chair now?”

“It’s in my vault in the store.” Corin lied. He was done trusting anyone 100 percent, including Tesser. Including Nicole.

“Not good. Not safe. Need to have it someplace safe.”

“No one is breaking into that thing.”

Tesser stopped pulling on his goatee and glared at Corin. “The right people can break into anything.”

His friend was right. His basement wasn’t secure enough. The incident in the pipe convinced him he needed to move the chair to the secret bunker he’d built years ago in the woods behind his house. He would move it soon.

“Any thoughts on where I should hide it?”

Tesser paced past Corin and back three times before answering. “Maybe to my house.”

“What?”

Tesser stopped and stared. “You must move it to my house. Soon. Tonight.”

“Why yours? I thought you said you didn’t want to get wrapped up in this problem.”

“Equation. I said equation, not problem.”

The surge of a car engine startled Corin. He turned to see a Honda Accord with tinted windows pull into the parking lot.

“I thought you said no one would be coming out here today but us.”

The car crunched over the gravel parking lot straight toward them.

“Let’s take a little walk,” Corin said.

“You are paranoid.”

“Thank you.” Corin strode down the path on the other side of the bridge, glancing back to make sure Tesser kept up with him. “C’mon, let’s move.”

The old professor shuffled along somewhere between a slow jog and a fast walk.

“A little faster, Prof., yeah? I don’t think we want to be meeting any new friends at the moment.”

“I haven’t moved like this in decades, maybe centuries.”

They turned left down a path that would provide a screen of trees in another thirty yards.

“You with me?” Corin asked as he looked over his shoulder.

“Can’t we wait to see if it’s Guido before I give myself a coronary?”

Corin turned and grabbed Tesser’s elbow to support him but kept walking, backward now, and stared at the car. It stopped at the edge of the parking lot closest to them. Why did the car have to be black? Somehow sky blue would make him feel better.

A few seconds passed and the passenger door opened. A moment later the driver’s door opened. Two women got out. Young, probably mid-twenties. Camera bags were slung around their necks.

He breathed deep. Paranoid for nothing. What was wrong with him? Corin glanced at Tesser. “If we get shot, it will only be digitally.”

Tesser sucked in and pumped out little puffs of air like he was blowing out a row of birthday candles one at a time.

“You going to survive?” Corin tried to repress a smile.

“I see that . . . whew . . . smile!” Tesser put his hands on his knees. “Believe me, when you hit 92 and I’m 150, I’ll be in better shape than you are.” His friend coughed.

“That I’d like to see.” Corin put his hand on Tesser’s back. “Really now, you okay?” Seeing Tesser have a heart attack because of his paranoia wasn’t his idea of the ideal outing.

The women walked to the halfway point of the bridge and set their camera bags down. Picture time. Of the falls.

“Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk.” Tesser scowled.

They ambled down the path for a few minutes before Corin reverted back to their earlier conversation. “You think I should bring the chair to your house to hide it.” Maybe that was the better idea. Corin’s house was a target. Tesser’s wasn’t.

“Yep, yep, yep.” Tesser’s head moved up and down like a bobble-head doll.

“Why?”

“For your protection. I don’t want you to be hurt.”

Corin slung his arm around Tesser’s shoulder. “I feel the same.”

“Until recently, we haven’t seen each other in years. There’s no connection for anyone who comes after you to make between you and me. And you need someone you can trust.” Tesser yanked up on his pants and tightened his belt. “Plus it will give me more opportunity to study that fascinating work of craftsmanship, so my offer isn’t entirely altruistic.”

“Do you have a secure room?”

Tesser waggled his fingers in front of him like he was playing air piano. “I have a basement that no one has been in for years.”

“In other words, no.”

“Pshaw. No one will look there.”

“I don’t know, Tesser.” Corin turned and guided them back toward the parking lot. “I want some place with a lock on it. A big lock.”

A tinge of frustration passed over Tesser’s face. Corin sighed. He knew his old friend only wanted to help. But until he figured out what this thing was, Corin wanted it in a spot he could get to anytime he wanted, and he didn’t want anyone else knowing the spot. It would protect them as much as it protected him.

“It’ll be okay in the safe. Trust me.”

“Okay, okay; it’s just if anything happened to you, I’ll never forgive myself and all that . . .”

“You’re not getting mushy on me are you, Tess.”

“You call me Tess again and I’ll deck you.”

Corin laughed.

They walked in silence, the coolness of the air trying to find crevasses in his clothes where it could streak in and send a chill into his marrow.

“Now that I’ve been healed, are you convinced the chair was made by Christ Himself and truly has powers to heal?” Corin asked.

“Almost. It could be psychosomatic.”

“What?”

“Psychosomatic healing. The mind convinces the body it’s healed, and for a time the symptoms are overridden and things seem to be different. But in a majority of cases the symptoms come back.”

“In other words, the healing was in their minds? In my mind? I believed it strongly enough for it to become real?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re kidding.” Corin reached out and caught a gold aspen leaf as it fluttered toward the ground. “If this leaf believes strongly enough that it’s green, will it turn green for a few hours?”

Tesser tapped the side of his head and spoke in a Scottish accent. “Ye cranium is a powerful beasty if ye allow it to be.”

“Doesn’t make sense.” Corin let the leaf fall from his open palm and settle to the ground. “The kid, Brittan, wasn’t believing he was healed of his asthma. He was just sitting in the chair resting. I wasn’t believing I was cured of my claustrophobia. I was just trying to save a dog.”

“Yes, but your mind has been stirring and boiling and baking the idea of a chair with healing powers for almost two weeks now. At night while you sleep, during the hours you’re awake, your subconscious could have convinced you your mind was healed.”

“A. C. felt a warmth and a supernatural peace. He saw these lights and he lifted a three-hundred-pound desk over his head without any pain.”

Tesser kicked at a pile of leaves alongside the path, shooting a good portion of them into the air, and watched them twist back to the ground. “Don’t go all logical and mystical on me at the same time. That’s the kind of cocktail that stings the throat going down.”

“Seriously, do you think it’s all in our minds?”

Tesser smiled. “I’ve lived through enough moons to be honest enough to say I don’t know everything. I’ve also lived long enough to see something supernatural, if there is such a thing in the world, and I haven’t seen conclusive proof of that. So truly, I wouldn’t go around convincing myself I’ve got a chair of power when in all likelihood you don’t. But on the other hand, given the fact you’ve been healed—someone I know and trust—I could almost be persuaded you have in your possession the genuine healing chair of Christ.”

They reached their cars and Corin took Tesser by both shoulders. “Thanks for the wisdom, Prof.”

“Anytime.” Tesser opened the door of his Lexus. “And please know that my hiding the chair for you is a standing and sitting and lying-down offer.”

“I know.” Corin squeezed Tesser’s shoulders, then released his grip. “I appreciate the concern, old friend.”

“Of course.” Tesser shrugged. “Now, given the new light that has been spilled on this adventure, I think we need to get on a plane to Patmos, don’t you?”

“Where John the apostle lived?”

“Precisely.” Tesser rubbed his hands together. “We’ll talk to the locals. This is the kind of legend that never leaves the land in which it was birthed.”

“Tesser—”

“Then we’ll fly from there to Greece where the author of Ladies of the Christ Chair used to live and talk to his children—if they’re still alive which they’re probably not—and his grandchildren if need be.”

“Tesser—”

“See if there’s anything else we need to know that he didn’t put in the book.”

“Tesser!”

The old professor stared at Corin with an irritated look on his face.

“I’ve got a store to run. I can’t jump on and off of planes for weeks at a time. Not to mention I’m broke.”

“No, you can’t worry about those things. You have an adventure to take hold of.”

“I can’t just drop everything and leave for a month.”

“Why?”

Corin sighed. “I have to make money. At least try to make money.”

“I took adventures when I was your age.”

“You didn’t drop your classes and jump on a jet whenever the wild goose squawked your direction.”

“Sure I did. You forget, I went on numerous adventures while you were one of my students and I was working full time at the university. You even complained about how many guest lecturers I always had.” Tesser pulled off his baseball hat and rubbed the stained brim. “How did I do it?”

“You cheated. You had tenure by that time, and you pretended you were in countries on the university’s behalf that you never put one footprint on.” Corin tapped on the roof of Tesser’s Lexus. “You told them you were bringing back artifacts from overseas that would enhance the university’s reputation, when in reality you were buying those pieces from some of your less-than-reputable contacts while you played in exotic ports of grandeur.”

“I didn’t ever do anything immoral.”

“Are you forgetting I joined you on a few of those adventures?”

“I didn’t cheat. Those pieces did enhance the university’s reputation.”

Corin laughed and shook his head. “Someday I’m going to write a book on the adventures we had together and will reveal all your little secrets.”

“I’m an open book. I have no secrets.” Tesser closed his eyes and patted his chest.

Corin smiled. How could he keep from loving the guy? Predictable. Unpredictable. Funny, smart, caring, indifferent. The quintessential contradictive personality. The networks should have made a TV sitcom about his life. It would have been a number-one show.

“Can I bring up something from your past that’s a little painful?”

“I’m too old to carry any pain from the past.”

“Your brother.”

“I see.” Tesser pulled on his chin hairs. “I told you about me and him, huh?”

“Not much, just that you had a falling out and didn’t make it right before he died.”

Tesser closed his eyes and sighed.

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Pshaw.” Tesser batted his hand toward Corin. “Of course we’re going to talk about it. What do you want to know?”

Corin told his friend the story of Shasta and him and as he did, the old man’s eyes watered off and on. When he finished, Tesser took Corin’s hands in his and squeezed for a long time without speaking.

Finally he patted Corin’s arms and rubbed his eyes with the back of his palm. “It is my greatest regret. I didn’t try with my brother. There was always tomorrow. Always one more day I could put it off.” Tesser stood up straight and took Corin by the shoulders. “But you have today. And probably tomorrow. But how many more days, only God can tell. And I don’t think He’s telling.” Tesser let go of Corin’s shoulders and leaned against his Lexus looking five years older. “No regrets, Corin. You know what must be done. Maybe there is healing in the chair.”

Corin nodded and blinked back his own tears.

The thought of calling Shasta and telling him about the chair just took another shift from the realm of insanity into the arena of definite possibility.

SHASTA ROSCOE SAT 5in his wheelchair staring at a photo of Corin and him at the top of Breckenridge Ski Resort. Big smiles splashed on their faces. Arms raised in victory.

The sound of feet behind him on the hardwood floor of his den interrupted his thoughts.

“Why do you keep that photo up?” Robin asked.

“To remind me of what he did.”

She came around to his side and knelt beside his chair. “You can’t hate him forever.”

“I don’t hate him.” He swiveled his head toward her. “I don’t feel anything toward him.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Shasta turned back to the photo, then closed his eyes.

It seemed like centuries ago he’d opened his eyes after the accident, then shut them immediately to block out the harsh glare of the sun. But it hadn’t been the sun.

He reached up to see if his sunglasses were on his face, but his hand didn’t move.

“Mr. Roscoe, I think he’s awake.”

Shasta turned his head to the source of the voice, or tried to. Why wouldn’t his head turn?

The sound of shuffling feet scurried toward him. “Hey, bro. I’m here.”

Corin’s face appeared over him.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s going to be okay.”

“What’s going to be okay? Where am I?” He wasn’t sure why he’d asked the question. He knew exactly where he was. He’d worked two years as a volunteer in high school at a hospital near his house. The smells of a hospital were as familiar to him as his own home.

“You’re in Memorial Hospital.”

“Why?”

“You had an accident.” Corin glanced toward the end of his bed. “When we jumped, you didn’t land right.”

The jump off the ramp flashed into his mind, then the sickening crack he’d felt when he landed. Then blackness. The truth swept over him.

“I’m paralyzed.”

Corin wiped his mouth with the base of his palm and looked away.

“I am, aren’t I?”

“They haven’t finished running all the tests they need to, that they want to. They wanted you to be awake before—”

“Tell me the truth.”

For a long moment Corin looked like he did when they were kids and their Scottish terrier, Max, passed away.

His brother sucked in a breath and held it so long Shasta almost expected him to faint. After finally releasing it Corin said, “They think so.”

“How bad is it? My neck, is it broken?”

Corin paced next to the steel bed rails that held Shasta like he was in a cage. “It’s not good.”

“I’m paralyzed.” Shasta said it again out loud, even though he was speaking to himself. “From the neck down.”

Tears formed in Corin’s eyes as he told Shasta how sorry he was. Over and over and over, but his voice faded as the words he’d spoken echoed through Shasta’s mind. “After this, life will never be the same.”

“You made me jump.” He stared at Corin’s pale face. “Why did you do it?”

“I know, Shasta. I know. I wish—”

“Wish what? You could take it back?”

“Yes. With everything in me. I only did it for—”

“For who, Corin? For me? Or for you to prove what a cool brother you are? So you could have another picture of us doing something crazy to show everyone? Or because you have to have someone with you when you dance with insanity?”

Corin wiped the sweat off his forehead and started to speak. “I—”

“You need to go, Corin.”

“I won’t leave you, I—”

“Leave me? You won’t leave me?” Shasta spit over the railing of his hospital bed, the spittle seeming to hang in the air before it splattered on the floor next to Corin’s shoe. “That’s exactly what you need to do.”

“Shasta . . .”

He closed his eyes and didn’t open them till Corin’s footsteps faded far down the hospital hallway.

At 2 a.m. Shasta woke with an itch just above his left eyebrow, the kind of itch that demanded immediate attention, the type that felt like a soft needle was winding its way into your skin.

He willed his arms, his hands, his fingers to move but they ignored him and lay like discarded driftwood washed up next to his body.

He forced himself to think of anything else but the itch, but it was impossible.

“Hey!” he called. No response. Louder. “Help!” Nothing. And no answer the second time, third time, fourth time. He ranted into the dark hallways of the hospital and eventually the itch faded.

But the rage inside him didn’t. Rage toward himself. Rage toward the gods who would allow this to happen. Rage toward Corin who had altered his life for the rest of his days.

But whose fault was it? Shasta’s for agreeing? Corin’s for pushing him to go off the jump? Maybe both. Maybe neither.

It didn’t matter.

He vowed to block Corin out of his life forever.

“Shasta, are you with me?”

He opened his eyes to find Robin standing in front of him, eyes questioning.

“I’m here.” He blinked as if that would throw off the emotions the memory had stirred.

“Corin loves you deeply.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do.” She kissed him gently on the forehead. “And you’ll never convince me otherwise.”

Robin’s footsteps faded just as Corin’s had all those years ago, and Shasta let his head fall back against the headrest of his chair.

No, he would never let Corin back into his life.

He couldn’t.

CHAPTER 36

After Corin wrapped up another day of almost nonexistent business at his store, he drove to Tori’s dojo and picked her up, ready to talk about a subject he knew she wanted to bury. They were headed to see Tori’s nephew perform in a junior high rendition of Guys and Dolls. The play a little mature for a crew of sixth, seventh, and eighth graders, but apparently the drama teacher was a frustrated Broadway wannabe.

As they pulled out of Tori’s parking lot Corin said, “I’m giving serious consideration to calling Shasta, to see if he’ll come sit in the chair.”

Two nights earlier he’d told Tori about Shasta’s accident, about the experimental operation, and about Jefferies’ offer.

“You’re going to what?” Tori squinted at him as if she had chugged two shots of straight lemon juice.

“You heard me.”

“Great idea. Brilliant.” She flipped on the radio and Coldplay blared out of his speakers.

“I’m hearing a sliver of sarcasm in your voice.” He turned the radio down.

“Really?”

As they pulled up to a red light, Corin turned to Tori. “I have to try.”

“Just sell the chair to the pastor and run.”

“I have to try this first.”

“You’re still thinking this comic-book-healing-people story of yours really has come to life, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Corin turned and stared at the stoplight until it turned green. Green equals go. And the impression he’d gotten from sitting in the chair was a brilliant emerald shade. So was talking to Tesser. So was talking to Nicole. How many more lights did he need? But what if it didn’t work?

“What if Shasta doesn’t get healed? What will that do to your relationship?”

What? Did she read minds now? “It has to.”

“Do you really want to ruin any chance of having a relationship with him if it doesn’t work?”

Corin ground his fingers into the back of his neck in a vain attempt to loosen the gathering knots under his skin. “I don’t have a relationship with Shasta now. What difference would it make?”

“It would make a difference, believe me.” Tori slumped back in her seat and huffed. “At least now there’s hope. Didn’t you tell me he’s slowly thawing? That his wife said there were signs of hope?”

“Yeah, the glaciers in Alaska are thawing too.”

“Don’t cause another Ice Age.”

“I haven’t told you what happened.” Corin switched off the radio. “The chair healed someone else.”

“Who?”

He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Me.”

After telling her his story, Corin waited for Tori to respond. She didn’t.

“Did you hear me? I was healed, Tori. Me. This isn’t a legend or a fairy tale any longer. If A. C. and Brittan and I can be healed, so can Shasta.”

“How do you know it wasn’t your mind finally letting go of your fear?”

“It wasn’t. I would know.”

Tori shrugged. “I’m not buying. Brittan outgrows his asthma around the time he sits in the chair, A. C. gets a cortisone shot or breaks up some painful scar tissue after he sits in the chair, and you finally get control of an emotional—not physical, mind you—issue and you’re convinced this chair contains the healing power of God.”

“Why are you so against the idea of this chair being able to bring people healing? Does it have to start curing cancer for you to believe?”

“No reason.” Tori cranked her arms tight across her chest.

“Your body language doth scream in protest that this be a statement devoid of truth.”

“Nice work, Agatha.”

“Ms. Christie wrote about the detectives; she wasn’t one herself.” Corin stepped on the gas to get through an intersection before the light shifted from yellow to red. “Are you going to tell me?”

Tori turned toward the window of Corin’s Toyota Highlander.

“Wow. I wasn’t trying to get in the ring with you on this. If you don’t want to talk about it, let’s not talk about it. No big deal.” Corin glanced at her. All he saw was the back of her head.

They drove in silence for five minutes. Probably his move to chip at the wall of ice that had formed between them. “Any of your students impressing you these days?”

“My uncle.”

“Your uncle is taking karate from you?”

“My uncle is the reason I think you should keep your brother away from the chair.”

“What does your uncle have to do with Shasta?”

She didn’t answer for so long Corin thought she wouldn’t say any more. But she shifted toward him in her seat—arms still folded—and stared out the windshield.

“Growing up he was my favorite uncle. When I was fifteen he was diagnosed with an aggressive form of MS. In four months he went from running marathons to spending all his waking hours sitting in an old wheelchair.

“Except for Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights.” She wriggled her hands in the air. “Twice a week we piled in the car and drove—sometimes for hours—in order to endure a three- or five- or eight-hour healing service that never healed my uncle. Those quacks claimed to be men of God, to be able to channel His miiiiiiighty healing power, but for some funny reason, they couldn’t see my uncle where he sat ten feet in front of them.

“For some reason God told them to bring other people up on stage who ‘the spirit of God had fallen on’ and lo and behold, they were healed!

“My uncle started to resist going, but my dad kept pushing. He was always convinced the next healing service would be the one that would restore my uncle to full health. Finally my uncle said no more and refused to go. But my dad got out the crowbar and my uncle went a few more times.” Tori went silent again, the only sound her accelerated breathing.

“Finally my uncle shouted enough and stopped talking to my dad, my mom, even me.” Tori blinked but the tears still came. “When my uncle died I said enough as well. I was done with God.”

Corin gripped the wheel tighter and tried to find the right words, but none came.

As they rode in silence, Tori dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

“They chased a dream made of broken wings that never flew.” She blew her nose and brushed back her hair. “All I’m saying is, you need to get out some seriously sensitive scales and decide if this is worth your relationship with Shasta. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the three of you were healed supernaturally. But if you weren’t, and Shasta sits in that chair and nothing happens, my prediction is any hope of having a relationship with him will be lost forever.”

They pulled into the parking lot of the junior high, found a spot, and Corin shut off the engine. But they didn’t get out.

“One more thing, Corin.”

“Yeah?”

“If you go down that path, I’m not going with you.”

“What path?”

“I see the look in your eyes. You’re thinking if the chair is real, then God must be real. You’re thinking God really could be intervening in the lives of men and if that’s true you need to look into Him more.”

“So?”

“I’m not going there.”

“What does that mean?”

“If you’re going to get into God, it’s okay by me—I still love my parents and I have lots of friends who are Christians—I just want to be clear I don’t want to be part of it.”

“But we can still be together.”

“I don’t know. You get converted and things would get weird.”

“I’m not getting converted. But I can’t ignore what is happening to me.”

Corin got out of the car, went around the passenger side, and opened Tori’s door. She stared at him for five seconds before getting out. “Just think about what I said, okay?”

He would and did. The play might have been good. Corin didn’t know. He spent the hour and a half inside the cramped junior high theater trying to make a final decision.

When Corin got home that night, he e-mailed Nicole and did something he’d never asked anyone to do for him.

Dear Nicole,

Part of me is determined to call Shasta in the morning. Another part says it would ruin any chance of seeing our relationship healed. I could use wisdom. Could you talk to God about this for me? I’m making my decision one way or another in the morning.

