DAWN TREADER PRESS

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2010 Joshua Graham

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual locales, events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions

Cover art by Compassionate Eye Foundation/Kev

Praise for Joshua Graham’s debut novel BEYOND JUSTICE

Barnes & Noble #1 Bestselling legal thriller (nookbooks)

Barnes & Noble #1 Bestselling Christian Thriller (nookbooks)

Best of 2010 Suspense Magazine

“…A riveting legal thriller…. breaking new ground with a vengeance… demonically entertaining and surprisingly inspiring.”

~PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

“…hits the ground running…handled by a deft hand.”

~Adrian Phoenix, IN THE BLOOD (Pocket Books)

“This tense, fast-paced story of outrageous injustice, insidious evil, and looming disaster has everything the savvy reader should expect, and more. [Graham] belongs to a new, emerging wave of writers who dare to color outside conventional lines. And he does so with style!”

~Glen Scorgie, THE JOURNEY BACK TO EDEN (Zondervan)

“…a genuine page-turner with a twist that makes it stand out from most thrillers and legal dramas.”

“…What sets this thriller apart is the deft handling of religion.”

“…When Graham turns to courtroom drama, the writing is tense; when he’s inside Sam’s mind, the emotions are wringing.”

~Author Magazine

“This book was so much more than a mystery novel; it was an exercise in faith, understanding, joy and mercy in their purest forms.”

“…twists, turns and surprises to be found here.”

“…filled with so much in the way of emotion.”

“…Take the time to read this book. You will not be disappointed.”

~Suspense Magazine

…A MASTERFUL LEGAL THRILLER

…A book worthy of a feature length Hollywood movie…

…Graham has intricately woven together these elements of cyberspace and our criminal justice system in a way that keeps avid mystery readers spellbound.

…Graham’s BEYOND JUSTICE is the best mystery novel that I have ever read.

…a plot worthy of Hollywood, told by a fantastic author with a deft touch and feel for intrigue!

…a fitting climax in true John Grisham form.

…a powerful testament to faith and religion, woven into a masterful murder mystery.

~East County Magazine

“This is not a tame Christian book, it’s full of heart wrenching scenes that will make you shudder.

There’s one surprise after another and it’s a “can’t put down” thriller…the ending was brilliant!

“This is Joshua Graham’s first book and it is a doozy!!

I can’t wait to read more from this very talented author.”

~ReadingAtTheBeach.com

“…a riveting legal thriller that has heart and a fabulous message.”

“…really intense suspense!”

“ I was…balled up with emotions and intense suspense from start to finish.”

“…a great legal thriller…”

“… great drama and romance as well.

“…tied together with a fabulous message of love and redemption.“

~A Life in Review

“…Superbly done!”

“…a legal suspense thriller beyond any other.”

“…Filled with page turning, edge of your seat twists.”

“…most definitely a 5 star novel by an incredible author”

“… this suspense novel will pick you up in one place, carry you through thrilling turns and emotional rides, and will set you down at an unexpected place, all the while leaving you with a powerful message that will set your mind to thinking. About life. About loss. About justice. About everything.”

…Joshua Graham has become an author who I will be collecting books by for a long time to come and has made me anxious for his next book!

~Reviews by Molly D. Edwards

“…an edge of your seat thrill ride from beginning to end.”

“…a brilliant thriller filled with unforeseen plot twists and character behaviour changes unlike any other.”

“…I quite literally was unable to set this book down…”

“…Joshua Graham is definitely a name to keep an eye on, for he is one talented writer…”

~ Rundpinne

“…the Best book I have read and reviewed this year.”

“…this book isn’t just about law and criminal justice, it is about faith and realizing that everything happens for a reason.”

“…I HIGHLY recommend Beyond Justice as a must read!”

~The Winfields-7 Book Reviews

“…right up there with the best.”

“…will tug your heart. Don’t be surprised if a tear finds its way down your cheek.”

“…more than just a mystery, more than just thriller, it’s in a word terrific!”

“If you love a good thriller then pick up this book, you will not be disappointed.”

~Reading, Reading & Life

…fair warning before you pick up Beyond Justice by Joshua Graham–the next 24 to 48 hours of your life will be utterly consumed by this book.

…[had] my unconditional and unwavering attention from page one to the conclusion.

…draws you in from the first page and literally does not let go of you or your emotions until the rollercoaster conclusion.

…a powerfully gripping legal thriller

…I was absolutely captivated

…mesmerizing would be a gross understatement.

…absolutely nothing short of an act of God or nature would have stopped me from finishing this book.

…unbelievably powerful and spellbinding

…the story will stay with you long after you finish it.

…Do not hesitate.  Rush to get your own copy of Beyond Justice.

PsychoticState.net

Connect with Joshua Graham at:

http://www.joshua-graham.com

http://www.facebook/J0shuaGraham

http://www.twitter/J0shuaGraham

THE ACCIDENTAL EXORCIST

Joshua Graham

I had to do it. They were my babies. Killing them was the only way to save them.

Throughout her career as a forensic psychiatrist for the state of California, Abigail Lee had heard such words more times than she cared for. Usually, they came from suspects going for a NGRI (not guilty by reason of insanity) but were, in fact, groping for a Hail Mary.

On the rare occasion, she'd find the suspect criminally insane. Unless it was so painfully obvious that San Diego District Attorney Thomas Walden would suddenly find Abby's services unnecessary. Such were the breaks—she'd still get paid at her standard rate of three hundred dollars per hour. But would NOT be asked to testify in court.

Before her, in the tightly monitored visitation room in Salton Sea Women's Penitentiary, sat Cheryl Morgan. The Cheryl Morgan who had killed all three of her children by suffocating them with Mylar bags. Her trial was set for next month, but it didn't seem like she would survive it.

"Cheryl, you need to talk with me. If there's any chance you might be found—"

"Guilty! I did it. I killed them. How else should I be found?" From beneath the mussed strands of auburn hair, Cheryl's eyes—dark as ink—burned with hatred. Had she been properly groomed and dressed, you could have mistaken her for a Hollywood starlet, not the psychotic housewife and mother of three—who in cold blood murdered her own kids.

"This isn't helping you."

Cheryl's entire demeanor morphed suddenly, like one of those CGI special effects when a person transforms into a werewolf, or a zombie. A menacing smile faded into view, baring cruel canines. Her eyebrows sharpened, her gaze jagged. "And you're here…to help?"

As though on the spindly legs of a tarantula, a chill crawled up Abby's spine. She'd seen just about every variety of psychotic over the past seven years, but something about Cheryl Morgan made her particularly uneasy. Post-partum psychosis—even with those resulting in infant fatalities never looked quite like this.

"Cheryl..."

"You have no idea what you're stepping into, my dear." Her feral eyes gazed straight into Abby's and for a moment arrested her breathing. A sense of dread coursed through her blood like Freon.

Abby pushed back slightly on her chair, as if the extra inch of distance could protect her. "I'm only interested in knowing the truth."

A snort, mixed with what sounded like a growl. Cheryl's voice deepened into a hollow, bottomless chasm of damnation. It was when she began to laugh maniacally that Abby knew something was different about her. Something that transcended schizophrenia and psychopathy. Cheryl smiled. But despite her chains it only made Abby more anxious. "Just what do you know of truth, sweetie?"

"Something's not right. I know there's more beneath—"

"More, yes. Legions more."

At that very moment, Abby feared for her life. She envisioned Cheryl breaking her own chains with her bare hands and leaping onto her, and tearing her limbs from her body as a boy might pluck the legs off of a beetle. She stood abruptly.

The chair scraped the concrete, fell on its back.

"Guard!"

Hands steepled, her head lowered, Cheryl stared up with eyes of pure evil. Wild hair hung on her shoulders which bounced as she laughed. Despite the blaring white overhead fluorescents, a thick darkness filled the room, smothering Abby. A darkness not perceived with the eyes.

She pressed the intercom again. "Guard!"

Slowly, Cheryl rose from her seat, her gaze focused. Abby had no doubt whatsoever that this murderous psychopath had every intention of hurting her.

Abby beat her hand against the locked door repeatedly, the pounding echoing her own racing pulse. "Please! Somebody open the door!"

Cheryl’s nails scraped against the worn varnish of the table, the sound reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard. She rose, her face pointed down and looking up through dark-ringed eyes, reddened with malice. Her voice dropped an octave into an eerie basso profundo. "You'd best run...or we'll take you too." More terrifying than the change in her voice was that it sounded like a chorus of evil.

"Guard!"

An empty shell of a person, Cheryl's body moved like a marionette. She bore her teeth, coiled her elbows back. Crouched slightly.

There could be no doubt, this hellish...thing was about to pounce.

Oh my God...

A wolf-like snarl.

Her eyes rolled back.

Then she lunged.

Abby squeezed her eyes shut.

Let out a shriek.

A loud slam.

Rattling metal.