He stopped typing and once again played through the scenarios Tori and Tesser had planted in his mind. The image of Tesser’s eyes filling with tears won out and Corin turned back to his keyboard.

Actually, I just made the decision. I promise you tomorrow morning I’ll pick up the phone and call him.

Corin.

He hesitated, then depressed the key on his laptop and sent his e-mail down the cyber corridors into Nicole’s in-box.

Now he was committed.

CHAPTER 37

Corin stared at his cell phone and played mind games with himself. Ten o’clock. Still two hours of morning left. He’d committed to himself and Nicole he’d call Shata in the morning. He could wait another hour and fifty-nine minutes before calling. Sixty seconds before noon was still morning, right?

No, he had to call soon. The store needed to be open by noon and he didn’t want to race through town to get there on time. He’d been so certain last night. And now resistance had risen like the Green Goblin to fight what he knew needed to be done.

He set his cell phone down, eased over to his basement door, and slowly opened it. The stairs popped with creaks and moans as he descended into the basement. He opened the locked room that contained the chair, inched over to it, squatted down, and tapped the wood as if he were a concert pianist warming up.

“Will you heal him?”

There was no answer. No warmth, no glow to give him courage.

It didn’t matter. Corin turned and clomped back up the stairs, sat at his kitchen table, and spun his phone in a circle. “God, I could use some help with this call.”

Make the call.

The idea filled his mind along with a sliver of peace. He could do this.

How long had it been since he’d actually spoken to Shasta? Three years? Or was it four?

Corin spun his cell phone again on his oak table and dug his fingers into the knot at the base of his neck. How would he start the conversation? “Hey, it’s me, the person you hate most in the entire world.”

Corin picked up his cell phone and walked back to the door to the basement.

As he eased back down the stairs into the basement, he changed the settings on his phone to block his caller ID. If Shasta didn’t know who was calling, maybe he would take it. But if he knew it was Corin, there was even less chance. Shasta would let it go to voice mail and Robin would call the store or Corin’s phone and express her regret once again.

Corin entered the vault, sat cross-legged next to the chair, and sucked in a breath, then held it as long as he could before letting it out in a rush.

It was time.

He punched in his brother’s number and waited for voice mail to kick in.

“Hello?”

Corin puffed out a surprised cough.

“Hello?”

“Shasta. It’s Corin.” His heart hammered like the bass drum at a rock concert.

For fifteen seconds the only sound was Shasta’s labored breathing.

“Why did you call me?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I’d rather not. I’m not ready to talk yet.”

“It’s been ten years, Shasta.”

Another thirty seconds of breathing.

“You shouldn’t have called. I appreciate what you do for Sawyer; you’ve been a good uncle to him. But there’s no point in our talking about anything till I’m ready. Today is not that day.”

“This is important. We have to talk now. Two minutes, Shasta, two.”

“No, we don’t have to talk. Good-bye—”

“Do you want to be healed?” Corin blurted out before thinking. It was the worst thing he could say. And the best.

Again, only breathing.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

Corin didn’t know. Maybe he was insane. Maybe the chair wouldn’t work on Shasta. Maybe? Likely. Maybe Tori was right and nothing but pain would come of this. Maybe all he was doing was resurrecting the horror of that day that changed both their lives when it should stay locked away in the basement of both their hearts forever.

“Because I have to.” Corin stood and glanced at a picture he’d brought down a few days earlier and propped up at the back of the room. He and Shasta on their dirt bikes, arms raised in victory.

C’mon, God, I need some kind of victory right now.

“I have to go.” Shasta took two long breaths. “I wish I could pretend the past doesn’t exist. But I can’t. I don’t need to dwell on it and neither do you. So don’t call me again. It’s the best for both of us, don’t you think?”

He had time to say one more thing. And since Corin was already over the edge, he might as well see if the parachute would open. He ran his finger along the back of the chair and a current of warmth ran up his arm.

“I think I’ve found a way for you to be healed.”

“Don’t do this to me.”

“It’s something you need to try.”

“Have you wiped the days after you did this to me out of your memory? I’ve tried everything. Even drinking special concoctions of foul-tasting herbs four times a day for a month.” Shasta let out a disgusted laugh. “Everything.”

“A few weeks ago I was given a—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Do you remember Avena? A. C.? He was healed. He sat in this ancient chair I was given and two days later an old shoulder injury that’s bothered him for years vanished.”

Corin could still hear Shasta’s breathing so he plowed ahead.

“And this kid who came into my store and almost keeled over from an asthma attack sat in this chair, and the next day he’s completely cured.”

Shasta stayed silent, sighed through the phone, and then finally spoke. “I don’t care what worked for A. C. I don’t care if this kid thinks the chair healed him. I don’t need you stirring up hope where there is none and never can be. I don’t need you pretending you can fix my life like you’ve been trying to do for the past ten years through gifts and e-mails saying you’re thinking of me and expressing an interest in my son. You already changed my life once. That’s not enough for you? ”

“When this woman showed up in my store three weeks ago with the chair and told me the next month of my life would be heaven or hell and that I would be given hope for restoration, I thought she was loco. But I’ve seen a slice of heaven and, yeah, these healings have given me hope.”

“So I sit in this magical chair and suddenly I can move something below my neck?”

“I don’t know.” Corin gripped the leg of the chair. “I hope that will happen.”

The electrical whirl of Shasta’s chair echoed through the phone. Probably his brother turning to look out the picture window in his den, staring at a playground he hadn’t stepped into in ten years.

“Have you sat in it?”

Corin hesitated. “Yes.”

“Were you healed?”

“Yes.”

Shasta took in a deep breath. “What part of you was healed?”

“My claustrophobia.”

“I see.” Shasta paused again. “And your feelings about being underwater?”

Corin stared at the chair. He knew where his brother was going and didn’t know how to respond. If he lied and said his deepest fear was healed, his brother would see through it like a window. If he told the truth—that his fear of the water was as deep as ever—he’d be handing his brother a verbal baseball bat.

“No, not that.” Corin wiped the moisture from his forehead.

“What about your right knee? Still stiff in the mornings?”

“Yes.”

“So nothing physical was healed, and not your major malady, just a small neurosis in your mind.”

“Shasta, you—”

Shasta laughed sarcastically. “But you’re sure this chair will work for me, why? Because I’m a cripple and am more worthy to be healed?”

“If I hadn’t seen the healings with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have called. If it hadn’t healed me. There’s power in this chair. Isn’t it worth trying?”

“No, it’s not. Hope is better left dead. Each time it’s resurrected, its subsequent death is a little harder to take. So I’ve killed it for good. Or I’ve tried. But you and I know, and the whole human race knows, you can’t kill hope entirely because there’s always one little bubble willing to rise with the slightest encouragement. And that would happen if I let you put me in that chair. I would hope once more, I would let it sweep me into your little shop, and I would sit in your ancient artifact and nothing would happen.”

Corin let go of the chair. “I had to ask, Shasta.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yeah, I did.” Corin climbed the stairs up from the basement one at a time, resting for a second or two on each step. “Do you remember when Dad taught us to fly those stunt kites the summer of 1985? And we started having dogfights in the sky? Do you remember what he called us? Snoopy and the Red Baron. You were Snoopy; I was always the Red Baron. I was the bad guy.” Corin walked across his living room and stared out at the same gray sky his brother was probably looking at.

“No, Corin. You weren’t the bad guy then and you aren’t now. I know you didn’t mean to shoot my plane down.”

What? He slumped onto his couch. Was Shasta saying he didn’t hold what Corin had done against him? “If . . . then why won’t—?”

“Because when the night goes silent and I fall asleep and enter the world of dreams, I do fly, and I dream of the adventures you and I used to have, and I can’t live with those memories filling my mind.” His brother’s voice trembled and he stopped talking for thirty seconds.

“And every morning when my eyes flutter open, I remember I will never get in the cockpit again. And do you know who I see sitting in the seat behind the cockpit?”

“No.”

Shasta sniffed. “I see my son. I see Robin. I see other friends who I will never be able to take into the sky. I see the longing on their faces to watch me do more than sit in a chair, a longing they try so hard to conceal from me but can’t entirely. They pretend it’s okay that I can’t throw a baseball or stake a tent or take a stroll through gold and red leaves scattered in the park.

“I sit on that tarmac in my wheelchair almost every night and fight through the despair almost every morning.” Shasta coughed, from emotion or something caught in his throat, Corin couldn’t tell. “And do you know who I miss sitting in the cockpit with most of all?”

Shasta sucked in three heaving breaths. “Do you know who I dream about at night the most often?”

Corin knew.

“We were free together. We were free.” Shasta didn’t try to hide his emotion any longer, and the sound of his tears filled Corin’s phone. “I have to fight the dreams every night, brother. I can’t do it in real life as well.”

Corin glanced around the room as if he could find something that would tell him how to react, what to say next, but there was nothing to save him. “Shasta, I—”

“Good-bye, Corin. Don’t call me again.”

Corin watched the display on his cell phone hibernate into darkness.

He slipped his phone into his jeans, then picked up the chair and moved it to the hidden bunker he’d constructed, which sat in the woods behind his home. Corin spent the rest of the day at his store trying to push his way through the haze of disappointment and trying to figure out what to do next.

He drove home that evening wanting only one thing. A night without having to think about anything other than if The Avengers movie next summer would be any good. But a nagging voice inside said he was about to be given a lot more to consider.

CHAPTER 38

Corin pulled into his driveway that night at seven thirty wanting to escape the pain of Shasta’s reaction but refusing to give in. He thought his brother hated him all these years. But it wasn’t hate. It was regret and longing mixed into an emotional Molotov cocktail Shasta refused to drink.

He sighed as he slid his satchel onto the kitchen counter and stared at Outside magazine sitting next to his espresso maker. It sat further forward than he remembered leaving it. The mind was already going and he was still six years away from forty.

Given the stress he’d been under lately, he was surprised he remembered anything.

He stopped in the bathroom, doused his face with cold water, slicked his hair back, and walked back to the kitchen. After grabbing two hard-boiled eggs out of the refrigerator, he trudged toward his dark living room, flopped onto his couch, grabbed the remote, and flicked on the TV.

Wait.

Movement. His heart pounded.

Something in the corner of the room had moved. Heat filled his body as he stared at the outline of a figure sitting in the chair in the far corner of the room to his right. A second later the lamp next to the chair snapped on and bathed Mark Jefferies in a soft gold light.

“Hello, Corin.”

“What are you doing in my house!” He leaped up and backed up toward his kitchen.

“Trying to get your attention.” Mark smiled, his ultrawhite teeth shouting confidence along with a dash of desperation at the same time. “I think it worked.”

“What do you want?”

“Just to talk.”

Corin waited for his heart rate to ease back toward normal. “Looks like you’re flying solo tonight.” Corin glanced around the room. “Where are your thugs?”

“They don’t like being called thugs. I don’t either. Don’t do it again.”

“But isn’t that what they are?”

Mark drilled Corin with his green eyes. “You want to die on this hill?”

“No worries about guilt by association?”

“I only have one person I’m worried about appearances for.”

“And that would be?”

“Christ.”

Unbelievable. If this guy was a representative of Jesus to the world, then the future of Christianity was in ocean-deep trouble. “I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do see.” Mark waved his hand around Corin’s living room. “I’m not interested in houses or cars or boats or vacation homes or fame. I’m interested in the truth. And speaking the truth makes some people mad.”

“And that’s why you have your, uh, bodyguards?”

Mark stretched his neck. “When I talk about the gay agenda and rights for the unborn, death threats fly at me like a hive of mad hornets. So I make the target on my back as hard to hit as possible.” Mark crossed his leg and beat out a rhythm on it with his hands.

“What do you want?”

“Like I’ve said from the start, I want to help you. You need someone on your side.”

“No thanks.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t sign up for this mission. If I could make the chair disappear tomorrow I would. The only reason I’ve hidden it is because of people like you.”

“Really?” Mark uncrossed his leg and leaned forward. “You would walk away? I don’t think so. If that were true, you would have jumped at my offer to buy the chair. I think you want answers.”

“Not interested.”

“I believe I have something that will persuade you to think differently.”

Corin strode to his front door and held it open. “Time to go, Jefferies.”

“No problem.” Mark raised his hands, then stood and lumbered toward the front door. Just before he got to Corin, he took a small dark book out of his coat and smacked Corin’s shoulder with it. “I came by because I thought you might want to take a look at this.” Mark held the book with his fingers on the edge as if displaying a framed photo. “Definitely interesting reading. It might enlighten you considerably.”

The cover read, The Chair of Christ: The Reality Among the Legends.

Adrenaline surged through Corin.

“I take it from the look on your face you haven’t read this.”

“Can I see it?” Why hadn’t Tesser talked about this book? Maybe he didn’t know about it. Or maybe he had the entire text memorized, but it wasn’t worth bringing up because Tesser considered it—in his words—“bunkum.”

Or was it a fake?

“Of course. But I’d want something in exchange.” As he passed Corin he held the book out just beyond reach. “Why don’t we plan on talking about this more tomorrow morning? Let’s say ten o’clock at Forest Lawn Park? I’ll bring a football and we’ll toss a few while we talk, all right?”

Football? This guy was swimming in the deep end without a paddle. “I need to think about that.”

“You need someone on your side, Corin. And you need to see this book.”

“I have plenty of people on my side.”

“Who? Your mysterious lady friend? Tesser?”

“Yes.”

“They’re not on your side.”

“Why do you say that?” Corin leaned against his front door and stopped a few feet from Jefferies.

“What do you really know about Tesser? You took some classes from him? You went on some trips together? And what do you know about Nicole?”

“I know enough.”

Mark waved his hand. “Yes, of course, you know her name. Her first name. What else? I haven’t been able to find anything on her.” Mark squinted. “We’re coming up blank. Which means unless she’s spilled her life story to you, you don’t know any more than I do.” Mark cocked his head. “Am I right?”

Heat rose to Corin’s face. Mark was right. Tesser he knew. But Nicole? He knew nothing about her. Only what she’d told him. And why had he taken that as truth? True, his gut told him he could trust her. An extraordinary lady. Wise. Caring. But he’d believed his ex-wife was telling the truth the whole time she was having an affair with his cousin. Ex-cousin if that was possible.

“How do I know you’re worthy of my trust? That you’re telling the truth?”

“You don’t.”

“But you’re still asking me to trust you, just like Nicole.”

“Yes.”

“I let you see the chair, you let me see your book.”

“Exactly.” Mark licked his lips. “Plus I want to meet Nicole.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“You can at least ask her.”

Corin looked at the book and at Mark. Then he dropped his arm and took a step back. “I’ll think about it.” Corin motioned for Jefferies to leave. “I’ll let you know in twenty-four hours.”

Mark stared at him for ten seconds before turning and walking out the door.

Corin settled onto his couch, flicked on the TV, pulled up Iron Man on Netflix, and watched it for an hour. An hour in which he wrestled with the possibility of Nicole having fooled his gut into trusting her when her trust wasn’t warranted.

As his clock struck midnight, he still hadn’t reached a conclusion.

Time to go wrestle his dreams.

Just like Shasta. Like brother, like brother.

Mark had planted a seed of doubt, and Corin wasn’t sure if that seed was a flower to be watered, or if he should take weed killer to the idea and scorch the life out of it.

Tomorrow after he closed the store, he’d try to get an answer straight from the gardener.

CHAPTER 39

Corin watched Nicole sit as if carved in stone on a park bench too close to the waters of Woodmoor Lake. Only ten yards between her and the lapping waves. Had she sat that close to the lake with intent?

The sun lit her hair and turned its white shades whiter in spots and made her profile stand out in stark contrast to the gold and red shades of a November afternoon behind her. It looked like her eyes were closed.

As he stared at her all doubts Mark Jefferies had stirred the night before were swept away by the breeze meandering off the lake.

He was still staring at her three minutes later when she turned and spied him. She smiled, blinked, then closed her eyes again and resumed her imitation of Lady Liberty.

As Corin approached Nicole, he studied the undulations in his nemesis and for the millionth time tried to make peace. You survived. You were a kid. Let the fear go! But the roar of his heart said never.

“We have to stop meeting like this. People will start to talk,” Corin said when he reached Nicole and sat beside her.

“Let them.” Nicole turned and rested her elbow on the back of the bench. “How have you been, Corin?”

“The chair continues to make life interesting.”

“That I don’t doubt.” She smiled. “Did you keep your commitment? Did you call your brother?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“We had the longest conversation we’ve had since the accident.”

“Did he give an answer to your invitation?”

“Yes.” Corin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers intertwined. “He will never sit in the chair. And probably will never speak to me again. I took my shot.”

“So what do you do now?”

“You don’t have that answer for me?” Corin tried to smile, sat back, and folded his arms. The sun spread diamonds across the surface of the lake, which made him squint against their power. But their power was nothing compared to the hold the water held over him. It squeezed him in the middle of the night when the nightmares came and he drowned again and again. It pummeled his mind as if he were in a washing machine.

Why hadn’t the chair healed him of that fear?

“And what about you, Corin. Did you sit in the chair again?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“It healed me.”

“Of what?”

“My claustrophobia.”

“I’m glad.” Nicole nodded as if she had been expecting him to tell her that. “Do you believe now?”

“It’s crazy to say this, but I’m still not sure, even after being healed. Maybe Tori is right and all the healings came from our minds.” Corin kicked at the stones at his feet. “Do you really believe this chair was made by the Son of God?”

“I’m not sure it matters what I believe as much as what you believe.”

“I believe there’s some type of power attached to it.”

“Then you have your answer.”

“But it’s not the way you would answer the question.”

Nicole shook her head. “No.”

“Then what type of power do you think is in the chair?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet, what?”

“It’s not time to answer.” Nicole reached in her pocket, took out a handful of seeds, and tossed them toward a sparrow that flitted on the grass on the other side of the path.

“Why not?” Corin gritted his teeth. All she ever seemed to give was nonanswers or cryptic replies that only led to more questions.

She smiled at Corin but didn’t answer.

“Tell me!” He leaned toward her. “If I’d convinced Shasta to sit in the chair, would it have healed him?”

She patted his hand in the same way Tesser often did. “I do not know. I am not God.” She threw more seeds for another sparrow that had joined the first. “I listen to His voice. I follow where He leads me. I hope I am listening with ears to hear.”

“What does that mean?”

“That’s it’s not yet time to tell you what I believe to be true about the chair.”

“When will it be time?”

“When it’s time.”

Corin let his gaze follow the shoreline from the far left of the lake to the far right. There was beauty in the water. Part of him could reach back to a time where he loved the water, when he longed for summer afternoons full of cascading down a river in inner tubes too big for him or any of his friends, of finding tree branches over the water strong enough to handle a rope and a swinging boy. And of racing through the water in swim meets, pinning another blue ribbon to the wall of his room.

“The chair didn’t heal me of my fear of the water.”

“No.” Nicole clasped and unclasped her hands.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.” She glanced at him with her piercing blue eyes. “He knows.”

The look in her eyes unnerved him. So confident. So knowing. So . . . “Who are you?”

“A friend.”

“You’re more than that.”

“Do you think Tesser believes the chair holds the power of God?”

“How do you know I’ve been talking to Tesser? Have you been spying on me?”

“Most assuredly. We’ve already talked about this.” She laughed like liquid light. “That chair is too much of a lightning rod not to keep tabs on the person it’s been given to.”

“What about the chair itself? Aren’t you worried about it?”

“Not as much. It doesn’t match my concern for you.”

Corin turned to her with a question she might not answer, but he’d be able to learn something from how she responded. “Are you a descendant of the order that swore to protect the chair?”

Nicole smiled and slid her eyeteeth over her lower lip. “It sounds like your studies with the professor have enlightened you.”

“True.”

“And have you enjoyed what you’ve learned?”

“You’re not avoiding the question, are you?”

“Most assuredly.”

“But if you were to answer the question, how would you respond?”

Nicole smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles in her pleated slacks. “I would tell you if the fantastical legends purported in Tesser’s book were true, that yes, I would likely fit the profile.”

“Mark Jefferies wants to meet the legend.”

“He does, hmm?”

“Badly.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Why?”

Nicole didn’t answer.

Two boys, eight, maybe nine years old, stumbled past them, one with an old NFL Junior Football grasped in his arms, the other tugging on it with his arms and the full weight of his body.

“Give it up!” The boy without yanked hard on the ball.

“Make me!” the other said, twisting to pull away.

“I will!”

Corin grimaced as the war raged between the two boys. Had he and Shasta fought the same war thousands of times as they’d grown up? Or was it ten thousand? He smiled. Their fights always ended in them making up and building a jump for their bicycles or climbing the tallest tree in the woods across the street from their house.

But their war ended ten years ago, after he’d made his brother ski off a ledge into a world where one side had retreated beyond the battlefield to a realm Corin couldn’t reach.

The pain of yesterday’s conversation continued to echo in his mind as loud as summer thunder. Corin gave a quick shake of his head, as if to purge his mind, and then turned to Nicole. “Are you the lady from the legend?”

“Corin, you don’t need to ask me that question again. You know who I am. You need to choose to believe or not believe. In me. In the chair. In yourself.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Choose to believe you are the one the chair is to go to. That you will write the next chapter in the legend, because I think deep inside, you believe fully in the chair and are coming to believe in its Maker.”

She was right; he had taken the idea of the chair deep into his heart. Strongly. It gave him a purpose. Something of lore, of legend. Not a comic book, but real life.

“But you were supposed to give the chair to a daughter, a direct descendant, not some stranger.” Corin hesitated and rubbed the bench with the palms of his hands. “Did you never marry? Didn’t you have a daughter to pass the chair to?”

“Yes, I married.” Nicole pursed her lips and stared at the lake.

“And?”

“And yes, I had a daughter.”

Corin wasn’t sure how to ask the next question so he simply stated it. “And is she alive?”

“She is not.”

“I’m sorry.”

“As am I.” She patted his hand then. “Thank you, Corin.”

For the first time, Nicole’s eyes clouded and moisture filled them. She tried to laugh as she wiped her cheek with the back of her fingers. “It was a long time ago.”

“What was?”

“Nothing.” Nicole blinked back more tears.

“I didn’t mean to pry.”

She smoothed back her hair and didn’t speak till at least a minute had passed. “I didn’t get to say good-bye.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She wouldn’t let me. She thought my belief in the chair was crazy.” Nicole massaged the top of her hand with the other. “She didn’t want me talking to her children about it and made me swear I would never contact them.”

“Did you keep your promise?”

She turned and offered Corin a sad smile. “No, I did not.”

“Do you regret breaking that promise?”

“No.”

“Why—?”

“Have you decided if you’ll follow the One who made the chair?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“When you’ve made your decision, I think it will be time to tell you why I gave the chair to you.” Nicole stood and held her hands out to Corin and he took them. “This was a delight, but I must go. Those clouds look like rain and I want to get home before the skies open up.” She squeezed his hands twice, then turned to go. “Don’t worry,” she called out over her shoulder as she clipped away, “we’ll chat again soon.”

“When?”

“Sooner or later.”

Corin puffed out a long sigh and decided to head for the cemetery. He needed to talk to his parents.

CHAPTER 40

Corin drove away from his meeting with Nicole hoping the rain would hold off till he reached the cemetery and was finished with his time there. It didn’t. A light mist filtered down out of the darkening sky and blanketed his windshield as he pulled into the parking lot.

It was empty except for his car. It didn’t surprise him. Who else came to graveyards in the evening unless it was October 31 or prank night for high school kids looking for a rush? Corin did it to be alone.

After he slid out of his car and locked the doors, he shuffled down the familiar path that would take him to his parents’ matching headstones. Two minutes later he slipped to his knees in front of their graves, the dampness of the lawn seeping through his jeans, chilling his knees. He didn’t care. The loamy smell of the soil filled his head and he breathed it in deeply.

“Watching us grow up, did you ever think Shasta and I would arrive at this spot? Two kids who did everything together, who made you wear grooves in the road taking us to the emergency room after one of our adventures.”

Like the time they were six and four and jumped off the roof and discovered that Superman and Batman capes didn’t automatically make them fly.

“All you wanted for us was to be friends—and you got your dream. And left us thinking we’d be best friends forever. But if you’ve watched lately, the dream crashed and burned.” He glanced from his mom’s headstone to his dad’s. “And now it looks like the final chance for restoration has vanished. Just thought you should know.”

He jammed his hands into his coat pocket. “What did you think of my final try? Did you think Shasta could sit in my magical chair and it would heal him and we’d be jumping dirt bikes over canyons again? Did we ever tell you about the time Shasta came six inches from landing his bike three hundred feet down in the Metus River and almost beat you to this cemetery?”

The lamppost to his right flickered and then went out as if on cue, smothering him in the darkening twilight. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry, Dad. So sorry.”

Corin closed his eyes and instantly images flooded his mind. First the accident, the numbness in Shasta’s eyes as he lay on the slope waiting for the ski patrol, soft flakes of snow landing on his face and Corin realizing in a flash why his brother didn’t brush them off.

An instant later that scene was replaced by the rippling surface of Lake Vereor. He wasn’t sleeping, but the pictures in his head were just as vivid as if he were buried deep in the dream. A shake of his head did nothing to rid him of the terror. He tried to stand but instead tumbled onto his side and his eyes closed and he entered the world between dreaming and waking.

This time no light filtered through the surface of the water five feet over his head. There was only darkness as his dad yanked on his life jacket.

Water flowed around his body, pressing in on him as if he was hundreds of feet down, pressing into his eardrums like ice picks.

His dad dove a second time. A third. A fourth.

But it no longer mattered. All the air had been purged from his lungs and now they were full of water.

There was no panic this time, no determination to reach the surface, no life in his fingers to scrawl his desire to live into his dad’s forearms. Only acceptance that all hope was gone.

And the fear. Deeper this time than it had ever been.

Corin shrank inside himself till he was smaller than an atom, but still the fear came and found him, mocked him, and a moment later devoured him.

He woke to the kiss of soft rain on his face, the lamp to his left flickering off and on, and the smell of damp soil.

The vision or dream—he couldn’t tell which it had been—faded quickly but left him with a thought that lingered like a chilling fog.

Death would win, had won, had always held him in the palm of its hand, and would never let him slip through its fingers.

CHAPTER 41

When Corin arrived at his store on Wednesday morning, A. C. stood leaning against the front door with two oversized chocolate muffins and two large cups of what he assumed was industrial-strength coffee and a big grin on his face; an I-want-something grin.

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d bribe you into letting me take another ride in your chair.”

Corin laughed. “What now? Broken toenail?” He opened the door and held it for A. C.

“Nah, I just want to sit in it. Find that peace again.” A. C. lumbered in and set the muffins and coffee on Corin’s sales counter.

“You’re going all spiritual on me?”

“Haven’t you thought about it? About God since all this started happening?”

He had. More than once. More than twice. The idea had been pinging around his brain long before Nicole had brought it up the day before. “Yeah.” Corin flicked on the store lights. “I have.” He turned but A. C. must have already ambled back to the vault.

Corin was halfway back when A. C. pounded toward him, face white, eyes intense.

“You all right?”

“It’s gone!”

“What’s gone?”

“What do you mean what, the chair!” A. C. paced the lamp aisle like he was getting ready to punch something. “Did you hide it?”

“No.”

“Don’t rock me, are you serious?”

Corin pushed past him and walked to the vault.

It was empty. Corin’s face flushed.

“That chair healed me.” A. C. slammed his palm on the vault door. “It could have helped a lot of people. It could have helped your brother.”

“It’s okay, A. C.”

The big man turned to Corin. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What?”

“You don’t seem that upset.”

“It’s okay; I’m not thrilled about this, but it’s okay.”

“The chair is gone, Corin. It’s not okay. We lost it!”

“No, we didn’t.” Corin offered his friend a slight smile.

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope.”

“You built a duplicate.”

Corin nodded. “Just in case.” He waved his hands. “Reconstructing the chair was intense. The thing mesmerized me. So simple, so complex. It took me seven tries before I got it right, and even then I wasn’t even close.”

“But close enough. You fooled them.”

“Apparently.”

“You are brilliant, Roscoe.” A. C. smiled, but a moment later his mood darkened. “But we still have the issue of someone breaking into your store and stealing what they think is the chair.”

“Exactly. We’re not talking vandalism anymore; we’re talking a full-out crime. No signs of forced entry, which means they’re pros. Probably thought they’d have a few days before I found the ‘chair’ was missing. And yes, I fooled them for a while. But once they figure out it isn’t the real chair, they’ll come after it again.”

Corin paced in front of vault. “I built the duplicate just in case something like this happened, but I wanted to believe it wouldn’t.” He crossed his hands on top of his head. “Wrong.”

“Who? Who took it?”

“Jefferies. I suppose it could have been someone else I haven’t bumped into, but that’s where I’d place my bet.”

“So where is the real one?”

“Safe.”

A. C. laughed. “Where is it?”

“Safe.”

“You’re not going to tell me.” His friend cocked his head. “Thanks for the trust.”

“I trust you. I don’t trust them. If you don’t know, you don’t have to lie. Something you’re not good at.”

“Where do you go from here?”

“Get in touch with my new pals down at the police department, explain what happened, watch them serve me up with platitudes, and walk off with nothing but a ‘we’ll try to locate your old piece of wood and track down the people who took it.’”

“Don’t you think you’re in a little over your head?”

Corin glared at him.

“Sorry, wrong metaphor.”

“No worries.”

“I’m just saying this is beyond you at this point. You need to get someone else involved. To protect you.”

“Who?”

A. C. threw his arms wide. “Me.”

Corin shut the vault and spun the combination. “I don’t need protection. I have a feeling this thing is going to be over soon, one way or another.”

“What does that mean?”

“I wish I knew.”

As Corin drove home that night, he tried Tesser but there was no answer. Next he tried Nicole. Something she’d said made him realize who she was. And who he was to her. Waiting till she could confirm what he suspected wouldn’t be easy.

CHAPTER 42

I’ve been praying for you, Corin.”

“It’s making things worse.” He yawned and stretched his legs.

“Tell me about that.”

Nicole and he sat at the lake, both covered in heavy coats against the cold of an early November night.

Corin gazed at the lake and told Nicole about the replica of the chair being stolen and the dream and what had happened at the cemetery.

“It seems Someone is trying to get your attention.”

“God.”

“Only you can answer that.” She rubbed her shoulders and pulled her wool hat farther down her head. “And how are you feeling about Shasta?”

“I’m burying the hope our relationship will ever be restored.”

“Oh, don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t want to. As painful as it is, the deepest part of you wants to hang on to that hope. To deny that hope is to deny one of the most significant parts of yourself.”

She was right of course. He would never be able to snuff out the pilot light that burned for Shasta. But after his talk with his brother the other day, any hope of the fire blazing again had vanished.

“I will hold on, always. He’s my only family.” Corin glanced at Nicole. “At least I thought he was my only family.”

An enigmatic smiled played at the corners of her mouth. “Why do you say that?”

“What is your last name?”

“I think you’ve already guessed, have you not?”

“The same as my mom’s maiden name.”

“Of course.” Nicole smiled. “How long have you suspected?”

“In my subconscious, probably from the day we met.”

“Good, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t feel a strong connection. I certainly feel it with you.” Nicole patted Corin’s hand. “How did you figure it out?”

“The final puzzle piece snapped into place yesterday when you told me you hadn’t kept your promise to your daughter.”

“To not talk to her children about the chair.”

Corin nodded. “Plus all the other pieces fit. The legend says the keeper has always passed it down to a daughter. That isn’t an option for you since you don’t have a daughter, so the next option is a granddaughter who will agree to the vows. But you don’t have one of those either.

“The final option is to give it to a next of kin who will agree to the vows and who is a follower of God. I didn’t agree and I’m not a follower of God, yet you gave it to me anyway.”

Nicole smiled and patted his knee. “It is sometimes necessary to follow the spirit of the law rather than the letter. I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I’d just showed up one day and tried to make you understand who I was.”

“And my mom?”

“Like we talked about already, your mom never wanted to believe the chair was real and didn’t want to be a part of it, didn’t want you or Shasta to be a part of it. Which meant she didn’t want you to be a part of me.”

Corin sighed. He’d been cheated out of so much. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t his mom’s choice to make, but she’d made it for him anyway.

“The only time she spoke of you was about how you were gone a lot.”

“Yes, my duties surrounding the chair kept me busy. There was too much travel. It’s what drove your grandfather away too.” Nicole smiled a sad little smile. “And I’m not sure what I accomplished. Your mom turned away from Christianity primarily due to my being gone so much, and you weren’t raised in the faith.”

“Why did you devote your life to it?”

“I didn’t feel I had a choice.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.” Nicole rubbed her forearms and stared at the water. “In my defense I can’t remember if I knew I had a choice at the time my mother passed the chair to me.”

“And do I have a choice?”

Nicole laughed and tilted her head. “Of course.”

Corin shifted on the bench. “What about Tori?”

“What about her?”

“She’s not a fan of the chair. She’s been so burned by religion.”

“Maybe she needs to sit in it.”

“I think that would take a miracle.”

Nicole looked at him with eyes wide open and eyebrows stretched to their limits.

Corin laughed. “I get it. Yes, I’ve seen a few lately. I suppose God could pull off one more.”

“Indeed He could.” Nicole stood. “I need to go. There’s someone I have to see. He needs to hear the truth. He needs to see the light.”

NICOLE DROVE TOWARD the Garden of the Gods praying for the right words. Words that would penetrate past the polished veneer, into the heart of Mark Jefferies.

As the mile markers flashed by, she let the sorrow of the time she’d missed with Corin and Shasta seep out of her heart into her soul. So much that was gone forever. Time with her daughter she’d never been allowed.

Nicole’s thoughts turned to the last time she’d seen Rachel. It was the last day she’d seen Corin and Shasta as well. She sat with Rachel at her breakfast table, having the same argument they’d had for the past three years.

“They need their grandma.”

“No, they don’t, Mother. I don’t need your strange ideas and obsessions filling their heads.”

“I need them.”

“You should have thought of that ages ago when that chair became the most important thing in your life.”

Rachel was right. The chair had consumed her. She’d lost her daughter because of it, and now she was in danger of losing her grandsons as well. “I’m sorry, Rachel, you’re right, I—”

“Fine. Nice. Good.” She brushed her dark blond hair back from her forehead. “Apology accepted. But it doesn’t change anything.”

“I’ve changed. I know—”

“Too late, Mother.” She glanced over Nicole’s shoulder.

Nicole turned toward the sound of shuffling feet to her right.

“You’re our grandma?”

Corin and Shasta stood staring up at her, eyes full of questions and a tinge of fear. Three and five. Full of innocent wonder.

“Yes.”

“How comes we don’t see you ever?” Corin said.

“I hope to see more of you in the future.”

“When?” Shasta said.

“I’m hoping this summer we can—”

“That’s enough, Mother.” Rachel turned and shooed the boys away. “Mommy needs to finish a conversation, so go find something to do.”

“Can we slide?” Corin said.

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Yes, fine. Just give us a few minutes here.”

Corin and Shasta scrambled to the top of the stairs and moments later sat on a lumpy mattress at the top, goofy grins plastered on their faces. In unison they cried, “One! Two! Three! Launch!”

They lurched forward and the mattress spilled over the edge of the top stair. Corin and Shasta rode the mattress like an out-of-control toboggan, their eyes flashing joy only possible in the very young. They reached the bottom, skidded over the floor, and slammed into the wall across from the stairs.

“Again! Again!” Corin said.

If she were twenty years younger, Nicole would have joined them.

“I don’t like them doing it, but it’s the only way I can get them out of my hair for a few minutes,” Rachel said.

Her grandsons climbed back to the top of the stairs, lugging the mattress behind them.

“They’re so young. If you rid your life of me now, they might not remember me.”

“I don’t want them to remember you.”

Nicole forced her tears to stay inside as she stood and nodded to her daughter. “I see.” She turned and walked to the door, waiting for, praying for Rachel to call her back. But her daughter’s voice was silent.

Nicole blinked and the memory faded. She’d wondered what she would tell Mark when they met. Now she knew; she’d tell him what she’d learned too late in life. That an obsession with the chair was a path of despair unless it led to an obsession with the One who made it.

CORIN SWUNG OPEN the door to Tori’s dojo at 8:20 that night, enough time for any straggling students from her last class to have left. Kings of Leon blared from the four Bose speakers in each corner of the room. She stood at the counter with her back to him, tapping away at her computer, probably recording comments on each student’s performance that night or answering e-mails from aspiring black belts trying to get into her perpetually full class schedule.

He held the yellow roses he’d picked up on the way behind his back and eased toward her, his shoes silent on the sparring mat.

She laughed and said without turning, “True masters can see without seeing and hear when there is no sound.”

“How do you do that?”

“Quite well, thank you.” Tori turned and smiled.

“This is for you.” He handed her the flowers and she took the roses and rubbed them across her cheek. “Thank you. I accept your peace offering.”

“So gracious of you to receive it.” Corin gave a mock bow and returned her smile. “Can we sit?”

“Sure.” Tori came out from behind her counter and they walked toward the double row of white plastic chairs used for parents, grandparents, siblings, and friends who came once a month to see the students spar in a tournament.

They sat and Corin took both her hands in his, stared at her fingers, and rubbed them in his.

“So, you have something to tell me, or did you come down here just to give me a hand massage?”

He looked up into her eyes. “I want you to try sitting in the chair.”

Tori pulled her hands away and leaned back. “You are a stained and polished platinum piece of work.”

“What would it hurt to sit in it?”

“Why should I?” Tori tapped her feet on the floor almost fast enough to double as a drumroll.

“Because it might free you from your past.”

“What in my past do I need to be free of?” Tori folded her arms. “I got free when I left home.”

“Free of your resentment?”

“I’m not holding on to any resentment.”

“Right.”

Tori stood. “Listen to me closely. I’m done talking about the chair forever. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“And if we want to continue this relationship, talk of God is not going to be part of it. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.”

On the way home Corin tried to call Tori three times. She didn’t pick up and he didn’t leave a message.

Another relationship on the rocks. He was getting good at denting them. But he’d fix Tori and he once this chair thing settled down. The dust had to land sometime.

But he was afraid the particles would soon be stirred to their greatest height yet.

CHAPTER 43

Corin stood in the back of his store shelving a new shipment of lamps when the bell on the front door announced the arrival of the last person he ever excepted to spill a shadow across his oak floor.

“Hello?” a voice from the front called out.

A voice he’d heard forever.

“I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Was it him? Had to be.

Corin jogged to the front, skidded to a stop at the end of the aisle, scanned the front of the store, and his pulse spiked. There. Right inside the front door. It was Dominique Shasta Roscoe.

His brother had hated the name Dom or Dominique from the moment he could talk. At eight years old he held up a can of his favorite drink at a family picnic—black cherry Shasta pop—and announced from that moment on his name was Shasta.

Corin stared at his brother for what seemed like ten minutes.

“Surprised to see me, bro?” Shasta tilted his head back and to the side.

Shasta’s dark brown hair was shorter than he’d ever seen it. It was almost a buzz cut. And his face was thin. “Utterly.” Surprise, fear, excitement all rushed through Corin’s brain like a flash flood.

Shasta punched the throttle on his wheelchair with his chin and surged toward him, the electric wheelchair shuddering as he bumped over the uneven wood floor.

“I need to get that floor smoothed out.”

“Why? Do you get a lot of incapacitated customers?”

Corin didn’t know how to respond and said nothing.

Shasta stopped five feet away and stared at Corin. “I’m surprised I’m here too.” His gaze moved slowly around the store. “How is business?”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’ll come back.”

Shasta nodded and the silence between them grew louder. Corin looked at his hands, then back to his brother. “I hope so.”

Another segment of silence.

“Robin tells me you’re dating a nice gal. Tori, is it?”

“Yeah.” Corin rubbed his eyes with the tips of his thumbs. The conversation was straight out of Insipid Talks for Any Occasion. “We could probably make small talk for the next two hours, but I’m not really up for it.”

“In other words, why am I here?”

“I think I know why you’re here. But I have no clue what changed your mind.”

“I’m here to go for a ride I’ll never forget.”

“But what changed your mind?”

“You did.”

“Not when we were on the phone.”

“No. After.” Shasta wheeled his chair another foot closer to Corin. “What I had to face after we talked was the fact you’d been healed. Not someone else. Any other person I couldn’t believe, but you, I do. And no, it wasn’t a physical healing, but you’ve fought your claustrophobia most of your life. If it’s gone, some type of miracle happened to you. If there’s any chance of a miracle happening to me, I have to take it. For Robin. For Sawyer.”

Shasta whirled and faced the front door as if to say that conversation was over.

“But not for you and me.”

Shasta didn’t turn back. When he spoke his voice was subdued. “No.”

Corin pressed a knuckle into his chin. Shasta wasn’t here to start building a bridge between them. He wasn’t even willing to look at a set of plans. And there was nothing Corin could do to force his brother to put on a construction hat.

But if Shasta was healed . . .

Movement outside his front window drew his attention. Robin paced next to the elevator lift built into their red van, looking almost as thin as Shasta. Probably on a continual stress diet taking care of Sawyer and Shasta. She glanced everywhere except into the store.

It didn’t surprise him.

She would do anything asked of her to help restore his relationship with Shasta, but if he knew his sister-in-law—and he did—she wouldn’t pry into what kind of verbal volley was going on inside the store.

“The chair isn’t here.” Corin turned back to Shasta. “Do you think Robin would mind swapping vehicles with me for a few hours while we take yours to my house?”

“Nope.”

When they reached Robin she grabbed Corin in a fierce hug and whispered, “I’ve prayed for this. I told you to never give up hope.”

Corin hadn’t almost given it up. He’d given up completely, but now it returned, full force, and was giving him a bigger rush than he’d ever had shattering the edges of his extreme-sports adventures.

It didn’t matter that Shasta was still icing him out of any chance at restoring their friendship. Within forty minutes his brother would sit in the chair.

And Corin would believe in Shasta being healed.

On the ride out to Corin’s, silence was in much greater abundance than conversation but he didn’t mind. It was a chance to talk with God.

Look, God, I don’t know how to pray and I don’t care. I hope You don’t care either. I have to assume You helped set up the circumstances to get Shasta to my store. So if that’s true and You’re part of this . . . just don’t let me down, okay? Don’t let him down.