Something grabbed her arm. Yanked her violently to one side. Her heart lodged so tight in her throat she couldn't speak. She opened her eyes expecting to find the ashen features of a female Hannibal Lechter.

Instead, it was the dark complexion of Sergeant Grimes, the prison guard. She had pulled Abby aside and stood between her and Cheryl. “Sit down, Morgan!”

The chain attached to her ankle restraints was pulled taut, like those connected to her wrists. Cheryl glared at them, then smiled as though nothing unusual had happened. She complied, sat nicely in her chair, tossed an errant lock of wiry hair from her face, and put her hands in her lap. Her entire demeanor transformed in an instant. She could have easily passed for one of the Stepford wives, so docile and sweet. “What’s the matter, Dr. Lee? You look like you’ve seen—”

“Shut your mouth!” Sergeant Grimes turned to Abby, rolled her eyes and murmured, “Let these psychos talk too much and they try to get into your head.”

“Yes, well…there’s usually a component of verbal manipulation involved.”

They stepped out of the meeting room, but not before Cheryl waved goodbye with childish innocence and called out, “Thank you so much for coming to visit me. It was so nice to meet you, Doctor!”

Superficially, there was nothing in Cheryl Morgan’s behavior that deviated from anything Abby had seen before, in both the legit “criminally insane” and the fakers. But there was something about her that struck a dissonant chord within her. She couldn’t say exactly what that was, but it was something deeper than a visceral reaction to the shift of Cheryl’s multiple personae. This disturbance resounded in a place deep within Abby’s thoughts. Somewhere deeper than she had been aware of, a place she didn’t know existed, heretofore.

Grimes took her gently by the elbow and led her down a long hallway with flickering white tubes overhead. But for the soft padding of their feet, all was silent. Every now and then, the cries and shrieks of other female inmates could be heard echoing through the shut doors that led to numerous rows of cells. The Maximum Security Wing, however, remained deathly silent.

Abby stopped and regarded Sergeant Grimes with a look of concern, meant to conceal her uneasiness at effect of the Cheryl Morgan episode. “You’re Ms. Morgan’s correctional officer, right?”

“One of ‘em.”

“Have you observed anything unusual in Ms. Morgan’s behavior—I mean, given that she is a psychopath?”

“She sure talks a lot.”

“To whom?”

“Herself, other inmates in the cells around her.”

“What does she talk about?”

“Different things, ‘pending on who she is at the moment.”

“How many personalities have you encountered?”

Grimes rubbed her earlobe between her fingers. “Oh, I’d say...geeze, I’ve lost count. Maybe ten or more.”

“Ten?”

“That I’ve seen. But you don’t keep track of crap like that. You give ‘em their food, take ‘em to the dog walk, hose ‘em down, and don’t let them talk too much.”

They continued to the end of the hallway. A dim light shined through the tiny square window at the upper part of the reinforced steel door. Grimes put her hand on the scanner and punched in a security code into the keypad.

The locks disengaged loud and abrupt, echoing down the hall. Made Abby wince. Her heart stopped for a beat or two. In the intermediary area by the check-in desk, actual sunlight nosed its way into C-Block. Flecks of dust floated in the air like pixie dust, when in fact, they were nothing more than dead skin particles.

Grimes put her hands on her belt. “Anything else I can help you with, Dr. Lee?”

Abby took a deep breath. She couldn’t count how many times she’d visited potentially insane suspects, but none of her past experiences led her to this degree of disorientation and….anxiety. All she wanted to do was go home and take a long shower and try to forget the experience. But her scientific curiosity refused her any such indulgence. “How do the other inmates regard Ms. Morgan?”

“Oh, they’s scared a’ her. Some of ‘em got all spooked and superstitious and crap. Call her some kinda voodoo-witch-doctor or somethin’.”

“Why’s that?”

“She get into their heads, ya know? Fact, just last week, Jessie Harper gone and hung herself with a noose she made out of her pants. They say Cheryl Morgan voodooed her and made her do it.”

Trying to shrug off the chill creeping up her spine, Abby huffed. “Many inmates harbor suicidal tendencies—”

“Nah-ah! That Harper girl was a tough bitch! She’d a killed everyone around her before she ever done anything to herself. She was always mad and violent to others. But to herself? She was all narci—narccis…”

“Narcissistic.”

“Yeah, that’s the word. No one and nothing could have made her do that. But there she was one morning, hanging in her cell.”

“What makes you think Cheryl had anything to do with it?”

Grimes’ demeanor grew intense. She gazed straight into Abby’s eyes. “Her cell was right next door. And besides, the other inmates heard Cheryl whispering to Jessie all night, the night before.”

“More than likely an unfortunate coincidence.”

“We’ll never really know now, will we?”

For the better part of her adult life, Abby had considered herself open-minded, able to consider the unlikely, sometimes even the impossible. But today, her credulity tank was running on empty, even though that something deep within warned her not to ignore it. “Some things are as good as fact. Thanks for your help, Sergeant.”

“Anytime, Doc. Come and visit any time.”

A wry smirk. “Yeah.”

Halfway to the exit, Grimes called out. “Hey Doc, what’s the verdict?”

Abby stopped, turned around. “The trial’s next month.”

“I mean, are you going to report her as criminally insane or not?”

That was, after all, the question, wasn’t it? Part of Abby wanted nothing more than to see Cheryl put away forever, the proverbial key thrown away. And this too was an unfamiliar feeling. But the professional in her compelled her to execute her duties to the best of her abilities, with the utmost integrity.

She shrugged. “I’m just not sure yet.” And with that, she left hoping never to have to see Cheryl Morgan again.

Much to the dismay of the public, the court found Cheryl Morgan not guilty by reason of insanity. Even though the D.A. dismissed Abby and her reports which concluded that the defendant was in fact criminally insane at the time she committed the murders, the defense under Jodi Bauer, found another expert witness to testify to the same effect. None of the crimes were premeditated, nor was there enough evidence to show intent, so she should therefore not be held responsible for the killings.

Bauer knew how strong a case they had and didn't have much difficulty convincing Ted Morgan, the defendant's husband and father of the victims, to persuade Cheryl to reject the D.A.'s late offer for a plea bargain.

Unlike Rusty Yates, former husband of Andrea Yates, the Texas mother who drowned her five children, Ted Morgan remained married to his wife, though Cheryl had been committed to the Spring Valley Institute out in El Centro.

For the next two years, Abby kept in touch with him for updates because she had developed a deep-seated fascination for Cheryl’s condition. She also communicated with Cheryl’s doctors over this period of time. Apparently, given the proper therapy and medication—which she never had prior to the tragedy—she was doing remarkably well. Hers doctor would soon clear her for release and reintegration into society.

Ever since the court declared Cheryl not guilty and sent her to Spring Valley, Abby had become somewhat obsessed with the strange manifestations of her mental illness.

In other case studies resembling Cheryl's, Abby found several commonalities: acute personality shifts, vocal modulation, and emotional manipulation of people around the subject—some leading to self-inflicted fatalities.

Among those similarities, one peculiar factor showed up in the files of more than two of the fifteen she’d examined: Questionable paranormal theories. At first she thought of Sergeant Grimes and her ridiculous voodoo conjectures. But over time, alone in her La Jolla apartment, staring out into the surging moonlit waves, she wondered, Are you truly open-minded, Abby?

To prove to herself she was, the very next day she delved into the N.O.S. (Not otherwise specified) subfolders of the following subjects: Marc Lucian, Josephine Damon, and Marley Fitch, each of whose N.O.S. subfolders contained over five pages of documented activity prior to their suicides. None of them had turned violent towards others as Cheryl had, but they did exhibit the same symptoms along with some unexplained phenomenon. Oddly enough, each of these ancillary reports had been filed by members of the clergy, Catholic, Pentecostal, and Southern Baptist.

Ms. Damon had repeatedly cut her wrists, but despite the bleeding which should have killed her each time, she survived. Mr. Lucian was reported to have put a Jesuit priest in the E.R. because he had somehow caused glass picture frames and vases to fly around the room and hurtle at Father McGhee’s head. Five stitches were required.

But the strangest of all was Ms. Fitch. She exhibited vocal modulation (in chorus) and radical shifts in personalities. Two of her home care attendants committed suicide within the year before she took her own life.

Abby had not been able to reach any of the clergymen who had worked with these subjects, but did notice the word “exorcism” noted on two of the N.O.S. reports—Lucian’s and Fitch’s.

It was then that she closed the files.

Exorcism indeed.

She hadn’t been to church since she left for college, but even then, this was something she never quite understood. Though she knew many Bible stories, and even memorized many of the scriptures as a child, the stories of demons were always too frightening for her. She always avoided them. Always.

Nevertheless, in the interest of complete openness to possibilities, she decided to email several of her colleagues and peers about the idea of a spiritual component in these cases.

Now, given that each of them had at least one or two PhD’s each, the tone of their responses surprised her.

Dr. Keith Madden: Are you out of your frikkin’ mind? (pardon the expression).