Heal him, please? Restore us to the way we were before. I want him back.

A peace settled on Corin he’d never felt before.

He glanced at his brother. His brother. Riding alongside him in a car. How long since that had happened? The day of Shasta’s accident, of course. One drive toward disaster, the next drive toward possible restoration.

But what if there was no restoration? What then? Corin tried to push the thought from his mind but it pounded back like the elastic cord on one of his bungee jumps.

C’mon, God, this has to work.

When they reached the house, Shasta’s lift lowered him to the driveway. “I moved the chair from my basement to a hidden bunker I built back when I was making serious bank. It’s a place for priceless artifacts I want kept absolutely safe. No one knows about it and I had to put it in a place where no one would find it. It’s about fifty yards behind the house over rough terrain, which means I’ll have to carry you.”

“Fine,” Shasta said, but he didn’t look at Corin.

“Ready?”

Shasta nodded, his eyes dead. “Sure.”

He hoisted Shasta out of his chair and almost dropped him a moment later from shock. So thin. More bones than flesh. He couldn’t weigh more than 115 pounds. Didn’t he eat?

“Am I doing this right?”

“It doesn’t hurt. No feeling from the neck down, remember?”

“But still—”

“I’ll survive. My physical therapists thrash me much harder than you will. I haven’t turned completely into china yet, and you’re much gentler than a bull.”

When they reached the bunker Corin set Shasta next to an aspen tree next to the entrance and pushed the remote in his pocket. A section of the earth slid back to reveal a narrow set of stairs descending underground.

He tromped down the stairs, opened the bunker door, scrambled back up to Shasta, and picked him up. “It’s going to be different this time.” The words slipped out of Corin’s mouth before he could stop them. He’d inadvertently let his hope spill out and splash all over Shasta.

He guessed hope was pressing in on his brother as well, but Shasta was probably resisting. Too much pain, too many times of trying when the healing didn’t happen.

Corin carried Shasta down into the room and set him in a kitchen chair five feet from the chair.

Shasta gazed at the chair for a long time saying nothing. Finally he said, “So this is the miracle maker.”

“I hope so.” Corin eased over and touched the back of the chair. Nothing. “Are you ready?”

“Sure.”

Corin lifted his brother and set him on the chair like he was placing a baby into his mother’s arms for the first time.

“You’ll need to hold me, keep me from falling over.”

“Of course.” Corin held his brother’s shoulders and closed his eyes.

There was nothing to say, no instructions to give.

Ten minutes later Shasta said, “How do I know when it’s long enough?”

“I don’t know.” Corin sighed. “Do you feel anything?”

“No.”

Shasta’s voice wasn’t sad, wasn’t hopeful, wasn’t anything.

“Believe with me, Shasta. Think of the deepest thing you want.”

Shasta’s raspy breathing was the only noise in the room for the next three minutes.

“Anything?” Corin asked.

“Nothing.” Shasta coughed. “What should be happening?”

“It’s been different each time.” Please, God, heal him.

Corin didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this. Where was the peace and the lights and the warmth?

Ten minutes later Corin carried his brother out of the bunker at his request, across the lawn, and put him in Shasta’s red van. They didn’t speak on the way back to Corin’s shop.

Before he and Robin drove away, Corin stood at the passenger side window trying to find the right words. “The healings have all come after sitting in the chair, not at the time the people sat.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll call me if anything happens?”

“Of course.” Shasta squinted up at him. “You’ll be the first.”

Would God come through? No idea.

But as the van pulled away Corin couldn’t shake the feeling that was the last time he’d talk to his brother for another age.

CHAPTER 44

Corin was pouring over his sales figures in his office, trying to find even one statistic that offered hope when he heard the front door open softly. Problem. He glanced at his watch. Ten fifteen on a Thursday night? A little late for shopping. But maybe not too early for a little breaking and entering.

He stood and eased toward his office door. The sound of heavy shoes—boots by the sound of it—echoed toward him from two different spots on his showroom floor. There was more than one of whoever it was.

Corin slipped his cell phone out of his pants pocket and pulled up his text messages. Yes. A. C. was the last person he’d texted. Please have your cell on, pal.

Corin stabbed his thumbs at the letters. Faster. Have to get this out before they come back here. AT THE STORE. IN TROU—

His office door flew open and smashed against the inside wall as a man thick in the shoulders and neck with a glistening shaved head stepped into the door frame. A wide grin played on the man’s face as he glanced around the office.

“Hello, Corin.” The man extended his hand and beckoned with his fingers. “It’s probably not a good idea to be texting anyone right now. We need to have a chat and I wouldn’t want you to be distracted by someone texting you back in the middle of our conversation. Can I have your phone, please?”

Corin pressed down on his phone hoping his thumb was in the right spot to send A. C. the text, then slid his phone onto his desk and turned back toward the man.

“Thanks for stopping by Artifications, are you in the market for an antique?”

“Interestingly enough, we are. One particular piece we understand you might be able to help us with has caught our attention in a substantial way.” The man ambled over to Corin’s desk and fished out the cell phone from where it had slid under a stack of papers. He batted the phone to the center of the desk with a finger of his gloved hand and glanced at its display.

Corin’s heart hammered.

“Let’s hope”—the man peered closer at Corin’s phone—“A. C. doesn’t get the message before we leave, hmm? For his sake. And yours.” He raised his elbow above the phone and brought it down hard. Then again. The man laughed. “I call that the iSmash. Almost as good as that Will It Blend guy on YouTube, don’t you think?” He laughed again, then motioned Corin toward the door. “Shall we?”

Corin found two other men standing in the front area of his store. One was around five eleven and looked like he should work at a university from the 1950s. All he was missing was a tweed jacket. But his shoulders were broad and his boots looked steel toed.

The other was maybe six foot, his hair cut short in front with a ponytail in back, and a tattoo of a dagger on both sides of his neck.

“I understand you gentlemen are doing some late-night shopping.” Corin forced his breathing to steady and wished he’d taken more of Tori’s classes. His skills were at the level of would-get-himself-killed-if-he-tried-anything at best. And he suspected his guests knew more about street fighting than the average grizzly.

The man with the ponytail grinned. “Yes, we’re interested in buying a chair. But the one we want doesn’t seem to be on display tonight. However I have it on excellent authority you haven’t sold it yet.”

“And what chair would that be?”

“A powerful chair. A miraculous chair. One worth going to great lengths to possess.”

“I’m not sure I know which piece you’re referring to.”

“I think you do.” Ponytail Man tilted his head and closed his eyes. “I so wish you would be truthful with us.”

“All the chairs I have for sale are on the floor. So if you don’t see it, I don’t have it.”

The man sighed and pulled a photo out of his pocket. “It looks like this.”

Corin glanced at the photo of his chair. He hoped his face didn’t betray his question of how they got a picture of it. “I don’t have anything like that.”

Ponytail slipped the photo into his back pocket, eased over to Corin, and poked him in the chest. “Get me the chair. Now.”

“It’s gone. I sold it.”

“I see.” The man waved his hand at Baldy and Mr. 1950s. A minute and a half later Corin sat tied in a dining room chair from the thirties, thin brown twine cutting off the circulation in his wrists.

“We asked you to simply leave it in the barn, but you couldn’t do that, could you? So let me ask again. May we have the chair, please?”

“I sold it.”

Ponytail looked at Baldy, who backhanded Corin’s jaw. His head snapped back and it felt like the car accident he’d been in two years earlier. Whiplash, lights, and exploding brain cells.

“Let me ask again, Corin.” The man licked his lips. “Where is it?”

Corin let out a soft moan. “I don’t have it.” They could beat him all they wanted. He wouldn’t give up the chair. Ever.

“Okay.” Ponytail nodded and rubbed his temple. “Fine. But let me explain something to you. This isn’t the movies. If you don’t tell us, we don’t give you a long speech or torture you, and we don’t kill you. We all go find Tori and torture her and kill her in front of you very slowly.”

Mr. 1950s wandered over to Corin, pulled a spartan knife out of his pocket, drew it along his jeans, and winked at Ponytail. “Then we quickly separate your muscles from your bones, without giving the cavalry time to come crashing through the door.”

A moment later the cavalry crashed through the door.

CHAPTER 45

When A. C. got Corin’s text he was three minutes from the store. Maybe two if traffic was light. He made it in one minute and forty-nine seconds.

Twenty seconds later he peered through the front window of Corin’s store.

Three men stood in front of Corin, who was tied to a chair. One was an oversized gorilla, but the other two looked average height and weight.

He turned away from the window and punched in 911 on his cell phone.

“This is 911, what is your emergency?”

“The owner of Artifications is being held hostage inside his own store. The address is 16906 West Francis Street. Send a car; I need to get in there.”

“Why do you think he’s being held hostage?”

“He’s tied to a chair!” A. C. bounced on one leg, staring at Corin. “You need to send a car now.”

“What is your name, sir?”

“Look, don’t be an idiot. I’m going inside to—”

“Sir, we need you to stay outside. And we need to know your name.”

“A. C. Avena. Why do I have to stay outside?”

“You know why, sir. You don’t know what you’re dealing with here. They could have weapons.”

A. C. pressed his fist into the side of his face. Yes, he’d thought of that. If there wasn’t that possibility, he’d already be inside the store thrashing the men surrounding Corin. “How soon are you sending a car?”

“We’ve already dispatched a unit.”

“How long!”

The phone hummed. C’mon!

“Police officers should arrive at the scene within seven minutes.”

Great. Corin might not have five minutes. Maybe not even three.

“It’s gotta be faster than that.”

“They’ll be there as soon as possible.”

“Fine. But they better be breaking speed records to get here.”

“Can you see what is happening inside the store and describe it for us?”

A. C. peered back through the window into the store. The man in the middle was talking to Corin, who glared back with seething eyes. A. C. almost laughed. Corin couldn’t fight a Barbie doll even with all his kung fu training, but he didn’t lack courage.

The man in the middle who looked like the professor from that ancient show Gilligan’s Island said something to Corin . . . Corin responded . . . from the look on the man’s face he didn’t like it . . . the man nodded to the big bald guy. Baldy backhanded Corin, whose head snapped back like a spring.

“They just hit him.” A. C. growled into his phone. “I’m going in.”

“Sir, you need to—”

“Get that car here now!” He ended the call and took a deep breath.

As he strode around the building toward the back door, A. C. tensed his chest involuntarily. This would be an excellent workout. But before he started to roar, he had to assess the situation and make an educated guess if they had guns or not. If they did, he’d back off and try to figure out a way to keep them from inflicting any more damage on Corin. A distraction, something.

If they didn’t, then it was rumble time. He flexed his biceps. Voluntarily this time. He stepped through the store’s back door and strode toward the front.

After five steps his cell phone lit up to the sound of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.”

Caller ID was Unknown. Probably 911. They’d tell him to stay outside and he’d tell them off and later regret it. A waste of time. He turned off the ringer and shoved his phone into his front pants pocket.

A shout from the front echoed through the store. “We have company! Go find them.”

A. C. burst into the front of the store before any of them could move. Corin looked up at him through an eye already starting to swell.

“How are ya doing, Corin?”

“Wonderful. My new friends and I are discussing terms on a piece of furniture they’re interested in acquiring.”

The bald gorilla said, “My guess is we’re gazing at the illustrious A. C. Am I right? Is that who you are?”

A. C.’s face morphed into granite. “I’m your worst nightmare.”

“Excellent. Good to have you join us.” A man with dagger tattoos on his neck and a ponytail clapped his hands. “Well done coming to the rescue of your bosom friend. What can we do for you?”

A. C. studied each guy. If they carried heat it wasn’t obvious. So it was Las Vegas time. Time to gamble whether they had guns or not. If they didn’t, he would make the next two or three minutes look like a UFC ultimate match, but if they did have guns . . .

But even if A. C. had seen bulges in the men’s clothing, he wouldn’t have stayed outside. Not when Corin was inside taking championship shots to the head. “I’d like you to leave if you don’t mind.”

“We do mind.”

“In that case, if you don’t get out of this store immediately, I’ll escort you out. And not gently.”

Ponytail wiggled his fingers, grinned, and opened his mouth wide to reveal a studded tongue. “Three of us. Two of you. And one of you”—the man motioned to Corin—“won’t be of great assistance. We would make the floor shiny with you, big boy.”

“I don’t think so.” A. C. smiled his sideways grin.

Baldy returned the smile and clenched and unclenched his fists. “So you want to make a little thunder, huh?”

“Definitely.”

“These guys are serious, A. C.” Corin strained against the ropes binding his hands. “Get out of here.”

“Nah, I missed my workout yesterday so this will make up for it.”

“A. C., don’t.”

“These guys? Piece of cake, piece of pie, and some tiramisu.” He looked back at the three thugs. “Ready?”

They nodded and strode toward A. C., splitting apart like synchronized dancers when they were six feet away. Ponytail lunged at A. C. from his left, then pulled back while Baldy came at him from the right and spun silky smooth to deliver a roundhouse kick to A. C.’s side.

A. C. wasn’t fooled by Ponytail’s feint. He stuttered forward, feinted to the left as if to take on Ponytail, then spun and caught Baldy’s leg in midkick with his iron-grip hands. He twisted the leg hard, then slammed the man to the ground, making sure his head was the major body part that cushioned his fall. If he wasn’t out cold, he still wouldn’t be moving quickly anytime soon. One down, two to go.

One of the others jumped him from behind—had to be Ponytail—threw his arm around A. C.’s neck, and squeezed. A. C. slammed his elbow into the man’s ribs, loosing his grip around A. C.’s neck. Another blow to the man’s rib cage and he dropped to the ground.

The professor came at him from straight ahead.

Feint right. Hand to the throat. Block. Parry. Strike.

This guy had skill.

A. C. took a hard blow to the jaw and staggered backward. In the next instant Ponytail slammed his fist into A. C.’s kidney from behind.

“Uhhh!”

“Want another?”

“Bring it,” A. C. said as he spun and backed up, glancing between the professor and Ponytail.

Ponytail lunged forward first. The guy was quick, but A. C. sidestepped the attack and used Ponytail’s momentum to toss him head first into an oak dresser. Ponytail lay on the ground and moaned. Out cold. Two down.

“A. C., look out!”

He spun around in time to see the flash of a shot rocketing out of a gun held by the professor.

The bullet struck him and it felt like a bee had stung him just below his rib cage. His hand went to his stomach, and a few seconds later blood seeped through his shirt onto his fingers. He tottered for a moment, then slumped to the floor.

“I told you I could take them.” He coughed and blood spilled onto the floor. “But bullets always hold the trump card.”

CORIN FELT HOT, then cold, then hot again. This couldn’t be happening. He screamed and yanked on the cords holding his wrists so hard it felt like they had sliced off his hands.

Blood seeped through A. C.’s fingers and dripped onto the floor like a melting early spring snow. Little blood bubbles pinged out of his mouth as he took ragged breaths.

“Don’t let him die!” Corin strained against the rope. “You have to get him to a doctor.”

“Now why would I want to do that? I just shot him. I want him to die,” Mr. 1950s said.

“No. Please. Not A. C.”

“Why don’t you get your precious little chair to save him?” The man smiled and glanced at Ponytail, who had just gained consciousness.

“If you’d simply given it to us in the first place, by the way, he wouldn’t be in this conundrum. We would have been gone before he got here. But now, you’re going to be saying good-bye very soon. And I’m guessing that will weigh on your soul, well, forever.”

Corin screamed at them with every swear word he knew and again strained against the twine with all his strength. “I will kill you.”

“No. You won’t.” Mr. 1950s lit a cigarette. “You’ll give us the chair and we’ll wave good-bye.” He pulled a shiny penny from his pocket and massaged it between his thumb and forefinger. “Heads, I shoot A. C. again; tails, I shoot A. C. again.” He smiled a thin, condescending smile. “Unless you want to tell me where the chair is.”

“Who sent you?”

“That’s not the response I was looking for.”

Corin dropped his head and closed his eyes as the penny clattered to the floor and rang in his ears like a rock-concert cymbal. Idiot! What had he been thinking to text A. C.?

Mr. 1950s picked up the penny. “Ah, shucks. It’s tails.” He lifted his gun.

At the same moment Baldy’s cell phone rang. He answered and seconds later shoved the phone in his pocket. “We’re outta time; we gotta roll, now.”

The three men sprinted out of the store without a glance at Corin.

He didn’t think about why they left. His entire focus was on A. C. The floor in front of him grew darker—blood continuing to seep out of his wound and into the tiny cracks and crevasses of the oak hardwood floor A. C. lay on.

“A. C.!”

No response. No movement.

“Wake up!”

He had to get to his friend’s cell phone. Where did A. C. stash it? Front right pocket? Always his front pocket.

Corin clumped his chair toward his friend in stuttered hops, each time he moved the twine cutting deep into his wrists. He ignored the pain. Don’t tip. Stay in control. Ten more feet. Move!

When he reached A. C. he realized he couldn’t get to his cell phone unless he lay on his side with his back to A. C. so he could try to reach it with his hands through the wood slats of his chair.

He would have to tip himself over. He rocked the chair once. Twice. And he fell.

No. He’d misjudged. He was too close to the footstool next to A. C.

Corin tucked his head to his chest but it wasn’t enough. The crack of his skull against the footstool exploded in his head and he flopped onto the floor like a rotten pumpkin.

As the swirling blackness surrounded him one thought pinged through Corin’s mind: A. C. is going to die and it’s my fault once again.

AS CORIN STAGGERED up out of blackness the sound of sirens filled his world. And he was moving. Ambulance? Did that mean A. C. was okay?

His eyes fluttered open. Mistake. The light seemed to puncture his skull and turned up the throbbing in his brain exponentially. Was an elephant doing jumping jacks on his head?

“He’s coming around.”

The voiced sounded muffled and he couldn’t tell if it was male or female.

“A. Zee okay?” Corin’s head felt like it had been on the rinse and spin cycle for the past twenty-four hours. “My fend, izh zee okay?”

“Try not to talk. You’re on your way to the hospital. You smacked your head in the wrong spot. You probably have a concussion. Another quarter inch over and there’s a good chance you’d be riding in a different kind of car.”

Corin opened his eyes a millimeter and waited a moment for his eyes to adjust. He tried to push up on his elbows and blackness rushed at him.

“Whoa, cowboy, you’re not ready for that horse for a little while longer.” The man—it sounded like a man now—put his hand on Corin’s shoulder and gently pressed him back down onto the gurney.

“I halve to know ehf hez okay.”

“Your friend lost a lot of blood, but we stabilized him before we put him in the ambulance.”

“Iz zhee?”

“I don’t know. From what I saw I’m guessing he’ll make it.”

“Mhy fahlt, muine.” Corin fumbled for his pocket. Had to get to his cell phone. Had to call A. C. to see if he was okay. “Godda scall himm.”

“You have to stay still, sir.”

“Havs to scall A. C.!” Corin opened and shut his eyes repeatedly, trying to get used to the lights in the ambulance blazing into his retinas.

“Relax. He’s going make it.”

“You’re shure?”

“Positive.”

A moment later he slipped back into the darkness.

CORIN WOKE TO the sound of the ESPN Sport Center theme song coming from a TV to his left. Where was he? He rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and took a deep breath. In a hospital room, but why?

And why was his head pounding like he’d gone through four of Tori’s demonstrations as the class punching bag?

A moment later the scene from the night before rushed into his mind.

A. C. He had to find out if A. C. was okay.

Corin glanced to his right and then left, scanning for a call button. There. On the railing of his bed. He pressed it once. A low pitched hmm filled his ears. Then again. Ennnnnnh.

“It might be a while.”

Corin looked up. Through the curtain to his left Corin saw the outline of what looked like a man lying in the bed in front of the TV screen.

“What?”

“Let me put it this way. If the nurses around here were in the Olympics, they wouldn’t be sprinters.”

“Don’t they come when you hit the button?”

“Always. But ‘coming to assist’ might mean within a few minutes to you. It might mean within a few days to them.”

Corin glanced at the clock on the wall. Seven o’clock in the morning. “What day is it?”

“Saturday.”

He glanced at the clock again. Unbelievable. He’d been out for over twenty-nine hours.

Corin studied the IV worming its way into his arm. “I have to get out of here.”

“Hey there, what do you think you’re doing?” A tall, slender man with a postsurgery Michael Jackson nose traipsed into the room.

“Getting this IV out of my arm.”

The nurse eased Corin’s hand away from his arm. “I can see you’re trying to do that, but why don’t you let us handle the removal when it’s time?”

“What’s your name?”

“Dondelar Myers.”

“You’re a nurse here?”

“Yes.”

“I need to talk to someone who can tell me the condition of A. C. Avena.”

“I’ve already checked on him—”

“And?”

“He’s stable. More than stable. He’s doing well.”

“I gotta go see him.”

“We’d like to watch you a little longer.”

“I’ve been asleep off and on for twenty-nine hours even though someone kept waking me up every five minutes.”

“Every few hours, to make sure your concussion was nothing more than that.”

“I think I’ve maxed out on getting a good night’s rest.”

“You had a concussion. You needed the sleep. We gave you—”

“Not to be rude, but I really need to see my friend.”

“Your friend went home. Signed himself out.” The nurse sniffed. “There’s no way we would have released him this early even with his wife being a nurse.”

“But he’ll be okay?”

Dondelar sucked in his lips and didn’t answer.

Heat filled Corin. No. Not A. C. “What happened to him?”

“You should talk to him or his doctor.”

“He’s my best friend.” Corin sat up in bed. “He saved my life on Thursday. Tell me, please.”

“Are you sure you want to hear it from me?”

“Positive.”

Dondelar shrugged. “Mentally he’s fine, but the bullet grazed an important area of his spine. It looks like he’s paralyzed from the waist down.”

Heat scorched Corin’s body and his knees went weak. Not possible. Not possible! It was a sick joke. “What?”

“I’m sorry.”

Corin’s pulse spiked and he swallowed hard. It couldn’t be true. “I need to get out of here.”

Dondelar looked at his watch. “In two more hours I’m supposed to run you through a few tests to make sure you’re okay, but I’m betting you’d like me to run them now and get you released ASAP, hmm?”

CHAPTER 46

An hour later Corin stared at A. C.’s doorbell, bathed in the soft glow of the porch light, wishing some of it would seep inside him. He needed light. Something to show him the way out of the downward spiral that had become his personal slide into futility.

He squeezed his quads, trying to find the right words to speak when he stepped inside. What could he say? “Sorry? It won’t happen again? Try sitting in the chair one more time and maybe that will fix things?”

Corin felt like he was swimming in an ocean of guilt so vast it made the Pacific look like a kiddie swimming pool.

Finally he lifted his hand to A. C.’s doorbell and started to press his forefinger into the button. It felt like trying to move a solid steel wall. He pressed harder and heard the familiar ding of A. C.’s chimes inside.

The door opened a few moments later. “Hey, Cor, how are you?” A. C.’s wife, Dineen, stood in the doorway, a tired smile on her face.

“Feeling like a pretzel someone decided to double twist just for the fun of it.”

“Don’t let yourself go there; he’s not mad at you.” Dineen beckoned him inside and stepped back.

Corin raised his eyebrows.

“He isn’t, trust me.”

“He should be.” Corin stepped into A. C.’s entryway.

“Why?”

“I’ve ruined his life. He’s not going to walk again.” Corin shook his head. “The irony of perpetuating the same horrific fate on my two best friends—”

“What did you do to him? Coming to rescue you was his choice, not yours.”

“What did I do?” Corin stared at her. “Other than put him in a position where he’ll be paralyzed from the waist down? Where his concrete company will go up in gray dust? Where he won’t be able to play with his kids? Nothing other than that.”

Dineen shook her head, took his hand, and pulled him into the living room. She sat on the flowered couch and motioned him toward the love seat next to it. “What did he write back when you texted him to ask if you could come over?”

“Nothing, just ‘Yeah, come over.’” Corin glanced at the hallway leading to the back of A. C.’s house. “I figured this is when he confirms the bomb has exploded and destroyed our friendship and tells me to get out of his life.” Corin glanced down the hallway again.

“Do you even know my husband? Even if he was paralyzed, he wouldn’t abandon you. Ever. Your friendship means the universe to him.”

Corin rubbed his neck under his chin. “Next to Shasta, A. C. is the person I love most in the world.” Corin leaned forward, his knees on his elbows. “He is a better friend than I deserve.”

“Not true.” She smiled, a teasing look in her eyes.

A shot of adrenaline pulsed through Corin. What had she just said? That even if he was . . . “Are you telling me he’s—?”

“Yes, Cor, I am.” Dineen winked. “I thought that line might have skated right by you.”

“Are you telling me he’ll walk again? The nurse told me—”

“The nurse should’ve stayed quiet. The doctors say there’s a 99 percent chance he’ll walk again. I like those odds.”

“Me too.” Corin let out a breath with more force than he expected. “I like them a lot.”

A monsoon of relief flooded through Corin. He’d assumed the worst. That at the very least A. C. wouldn’t be able to walk again—maybe worse. But this? Back to normal? Corin needed news laced with hope. Any more bad would break him. And there wouldn’t be enough horses and men to put him back together again.

Corin leaped to his feet. “I gotta go talk to him.” He smiled at Dineen and slowly shook his head. “You don’t know how glad I am to hear that.”

She returned the smile but while the smile remained on her face, the happiness she’d shown earlier faded from her eyes. He’d known Dineen almost as long as he’d known A. C. Something was wrong. The story had another chapter Dineen wasn’t telling him. Tears misted her eyes and she took a halting breath.

“What?” Corin sat back down.

She shook her head.

“Talk to me, Dineen.”

She waved her hand through the air. “It’s not that big a deal.” Dineen blinked back her tears and tried to smile. “It’s going to be fine; he’s going to be fine. Really.”

“What is it?”

“No, not from me. Go talk to him, Corin. It’ll be good for you.”

As he walked toward A. C.’s family room the air seemed to thicken. Every gray cloud had a silver lining, and every white cloud had one that’s black—and he was breathing in the darkness.

Corin stood in the doorway leading to the family room. The UFC 52 championship bout between Randy Couture and Chuck Liddell played on the sixty-two-inch big screen A. C. bought three years ago and a framed eleven-by-sixteen photo of his daughter playing soccer hung over the built-in bookshelves that didn’t have any books on them.

A. C.’s wouldn’t be spending his time laid up reading the greatest novels from the past or present.

The back of his friend’s thick head poked up above his lounge chair like a miniature mountain. Sitting up was a good sign, yes?

As he watched the two warriors battle on screen, Corin guessed what Dineen hadn’t wanted to tell him. “Is it true?”

“Hey, Cor. What’s going on?”

Corin eased around the couch and jammed his hands into his pockets.

“Is it true?” Corin motioned with his head toward the screen.

“That I can’t take my shot at the title?” A. C. pointed at the screen, then offered a smile mixed with sadness. “Yeah, true. It’s gone.”

“No, don’t say that.” This couldn’t be happening.

“It’s a good thing, Cor.” A. C. pulled himself up in his chair and immediately slumped back down to where he’d been—pain shooting across his face. “What kind of life would that have been? Traveling all the time, beating my body up so I couldn’t move by the time I was fifty? Nah, I always wondered if I should do it even if the shoulder was good and now I have my answer.”

“You cannot be telling me this.” Corin cradled his temples between his palms and pressed hard.

“It’s a good thing, bro.” A. C. laughed. “Seriously. You know I wouldn’t say it unless I meant it.”

Corin paced from A. C.’s window looking out on his backyard to his blue couch and back to the window. “Next you’re going to be describing what you’re going to do since you can’t do concrete work anymore.”

“Yeah, that’s quite the additional bonus surprise, huh?” A. C. ran his fingers through his thick sandy blond hair. “So Dineen told you, huh?”

“What?”Corin stopped pacing, turned to A. C., and blinked.

A. C. looked up, a puzzled look etched into his face.

“No.” Corin slumped onto the couch. “She didn’t tell me. I was being sarcastic.”

“The doctors say I’m going to be fine. I’ll be able to walk, run, do light construction, but putting the strain on my body that running a concrete company requires isn’t going to be happening.” A. C. winked. “Unless I do want to end up permanently in a wheelchair.”

Corin’s mind spun. How could he go from hope one moment to drowning in despair the next? He knew exactly how. It was all possible thanks to him, and thanks to the object that had turned his life and the lives around him into a 9.8 earthquake: the chair.

The chair that had introduced the most insidious lie possible. That there was a way out, a way to restoration with Shasta.

“What are you going to do?”

A. C. smiled. “I’ll sell my company.”

“And if you don’t?”

“I will.”

“And then what?” Corin was back on his feet, pacing again.

“You’re going to wear out the carpet.”

Corin ignored him.

“You think you’ve ruined my life, don’t you?”

“The chair has brought me nothing but pain, and I’ve spread it out to my closest friend in a liberal dose.”

“You did the opposite.” A. C. waited till Corin stopped pacing and looked directly at him. “You set me free.”

“What?”

“I have disability insurance. The policy is an excellent one. After three months are up, I’ll get 85 percent of my salary for a year and a half. Can we live on 15 percent less income? Yes. And I’ll have an abundance of time on my hands.”

“And how does that translate into being set free?”

A. C. reached for a manila folder to his left and opened it. He snagged a small stack of 8 ½ x 11 pieces of paper and handed them to Corin. He gazed at the one on top. It looked like a CAD drawing of multiple buildings spread over a five- or six-acre piece of land.

“What are these?” Corin frowned and leafed through the papers underneath. There were other architectural drawings, photos of bunk beds, Web addresses for canoes, volleyball nets, pickle-ball court supplies, and food distributors. He held up the papers. “What are these?”

“How long have I been talking about building a camp for down-and-out teenage boys and being the director of the place?”

“Since before you were in the womb.”

“Exactly.”

“How does Dineen feel about the idea?”

“She’s so pumped about it, it’s unreal.”

Corin walked over and slouched against A. C.’s pool table. “Answer me something honestly.”

“What?”

“Is this really what you want?”

“I don’t lie, Cor.” A. C. squinted as if in shock Corin would question his integrity.

“I know.” Corin folded his arms. “I just had to be sure.”

“Cor?”

“Yeah?”

“You need to consider something.”

“Okay.”

“If there really is a God behind this chair, then maybe He knows what He’s doing.”

Corin walked over to A. C. “Can I squeeze your head?”

“Do it, baby.”

He leaned down, hugged his friend’s head, and gave the top of it a rough kiss. “Life isn’t life without you in it, bud.”

“Same.”

Corin left A. C.’s house trying to believe good had come out of his friend being shot. But he couldn’t. Sure, A. C. would have the time, but where would he get the money? Camps were risky business, attendance had dropped off, and in this economy the trees full of money had withered.

And would A. C. really be able live on 85 percent of his salary? He’d never been flowing in extra cash.

Just before he got home, Tesser’s number lit up Corin’s new cell phone, “Hello?”

“Excellent news, Corin.” Tesser chuckled. “I’ve found authentic proof your chair was made by Christ. If we’ve had any doubts, they can now be laid to rest and won’t be resurrected.”

“I think I’ve believed for a while now.”

“This will solidify your well-grounded faith.”

“Tell me.”

“Nay, nay, nay. This you must see in person. Can you come to my house at say nine tomorrow morning?”

“Sure.” Corin turned into his driveway and shut off his Highlander. “Do you want to give me a preview of what you discovered?”

“No, I’m afraid that would spoil the surprise. And how I do ever so much want to see the look on your face when you see what I’ve found.” The professor stifled a giggle.

Corin didn’t bother to turn on any lights as he walked into his house. The only thing on his mind was sleep. But an hour later the land of zzz’s still eluded him, because something in Tesser’s tone sounded off and Corin’s brain was determined to figure out what it was.

His conscious mind finally shut down around two in the morning, without coming up with a decent theory.

But knowing Tesser, whatever it was, it would probably stretch Corin’s mind to Egypt and back. Hopefully without snapping his brain in two.

CHAPTER 47

Corin arrived at Tesser’s home on Sunday morning two minutes before nine and reached for the doorbell, but before he could ring it, the door opened to reveal a grinning Tesser.

Strange. He’d never come to the door in all the years Corin had known him.

“You’re here!” Tesser shuffled his feet forward and back in a little jig. “Finally. I’ve been up since four, squirming with anticipation.”

“You’ve found something big.”

“Very.” Tesser motioned him into the foyer. “Come, come, let’s get to my study.”

Corin followed Tesser as he trotted down his dark hallway, muttering over his shoulder about how excited he was.

Tesser pushed through the halfway open door to his massive study and threw his arms wide, his gaze focused toward the middle of the room. “Blicken!”

The German word for “look.” Corin stared at the back of his friend’s head. He’d never heard Tesser speak German before. What was that about?

He stepped through the door to view Tesser’s discovery. Immediately three emotions crashed into his mind simultaneously.

Disbelief.

Anger.

Fear.

Nicole sat in the middle of the vast study, in the duplicate of the chair, her hands tied with brown twine as were her ankles. The same type of twine he’d been tied with in his store three days earlier.

Her white hair was disheveled, her head cocked slightly to the side. Her countenance was worn, her skin pale.

Impossible.

Corin tried to speak but the shock of seeing his Nicole sitting in the center of Tesser’s study bound against her will froze his speech, froze his mind, froze his words.

Tesser couldn’t have done this.

Waves of heat surged through him as the sensation of vertigo made him flail for something to hang on to.

“What have you done?” Corin stumbled toward Tesser, who shuffled backward toward his oversized maple desk.

A moment later Corin spun toward Nicole and staggered her direction.

“No, I can’t let you do that,” Tesser said. “Help, please.”

Immediately four men stepped out of the deep flickering shadows cast by the candles randomly placed throughout the room.

Their arms hung loose but looked ready to move like lightning if needed. He recognized two of them: Ponytail and Baldy. The other two were rail thin, but their craggy faces conveyed how efficient they’d be in a street fight.

This wasn’t real. He was dreaming. He had to be.

Jefferies doing something like this would have been a bad dream come to life, but one he could have expected. This was a nightmare.

“I didn’t want to do it this way.” Tesser shuffled back and forth in front of his desk in his oversized slippers, fingers pressed into his forehead. “Really, Corin, I didn’t.” He glanced up, his face grim, then he slammed his hand down on top of the desk. “Why couldn’t you have given me the chair when I asked you to store it here? Or left it in the barn? If you had we wouldn’t be going through all this turmoil right now. A shame, it is.”

“Let her go.”

Tesser strolled over within a foot of Corin. “But all emotion aside, I am so very glad you came, because now we can end this subterfuge. I’ve been waiting for this moment since last night when I finally found Nicole and brought her here for a visit. And I have to assume she has been waiting as well.” He motioned toward her with an ancient-looking pen. “Although I feel I’ve been a gracious host, I believe she would prefer not being here.”

“Are you okay?” Corin said to Nicole.

“I’m fine.” She blinked rapidly and breathed deep.

Corin glanced at Tesser’s thugs. “Friends of yours?”

“Yes.” Tesser glanced to his right then left. “Good friends. Loyal friends.”

“Friends who throw rocks through windows and break into stores to steal what is not theirs.”

“Yes, those kinds of friends.” Tesser pulled on his sparse goatee.

Corin lunged for Tesser but Ponytail and Baldy grabbed him, flung him into a chair to his left, and began tying him to it.

As they did, Tesser frowned. “Yes, very, very regrettable about your friend. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Not at all. Tsk, tsk. Truly.”

“How could you do this do me?”

“You mean—why did I want the chair?”

Corin stared at him, no need to answer the question.

“At least three or four reasons, maybe even five. I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Think about it now.” Corin yanked on the cords around his wrists.

“This is amusing since you’re not exactly in a position to be making demands, but why not?”

Tesser paced in front of him, still pulling on the thin tuffs of hair hanging from his chin. “First, it’s fun, don’t you think? This is real-life Indiana Jones stuff.” Tesser stopped pacing and turned to Corin. “Come, come, even though you’re not having fun at the moment, you have to admit this has been one of our more fascinating adventures together. Yes?”

Tesser went on without waiting for an answer. “Second, I’ve been looking for this chair all my life. Most thought it a legend only.” He shook his head. “My, did I start to get excited when I realized you might have the real thing.

“Third, I wanted to validate all the time I’ve spent trying to track the chair down. Fourth, I suppose it irked me that all these years Nicole was right under my proverbial nose and I didn’t see it, so now I want to rub her face in it just a bit. And fifth, I want the power that surrounds the chair. I think anyone can understand that.”

“You’re an old man, Tesser. What good could the chair do you?”

“Yes, I’m old, it’s true.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “But the chair is not for me. The chair is for those who have been given claim to the earth. Those who are destined to rule this world. I’m a historian. I’ve never thought in decades but centuries. Look at the United States, Corin. Look at the world. It’s falling apart.

“The Reich is needed. Hitler took it too far. His zeal overtook his wisdom. The killing of the Jews was an atrocity beyond imagination. But our destiny to rule the other races? That is true. It is good. It is right.”

For the first time Corin heard the trace of a German accent that filled microscopic cracks in Tesser’s voice. How had he missed that all these years?

Tesser’s words from their first meeting almost two weeks ago floated through his mind: “Think what kind of an army you could build with . . .”

Corin stated the obvious. “You were raised in Germany.”

“I always wondered why you never asked me about that.”

“When did you move to this country?”

“Long ago.” Tesser waved his pen in the air. “But my heritage has not been forgotten.”

“I trusted you.”

“You can still trust me. I am your friend, Corin, and I have no intent to hurt you in any manner.” Tesser sighed. “As I tried to tell you out by the waterfall, I wish you weren’t mixed up in this. And of course I tried with the rock through your window, and then with my friends who stopped by to pick up the chair and transfer it here, but in neither case would you listen. A shame.” He motioned again to Nicole. “So I had to track down this elegant lady and—if I need to—I will use her as a most valuable currency in our negotiation for a certain piece of merchandise.”

“Let her go,” Corin repeated.

“Certainly. Of course, right away.” Tesser smiled at Corin, an expectant look on his face.

“As soon as I tell you where the chair is.”

“Precisely. So good to know we still understand each other in the, uh, midst of realizing my slight alteration of our friendship.”

Tesser tapped his pen on his palm, weaved in between Ponytail and the bald thug from Corin’s store, and stopped behind Nicole. “I have to say your building a decoy was an excellent diversion.” He slid his pen into his pocket and patted the back of the chair with both hands. “I didn’t see that coming although I should have. Congratulations on your skills—I didn’t know of your woodworking talents. I’m impressed, really I am. It took me two full days before I realized you’d created a duplicate.” Tesser tipped his cap. “You are an artist.” He shook his head and smiled.

“How do I know you’ll let her go if I tell you?”

“You don’t, I’m afraid.”

Nicole struggled to sit up straighter in her chair. “Don’t let your emotions cause you to stray from the truth, Corin.”

“What truth?”

“That we all die sooner or later. And delaying my death is not worth your telling him where the chair is.”

“I can’t lose you.” He’d just found her. Losing her so soon would rip him apart. With Shasta solar systems beyond his reach, she was the only family he had.

“Yes,” she smiled, “you can. If it is my time to go sooner rather than later it will be all right. I know it will.”

Corin pulled on the cords cutting into his wrists and glared at Tesser. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth from the beginning?”

“What do you mean?” Tesser smiled as if looking at a child. “I never lied. I simply didn’t tell you everything I knew or what my ultimate motivations were for finding the chair.”

“Holding back knowledge for personal gain that can hurt the other person is lying.”

Tesser motioned to two of his men and they hoisted Corin to his feet.

“Since I never skirted over into the ethics department during my tenure at the university, I think we’d be wasting time on the semantics of truth telling.” Tesser pulled down his glasses and looked at Corin over the top of them. “Tell me where the chair is.”

“Never.”

Tesser wagged his finger and the man on either side of Corin slugged him in the gut. Hard. It felt like two shot-put champions had dropped their shots into his stomach from thirty feet up. He doubled over and his stomach heaved, almost spilling his burger onto Tesser’s cherry hardwood floor.

Tesser frowned. “A little too robust, gentlemen. Corin is my friend and we’re trying to coerce, not kill the boy.”

Tesser’s thugs didn’t respond but took a step back and stared at the professor.

“Now, Corin, I need you to tell me where the real chair is.”

“No chance.”

“Really?” Tesser glanced at the man on either side of Corin, then back at him. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Interesting.” Tesser rubbed his forehead and paced in front of Corin, then looked at Nicole. “What do you think of that, Nicole? You must be proud of your protégée protecting your most prized possession.”

Tesser waved his hand to the two men on either side of Corin. “Again.”

This time the shots to his stomach felt like cannonballs.

“Corin?”

“No,” Corin choked out.

Tesser shook his head. “I have no desire to hurt you permanently, Corin. I simply want the chair. You give it to me, I’m happy, you’re happy, Nicole and you aren’t dead, and we all skip off into the sunset whistling. Now tell me.”

“No.”

Tesser circled Corin, poking him as he eased around him counterclockwise. “Where is it?”

Silence.

Tesser poked him hard on his collarbone. “Games are over. Where is it, Corin?”

He glared at Tesser.

“Let’s give this one more try.” Tesser rubbed his hands together, then motioned to his thugs with a quick thwip of his finger. An instant later Corin’s head was yanked back and the blade of a hunting knife was flashed in his face, then applied to his throat with enough pressure to make him cough. After a few seconds he felt a trickle of blood wind its way down his skin.

Tesser laughed. “Don’t cough, Corin! It jiggles the blade. Then you start bleeding and make a mess out of that fine American Eagle shirt you have on. Donate your B positive at the blood bank, not here okay? Now tell me.”

“No.”

Corin tried to look at Nicole but the vise grip on his hair kept him from moving more than an eighth of an inch. He was yanked again.

The shuffle of Tesser’s slippers moving toward him was mixed with a ringing in Corin’s ears.

“Oh, let him move his head.”

The grip on Corin’s hair eased and his head flopped forward.

Corin looked at Nicole. Her back was straight, chin pushed forward, and even a hint of her enigmatic smile surfaced as she stared Tesser’s direction. A moment later she turned and looked at Corin. It was easy to see what was in her eyes. Deep love. And peace.