Dr. Yelena Svetlanova: If you think the answer lies in devils and occultism, you should turn in your degree and stop by the local Shaman-Mart. I hear they’re having a half price sale on crystals, rattles, and drums.

Kenneth Thomas, PhD: Psychologist, heal thyself!

Only one person replied with a modicum of decency. Freidrich Koehler, professor at UCSD, renowned for his studies on unclassified psychological phenomena. Besides being the most respected authority in his field, he had been her doctoral advisor and mentor.

He simply wrote back: Come see me tomorrow, 8:00AM, BYOC (Bring your own coffee.)

Koehler’s office was a living, breathing contradiction. On first glance, it looked like a tornado had struck, hurling books and papers into absolute disarray all over. But upon careful observation, and by his insistence, there was order in the apparent chaos.

White froth from his latte lingered on his unkempt mustache, beneath which a smile emerged. Never one to waste time on trivialities such as grooming, the professor‘s appearance had always evoked images of a hybrid between Johannes Brahms and Albert Einstein. When he spoke, his shrill voice with a weighty German accent only solidified the impression. Today was no exception. “Well, well. Abigail Lee, what a pleasure. What’s it been, fifteen years?”

“Nine.” Seated on the far left side of a worn, red leather couch, Abby reached over to the end table to set her travel mug of Oolong tea down, but there were too many piles of papers held together only by large black binder clips.

“Ah-ah!” Not the manuscripts!” Koehler set his mug down, got up from his desk, slipped his hand beneath the papers and lifted them with the delicate hands of a brain surgeon. He then turned to the left, squinted at a mountain of papers—some bound in clips, others loose—and dropped them into the heap.

Abby grinned. “Was that the order or the chaos?

“Apparent chaos.” He sat back down and pushed aside the pile of papers in the center of his desk, like Moses parting the red sea. “Now, let’s get to the point, shall we? What is at the heart of your question?”

“I wouldn’t have come to you if….” Forming the words in her mind, Abby’s cheeks and ears began to warm. By now, she’d ostracized herself among her peers. Had the professor joined in the chorus of ridicule, she would have abandoned this pursuit with her tail between her legs. “Oh, it’s so far-fetched!”

Koehler folded his hand together and leaned forward. His bushy grey eyebrows arched up and his eyes brightened with anticipation. “Out with it, already. I haven’t got all day.”

“Did you look at the case studies I emailed you?”

“Yes. Intriguing analysis.” Then his face became awash with concern. He lowered his voice and peered over the rims of his gold wireframe glasses. “You didn’t share your thoughts with your peers, did you?”

All at once, Abby was the young doctoral student, sinking into her chair under the scrutiny of her professor. “Yes. A few.”

“With whom, might I ask?”

“Madden, Svetlanova, Thom—”

“Ach! You didn’t!”

Innocently, Abby nodded.

“I hope they are not in any position of influence or power in your current career.”

“No, sir.”

“Your personal life?”

“Thankfully, not.”

“Gut! Sehr Gut! However, you have most likely lost their respect.”

She lowered her gaze in concession. Then, to Koehler, she looked with hope. “But not yours, Professor?”

“Nein.” A paternal smile/frown. “Now, sans fear and self-consciousness. Tell me what you are thinking.”

With a deep breath, she sat up tall and went over each of her case studies, their commonalities and references to exorcism. Koehler never said a word, just shut his eyes, listening, nodding, hemming and hawing.

“So, what I want to know is, could it be that there is some possibility of paranormal involvement?” Abby swallowed hard, almost regretting the question.

Koehler opened his eyes, gazed straight into hers. “Traditionally, matters of science and religion do not mingle well.”

This was it. He had heard her out, indulged her because of his patience. But now, he would make his pronouncement and Abby would lose the confidence of the last person who seemed to respect her professionally.

“Let me ask you something, my dear Abigail.”

“Yes?”

“How much faith have you in science—all its theories, laws and concepts?”

“Well, I—”

“Ah-ah! Wait! Before you answer rashly, consider the question carefully. I asked how much faith do you have in science. Faith. Because whether you are the Pope, or Nietzsche, it all comes down to faith.”

“I don’t understand. What about you? ”

Judging by the surprised smile on his face, the professor must have been pleasantly surprised by the challenge. “I thought you would have known by now. I am—”

Somewhere, the phone rang, muffled no doubt by piles of papers, periodicals or God only knew what, under which it must be buried. He grumbled in German and held up a finger. “A moment, please.”

Digging through his piles of ordered chaos, the professor threw loose sheets into the air, kicked aside a mountain of textbooks and finally blurted out, “Ach!”

The phone’s ring, and old-fashioned physical bell, grew instantly louder when he exhumed the handset, its curly black wire pulling taut. “Guten tag.” He continued to speak in German in hushed tones, but said little besides, “Jah, Jah, and nein.”

Finally, he returned. “My daughter Helga in Leipzig. Her son is in what you Americans call the terrible two’s. She usually does all the talking, and then figures it out for herself.”

“I see.” He probably wished Abby would do the same. “So, professor. Are you a man of faith?”

He stood, one hand holding the lapel of his brown tweed blazer and puffed out his chest. “But of course.”

“Lutheran, Catholic?”

“I’m a devout atheist.”

“Devout?”

“Oh jah. I daresay I have as much faith in my beliefs as the most rabid zealot, and the most learned theologian. Perhaps more.”

“But, you’re an atheist.”

“It’s all a choice, if one is to be perfectly honest. Because we cannot know anything with absolute certainty. We can only believe. So we must choose judiciously. I choose to believe there is no God, no heaven, no Hell.” He wagged his eyes mischievously. “Und I damned well better be right, eh?”

“I never thought of it that way.”

He came over and sat on the far end of the couch opposite of Abby, then spoke into the open space between them. “Faith is not what you profess to believe. Rather, it is that which you believe enough to live by, and act upon. That said, far be it from me to influence you one way or another. I have great respect for people of all faiths, and fully concede that in the final analysis, I could be wrong.”

“A bold statement for someone as self-assured as you.”

“I’m only being honest with myself. Nevertheless, whatever faith I chose, I must live with conviction and refuse to doubt. That is, after all, the essence of it, nein? So, what do you believe?”

Abby thought about it quietly for a while. She believed in science, but she was not entirely ready to abandon her childhood beliefs, even though they had been irrelevant to her until recently. “I’m just not sure if science necessarily excludes things of a spiritual nature. There’s not enough definitive proof for one to discount the other. But if I, like my colleagues, dismiss the very notion of demons and exorcisms without fully examining them, am I anything more than a flat-earther?”

Koehler stood up. The leather coach squeaked dully. He extended his hand, which she took, stood and shook—a gesture which meant the session was over. “Doctor Lee, I believe you have found your answer.”

The peculiarities of Cheryl Morgan’s case and the others in the N.O.S. files soon became an all encompassing pursuit for information, now that Abby felt free to investigate. But she had driven herself so hard, that when she saw her doctor for her annual check-up, he ordered her to take her first vacation in over five years.

“To put it bluntly,” he had said, “Take a week off or you’ll kill yourself.” Today was the first day of her vacation and dammit, she was going to enjoy it.

Or die trying.

Do nothing, go nowhere, study nothing, just relax and enjoy the view of the beach from her deck—something she never took enough time to do (such a shame.) Now, as seagulls sang their plaintive songs, while the tall verdant fronds of Queen Palms swayed in the cool afternoon breeze, she sat back, bathed in the sun, shut her eyes and told herself it was more than okay to enjoy some “me” time.

There was nothing more liberating than sipping Oolong Tea in her patio chair, bare feet up on the teakwood bistro table, reading the New York Times on her shiny new Barnes & Noble Nook, and for all intents and purposes, disconnected from work.

Nothing could remove her from this much needed serenity.

Except her iPhone buzzing like an angry hornet in her robe pocket.

“Oh, come on.”

The caller ID read: BLOCKED.

As it continued to buzz, she thought about answering it. But that would defeat the purpose of her vacation at home, wouldn’t it? She pressed the ignore button and relegated it to voicemail. “There. All better.” If it was important, they’d leave a message—which she would consider returning after she checked it.

A few seconds later, the new voicemail alert chimed.

No. I’ll check you later.

Tonight.

Maybe.

In the headlines: President Obama passes legislation for yet another stimulus package, 7.2 Earthquake rocks Tijuana, and finally...concert reviews. Twelve year old prodigy pianist, Austin Lee debuts with New York Philharmonic. Her favorite nephew from Philadelphia, in the New York Times! Eagerly, Abby scrolled to see if the critics loved him or…

The iPhone buzzed again.

Again: BLOCKED

Annoyed, she sent it to voicemail again. This time she wondered if it might really be important. With her thumb on the “slide to unlock” button, she almost relented and checked the voice mail.

But this was the first day of her vacation. Start answering calls now and she might as well go into the office.

Back to the review.

AUSTIN LEE amazes audiences with

Brahms Piano Concerto No. 2 in Bb.

Nice headline. She scrolled down to the first paragraph:

When the dark-haired boy first sat down at the bench before the 9 foot Steinway concert grand in Avery Fischer Hall last night, it seemed the entire audience held their collective breath. Could this child of twelve pull off such a mature work as Brahms’ Second Piano Concerto?

The Philharmonic began the concerto with its regal French Horn solo, and right away Mr. Lee, as student of Leon Fleisher at the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia, joined in duet with majestic, rising arpeggios, ushering in the fiery opening, which decades ago, his teacher made so famous in his recording with the Cleveland Orchestra under the baton of George Szell.

Despite Mr. Lee’s slight frame, he feet barely reaching the pedals—

Once again, the phone buzzed.

For a moment, Abby felt tempted to launch it out over the patio into the Pacific, committing it to the depths. But when she thought of the five or six hundred dollars it would take to replace it, she refrained.

The caller ID was blocked again.

“All right, all right,” she muttered and took the call. “Hello?”

“Doctor Lee?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“I’m sorry to call so many times, but you haven’t been answering.”

“That’s because I’m on vacation. Now, who is this?”

“I’m Father Thomas McGhee of St. Ignatius Church in Del Mar.”

“McGhee?” The name sounded familiar.

His voice, though deep and otherwise strong, became panicked. “Look, I wouldn’t have troubled you, but something’s happened and she’s been asking for you.”

“Wait, slow down.” Abby stood, pulled the belt of her white terrycloth robe tighter around her waist and pressed her finger in her open ear so as to hear him over the rude cawing of a crow on the rails of a patio two apartments over. “What’s happened and who’s asking for me?”

“He killed himself. We came back here and just found him…Dear Lord, I can’t believe this is happening again!”

“Father McGhee, would you please calm down? What are you talking about!”

“I’ve already called 911, but she’s beside herself, locked herself in a room.”

By his tone of voice, she knew he must be in his mid to late sixties, too old and too frantic for a prank call. “All right, just take a few deep breaths, okay? Now try and answer my questions, I’ll ask them slowly.”

He took the breath. “Okay.”

“Now, first: Who just killed himself?”

“Teddy! Oh my…it’s just awful. We found him hanging from the second floor balustrade out in the backyard.”

“Teddy who?”

“Teddy Morgan, I just can’t believe he’d—”

“Wait, Teddy—?”

“Cheryl Morgan’s husband!” It felt as though someone had poured a pitcher of ice water down her back. In the background, Cheryl began shrieking hysterically: No, no, no! Oh God, please, no!

“Doctor Lee, could you please come on down here right now? I’m afraid she’s going to hurt herself.”

When Abby arrived at the house in Del Mar, she noticed a black and white police car and a red ambulance parked outside on the narrow single lane street. The squad cars beacon was still flashing blue and red.

A few pedestrians passing by on the way to the beach with surfboards under their arms or beach bags slung over their shoulders turned their heads briefly, but just continued on their way.

Abby put the car keys in her bag and stepped out. Things were strangely quiet. It was the middle of the day and perhaps most of the strangely absent and invisible neighbors were probably still at work.

But where were the police officers?

A cold breeze gusted through the Phoenix Robellini that stood on either side of the Morgans’ shut door causing them to make a serpentine hiss. Abby shuddered. Where was everyone?

She knocked on the door. To her surprise, it creaked open. Abby stuck her head inside just enough to see that it was disturbingly dark inside. The curtains must all have been drawn and the lights shut. “Hello?”

No reply.

Not a sound but the hissing wind behind her ears.

Something told her viscerally: Get the hell out, and run! She almost did so. But her rational mind mocked her. You’ve been watching too many scary movies and reading too much Stephen King. There’s a logical explanation for everything. You just don’t know it yet.

“Right.” Not feeling much better, only shamed by her intellect, Abby pushed the door open. “Hello? Father McGhee?”

She took a step into the gloom.

Another cold gust blew at her. Perhaps the back door was open and it was nothing more than a cross current. Then the door behind her creaked again. Of course. Next, the wind would blow it shut. How cliché.

Abby tried to find a light switch before it happened. But before she could, the door slammed shut with a bang. In spite of the voice of reason forbidding her to be frightened, she let out a gasp. Her heart raced, as she found herself unable to adjust from the bright sunlight outside to the utter darkness within.

“Hello? It’s Doctor Abigail Lee. Is anyone home?”

Groping in the dark, she found a wall. It felt odd. Not smooth, but not like the orange peel texture so commonly found on the drywall interiors of San Diego houses. It felt almost like—

Oh my God!

–like reptilian scales.

Then, thinking she’d found the light switch, she touched something cold, viscous, and wet.

Abby pulled her hand away with an embarrassing yelp.

Instinctively, she backed away and felt something small and hard press into her bare arm. A light switch.

Thank God.

For a moment, she hesitated to turn on the lights. The irrational fear of what she might find warred against the very real fear of not knowing what lurked in the blackness.

Just before she pushed the switch up, Abby froze. In the distance, and from the sound of it behind a closed door, she heard someone crying. A woman.

“Cheryl?”

Abby took a deep breath.

Flipped the switch.

And found nothing but a living room, no slime or reptilian scales on the walls. Perfectly normal looking, except for the heavy religious emphasis in its artwork. Adorning the walls were paintings of Jesus’ crucifixion, brown wooden crucifixes, and other decorations which shouted their faith. But all the heavy red curtains had been drawn shut.

Abby turned to the hallway and shouted, “Where is everyone?”

Listening carefully, she followed the sound of crying until she arrived at a bedroom door, down the hall past the kitchen towards the backyard. She knocked.

“Hello? It’s Doctor Lee!” She turned the doorknob.

Behind the door, something stirred. The sound of agonized straining made Abby release the doorknob’s tension and let it turn back.

But the door flew open, ripping the knob out of her hand.

What Abby saw forced a scream into her throat.

But the sheer horror kept it lodged. Nothing came out.

Sprawled on the floor, two uniformed policemen lay in pools of blood around their heads. One of them holding his gun. An EMT’s head hung face down over the red jagged edge off a broken window, the sharp points of which protruded from the back of his neck. The other EMT lay sidelong on the floor, half of his head gone, apparently blown away by the gun in his mouth. Over in the corner sat a small dog kennel crate. Trapped behind the metal gate, a small brown Chihuahua whimpered and shivered.

Abby stumbled back trying to run, but her back hit the hallway wall. Shaking her head side to side, she crumpled to the ground as the door, on its own impulse, swung completely open.

This revealed a wide-eyed Cheryl, squatting atop a green wingback chair like a frightened animal. Her complexion was bluish-grey, her eyes dark-rimmed like those of a raccoon. Perspiration glistened from her forehead, but she looked like a person fished out of a freezing pond.

Cheryl’s eyes seemed to make contact with Abby’s, but it felt more like she was looking through her rather than at her. “No...No, no, no!”

“Ch-Cheryl?”

At the sound of her name, Cheryl looked all around, as if she hadn’t noticed Abby sitting in the hall outside the door. Her eyes grew so wide there seemed to be no eyelids.

“Doctor Lee, please…”

For that brief moment, Cheryl whined like a frightened child. This caused Abby to get up, despite her fear. She stepped into the room and turned to her. “My God, what’s happened here?”

“I’m begging you! Help me!” At the foot of the chair upon which Cheryl crouched, a black shoe stuck out. The foot within it twitched. That’s when Abby noticed the hem of a black robe.

“Father McGhee?” Abby took a step toward the chair. But she stopped cold when Cheryl let out a blood congealing scream.

“They’ve come back for me! Sweet Jesus, they’ve come back!”

Abby rushed over to the priest. Her rational mind screamed in protest, Remember that wild beast in Salton Sea Women’s Penitentiary? The one who almost tore you to pieces?

Not taking her eyes off Cheryl—who still seemed herself, just terrified and pointing at Father McGhee with one hand and with the other covering her mouth—Abby knelt and pulled the priest up to a seated position.

Alive, thank God, but trembling. His eyes darted back and forth between Abby and Cheryl in the chair above him. He was a frail man, who couldn’t have been much heavier than Abby herself. White hair covered his head completely. His pale eyebrows arched with trepidation.

“You must leave!” He whispered, and tried to stand.

“Leave?”

A low-pitched growl filled the room. Abby didn’t want to look up, because something inside her—definitely not her rational mind—told her she wouldn’t find Cheryl there anymore.

“Get up, Father. Hurry.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

He tried to lift his finger to point, but it shot back down. As if someone grabbed it and yanked it down. “They won’t let me.”

At first, she thought the priest was delirious and was referring to the dead policeman and EMT. But when she looked up, there was Cheryl—or what once had been—glaring down monstrously, thick saliva rolling from her teeth and lower jaw. Her face was a web of veins, her eyes bulging to the point of popping out.