As her eyes spoke of a joy that made no sense, Corin tried to soak it all in. It fanned the flame of his determination.

Corin coughed and pain ripped through his ribs like a knife. They were probably broken. “I’ll never tell you.”

Tesser glanced back and forth between Corin and Nicole three times before bending over Corin. “I think you believe that. I also think I will be able to persuade you to think differently.”

Tesser let out a long sigh and ambled over to Nicole. “I hate this, I really do.” He picked up a long serrated knife from the table next to her. He turned it over and seemed to study the blade. “Where is the chair?”

“Fine, I’ll tell you.”

“See that wasn’t so hard.” Tesser stepped away from Nicole.

“It’s in my vault. In the store.”

“Please, Corin.” Tesser rolled his eyes. “We’ve been there, remember?”

“It’s the locked room in my basement.” Corin dropped his eyes. “In my house.”

“Oh, dear Corin. We’ve been there too. Just the other day. Did I forget to tell you?” He stepped back to Nicole and placed the knife against her neck and drew it a quarter-inch to the right. A sliver of blood appeared and Nicole gasped.

“No!” Corin yanked on the cords constraining his wrists so hard it felt like he’d dislocated his shoulders. This couldn’t be happening.

Tesser whirled toward him. “Come, come. Why all the drama. It’s a shallow cut. It will take ages for Nicole to bleed to death with a nick like that. But you were lying to me and it’s getting tiresome.” The old professor turned back to Nicole, leaned down, and said to her in a mock whisper, “As soon as he tells me where the chair is, we’ll get some antiseptic on that and bandage it up. The scar will hardly be noticeable.”

He brought the knife back up to Nicole’s throat.

A trickle of blood continued to snake down Nicole’s neck and Corin tried to gauge how deep the cut was.

Tesser placed the blade against the other side of Nicole’s throat and looked toward Corin. “Deeper this time, friend.”

“Don’t, Tesser. If you ever cared for me—don’t.”

“I do care for you; that’s why I’m giving you one more chance. But this will be the last. Just tell me.”

Corin’s mind spun. He had to wake up! But it wasn’t a dream. One of his oldest friends had gone insane. Think. There had to be something that would snap the old man out of his madness. But maybe giving in was the only way to stop it. “All right.”

Tesser pulled the blade away from Nicole’s neck and beckoned with his fingers. “Where?”

“Get away from her.” Corin drilled his eyes into Tesser’s.

“Fine.” Tesser took a half step to the left. “Now speak.”

“Give me your word you’ll let her go.”

“My word.” Tesser gave a mock bow.

“In my warehouse twenty miles east of town. There’s a basement full of old worthless antiques ready for restoration. In the far south corner buried under two feet of old blankets and a pile of worthless old lamps is a trapdoor. It’s in there.”

“Not so difficult, was that?”

“Now let her go.” Corin stared at Tesser and willed him to back off. His breath came in short gasps.

“Have you spoken truth about the location of the chair?”

“All I want is Nicole. Take the chair.”

Tesser pulled a cell phone out of his breast pocket and pressed a button. “It’s in Corin’s warehouse east of town, south corner basement, trapdoor.” He ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket.

“Let her go,” Corin growled.

Tesser paced back and forth in front of Nicole three times before speaking again. “At this point we come to the most difficult part of our transaction.” He stopped pacing and kicked at the floor with the toe of his slipper. “I don’t like this part at all, but . . .” He glanced up, a sad, resolved look in his eyes. “I can’t avoid it.”

Tesser stepped around to the back of the chair, placed the blade against Nicole’s neck again, and with a swift motion slit her throat. The thin line of blood that appeared grew in seconds to a stream that flowed down her neck, soaking her blouse with crimson.

“No!” Corin lurched forward in his chair almost tipping over. “Why? You got what you wanted!”

“Let’s call it insurance. I’m absolutely positive you told me the truth about the location of the chair, but just in case you lied, I wanted to make sure you understand how serious I am about obtaining the truth. And how when I tell you I’ll hunt down and kill everyone close to you if you did lie, you will believe me.”

As Corin strained against the cords around his wrists he thought for a moment he would break them. Just as he would break Tesser’s neck if he could reach the old man. Murderer. Manufactured from the same sick gene cesspool Hitler had been created in. Insane. Devoid of any shred of morality. A being whose evil had just shattered his world.

Tesser doffed his ratty baseball hat and bowed to Nicole. “Since I won’t see you again, my lady, I bid you safe travels in the afterlife. And Corin, should I not see you again, which I won’t unless you’ve lied to me, I bid you fair sailing as long as you continue to grace this earth with your presence.”

The professor shuffled toward the door, then stopped and motioned to his thugs.

“My friends here will keep an eye on you until I can get to the warehouse—examine the chair—and make sure you weren’t the ultimate sneaky fellow and made more than one duplicate.”

Before Tesser reached the door to the hallway the windows surrounding the top of the room shattered and shards of glass pelted down onto the floor of the study in a wide circle.

“Don’t move!”

A voice above and to Corin’s left boomed down on them, its echo filling the room.

Tesser fell back and whirled like a merry-go-round toward the first voice, then the second, then toward the other six silhouettes hovering over them.

One of Tesser’s thugs reached inside his coat. A bullet screeched past him and sent splinters into the air as it tore into the hardwood floor.

“Hands high!” The voice above them ripped through the air again.

Tesser and his thugs complied.

An instant later four men sprinted through the door into the study and leveled rifles at Tesser and his men.

After surrounding them the lead man shouted, “Clear!” to the men in the windows above, then glanced at Tesser and each of his men one at a time.

“Slowly. Like molasses in January. Guns out of coats and tossed to the center of the room. I would hate to see one of you maggots die.” In perfect unison the men cocked their rifles.

Tesser sank to the floor, head in his hands. He sat and rocked back and forth, and in that instant his old professor went from ninety-two to four years old, a little boy caught doing something he shouldn’t and feeling bad because he’d been found out, not because of what he’d done.

Thirty seconds later Tesser and his men were handcuffed and muscled out of the room.

“Help her,” Corin shouted and jerked his head in Nicole’s direction.

As one of the men sliced the twine that bound Corin to his chair, another cut Nicole loose and held a thick piece of gauze up to her throat.

The lead man of the rescue team pulled a cell phone from his vest and said, “We need an ambulance here now.”

The moment Corin was free he lurched over to Nicole and took her hands in his.“An ambulance is coming; they’ll get you to the hospital. You’ll be okay.”

“I won’t,” she rasped. “This is my time. The way it is supposed to be.”

Corin rubbed her fingers and stared into her fading eyes. “No, I need you to live. To teach me, show me—”

“Listen, I only have moments left.” Nicole coughed up blood. “Continue to protect the chair as you have done. Know that God is for you, who can be against you?”

“Don’t leave.”

“You were strong.” Nicole gasped for air and her eyes closed. “You didn’t tell him the true location of the chair.”

Corin shook his head.

“Good, good. I knew you wouldn’t.” Her head settled to the side and the brightness in her blue eyes dimmed.

He blinked back tears. “Don’t die.”

She smiled. “I am going to the arms of the One who will never let me go, Corin.” She pulled in another raspy breath. “Stay true to the path He has shown you.” Her grasp on his fingers went limp.

“Stay with me, Nicole.” Corin leaned in.

As her eyes fluttered open, she said, “Forgiveness. For both.”

“Both who?”

“Remember, the chair is only a conduit for His healing power. Healing comes from inside you and from the Maker of the chair. Both. Give it to both.” Nicole’s head settled to the side, her eyes closed and she didn’t open them again.

He kissed her on the head, then slumped to the floor. His body heaved as sobs of sorrow tore their way to the surface from the deepest part of him. Ages later as his tears slowed, Corin stared at Tesser’s endless bookshelves and wished he could torch them all with superpowered heat vision, as if that could subdue the pain of the old man’s brutal betrayal.

FOR ANOTHER AGE Corin sat at the base of the chair he had made, the chair Nicole had died in. The sorrow and anger faded and all he felt was emptiness.

“Excuse me.”

He looked up through his tear-blurred eyes. The lead man of the rescue team stood over him, hands on his hips.

“I know this is a brutal moment for you, but I want to let you know I just called the police and they’ll be here in five to ten minutes.”

“You’re not going to stay?”

“I’ll be watching from a safe distance to make sure nothing happens between now and the time they arrive, but no, we’re going to stay out of having to give the police any reports.” The man winked. “Or an explanation of who we are.”

“But they’ll want me to give them a full explanation.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

Corin nodded, grasped the chair, and hauled himself to his feet.

“Who are you?”

“Friends.” The man wiped his forehead with the back of his black gloved hand.

“But who sent you? How did you know we were here?”

“That will be explained to you.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“By who?”

“The man who hired us.”

“Who hired you?”

The man smiled. “Don’t worry; he’ll be in touch.”

“Tonight?”

“Like I said, soon.”

TWO HOURS LATER Corin drove away from Tesser’s house feeling like his body had been shot full of a local anesthetic. His arms, legs, and especially his mind were numb.

Where did he go from here?

He drove to Woodmoor Lake and sat for three hours, not thinking, not crying, not fearing anything, just feeling the chill of the afternoon seep into his heart.

On his way home an image of the chair shot into his mind. What had Nicole said? The chair would bring joy and great sorrow. No kidding. But the scales were severely out of balance. Ninety-nine percent sorrow, one percent joy. A. C., his brother, Nicole . . . the good news was there wasn’t anyone else he cared about that the chair could destroy.

As he pulled into his driveway he spotted Tori’s car and her standing next to it. He puffed out a disgusted laugh. The laugh made his ribs ache. They weren’t broken but they would be tender for a while.

Okay, not everyone had been devastated. But something told him the circle was about to be completed.

CHAPTER 48

Tori stood tapping her fingers on the roof of her car, a somber look on her face.

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to call you,” Corin said as he got out of his car.

She nodded but said nothing.

Corin stared at her. She didn’t move around her car toward him. She stood with her car between them, her face pale and she blinked as if she was in a storm cloud of dust.

“Are you all right, Tori?”

“I’m great, and you?”

She wasn’t great, wasn’t even good based on the look in her eyes. Something was wrong. Wonderful. Probably another weight to add to his backpack full of grief.

“How am I? Life has been better.” Corin slammed his car door shut. “Nicole is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Dead.”

Tori circled around to the passenger side of her car and leaned against the door. “I figured she was the one they were talking about on the radio. When I heard Tesser was arrested I assumed the worst. I’m so sorry, Corin. You’d become close to her, hadn’t you?”

Corin nodded and folded his arms.

She looked down on the frost-hardened ground. “I know my timing isn’t great, but I need to talk to you about something.”

A lump of granite instantly formed in Corin’s stomach. Here it comes.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s what isn’t going to be going on anymore.”

“And what won’t be going on anymore?”

“We’re done.” Tori wiped her nose. “I wanted to tell you to your face.”

“Why?”

“I’ve seen it all my life. You’re turning into a Jesus Freak.”

Corin coughed out a bitter laugh. “You’re wrong. After today I’m so done with the chair and anything and everything to do with God. Both have brought me nothing but pain. I’m going to get rid of the thing.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Call me when it’s gone.” Tori shoved her hands into her blue and black North Face jacket and shook her head. “No, that’s not fair to you. Don’t call me.”

“I just told you—”

“No. It’s not you, Corin. It’s the whole thing. Too much of my past. Too much has been stirred up and thrown in my face.”

“I told you, I’m done with the chair. It’s over for me.”

“And it’s over for us.”

CORIN SPENT THE rest of the day numbing his mind watching Tobey Maguire spin his way through Sam Raimi’s three Spider-Man movies. If only it were as easy to heal his world as Spidey healed his. The flicks did little to dull the pain seeping into every crevice of his soul. Toward midnight as the credits rolled on the third movie, he told himself to look at the bright side.

His life couldn’t get any worse.

It couldn’t.

He staggered into his bedroom, flopped onto his bed, and closed his eyes.

Sure it could.

CHAPTER 49

Corin was only asleep for what seemed like seconds before his cell phone shattered his dreams. He glanced at his alarm clock. One a.m. He fumbled for his phone and squinted against the light coming from it and looked to see who was on the other end.

Adrenaline shot through him and in an instant he was awake. Shasta. Was it possible? Was he healed?

Corin rubbed his eyes and tried to remember how long it had been since his brother sat in the chair. Three days? With Brittan, A. C., and him the healing had come within twenty-four hours, so there’d been plenty of time for it to work.

Please.

“Shasta?”

He heard the faint strains of the soundtrack from Gladiator playing through the phone.

“Shasta, you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.” His brother paused. “Are you well?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“How does it feel, to be ‘fine’?” Shasta’s voice sounded like ice.

No.

Corin stumbled to his feet.

“How does it feel to have sensation in your toes, your feet, your legs, your fingers, your arms, your shoulders? Tell me, brother, what is it like to be fine? I’m dying to know.”

“Don’t do this, Shasta.”

“I think it needs to be done. Because you had me. Really. Did you know that? I was convinced this was the time. Miracle city. When you told me that kid had been healed, I thought it was possible.

“When you told me A. C. had been healed, I called him. Did you know that? After talking to him I believed even more. Then the coup de grâce, telling me you’d been healed. In that moment I swallowed every worm on your hook.”

Shasta’s slow, labored breathing reverberated in Corin’s mind like a windstorm.

“Congratulations on ripping open a hope I’ve been trying to bury for ten years. Well done.”

“Shasta—”

“If you ever contact me again for anything, I will find a way to destroy you. No talking to Robin, no more presents for Sawyer, no e-mails, no Christmas cards, nothing.”

“I didn’t—”

“Do we understand each other?”

“Don’t do this.”

“You did it, not me.”

“I thought—”

“No, you rarely have ever thought, just acted.”

Corin dropped to his knees.

“Good-bye, Corin.”

He let his cell phone slide out of his hand and clatter to the floor.

Then his despair twisted and morphed into an anger that lifted him to his feet, a burning in his mind that formed into a crystal-clear vision of what needed to be done.

He strode to his garage, his whole body on fire, and flung open the closest hiding all his old sports gear. He dug through the pile, flinging hiking gear, basketballs, his tennis racquet, his golf clubs, not turning or caring when the sound of them smacking into his car filled the garage.

Where is it?

There.

His baseball bat. The perfect instrument for the song he was about to play. A bat he’d crafted himself in junior high school after seeing that old movie The Natural about a player who’d made his own bat when he was a kid. The bat lay at the bottom of the pile, its surface still gleaming from the finish he’d put on it twenty years ago.

He lifted it out of the pile and ran his hand over its smooth surface.

He’d picked the perfect piece of northern white ash to construct the bat. The perfect choice for slugging homers off John Vanos in high school.

He stepped back and swung the bat as hard as he could. The perfect tool to bestow on it what had been bestowed on him.

Something inside tried to rise in protest, but he ignored the message and whipped the bat through the air again, the familiar swoosh filling his garage.

He’d lost little if any of his bat speed.

This was it. Payback time.

CHAPTER 50

Corin strode over the frost-bitten lawn of his backyard, his breath filling the air with clouds of gray rage. Before he reached the bunker he pushed the remote and the earth slid back, the stairs dark in the night’s shadows.

He staggered down the concrete steps, slid his key into the massive Master Lock padlock, and flung open the door, its momentum crashing the knob into the concrete wall of the bunker and echoing through the night like a gong.

Moonlight streamed into the room through the tiny skylight in the far corner of the room. One side of the chair was bathed in radiance; the other side cast a shadow that reached the wall. Light and dark. Yin and yang. Demon and angel.

He was about to be the former.

Corin’s gaze moved from the chair to the moon framed by the skylight. Was the man in the moon smiling? Or laughing? At him, with him. It didn’t matter.

Man in the moon. Man in the chair. Man of despair.

His stare returned to the chair as he strode into the room and stopped a foot in front of it, wishing he had Superman’s heat vision to simply incinerate the chair instantly.

No, this way would be better.

“It’s time to end this.” Corin smacked the bat into his palm. “Are you ready? I certainly am.”

Would God stop him? Freeze him in place, or make his muscles turn into syrup till someone arrived who would keep the chair from annihilation?

He angled around the right side of the chair on the balls of his feet as if he were a famished lion ready to pounce.

“You destroyed me. You destroyed everything and now I am going to return the favor.”

Corin spun back and crossed in front of the chair back the way he’d come, the drumbeat of the bat smacking his palm in rhythm with his footsteps. The anger inside him surged like a strobe light going on and off, on and off, with each flash his rage growing brighter. He was going nova.

The bat felt as heavy as a sledgehammer and time slowed as he stopped pacing, lifted it straight over his head, and brought it down on the seat of the chair, his muscles straining to deliver all his strength.

Would the chair turn into something made of steel like the time he took a sliver from it? Would it protect itself? It wouldn’t matter. He would find a way to destroy it.

The first blow crunched halfway through the seat, the second sent splinters spinning to the floor, the third—a full level baseball swing from his heels—tore the back of the chair apart and launched it into the air with a twisting spin till it crashed into the left wall.

Indestructible?

Hardly.

He tightened his grip on the bat as a voice in the back of his mind again asked, Why are you doing this?

He closed his eyes and squeezed tighter.

“Shut up.”

Why?

“Shut up!”

Corin’s eyes fluttered open, he screamed, then leaped toward the chair, bat high again in his hands, his grip so tight now his fingers ached.

Muscles taut, he rained another ten thousand blows onto the olive wood, each crunch of bat on chair fueling his rage.

“You took my life away!”

Another blow.

“Why couldn’t you heal my brother?”

Another.

“Any hope of Shasta and me gone!”

Another.

Sweat seeped from his hands onto the handle of the bat.

“How does it feel!”

Two minutes later he slumped against the far wall gasping for air. The bat slid out of his damp hands and clattered to the floor as he braced himself with his palms and gazed at the pieces of the chair.

None was more than a foot and a half long and three inches thick. The inside of the wood was the same color as the outside, as if the years on the outside had seeped into the inside giving a uniform color to the whole chair.

It lay in a pile, not moving, not speaking out against what had just been done.

Corin shook his head and grunted out a laugh. What was he thinking? This wasn’t a person. It wasn’t a talisman—it was a plain, ordinary chair!

He expected his rage to subside as he stared at the wood, but the intensity of his anger grew.

“We’re not done.” He stumbled forward on his knees and reached out to grab the pieces of the chair. Smaller. The pieces needed to be reduced to splinters. The air felt thick, as if he were pushing his hands through Jell-O to reach the pieces. Harder. C’mon grab them. There! He snatched up a handful of pieces and dropped them a second later.

Hot. Burning hot. Corin rubbed his hands on his sweatpants and blew on his palms. He looked at his hands expecting to see blisters forming.

Nothing.

Hot? Impossible. It was just his imagination.

He grabbed the pieces again—now almost cool—and brought them down hard across his knee.

Pain streaked through his leg and he groaned. It was like slamming pieces of iron across his quad. “What the . . . ?”

He grabbed a piece the size of a letter opener and tried to snap it in two. Steel. Corin let go and it rattled onto the concrete floor. He kicked the shattered wood at his feet and staggered out of the room, swiping at the door with his heel to shut it. The door didn’t close more than halfway and he glanced back for one more look at the remnants of the chair.

They lay, not moving, not glowing, just a pile of wood with no magic in them.

As he stepped back to his house all emotion left him and an overwhelming emptiness rushed in to fill the vacuum in his heart.

He shoved his back door open and slammed it shut behind him as the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed one thirty.

Corin trudged toward his living room, then glared at his reflection in the full-length mirror at the end of the hall. The look in his eyes surprised him. It wasn’t relief, fear, or anger; it was sorrow.

Sorrow? Sure. Sorrow he hadn’t destroyed the chair sooner. For a moment he embraced the thought. In the morning life would begin again. No, life had begun the moment he’d picked up the bat and took his first step toward the bunker.

What had Nicole said about the chair? Destined to be in his family for generations? Sure. Why not? He’d give one piece each to the hundreds of kids he wouldn’t be having someday.

He glanced at his watch: 1:35. Tori wouldn’t be up, but he didn’t care. He wrenched his phone free of his pocket and dialed. Two rings. Four.

“Wondering what I’m doing? I’m wondering what you’re doing, so leave me a message. I’ll call you back and hopefully we’ll both get what we’re looking for.”

“It’s me. I’m wondering if you’d reconsider us. Just wanted you to know it’s over. The chair is gone and I’m free.”

He set the phone down and tried to believe the words he’d just spoken.

A few seconds later another emotion joined his pleasure. Horror. As if he stood on the edge of the beach as a tsunami was about to strike with nowhere to escape to.

Deep down he knew the chair was real. Knew the healing he’d experienced wasn’t a mind game he’d played on himself. Same with A. C. Same with Brittan Gibson.

Instantly his living room filled with a brilliant light with so much power he gasped. Then an overwhelming peace swept him up and spilled over him like forty-foot waves.

A moment later the light vanished and the peace was gone.

Corin moaned and slumped to his knees in front of his couch as an image of the chair lying battered and broken filled his mind. He tried to wipe it away by picturing what the chair had done to Nicole, but he couldn’t hold the thought, and the image of the chair intensified. It lit up his vision, filling the air in front his eyes like he was staring at a movie screen.