When she spoke, it sounded like a hundred vulgar men, their words guttural and wet with mucous. “Get out of here, you whore!”

Nothing would have made Abby happier than to comply. But when she tried to take Father McGhee’s hand, the creature that had been Cheryl roared and struck her across the face.

Abby fell back on her rear and watched in horror as Cheryl stood up slowly off her haunches, snarled at the priest and pointed her open hand at him. To her Abby’s utter astonishment, Father McGhee, now straining to breathe and clutching his throat, floated into the air. The little dog in the kennel crate barked nervously.

Cheryl flung her hand toward the wall and the Priest went flying into it. His back hit the wall. His feet dangled three feet off the ground but he did not fall or slide down. Instead, he hung there like black beetle pinned to a wood block—only, his limbs were still moving and his mouth opened and shut, opened and shut, like a dying fish on the hot surface of a dock.

From within his robe he pulled out a crucifix and tried to wave it at Cheryl.

She only laughed.

The crucifix fell to the ground, right on top of a set of rosary beads and a Bible.

“THEY ONLY WORK IF YOU HAVE FAITH…FATHER!”

Gasping, Father McGhee tried to answer through his choked breath. “I…am…not afraid…of you!”

The Cheryl creature turned to Abby, causing her to back away. Abby’s hands found the Bible. She grabbed it, foolishly thinking she could use it like a shield. With a sickly jaundiced eye, Cheryl glared at Abby, then turned back to the priest. Once again, in manifold voices, Cheryl said to Father McGhee, “I KNOW ALL YOUR SINS.” Then she turned to Abby and smiled with teeth stained with blood from her gums. “AND YOUR’S TOO, ABIGAIL LEE.”

“Doctor Lee…” the priest muttered. “I don’t think…I…have enough—”

“SHUT UP, TIRESOME OLD FOOL!” Cheryl lifted both of her hands towards him. His body came forward from the wall, then floated towards the curtains facing the backyard. “YOU NO LONGER AMUSE ME!”

A thunderous sound shook the room. The walls began to creak and splinter. The entire house began to shake. Cheryl threw one hand forward causing Father McGhee to crash through the glass, tearing the curtains out with him.

That’s when Abby saw a pair of legs dangling outside the window.

Ted Morgan, Cheryl’s husband.

“Oh my God!”

“DON’T BOTHER CALLING FOR GOD, SWEETIE. HE’S DEAD!” Cheryl—or the creature that controlled her—regarded Abby and licked her dripping lips like a wild hyena about feast on the entrails of a leftover gazelle.

Dust and drywall crumbled from the ceiling onto the uniformed bodies of the creature’s victims. Clutching Father McGhee’s Bible to her chest, Abby looked up.

It shouldn’t have shocked her but it did. Cheryl’s pale, cadaverous feet were floating in the air, her entire body lit up with a sickly green hue. Her hair spread out like Medusa, her skirt flapped in the stench of the wind, which howled and whirled around the quaking room.

“WHY DO YOU REMAIN, ABBY?”

Abby shook the priest’s Bible at it. “For Cheryl. Leave her alone!”

The creature let out a horrible belching sound, accompanied by a stench like rotting flesh. It was laughing. A chorus of hundreds of ghouls, laughing. “DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO I AM, YOU PITIFUL LITTLE GIRL?”

As, the house shook, pieces of plaster got into Abby’s eyes, nose and mouth. Then something surged though her entire being. It wasn’t adrenaline—she could tell. It was a powerful sense of calm, like the familiarity of a childhood song. She found herself at the point of decision: fight or flight.

“I’M FEELING BENEVOLENT, ABBY. RUN AWAY NOW, AND I’LL LET YOU LIVE.”

It wasn’t her scientific mind telling her to stay. No, that part of her had told her to run before she even entered the house. Whatever it was, it felt like something—someone she’d known all her life. “I’m not leaving without Cheryl!” She stood up.

The creature’s eyes glowed bloody red. Cheryl’s veined face became skeletal, pulling her skin so taut it began to crack, and blood oozed from the fissures. Instantly, Abby felt an enormous weight push her down to the ground. She fell and the Bible bounced away.

“I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE!”

“And I told you: Not without Cheryl!” Tears of fright and determination welled up in her eyes.

“FOOL! FOR THOUSANDS OF YEARS I HAVE TRAVELLED THE EARTH SEEKING TO DEVOUR WHOMEVER I PLEASE! TODAY, BEFORE YOU DRAW YOUR LAST BREATH, YOU SHALL KNOW THE NAME OF HIM WHO RULES OVER ALL THE EARTH.”

The wind felt like a tornado now. All kinds of objects flew around the room. The green chair floated, the entire four-post bed also rose off the ground. But that calm strong voice within prompted Abby to shout, “Who are you!”

The demon laughed arrogantly. “LEGION.”

At the very mention of its name, Abby felt the blood drain from her face. She recognized IT from one of the gospels, but couldn’t quite remember to what end.

It let out another horrific roar.

This time, the cage of the Chihuahua’s kennel began rattling. The little dog within had changed. Flashing its fangs, its ears lying flat, it growled and smashed itself repeatedly against the metal gate until, bloodied by repeated blows, it dislodged from its plastic frame.

Snarling, the dog ran over, leapt at Abby aiming straight for her neck.

Abby gasped and put up her arm to block it. The dog sank its razor-sharp fangs into her forearm and thrashed violently. Nothing she could do would pry it off. The more she pulled, the deeper it bit.

Frantic, her arm bleeding and burning with pain, Abby dropped to the floor, breaking her fall with the demon-possessed dog. It released its jaws.

Exploiting the stunned animal’s stupor, she grabbed it with both hands, tossed it into the closet, and shut the door. Panting, she pressed her back up against the door. But the dog began slamming against the closet walls and door, growling ferociously, trying to get out. Abby would not move from the door. The struggle continued until finally, the dog yelped and the slamming stopped.

A bloody puddle edged out from beneath the closet door, touching the heel of Abby’s shoes. A cold tingle crept up her spine.

Overwhelmed and exhausted, Abby eyed the door, the windows, any possible exit. If she could just make a dash for—

The door swung shut just as she reached it. No matter how hard she twisted and pulled, it would not open. Even though it had no lock.

“I GAVE YOU A CHANCE TO LEAVE,” Legion’s chorus of voices said. A dark impulse forced Abby onto her back. She couldn’t move her arms or legs, much less get up.

Cheryl’s body descended and straddled Abby’s chest.

Air refused to enter her lungs.

She tried to scream but nothing came out.

Up on the wall behind the bedpost hung a painting, tilted irreverently to the side. It depicted Saint Peter, sinking into the water, waves crashing around him, and reaching out and grabbing the hand of Jesus, who stood on the water’s surface. The look of fear on Peter’s face so resembled Abby’s that without thinking, she cried out in her heart, “Jesus!”

To her amazement, the words actually came out of her mouth.

Air rushed through her lungs.

She gasped for more.

Above her, the creature inhabiting Cheryl’s corporeal form reared up, its face twisted in repulsion and fright. “WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

At once, all the stories she had put out of her mind from her youth of Jesus’ casting out demons came back to her. She remembered now. It was His name. The power and authority therein.

“In the name of Jesus!”

A chorus of odious, belligerent shouts filled the air. The creature jumped back momentarily. Regaining its ferocity, it came toward Abby, a threat in every purposeful step.

Abby grabbed the crucifix off the floor and held it up.

The creature spat and laughed cruelly. “HAVEN’T YOU LEARNED?” It lunged at her with outstretched, claws. “HYPOCRITE! YOU HAVEN’T GOT THE FAITH TO—”

Abby thrust the cross flat against the creatures chest, right between Cheryl’s breasts. The creature’s pained howl quickly drowned out the sizzling sound burning flesh.

Abby understood.

She had made the choice to believe.

And this demon, Legion, knew as well. It had once faced the power of the Christ and begged to be cast into a herd of pigs rather than be destroyed. It feared the name and power.

Streams of smoke rose from a branded cross that seared the skin on Cheryl’s chest. For a moment, her eyes became normal. Pleaded for help. But just as quickly, returned to their demonic state.

Legion’s voices diminished. Sounded fewer, weaker.

But not a bit less hateful or savage. Chest heaving, through labored breaths, its voices became hoarse. “I will tear your limbs off, Abigail Lee…I will eviscerate you…and feast on your innards. BEFORE I kill you!”

From the gospel of Luke, the words of Christ resounded in her spirit: “Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means hurt you.”

“You’ll do nothing but flee.” Abby climbed to her feet and for the first time, dared to step forward, advance upon the demons that possessed Cheryl. She clutched the Bible in one hand, and the crucifix in the other, which she pointed at the creature.

The creature scoffed. Took two steps back. “You think I’m some kind of vampire? You fool! If a Jesuit priest didn’t have the faith to challenge me, what makes you think—?”

Emboldened at its retreat, Abby stood tall. “In the name of Jesus, I command you: be silent!”

Without another word, the creature spread its hands wide and vomited a putrid, thick substance all over Abby’s face. It felt like a million maggots crawling all over her, eating her flesh. She screamed. Didn’t know if she should or could wipe it off her eyes, lips and nose.

Then, with all its previous intensity, the creature let out a gruesome shriek. A suffocating sensation came over Abby. Dark. Frigid. She shuddered.

I know all your sins, Abby.

Images, memories she thought long forgotten, all flooded her mind. Guilt, shame, hatred, anger, people she’d silently cursed, wished dead, every lie, prideful remark, haughty look, surrounded her. Closed in to smother her.

“No….” The spiritual anguish actually caused her physical pain. Images of her dead mother—disapproving, glaring at her, accusing her.

Liar!

Cheater!

Fraud!

Hypocrite!

Worthless, useless…

…No, this isn’t her…it’s a lie…

Legion spoke again. Its confidence renewed. “You will die here, and nobody will ever know what happened. No one will care. No one will remember you.”

Despair filled her heart. Tears rolled down her face, matting her hair into her mouth along with the rancid puke that hardened on her skin. Her hands, her entire body quivered, as though suffering hypothermia. In the corner of her eye, she noticed the dead police officer’s gun lying on the rug, next to his open hand.

DO IT, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF CRAP!

“No…”

“IT’S THE ONLY WORTHWHILE THING YOU COULD EVER DO TO SAVE YOURSELF. PICK UP THE GUN. KILL YOURSELF. THAT’S YOUR PENNANCE!”

Though she shook her head from side to side, the guilt and self-hatred within her drove her to her knees. The Bible fell to the ground and flipped open, its pages flapping in the wind. The horrible feelings about herself began to swallow Abby’s will to live. On all fours, she crawled over, dropped the crucifix, and grabbed the gun.

Crying uncontrollably, her mind a garbled mess of rampant emotions, she backed up and sat on the ground. The pages of the Bible continued to flap in the wind blowing around the room.

She lifted the gun to her lips. I’m sorry Mama. I was such a disappointment to you.

YOU DON’T DESERVE TO LIVE. DO IT NOW!

It was true. Every accusation, every sin. She was indeed guilty. Amazing how free a person can feel when they are not aware of the entirety of their sins. We can’t handle seeing them all at once. It was now easy to see how, when presented with the facts like this, anyone—trained policemen, EMTs, hardened convicts—could yield to this inevitable urge to purge the universe of the human disease that was oneself.

Lights flashed like lightning in the room. Thunderclaps nearly deafened her ears, and the wind howled.

Tears fell from her chin. Smacked down heavily on the thin pages of the Bible, over which she hung her head. She wrapped her lips around the cold, bitter muzzle of the gun. Slid her finger over the trigger. She had to do it.

Had to.

YOUR GOD IS DEAD, ABBY. I KILLED HIM TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO ON THAT CROSS. NOW GO AHEAD, SWEETIE. DO WHAT YOU KNOW YOU MUST.

She pressed against the tension in the trigger.

Tears streamed from her eyes, rapidly striking the pages beneath her.

She glanced down and saw that the pages had stopped flipping, though everything else in the room continued to blow in the wind. The Bible was open to the red letters, the spoken words of Christ in the book of Mark. She recalled this story, of the boy who had been possessed by a violent spirit, which none of Jesus’ disciples could exorcise, though He had given them the authority to do so.

If you can believe, all things are possible.

She pulled the gun from her mouth and uttered the same words the demon possessed boy’s father spoke: “Lord, I believe! Help my unbelief!”

And she heard a voice in her spirit: You have been forgiven of all sin, once and for all. By the power of My blood, you are Holy and accepted.

With that, she threw the gun down. The words resounded in her mind, clearing the clouds like the sun cutting a swath. By the power of My blood.

Abby stood. Wiped her eyes so she could see clearly.

The creature stumbled back. “You…You’re going to have to kill me. Pick up the gun and shoot me. It’s the only way.”

Abby rushed at it until its back slammed up against the wall. She wasn’t going to fall for its deception and kill Cheryl. “You’re the liar!”

It reached out and put its hands on Abby’s neck. But it didn’t have enough strength to do any harm now. Abby grabbed its wrists.

She understood.

She knew.

“In the name of Jesus Christ…”

The creature started shaking, as though in an epileptic fit. Tried to use its foot to reach for the gun on the floor. Tried to free its hands, but Abby would not let go.

“…and His blood…”

“NOOOOOOOO!” Cheryl’s eyes rolled all the way back till nothing but their whites could be seen. Every limb jerked violently, but Abby somehow found the strength to keep her in place.

“…I command you…”

In one final perverse rally, the creature spat on Abby, hurled hundreds of simultaneous curses in English, in Latin, in Greek, in Hebrew, and possibly Hittite, for all Abby knew.

“I command you to leave this body! By the name and blood of Jesus!”

Echoing like a bottomless chasm, hundreds of voices—horrendous men, women, boars, crows, and wolves—cried out in great pain.

Cheryl’s body writhed, twisted into nearly impossible angles. Stared into Abby’s eyes.

Mocked her.

Insulted her.

Despised her.

But it was merely the final parting shot of a defeated demon. Abby ignored her apprehension and held her ground.

The back of Cheryl’s head hit the wall repeatedly until Cheryl put her hand behind it and held it gently. The fiendish cry continued until finally, at the end, it faded into the solitary sound of Cheryl Morgan’s voice, moaning in relief.

Her entire body went soft.

Fell into Abby’s embrace.

One final rush of wind blew all the windows and curtains open. Bright golden sunlight filled the room. The house stopped shaking. And for the first time since Abby encountered Legion; stillness.

Then the sweet song of sparrows singing.

A cool, natural gust brought the fragrance of jasmines from the outside. Abby leaned forward and lay Cheryl down on the bed, where the sunlight illuminated her face.

Before Abby’s eyes, the rosy complexion returned to Cheryl’s face. The puss-filled, crucifix shaped wound faded until all that remained was a very faint, white outline of the symbol, which Abby thought quite becoming.

“Doctor Lee?” Cheryl whispered, as she opened her eyes. Those lovely brown eyes.

“Oh, thank God.”

Cheryl sat up, looked around at the bodies, the devastated windows, and walls, then threw her arms around her, burying her sobs into her shoulder.

“It’s okay now, Cheryl. You’re going to be okay.”

She nodded, hot breath and tears penetrating Abby’s shirt.

“Do you remember any of it?”

Cheryl lifted her face, sniffed wetly, and nodded. “Everything.”

Out in the backyard, Father McGhee stirred. Disoriented, he sat up, rubbing his neck. In the distance, the sound of police sirens approached. In her rational, scientific mind, Abby thought for a moment about the difficulty she’d have explaining what had happened.

“Thank you, Doctor Lee.”

“Call me Abby. Please.”

“No one else really believed. Not Teddy, not my doctors. Not even Father McGhee, until it was too late. But you did.” She pulled Abby close and held on for a long time.

The squad car doors opened and thunked shut. The feet of the officers pounded toward the house. Father McGhee also stumbled back into the room.

It would take a good deal of time and therapy for Cheryl to heal from the trauma. But Abby knew everything would work out.

She had faith.

FROM THE DESK OF JOSHUA GRAHAM

Dear Reader,

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

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

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

How, you may ask?

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

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

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

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

2. Leave a glowing review wherever you can.

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

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

Best wishes,

Joshua Graham

PS: Be sure to check out my debut novel BEYOND JUSTICE, available at all major online retailers. Please enjoy the sample chapter immediately following this letter.

EXCERPT from the #1 bestselling Legal Thriller and winner of the 2011 International Book Awards

BEYOND JUSTICE, by Joshua Graham

PART I

The descent into Hell is not always vertical.

— Bishop Frank Morgan

Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kathleen Battle's angelic voice soared.

Pie Jesu Domine,

Dona eis requiem,

Requiem sempiternam.

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

I nudged the door open with my foot.

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

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

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

"Jenn!"

I ran to her, turned her over.

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

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

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

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

Jenn groaned. Her breaths grew shorter and shorter.

"Bethie... Aaron."

Her eyes rolled back.

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

No.

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

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

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

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

All time stopped. Who would do this? Why? Her blood stained my shirt. Her dying words resonated in my mind. Then I remembered. The kids. I bolted up and ran straight to Bethie's room.

Bethie's door was ajar. If my horror hadn't been complete, it was now. I found her exactly like Jenn—face down, blood and gashes covering her body.

Though I tried to cry out, nothing escaped the vice-grip on my throat. When I turned her over, I felt her arm. Still warm, but only slightly. Her eyes were shut, her face wet with blood.

"Bethie! Oh, sweetie, no!" I whispered, as I wrapped the blanket around her.

I kissed her head. Held her hand. Rocked her back and forth. "Come on, baby girl. Help's on its way, you hold on," I said, voice and hands trembling. She lay there unconscious but breathing.