Why have you done this?

The enormity of what he had done filled him.

What had Nicole said ages past?

“Do not let it go. Ever.”

He’d failed her.

No.

Corin moaned and eased his head forward till his forehead rested on the carpet. He closed his eyes and pressed his head into the floor hard, then harder till it felt like his head would crack open. More pressure. More pain. More pressure.

When the throbbing in his skull wouldn’t grow any stronger, he flopped onto his side, opened his eyes, and stared at the picture of Shasta and him skydiving that rested on the mantel he’d restored.

He knew what he had to do. There was only one solution. A glance out his front window told him the night was ideal. Clouds had moved in and covered the moon. Perfect. No light to help him see what would be rushing up at him.

He glanced at his watch. He could be standing on the edge of the cliff by 3 a.m.

CHAPTER 51

Corin’s heart pounded as he strode to the garage, grabbed his parachuting gear, opened the trunk of his car, and flung it inside.

He backed out of his driveway, threw his Highlander into Drive, and mashed his foot to the floor. Two seconds later he broke the speed limit. In four he’d rocketed up to fifty miles per hour. Five minutes later he scorched through the first red light going ninety. A car horn screamed at him, but by the time it registered, he was already through the next stoplight, moving at over one hundred.

A few minutes later he slowed down. No point in getting killed here. He had to get to the jump in one piece.

An hour and fifteen minutes later he pulled into the parking lot at the trailhead. Two minutes after that he strode down the path leading to the edge of the cliff.

The stars and moon were shrouded by thick clouds and he stumbled on roots twice on his way to the edge. Trees that lined the path pressed in on him, but the fear they would have stirred two weeks ago had vanished.

The chair.

It had healed him.

Destroyed his relationship with Shasta.

Then Corin destroyed the chair.

Now he would complete the circle and join his brother and they would be friends once more.

An image flashed into his mind of Shasta and him sitting next to each other on the Blue Streak roller coaster in Cedar Point, Ohio. Ten and eight years old. They’d ridden it sixteen times that day. And came back the next day for more. It had been the birth of their adventures together.

Tonight Corin would usher in its death. His fast walk morphed into a slow jog as he clipped toward the launch point.

When he reached the edge of the cliff, a light wind buffeted his face. Perfect. Maybe the winds were stronger two hundred or five hundred feet down. Maybe they’d take him for a ride he’d never remember. All possibilities were good ones.

Corin stared at the darkness below. If his memory was still serving him accurately, he’d be able to float for five seconds, maybe seven, before pulling his chute. Without seeing the ground he couldn’t be sure. But wasn’t that the idea?

Once he was in the air he’d decide when to send his chute out behind him in a stream of salvation. Or maybe he wouldn’t decide.

A deep breath. Then another.

Corin strode back five paces from the edge and turned. Both his legs bounced like mini jackhammers and his hands shook. He felt his palms. Dry. Cold. Same for this feet. Icy cold. The terror surging through him had probably pulled all the blood from his extremities.

A voice so deep inside it was only the hint of a whisper tried to speak. Corin shut it down and stared into the void in front of him.

He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing.

There was no question. He had to do this.

Do you? The voice inside grew louder.

“Yes.”

Corin pulled his chute from his pack and slipped into his harness.

Pictures of Nicole and Shasta and Tesser and the chair swirled through his mind in a kaleidoscope of images.

Just before he lunged forward into his sprint toward the cliff, his cell phone pierced the night air.

How ironic. Was it God trying to save him?

It didn’t matter. Because unless it was God on the phone, he wasn’t backing down.

Might as well see who it was.

Corin yanked his phone out of his pocket. A. C. A good man, a good friend. Corin muted the ring and shoved the phone deep into his pocket. “Sorry, pal.”

He stared into the blackness. Into the nothingness. Just like the lake.

He counted to three, then sprinted for the edge. Faster, something from behind pushing, digging deep into the dirt with the toes of his Nikes with each step. A moment later he was floating, not seeing anything, embracing the fear exploding in his stomach.

Start counting.

One.

Two.

The darkness surrounded him, pulling him down, wind pummeling his face.

Three.

Time to pull. The adrenaline in his stomach exploded.

Four.

Pull!

His mind screamed it again. But he didn’t listen.

Five.

Pull the chute now!

Corin squeezed tighter on the chute.

An instant later the drowning flashed through his mind so vividly he was under the water again, struggling for air, tearing at his life jacket, his fingernails digging into his father’s arm, then opening his mouth and sucking in a monstrous lungful of water, filling his ear canals, pressing into his mind, drawing him toward death.

In that moment clarity flashed like a lightning strike.

He’d been wrong for twenty-four years.

Drowning. He’d never been scared of it.

It had never been his fear.

It had always been the fear behind the fear.

He was scared of death.

Of dying.

Of the darkness he’d escaped smothering him forever.

Of the nothingness.

Corin’s eyes fluttered open and stared into the black earth rushing up at him.

Was he too late?

“Ahhhhhh!” he shouted as he heaved his chute into the screaming air.

Release. Please . . .

His chute snapped open like the sound of a rifle’s report.

Be my life jacket.

Too late, he was too late.

“I’m sorry, Shasta.”

He glanced at the thicker darkness streaking toward him. The ground. Less than 150 feet. Too close. He was still moving far too fast. Milliseconds now.

He braced for impact.

As his legs slammed into the ground he tried to roll to lessen the impact, but the futility of the action filled his mind at the same time a freight train of pain ripped into his feet and legs and up his back.

An instant later a vise grip grabbed his lungs and squeezed.

He gasped and pulled in a teaspoon of air.

Not enough air.

Not even close!

He tried again, but it was like sucking air through a straw the size of a needle.

He had to breathe.

His head rolled from side to side, as he gasped again and again for air. Air that wouldn’t come, that he couldn’t reach, couldn’t find. So close but ages away. And death was settling down on him like early winter snow.

Exactly the same feeling he’d had underwater.

He was about to die.

Corin rolled onto his back and screamed. Fire shot through his upper chest and right arm. “Uhhhhhhhhh.”

Stay alive. He had to. What time had he jumped? Three a.m.? It wouldn’t be light for another three and a half hours.

As he lay on the ground, feeling the moisture slowly seeping through his clothes into his skin, Corin thought back to Nicole’s eyes just before she died and her last words:

“Forgiveness. For both.”

Instantly he knew who she meant.

Killing or paralyzing himself would never bring restoration. Forgiveness was his only hope.

His last thought before blacking out was of Shasta.

I never asked you. Why did I never ask?

“Mr. Roscoe? Can you hear me?”

Corin moaned and squeezed his eyes tighter shut. It didn’t do much good against the blinding light that shot through his eyelids and seemed to burn his corneas. What did it remind him of? Hadn’t he just done this? Right—in the ambulance after A. C. had been shot.

“Bright . . . so bright.” He tried to bring his arm up to shield his eyes but he couldn’t move his arm.

“Nurse, do you mind . . . ?” The light in the room dimmed and Corin opened his eyes a slit.

“How do you feel?”

“Run over. Multiple times.” Corin tried to move his legs, but the pain that shot down them was so intense blackness moved across his vision. “Run over by an aircraft carrier.”

“Aircraft carriers float.”

“This one was on wheels.” He opened his eyes halfway.

“Having a sense of humor at this point is a good sign.”

“I’m in a hospital.”

“Yes.”

Corin opened his eyes all the way and gazed at his surroundings. Off-white walls, off-white curtain half surrounding his bed, off-white coat covering an African American doctor with bright eyes.

“How bad am I?”

“Given what you almost did to yourself and the condition you should have wound up in, I’m required to tell you you’re lucky to be alive.”

“How lucky?”

“Extremely.”

“How bad?”

“One leg sprained, the other badly broken, a sprained right arm, punctured lung—which is why you have a tube coming out of your side—and you almost ripped your right ear off.” The doctor leaned in. “That’s the bad news.”

“What’s the good?”

“You’ll probably walk with a slight limp the rest of your life, but the rest will heal up fine. You’ll be in some intense pain for the next few days, but—”

“Will I be going home tonight?”

“Like I said, I like the humor. Some people think it can cure everything from warts to cancer.”

Corin stared at the doctor for a moment. “Do you believe in miracles? That people can be instantaneously healed by the power of God?”

“I think it’s possible.”

“Why? Have you seen one?”

“I believe there’s a higher power. A being I would call God. I believe I’m not Him. Until I am, I’ll leave room that He invades our world with His goodness and mercy. And that includes healing. Of the body.” The doctor placed his fingers on Corin’s good arm. “And sometimes, more important, of the soul.” He touched Corin’s chest over his heart.

“I need to see my brother.”

“I think in a week or so you’ll be able to.”

Countdown. Six days to go.

CHAPTER 52

Six days later Corin sat at the lake—crutches lying on his right, pain pills in his left pocket—and prayed. For peace. For the meeting he would have with Shasta in a little less than an hour. For himself. For understanding. For forgiveness.

A few minutes later a cough floated toward him through the light fog that covered the lake and shoreline. He turned toward the sound.

“Good to see you alive, Corin.” Mark Jefferies stood ten yards behind and to his left, hands jammed into his black leather jacket.

Corin blinked and couldn’t stop a smile from forming. “It was you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You saved my life. In Tesser’s house.”

“True.”

“And again when I jumped off that cliff.”

“Yep.” Mark gave a thin smile, slid onto the bench next to Corin, and leaned back, legs crossed, hands behind his head.

“I see you aren’t limited to a few bodyguards for your protection.”

“My friends know friends who know friends—nice to have them in cities and situations like the ones you found yourself in.”

“Thank you.”

Mark nodded. “The thing with Nicole? That was wrong. She was a wonderful woman. Who walked with God.”

“You met her?”

“I did. Very recently.” Mark scraped his feet on the concrete path. “She pumped my head full of wisdom. Wisdom . . . truth I needed.”

“She was my grandmother.”

“I suspected that.”

“How?”

“From studying the legend. Sometimes the passing on of the chair skipped a generation. It’s always been from woman to woman, but that was tradition, not an absolute mandate.”

And now he’d ended the tradition, there would be no chair to pass down to a daughter or a son. The thought filled him with an emptiness and a longing for forgiveness. But from whom he didn’t know. Nicole? God?

Corin glanced at Mark. The man didn’t make sense. So full of swagger and pride. Yet the pastor had saved him and seemed to want nothing in return.

“Why were you so obsessed with the chair?”

“I still am.” Mark pressed the tips of his fingers and thumbs together. “It has always fascinated me. The possibility of its existence—the type of legend only seen in stories come to real life—the thought I might be the one to find it.”

Jefferies said it with confidence, too much confidence.

“I want to know the real reason.”

“The real reason?” Mark dropped his head back and chuckled. “You’re perceptive.” He leaned forward, blew on his hands, and set his arms on his legs. “Why not?” Jefferies said, more to himself it seemed than to Corin. “Because I needed it. I needed to sit in it and receive its power.”

“The healing it could bring.”

Mark nodded.

“In order to fight your demons.”

“I’ve done things I’m not proud of. I still do things. I have thoughts I’m not proud of.” Mark rubbed his face. “I need forgiveness. I need healing.”

For the first time since he’d known the pastor, the macho tough-guy veneer melted off his face and Corin glimpsed the young kid underneath that wrestled with fame and power and who knew how many other demons.

“The healing isn’t ultimately in the chair; it’s in the One who—”

“What do you think you’re doing? The student instructing the teacher?” Jefferies laughed. “But you’re right. I was looking for an instant cure, the magic silver bullet that would wipe clean in an instant the parts of my soul that still remain hidden in the shadows.” He made a gesture with his hand as if sweeping a table clean.

“Isn’t this the kind of thing you can talk about to your board or other people in your church?”

“Not a chance.”

“Why?”

“I’m an icon, the figurehead, the god they all scramble after. I can’t show that weakness.”

“Why can you tell me?”

“I trust you. We’re eight hundred miles away from that life. And you’re not a believer.”

“I think that’s changing.”

“I hope it continues. Jesus is life.” Mark smiled—a genuine smile without guile.

“Where will you look for the healing now?”

“In Him. Where it’s always been.”

“I destroyed the chair.”

A wave of anger flashed over Mark’s face, but it was gone in an instant. “That was foolish.”

“I know.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I lost control.”

They sat in silence, the only sound their breathing in and out in the cool November air.

“Did you know about Tesser?”

Mark smiled. “Forever. I’ve kept one of my men watching him for years. I thought it was a waste. Obviously it wasn’t.” Mark smacked Corin’s shoulder. Probably a deep expression of compassion for him. “I’m sorry he betrayed you. I’m sorry about Nicole.”

“Me too.”

“My prayer is what Tesser did doesn’t stop you from trusting again.”

Corin nodded.

Mark leaned forward, popped his legs with his fists, and stood. “Gotta roll. Let’s stay in touch, Corin. You’re a good man.” Mark pointed at him, turned, and strode away.

A thought formed as he watched Mark walk into the fog and start to fade from sight. A way to thank Mark for saving his life.

“Hey, Mark.”

The pastor turned.

“In about two weeks I might have something to show you. Might be worth a flight back up here.”

“Sounds good. Call me.” Mark spun away from him and disappeared into the gray.

Corin smiled at his audacious idea. God willing he would be able to do it.

But first he had to see Shasta.

AS CORIN DROVE to Shasta’s house the next day, he wiped his hands on his pants every few miles and tried to keep his nerves in check and his foot on the gas. Fortunately the sprain in his leg was healing quickly and the pain from pressing the gas and the brake wasn’t bad. He was much more worried about how his emotions would hold up when he stood in front of his brother. It felt like he was about to plunge into the lake with lead weights around his ankles.

He tried not to imagine how Shasta would react to his words.

But that wasn’t his part in this play. His was only to speak and let his brother take ownership of however he chose to react.

CHAPTER 53

A deep sadness filled Robin’s face as she opened the door and beckoned Corin to come in.

Corin leaned on his crutches, his left leg bouncing as his nerves continued to betray him. “Where is he?”

“In the movie room.” She covered her mouth and dropped her head. “I’m not sure if he’ll even acknowledge you’re here. He’s angry about you coming. He meant it when he said he never wanted to talk to you again.”

“Shasta doesn’t have to say anything. I’ll say what I need to and then leave.”

“You’re right.” Robin nodded and blinked. “Whatever happens, it’s going to be okay.”

Corin offered a weak smile. “Do you believe that?”

“Not really, but I’m trying to.”

“Me too.”

Robin took his hands and squeezed them.

Corin felt like he was floating, detached from his body as he hobbled toward his brother’s media room. A numbness covered his mind—causing the emotions he carried into the house with him a few minutes earlier to vanish. He wasn’t nervous any longer. He wasn’t anything and couldn’t decide if it was a blessing or a curse.

When he reached the movie room, Corin stood just inside the door and stared at the back of Shasta’s head, silhouetted against the image of three men—two Native Americans, one white man—racing together through the forest.

As the scene ended the movie froze, the image of Daniel Day-Lewis staring out at him from the six-by-four-foot screen.

“Have you ever seen The Last of the Mohicans?” his brother called out.

The question was a barbed hook.

Nineteen years ago Shasta and he had seen it in the theater together. Had embraced it; made it the representation of their brotherhood and how they would always fight for each other the way Chingachgook, Uncas, and Hawkeye fought for one another. To ask if he’d seen it was another serrated blade across Corin’s heart.

It didn’t matter. Shasta could cut as much as he wanted. Corin’s heart might bleed like a river, but never to death—and it would never stop his love for Shasta.

“I haven’t seen it since the last time we watched it together.”

The slow whir of Shasta’s electric wheelchair was the only sound in the room. When it stopped, Shasta stared at him without anger, without regret, without emotion.

“Thanks for letting me come.”

“Robin said it was imperative you saw me.”

“It is.”

“That you have something that has to be said in person.”

Corin nodded and took half a step forward, then stopped. “Yes.”

“I thought we’d agreed we wouldn’t be seeing each other again.”

“This is the last time I’ll ever bother you, Shasta.”

“Please don’t call me that.” Shasta jammed his chin into his wheelchair’s chin controller and it spun to the right, his profile silhouetted against the movie screen. “It’s Dom.”

“When did you start—?”

“Try to explain to me why that’s any of your business.”

Corin rubbed his face and fought to remember the words he’d rehearsed countless times over the past two days that would provide an adequate introduction for what he’d come to say, but they’d disappeared. “It’s not any of my business.”

“What do you need?”

“I’m trying to put it into words.” Corin pressed the knuckle of his forefinger into his upper teeth.

“When you figure it out, you let me know.” He spun back to face the screen and the movie started again.

“I know what I want to say.” Corin stepped forward till he stood four feet from the back of Shasta’s head. “I need to ask you something.”

“What’s that?” The movie kept playing.

Corin glanced to his right then his left as if looking for a place to put down a set of weights he wasn’t carrying. He pressed his lips together and blinked, trying to hold back the tears pressing to get out.

“Well?” Shasta said.

Corin slumped forward on his crutches and let the tears come. “I never asked you.”

“Asked me what?”

“I told you I was sorry about the accident. I told you I wished it had never happened. How I wished with everything in me I could take that day back. I told you how sorry I was that I pushed you into going off the jump, but . . .” Corin’s voice cracked. “I never asked for your forgiveness.” He held his hands open, palms up.

The whir of Shasta’s chair as he turned back to his left seemed like a thunderstorm in Corin’s head.

“I never asked your forgiveness for stealing your life away from you.” Sobs racked Corin’s chest and his head fell forward. “Forgive me for trying to fix it, for trying to earn back your friendship, and for never once in all these years asking you to forgive me for what I did to you.”

A slight move of Shasta’s chin silenced the movie and the chair made a small rotation to the right.

“Forgive me.”

The room was frozen in silence, Shasta’s rhythmic breathing the only sound.

Corin steepled his hands and pressed them into his forehead. Let my words go deep, tear off the ice around his heart, restore us. Shasta is—

The whir of Shasta’s chair made Corin whip his head up. He expected to know instantly from looking into his brother’s eyes what he was thinking.

But once again all he saw was the back of Shasta’s head.

“Good-bye, Corin.”

The speakers roared back to life and The Last of the Mohicans filled the screen.

AS CORIN CLOMPED down his brother’s front steps, Robin said, “I’m sorry.”

Corin turned. “It’s okay.” He kept walking. It was.

No, the ice cave his brother lived in was just as thick. Part of Corin said he’d accomplished nothing, but a larger part said he’d spoken truth, that he’d set himself free even if his brother didn’t want to join him, and that an invitation had been extended that couldn’t be ignored forever.

As he drove away it struck him that somehow the water was no longer as deep and its color no longer as black.

And he believed the water would grow brighter.

CHAPTER 54

Corin trudged up his front porch steps wanting nothing but a pillow to bury his head in, and ten hours of unconscious thought, but one glance at his porch told him slumber wouldn’t be an option for a while longer.

A black DVD case leaned against his front door. He balanced on his crutches and stooped to pick it up, the fluid silver script on the outside making him frown. Only one word was on it: Corin.

He didn’t know the handwriting.

He glanced over his shoulder, opened his front door, and slumped through the opening into the dark. It still smelled like the garlic potatoes he’d had the night before. Corin set his crutches aside, flopped onto his couch, and flicked on the lamp next to it. Silence filled the room so completely his ears rang.

Nicole was gone, Tori was gone, Tesser was his enemy, and while Mark had saved his life and shown a surprising new side to his personality, Corin wasn’t ready to be bungee-jumping partners. A. C. would recover, but never be fully restored. And somehow he knew BASE jumping wouldn’t have the same high-octane taste it used to.

Yet there was a type of hope he’d never known filling his mind—filling his heart. And a peace that didn’t make sense, and made all the sense in the universe.

He knew where it came from.

Not from a chair.

Not from a religion.

Not from a set of rules.

But from a Person who loved him with a passion so vast the whole world couldn’t contain it.

A Person he would follow the rest of his life.

He turned the DVD over in his hand, then over again. He opened the black plastic case, pulled the DVD out, pulled his computer onto his lap, slid it into the disc drive, and listened to the whir of the computer as the video booted up.

A few seconds later a shot of a small breakfast nook filled his screen, and then the sound of scuffling feet as a torso moved past the viewfinder. A second later the person came into view and sat at the oak chair at the end of the table.

It was Nicole.

“Hello, Corin.” She smoothed her hair. “Let’s have a little chat, shall we?” A sad smile played on her lips. “If you’re watching this, my spirit is no longer on earth and my body is just a shell that used to hold my soul.” She laughed. “Don’t you think that’s better than saying, ‘I’m dead’?”

“Life ends for all, so don’t cry over me. Yes, I might have lived a few more years, but it would be less than a blink in light of eternity. And who knows, we might be reunited someday. I believe we will.

“So what is your final conclusion? Do you believe the chair has the power to heal? I never did. But I have seen healings come through the chair. Do understand what I’m saying? The chair in and of itself never had the power to heal. I know you think it did, but that power only comes from the One. Without Him the chair is wood, nothing more. And far more important to Him than that shaped piece of wood is the hearts of the people who sit in it.