Aaron.

Gently, I lay Bethie back down then got up and flew across the hall. To Aaron's door. His night light was still on and I saw his outline in the bed.

Oh God, please.

I flipped the switch.

Nothing.

I dashed over to the lamp on his nightstand, nearly slipping on one of his Thomas Train toys on the carpet. Broken glass crackled under my shoes.

I switched on the lamp on his nightstand. When I looked down to his bed, my legs nearly gave out. Aaron was still under his covers, but blood drenched his pillow. His aluminum baseball bat lay on the floor, dented and bloodied.

Dropping to my knees, I called his name. Over and over, I called, but he didn't stir. This can't be happening. It's got to be a nightmare. I put my face down into Aaron's blue Thomas Train blanket and gently rested my ear on his chest.

I felt movement under the blanket. Breathing. But slowly—irregular and shallow.

Don't move his body. Dammit, where are the paramedics?

I heard something from Bethie's room and dashed out the door. Stopping in the middle of the hallway, I clutched the handrail over the stairs. Thought I heard Aaron crying now. Or maybe it was the wind.

My eyes darted from one side of the hallway to the other. Which room?

Faure's Requiem continued to play, now the In Paradisum movement.

Aeternam habeas requiem.

Something out in front of the house caught my attention. The police, the paramedics! Propelled by adrenaline, I crashed through the front door and ran out into the middle my lawn which was slick with rain. I slipped and fell on my side.

Nobody. Where were they!

Like a madman, I began screaming at the top of my lungs. My words echoed emptily into the night.

"Help! Somebody, please!"

A dog started barking.

"Please, ANYBODY! HELP!"

Lights flickered on in the surrounding houses.

Eyes peeked through miniblinds.

No one came out.

I don't know if I was intelligible at this point. I was just screaming, collapsed onto the ground, on my hands and knees getting drenched in the oily rain.

Just as the crimson beacons of an ambulance flashed around the corner, I buried my face into the grass. All sound, light, and consciousness imploded into my mind as if it were a black hole.

Chapter Two

It's never been clear to me when my neighbor, Pastor Dave Pendelton scraped me off the lawn and brought me back into my house. Outside, neighbors all gawking through the blinds in their windows, not one of them had come out.

Except Dave, of all people. Pastor Dave of City on a Hill, Jenn's church. He seemed nice enough, but I never completely trusted him. This was due in no small part to my absolute distaste for organized religion. Ironically, Jenn had become born again soon after we got married and began attending not only Sunday services at Dave's church, but their weekly small group Bible study as well.

I sat on my sofa in a chilled stupor, a blanket draped over my shoulders while paramedics worked feverishly around both of my children upstairs. According to Dave, they had arrived just as he came out to get me. I was so shell-shocked that I didn't recall their arrival.

Another team had gone to the master bedroom.

"Jenn?" I bolted up. "Jenn!" They carried her down in a gurney, a white sheet over her face. The anguish within couldn't crack through the frozen wall of shock around my mind.

Next came my kids, but they were not covered. The paramedics worked on them as they brought them down and wheeled them to the ambulance. "Bethie! Aaron!" I shouted and tried to run over. Dave held me back.

"Let them, Sam."

I was trembling, shaking my head, as they raced off. Jenn couldn't be gone. It couldn't be my kids in that ambulance. It was like watching a movie. Flashing lights, sirens.

"Let's go." Dave grabbed my arm and rushed me into his car. We chased the ambulances, leaving behind a pair of squad cars, their red and blues groping out into the rain like a lighthouse in a hurricane.

My home had become a crime scene.

___________________

As soon as we arrived at Children's Hospital's Trauma Care Center, a medical team rushed Bethie into one room and Aaron into another. Frozen, I stood, chest rising and falling, eyes darting between the two rooms.

"Bethany's a lot worse," Dave said.

I nodded and went for the door to Trauma One. He caught me and turned me around to the correct room. Dave went into Aaron's room just as I entered Bethie's.

The next thirty minutes were torturous. About a dozen doctors and nurses crowded around Bethie, two of them squeezing a plastic bag to assist with her breathing. Instruments rattled in the crash cart as the trauma surgeons surrounded her. IVs webbed around her, into her arms.

Speaking in rapid succession, overlapping each others' words, yet somehow maintaining some form of intelligible communication, the team's dialogue all meshed together.

"Epi's in."

"She's bradying down."

"Atropine in."

"We're losing her!"

They began CPR. Then the whine and snap of defibrillator shocks. Jolted me as well. One of the nurses announced that they'd gotten a pulse back, but a very weak one. Bethie just had to pull through.

Doctor Yang, one of the doctors not completely engrossed in the code, came over, pulled down her face mask. "She's lost a lot of blood. We're doing everything we can, but you should prepare yourself."

"For what?"

"Is there anyone you'd like to call?"

I wanted to scream that her mother had been murdered, less than half an hour ago. I could not accept the fact that my little girl was within moments of death…"Please, you have to save her!"

Doctor Yang nodded and returned to the team. Seconds later an alarm from the EKG blared again. Bethie's pulse was gone.

The lead doctor called out something about joules. "Clear!"

Again, with the defibrillator. Bethie's torso arched up and fell. The EKG blipped, but the line remained flat, the tone static. The lead doctor was now performing chest compressions with both hands. Gently! I wanted to cry out. But I knew they had to do this to help her. This went on for a while, but it was clear that her pulse continued only because the doctor's efforts.

"Bethie?" I managed to whisper. It was starting to hit me. Not even an hour after Jenn's death, I was about to lose my daughter.

"Mr. Hudson," Doctor Yang said as she approached. "Do you want to be with her now?"

Tears stung my eyes like acid. Gradually, the cacophony of voices died down. I could now discern something that I had vaguely heard earlier through all the commotion—one of the doctors in the background announcing each elapsed minute since Bethie's heart had stopped.

"Thirty-seven minutes since arrest." The chest compressions continued.

"Mister Hudson?" Doctor Yang said, again, her tone sympathetic, but a bit more urgent. Less and less of the team were looking at Bethie now. They kept eyeing the clock.

The lead doctor had been doing chest compressions for some time now. He looked to his team. "Shall we?"

"He just lost his wife," one of the nurses replied. "Can we try a little longer?"

He nodded and continued the compressions. After a while, they tried the defibrillator again. No response. A solid green line slithered across the screen. The nurses looked up at the other doctor. He stood still for a second, glanced at the wall-clock and shook his head. "Time of death..."

"We did all we could, Mr. Hudson," Doctor Yang said. "I'm so sorry."

"NO! Save her, dammit!" I rushed for the table on which Bethie lay as still as silence. "Don't let her go!" I reached for the defibrillator paddles. A large orderly grabbed and pulled me away. I shouted at the top my lungs. He didn't release me until I stopped thrashing. The nurses stepped back.

When I calmed myself, the lead doctor approached me.

"We did everything possible, but her injuries were too severe. I'm sorry."

I couldn't speak. First Jenn, now Bethie. Anger ebbed, giving way to despair. I walked over to my little girl.

"Sweetie..." I held her lifeless hand, brushed the hair out of her face and kissed her forehead. "I'm sorry. Daddy's so sorry." Before I knew it, I was curled up on the floor and sobbing, still reaching up and holding her hand. The orderly tried to help me to my feet but I couldn't do it. Eventually, they managed to get me up and pour me into a chair.

"Sir, do you need a moment?"

I nodded.

They drew a curtain and left me alone with my daughter. That's when I lost it. I don't think I'd ever cried so hard, or pounded my fist so many times into a wall, or screamed so loud in my entire life.

Aside from the wounds and blood, Bethie looked like she could have been sleeping. How could she be gone? How could Jenn? I felt disembodied.

The activity outside the trauma room increased. Walkie-talkies, intercom pages, hurried footsteps, gurneys rolling.

The doctor emerged from the curtain.

"I'm sorry, but there's someone outside you need to speak to." Outside the room, an officer from the Sherriff's department tipped his hat.

"My condolences on your loss, sir. But I need to ask you a few—"

"This isn't the best time."

Dave Pendelton arrived.

I gripped his sleeve. "Aaron?"

"He's still in surgery. Trauma One."

Behind him was one of the TCC doctors.

"Is he going to make it?" I asked.

"Too soon to say. He's suffered severe trauma to the head and internal organs."

"Can I see him?"

"Not yet."

I spent the next hour answering the deputy's incessant questions.

What was my name, date of birth, social security number, place of employment, phone numbers? He asked for identification.

"Do we really have to do this now!" I huffed, fumbling with my wallet.

Dave helped take it from my shaking hands and gave the deputy my driver's license and social security card.

The officer asked for the same type of information for Jenn, Bethany and Aaron—the victims. My mouth became bitter. Dryness impeded my words. The deputy was sympathetic and seemed genuinely sorry to put me through this. I couldn't concentrate.