“You asked me once what type of power was in the chair, but I didn’t answer at the time.” She leaned forward. “I believe the chair’s greatest power is to bestow the restoration of relationships, for that is the greatest gift that can ever be given. The restoration of man’s relationship to God and of our relationships with each other.

“My prayer is the chair will do this for you.

“Remember, all physical healing is temporary anyway.

“There is only one healing that lasts for eternity—the healing of our souls.

“I will see you again. Until then, live in His forgiveness, His mercy, His grace. Good-bye, Corin.”

He slept that night without dreams and woke the next morning ready to do the impossible.

CHAPTER 55

At six o’clock on Saturday morning, before any hint of gray had touched the sky, Corin hobbled to his workshop dreaming he could do something that wasn’t possible.

He opened the door, stood in the door frame, and took a deep breath.

A wave of anxiety washed over him.

Part of him wasn’t even sure he should attempt it.

But it was a small part.

The larger part inside called out with a shout to pour himself into the idea with full-out abandon.

It didn’t matter if he launched the idea and it exploded like one of the bottle rockets Shasta and he used to shoot off every Fourth of July. He had to try.

What was that old quote? Better to dare mighty things and go down in flames than attempt them not, and live forever in the shadow of regret. He smiled at himself. Wasn’t even close. But that was the basic idea.

Corin eased over to his workbench. “I need skills beyond my ability, God.” He settled onto his work stool and gazed at the shattered pieces of wood stacked on his workbench. The wood that had been a treasure so far beyond priceless he didn’t have words to describe it. Wood that somehow had given Corin back his life and a life he never knew existed.

Restore the chair to the way it was before? Impossible. But with everything inside he would try.

He picked up a six-inch piece and ran his palm over its surface. No tingle ran up his arm, no warmth at the tip of his forefinger. It was all right. His desire was no longer to access the power in the chair; he’d met the chair’s Maker. And found more power in Him than he could ever comprehend.

He carried the pieces to a small three-by-three platform he’d built and set them down like they were china, then taped four photos of the chair along the thick laminate post in the center of the room.

An assortment of glues stood at attention at the base of the table.

Here we go.

After three hours he took a short break, then poured another two hours into the restoration. Corin pulled back and studied the progress of his attempt.

Good start. The chair was coming into shape.

There was hope.

After another hour he flicked off the light in his workroom and ambled toward his kitchen. Time for something to eat and time to rest his eyes.

Before he reached his refrigerator his cell phone rang with a number he didn’t recognize. He ignored it. Shortly it rang again with the same number. Corin flipped the switch to put his cell on mute and resumed construction of a bacon, tomato, Swiss cheese, sourdough bread, and avocado sandwich. Heated in the microwave, of course.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the phone light up for a third time.

Persistent.

He put down the piece of bread he was about to butter and answered.

“Corin Roscoe?”

“Yes.” He didn’t recognize the voice.

“Your presence is requested for dinner this evening at six o’clock.”

“Who is this?”

“I’m afraid I have been instructed not to reveal that to you.”

“For what?”

“Dinner.”

“Today isn’t good; I’m right in the middle of a project.” Corin shifted the phone to his other ear. “Who is this?” he asked again.

“A friend of the person giving the invitation.”

“What is the name of my host?”

“They asked me not to reveal it to you.”

“In that case tell them they’ll be dining alone.”

The man on the other end of the phone paused. “I would counsel you against declining.”

“Really? Is that a threat?”

“Far from it. The choice is entirely up to you as my friend would say, but my friend believes healing could come from this dinner.”

Corin paused. Healing? Who would be calling him about healing? Intriguing. But not enough to stop working on the chair. “Maybe another time.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” The sadness in the voice seemed genuine. “My friend will be there waiting till nine. I hope you choose to come.”

“Tell your friend next time he or she invites me to be a little less secretive.”

“I will pass along your message.”

“Anything else?”

“They did ask that I relay a sentiment to you should you decide not to come.”

“What’s that?”

“That no matter how long it takes, no matter how far, he will find you.”

Was it him? Heat flooded Corin’s body. It had to be.

“Tell the host I’ll be there.”

“He will be very pleased to hear that.” Corin could almost feel the voice on the other end of the line smiling.

CORIN GLANCED AT his watch as he weaved in and out of traffic on the way to the address he’d been given. His phone’s GPS showed it was in a residential district on the west side of town.

Twenty minutes to six. He would be early. He smiled, then gave into the urge to call Shasta. It had to be him.

“Hello?”

“You quoted Hawkeye.”

“I thought it was a nice touch.”

“Absolutely.”

“I just thought it would be fun to shroud the invitation in a cloak of mystery.”

He heard the smile in Shasta’s voice. Corin’s heart pounded faster than it ever had on any of their extreme adventures together.

“What happened? Are you . . . ?” The words stuck in Corin’s throat.

“Yes, brother. I am healed.” Shasta laughed. “Don’t drive off the road on me.”

Corin’s body flooded with heat. “What? When did it—? Are you kidding me?” The words sputtered out of Corin like a torrent and a moment later he was laughing. “You’re serious!”

“Completely.”

A monsoon of belief and disbelief washed over Corin. “You’re kidding. I mean . . . tell me!”

“I’ll give you all the details when you get here. Are you on your way?”

Corin glanced at his watch. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Take your time and keep it under a hundred, okay?”

Seven minutes later Corin stood at the door of a house that was probably built in the late forties. Flower baskets hung along both sides of the covered porch and the light tan color on the siding looked freshly painted.

He rang the doorbell and waited. No answer. He rang again. A moment later the door opened revealing Robin.

“Welcome, Corin.” Her smile lit up the porch.

“He . . . h-he’s healed.” Corin stuttered the words out.

Robin grinned. “Yes, I know.” She motioned him in.

“Can I see him?”

“Of course.”

She led him down a short hallway but stopped a few feet before reaching a doorway on the right.

“I’m going to let you see him for the first time by yourself.” She hugged Corin. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be in the kitchen. I’m sure you can find it if need be.”

Corin tried to stop his hands from shaking. Finally he sucked in a deep breath, then limped into the room.

Shasta sat in his chair with the back of his head toward Corin, staring out the window in the small library.

“Shasta?”

As the electric wheelchair spun toward him, confusion filled Corin.

“You’re here.” A smile Corin hadn’t seen in ten years radiated from his brother’s face.

Corin blinked and gave tiny, involuntary shakes of his head. “What . . . ? I don’t understand.”

“Understand?”

“What are you still doing in the chair?” It didn’t make sense. “I thought you were healed.”

“I was healed, Corin.”

He glanced at Shasta’s wheelchair, then into his eyes. “Then why—?”

“Fully healed. Fully set free.”

“When?”

“Two days ago.”

“I don’t get it. What are you saying? You’re no longer paralyzed?”

“Exactly. I’m no longer paralyzed.” A smile played on Shasta’s face and he winked.

“Are you saying you could get up from that chair right now?”

Shasta pressed his chin into the wheelchair’s control and eased toward Corin. “I’ve been living in chains since the moment I woke up in that hospital bed ten years ago. Hating myself for going down that slope. Hating you even more for pushing me into it. I blamed you. For a time I prayed for you to break your own neck.”

Shasta inched the chair toward Corin till he was only two feet away. “I was a prisoner in an impenetrable cell I built using stones of regret and the concrete of bitterness. No one could get in and I couldn’t get out. For the past ten years I haven’t wanted to get out.

“Then you talked me into sitting in your chair and after it was over, I loathed you even more. Because for a moment I believed it would cure me. I even prayed while I sat there that it would restore my body and I could have my life back. And in that moment I felt something. A peace and a warmth I’d never felt. And I felt it not only in my head, but in my legs and my arms. I believed.

“But when nothing more happened, then and in the days after, I started building a thicker wall around my prison. After a week though I woke in the middle of the night to something or Someone standing in my room. Maybe I was dreaming. It doesn’t matter. Somehow this person spoke. ‘It’s your choice to be healed or not.’ That was it. He vanished and I woke the next morning with a pinprick of hope.

“I followed that hope and it led me to a tunnel that burrowed underneath the prison walls until I reached the outside and realized far more than missing our adventures together—what I’ve missed most deeply these past ten years is you.” Shasta inched closer. “As I accepted that truth, I was healed of my bitterness and my self-pity.”

Corin pulled a series of quick breaths. They’d been on parallel paths. “I think I know who the Someone is.”

“I do too.” Shasta smiled again and swiveled his head back and forth. “This life is short, Corin, but Robin tells me in the age to come, we will run forever with bodies that can never be broken.”

Corin sank into a chair to the right of the doorway. “Shasta, I—”

“One more thing. Forgive me for the way I’ve treated you for the past ten years.”

Corin gave a tiny shake of his head, then another. He hadn’t expected this. Joy flooded him but it was tinged with sorrow. The chair had healed Shasta.

And it hadn’t.

Tears pushed up from deep inside, but he shoved them back down. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. Just accept it.”

Corin let his tears come.

Shasta spun his chair toward the window. “Light shines in darkness and the darkness can’t fight against it. There is never enough darkness to overcome even the flame of the smallest match from hundreds of yards away.”

Forgiveness. For both.

Restoration.

“Shasta?” For the first time in ten years, Corin took his brother’s limp hands in his. “You’ve got my heart.”

“And you have mine.” Shasta’s smile lit the room again. “I think God will be our most extreme adventure ever.”

Corin nodded through his tears and his smile.

AS SHASTA LED him out of the room he said, “Did you notice the pictures on the walls as you came in?”

“No, I was a bit preoccupied.”

“Take a look.”

Corin gazed at the pictures in amazement. “You’re kidding me. This is her house?”

“Yes.”

Corin wandered in a daze down the long hallway as he followed Shasta. Pictures of Nicole dotted the walls on either side; from the time she was young till one that looked like it was taken last month.

“Why do you have the key to her house?”

Over dinner Shasta explained how yesterday he had received a packet in the mail that explained how Nicole had left everything she owned to Shasta and Corin.

“Being an attorney I suppose is what made her give me the information instead of you.”

Corin spread his hands on the table and leaned his head back. “She knew how it would turn out.”

“No, I don’t think so. But I know what she hoped would happen.” Shasta winked at Robin who pushed a worn leather book over to Corin.

“What’s this?”

“Nicole’s journal. She wanted you to have it.”

He ran his fingers slowly over the smooth leather cover and smiled. A treasure to be savored.

“Also, I need you to sign something.”

Robin slid a piece of paper in front of him.

“What?”

“I’m suggesting we sell Nicole’s home and donate the money to a very worthwhile cause.”

“Such as?”

“The purchase and remodeling of a certain downtown building that houses the world’s finest store full of treasures from antiquity.”

He’d never imagined his restoration with Shasta. To think his store could have a rebirth as well was almost too much to take in. Almost.

RESTORATION.

The word played through Corin’s mind all the way home. Nicole had spoken of that as the chair’s purpose. That the greatest healing came in the soul, not the body. They weren’t merely words anymore.

Restoration.

Add an “s.”

Restorations.

Might be a good new name for the store.

Before heading for bed he stopped by his workshop and sat in front of the chair for a long time. He’d finished the job. Corin stood and ran his fingers along the back of it. His fingers didn’t tingle. And he saw imperfections in every inch. The restoration was far from perfect, but it was enough. And as he soaked in the sight of the chair, joy welled up from within.

As he brushed his teeth that night he stared at the pills next to his sink. He kept brushing as he turned the bottle upside down over his toilet and poured them into the water.

As they sunk to the bottom of the bowl he realized exactly what he must do in the morning. It would be a worthy finish to this chapter of his life.

CHAPTER 56

Corin woke with a smile on Sunday morning, the vision of what he was about to do imprinted on his mind.

A cold breeze pushed through his open bedroom window and ruffled his hair as if confirming his plan. He put his hands behind his head and stared out the window at the dusty blue Colorado skies. It wouldn’t be easy. But it was right.

He wouldn’t leave till late afternoon. Sunset was the ideal time to do it. Fewer people if any would be there at dusk, and it was an action to take in solitude.

As he pulled out of his driveway and headed east on Highway 24, Corin glanced at the clock. He should reach the lake in less than three hours, which would leave him at least an hour of daylight. Plenty of time to do whatever he needed to do to get ready—even though he didn’t know what that might be.

Maybe he needed to thank God for Shasta’s return. Maybe grieve the loss of Nicole. Maybe work through the pain of Tesser’s betrayal and contemplate the loss of his relationship with Tori. Maybe he needed to do nothing.

His cell rang.

Shasta. A smile grew on Corin’s face, at first as thin as a strand of silk, then into a full-tooth grin. He didn’t pick up; it felt too good simply seeing that number come up on his phone and watch it.

Restoration.

A few minutes later he called Shasta back.

“Are you on the road?” his brother asked.

“Yeah.”

“Are you headed anywhere interesting?”

“Extremely. I’m going on an adventure.”

“I thought you were going to dance less on the edge from here on out.”

“I am.” Corin slipped his sunglasses on against the sun pouring through his windshield. “Today’s journey isn’t about pushing physical extremes. It’s about internal ones.”

“Interesting. What are you going to do?”

When it was over he would definitely tell Shasta. Corin hoped it would be the final piece of his healing, and he wanted to explain it to his brother in detail. “I’d love to tell you all about it, but not until it’s done.”

“Then join us for Thanksgiving this Thursday.”

“You’re on.”

“But before you agree, I need to let you know there’ll be a special dish only for you on the table.”

“What’s that?”

“On the mountain the day of the accident? You said, and I quote ‘If after we’re done, if you don’t agree it was the absolute right call to do this, I’ll eat one of my gloves.’ I told you I’d hold you to that.”

Corin smiled. Shasta was joking about the day of the accident? Healing had indeed come.

“I’ll bring my special knife and fork.”

“Don’t worry; it’ll be slathered in my special gravy.”

Something inside Corin snapped into place. He hadn’t doubted he would be seeing Shasta often but to hear him ask about Thanksgiving, his voice full of passion, and joking with him for the first time in ten years stirred an emotion Corin hadn’t felt since before the accident. One of belonging. The feeling of being connected once again to the one person he’d shared his entire life with, and had never stopped dumping his heart out to.

Mile marker five whizzed by on his right. Only 167 to go. “Bro?” Corin said.

“Yeah?”

Corin didn’t know what to say. “I’m glad you’re back in my life” would sound so lame.

“I, uh . . . about you and me, you know, what’s happened . . .”

“What about it?”

“Well . . . I’ve waited a lot of years for this and . . .” Corin squeezed his steering wheel. “What I’m trying to say is . . .”

Shasta laughed softly. “You’re really looking forward to Thanksgiving?”

“Right.”

“I know exactly what you’re saying. Me too.”

The grin returned to Corin’s face and spilled into laughter. Nicole was right. The greatest healing would never be physical, but a healing of the heart.

THE CLIFF DIDN’T tower over the lake as high as he remembered, but the trees were definitely taller. And still as silent as they’d been twenty-four years earlier when they’d watched him die.

Today they would be an audience again, this time to see him live. To see him cast fear aside. To see him crush it.

When he reached the base of the small cliff, he set his car keys and wallet behind a tree and covered them with a smattering of leaves.

He stared at the top of the cliff—thirty feet, maybe forty feet above him. It wasn’t easy to get this far with the brace still on his left leg. It would be harder to climb the cliff. And painful. But he didn’t care. He had to do this.

Had he made the right choice to come? Without question. But knowing that didn’t keep his body from twitching—he wasn’t sure if from fear or anticipation. Probably a tangled mixture of both. Corin wiped his hands on his khaki shorts, drew in a deep breath, and held it.

A wind rose from behind him as if cajoling him to climb. Seven minutes later he reached the top, the lake spread out in front of him like a giant piece of glass, light green color reflecting the trees and nearly cloudless skies.

The sun would drop behind the aspen trees at the far end of the lake in ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Enough time to pray. Enough time to ache inside for the loss of Nicole. Enough time to wrestle with his terror one more time.

But the fight wasn’t necessary—his fear was feeble now, lapping at the edges of his emotions only as strong as the tiny waves that lapped at the edges of the lake. He’d already won, so he brushed the past aside, closed his eyes, and let the late afternoon sun massage his face with warmth and hope.

“Thank You. For freedom. For life. For restoration.”

A few minutes later he opened his eyes and gazed at the darkening green water forty feet below.

Lake of death.

Lake of life.

It wasn’t either.

The breeze created tiny ridges in the surface and a gold leaf from the aspen trees meandered across the water toward the base of the cliff underneath him.

A few minutes later he stripped off his shirt and took off his socks and shoes, and spread his arms to the sky.

He thought again of Nicole. Of Shasta. Of Tori. Of Tesser. Of the chair. And the One who created it.

Corin squinted through the branches at the sun as it seemed to speed its descent into the tops of the trees. A moment later the last of the diamonds flitting across the surface of the lake faded.

He closed his eyes and massaged the rock he stood on with his toes. Its coolness rose into his heart. Freedom was coming, almost here.

He opened his eyes. A few more moments and it would be time.

Corin stepped to the edge of the cliff and glanced once more at the water below, then back at the sun. The breeze rippled through his hair.

Minutes left.

The sun was now only a sliver of gold against the darkening sky.

Only seconds left.

He smiled.

A moment later the last vestige of light vanished into the branches.

Corin took a last look at the surface of the water, closed his eyes, and jumped.

Dear Reader,

In the fall of 2005, I had a falling out with one of my best friends and we stopped speaking. I had hurt him—he had hurt me—and we both walked away from our relationship.

But at the end of August 2008, God intervened.

I was over in eastern Washington on a writing retreat, and as I drove by my friend’s vacation home, I heard God say, “Stop in and see Jeff.”

I told God, “If it’s really You telling me that, show me.” I asked Him for a strange phone call or to hear from someone I hadn’t heard from in a long time. That night at ten o’clock, I received a text from someone who had never texted me before.

When I stopped by Jeff’s house at nine the next evening, I had no doubt he’d be there. After he opened the door, he stared at me for ten seconds, utter surprise on his face, then we wrapped each other up in a big grizzly bear hug.

The restoration of that relationship has been one of the greatest joys of the past three years. It gave me a renewed commitment to fight for my relationships because they are treasures, and they can be fragile.

All of us long to be restored. Physically. Emotionally. But I believe the restoration we long for most is the healing of broken relationships.

This is the main theme in The Chair and one I hope you will lift from the pages of this novel and live out daily.

May we choose to step into restoration in every moment,

James L. Rubart
www.jimrubart.com

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

1. What character in The Chair can you relate to most? Why?

2. What themes did you see in the novel?

3. Nicole becomes a friend and mentor to Corin. Do you have someone like that in your life? If not, do you long for that type of person? Are you that type of person in someone else’s life?

4. Corin unintentionally changes the rest of Shasta’s life because of a tragic accident. While your circumstances might not be as dramatic, has someone done something that has significantly altered your life? Have you done something to alter someone else’s life that you regret?

5. One of the themes in The Chair is restoration. What do you desire most to be restored and healed in your life? Something physical? A relationship? If it’s a relationship, what relationship is it? Have you tried for restoration? If yes, what happened?

6. If you reached out and it didn’t bring the restoration you’d hoped for, are you willing to try again? Why or why not?

7. Matthew 5:23–24 says, “Therefore, if you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift there in front of the altar. First go and be reconciled to them; then come and offer your gift.” We’ve all been wounded by others, but we’ve also done the wounding. Is there anyone you need to ask forgiveness from? Why is this so hard for us to do?

8. Do you have a story of a time you did go to someone and restoration of the relationship was the outcome?

9. Corin told Shasta he was sorry for what he had done, but had never asked for Shasta’s forgiveness. Is there a difference in saying you’re sorry and asking for forgiveness? If so, what is the difference?

10. If we choose to live a life of openness and vulnerability in our relationships, we will be hurt again. How do you reconcile this in your mind and heart? How can we still go forward, knowing we’ll likely be wounded again at some point?

11. Jesus says we should forgive, “Seventy-seven times.” Does this ever seem excessive to you? What do you do if someone continues to wound you?

12. Proverbs tells us to “guard our hearts above all else.” How can we guard our hearts and at the same time live a life of acceptance and forgiveness toward those who wound us?

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wrote my first novel, Rooms in six years; my second, Book of Days in two, and due to personal circumstances during spring and summer of 2010 needed to write The Chair in five months. When I turned in the manuscript to my editor I warned her it would be rough. Eighty-grit sandpaper rough.

After reading it she wrote back and said it was in better shape than I’d led her to believe, I’d done a fantastic job on the novel, and that her editorial letter would be my shortest yet.

I thought, “Where was I when The Chair was being written?”

Or put another way, what would I have done without my prayer team consistently warring for me in the heavens while The Chair was being written? Thank you, my friends, it definitely would have been eighty-grit without you.

Thanks also goes out to:

My wonderful team at B&H Fiction.

To the Great Ones for that white-hot brainstorming session in July of 2010 which put flesh on my skeleton idea and made it into a story.

To Darci Rubart and Susan May Warren for helping me find the soul of the story and shaping the final outline into a novel I hope will enter into the deep heart of my readers.

To my editor Julee Schwarzburg for once again being brilliant and a true pleasure to work with in every aspect.

And finally, to my wife Darci and my sons, Taylor and Micah. Being an author is my greatest dream come true, but it means nothing compared to you.