Dr. Salzedo, the trauma surgeon arrived.

"How is he?" I asked.

"We've stabilized him. He's been moved to the Pediatric ICU."

I exhaled in relief.

"PICU's on the third floor."

I got up immediately and turned to Deputy Schaeffer. "If you'll excuse me." If there was anything to hold onto amidst the devastation, it was the hope that Aaron had survived.

I wasn't prepared for what I saw when I got to his room.

___________________

For some delusional reason, I had expected to find my son sitting up, with a few bandages and other dressings, but smiling at me. He would call out, "Daddy!" and we'd embrace, holding on to each other as the last surviving remnants of our family. When I entered, however, I found him unconscious. Tubes of all sorts invaded his body. A ventilator assisted his breathing and all I could hear was hissing, buzzing and beeping medical equipment.

"The next twenty-four hours are crucial," Dr. Salzedo said. "We'll know better with time."

Aaron was in a coma with injuries to his head, spine, and internal organs. Internal hemorrhaging had been controlled, for now. But things could get better or much worse, unexpectedly. Everything was still iffy.

I stood by his bed and held his hand. Warm. Thank god. He would have appeared peaceful and simply asleep, but for all the equipment he was hooked up to. It seemed grotesquely uncomfortable.

Dave stood over Aaron, laid his hand on his bandaged head and mouthed a silent prayer. I didn't like him imposing his religion, even if Aaron had attended his church with Jenn and Bethie since his birth. But I was too exhausted and beyond objecting.

"You're welcome to stay with Aaron as long as you wish," said Dr. Salzedo. "But there's nothing to be done now but wait and monitor his progress. You've been through hell and really should get some rest. We'll call you if anything changes."

"No, I'm staying."

"Sam," Dave said, his hand on my shoulder. "Maybe you should—"

"I said, I'm staying."

He leaned over and said something to the doctor, who nodded in turn.

"I'll stay too, then," Dave said. "We can take shifts."

"Thanks, really. But..." I couldn't think of a good enough excuse besides the fact that he was starting to creep me out with all his kindness. "If you don't mind, I'd like to be alone with my boy."

"I understand." He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to me. "If you need a ride home, give me a call."

I thanked him again and he left. The Sheriff's office was good enough to post an officer outside the room. "You hang tough, buddy," I whispered into Aaron's ear and kissed him. "When you wake up, I'll take you to McDonald's for a happy meal." My voice broke. I had to believe he would get better. It was the only shred of

hope left.

Chapter Three

The yellow tape had been removed. A squad car idled on the sidewalk in front of my house as the neighborhood awoke to a new day. At the wheel sat Chris, the young partner of Lieutenant Jim O’Brien. Chris glanced my way then turned away. I couldn’t tell if it was intentional, his sunglasses obscured any hint. O'Brien was talking to one of the investigators at my door. Good to see a familiar face. When he saw me get out of the taxi, he came over and removed his hat.

O’Brien and I first met under tense circumstances—with his rifle pointed into my chest. It was during a shooting and hostage crisis at Coyote Creek Middle School, where Bethie attended. Along with all the other parents, I stood for hours in the parking lot not knowing what was happening inside.

I grew tired of waiting around not getting any answers. So I marched right up to the police line. My cell phone started buzzing and I reached for it. He thought I was reaching for a weapon and he drew his rifle. Pissed and defiant, I pressed my chest right into the barrel. He wasn’t going to shoot me. The other parents might have, though. On that, the longest afternoon of my life, two girls were killed. One of the stray bullets grazed Bethie’s arm.

Afterwards, Jim and Chris came over to question Bethie. Chris, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old, seemed not only to enjoy Bethie’s starry-eyed attention, he almost encouraged it. I was never completely comfortable around him since.

As I walked up the very lawn, on which I'd slipped last night, Jim removed his hat. "My God, Sam. I’m so sorry about Jenn. And Bethie? Dammit. You dodge a bullet, only to—" he stopped himself and scowled. "How’s Aaron?"

"He’s hanging on."

"You should get some rest."

"I spent the night at Children’s." From the corner of my eye, I noticed his partner looking our way. I turned my head and again he averted his gaze. "What’s with Chris?"

Jim drew a deep breath. "Dunno. He’s been in a mood since he found out. He really liked your family. ‘Specially the kids." Suddenly, I felt the need for Zantac. Jim pulled his hat from under his arm, placed it on his head and nodded. "Don’t hesitate."

"Thanks."

"Oh, by the way," he stopped and handed me my cell phone.

"Found this under your bed. It’s already been dusted and checked, so I guess you can have it back." With a strong pat on the back, he said good-bye and got in the car with his partner, who for some reason hadn’t looked my way once since I arrived.

Just then, a news van pulled into the cul-de-sac.

"Oh jeez, not again." My rifle-in-the-chest standoff had been captured by a photographer and the picture appeared in the North County Times. Made me look like freakin' Tank Man of Tienanmen Square. One thing led to another and the next thing I know, I’m doing a taping in my house for Channel Seven news. A couple of days later, Brent Stringer, best-selling writer and op-ed writer for the Union Tribune did an interview feature. The media, in all its wisdom, spun me up as San Diego’s Superdad. The subsequent fame was about as welcome as a tax auditor in mid-April. I’d just gotten out of the limelight.

O'Brien stepped out again and intercepted the reporters and paparazzi.

"Thanks, Jim," I said silently. A young woman stood in my open door. I hadn't noticed her until I padded halfway across the lawn. She wore black slacks, a black blazer and black sunglasses. I figured it was her black BMW parked in my driveway. Had to wonder what her favorite color was. Silently counting the steps to the second floor, she dabbed the air with her index finger repeatedly.

I cleared my throat, extended my hand.

"Mister Hudson?" Her hand felt like a dead fish. "I'm detective Pearson, County Sheriff's Department. Do you have any form of identification?"

"Do you?" I reached for my wallet.

"Driver’s license, social?" Pearson flashed her badge quickly then examined my driver’s license. She looked back up at me, scrutinizing my face. "Hmm." She handed it back. "Let’s go over a few questions, shall we?"

"Would you like to come inside?"

"No." She proceeded to ask the same questions the deputy had asked last night at Children’s.

"I’ve already answered these questions."

She looked up from the PDA. "It’s routine. You’re probably thinking clearer after resting."

"Doubt it."

Again, Pearson tapped her PDA with a thin, black stylus. She fired off the rest of her questions with chilling detachment. "What time did you come home?"

"About eleven o’clock." A thousand cockroaches skittered up my back as she studied my face. Thankfully, she returned to her PDA.

"What room did you go into first?"

"My daughter’s"

"When did you first realize something was wrong?"

"No wait. I first went into the master bedroom, where I found Jenn." My knees grew weak. I braced myself against the door frame.

"So, you first went into your own bedroom, not your daughter’s."

"That’s right. I was thinking of which child’s room—"

"Once again, Mister Hudson," she said, enunciating. "When did you first realize something was wrong?"

"I didn’t think anything was wrong until I found Jenn, stabbed and bleeding to death."

"Let’s not jump to conclusions. Exact cause of death has not yet been officially determined."

"Excuse me?"

"Why don’t you leave that to the coroner and stick with the facts."

"Fine."

"Are you aware that we came here to speak with you last night about the pornographic materials found on your work computer?"

Taken aback, I gasped. "No, but that stuff wasn't mine. What the hell’s that got to do with anything?"

"Where were you around 7:30 PM last night?"

"On my way to a client meeting in La Jolla. Is that when you came?"

"Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts around 11:00 last night?"

"I was on the 52 freeway, driving home. Alone. Oh my god, did you say anything to my wife about the porn?"

"No, sir."

"It wasn’t mine!"

"As I said, we didn’t mention it. That’s still under investigation." More tapping. "Mister Hudson, relax. I’m sure you’ll want to do everything to help us move this investigation along. Right?"

"Of course."

"Then you won’t mind going to the crime lab to provide samples."

"Samples?" The hair on the back of my neck became thistles.

"DNA swabs, blood, fingerprints."

"What for? Am I a suspect?"

Her dark brown eyes glazed. "We routinely take samples to exclude you as a potential suspect. The longer you wait, the colder the trail gets. Refuse, and you’ll raise the question as to why, and then—"

"Of course I’ll do it. It’s just that...it feels like you’re treating me as a suspect."

"Unless you’ve got something to hide—"

"What is your problem?"

She scribbled something on a business card and handed it to me. "County Sheriff Crime Lab. That’s the case number. You don’t need an appointment. If I were you, I’d get to it this morning before eleven, or things might start to appear unfavorable."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I would never do that, sir."

"Yeah, well…" Before I could say another word, she was halfway to her BMW. She got in, lifted her wrist, tapped on her watch, then pointed at me.

My head spun as her Beamer roared out of the cul-de-sac, leaving me standing in the doorway. Dread coursed through my veins like Freon.

~~~

BEYOND JUSTICE is available for all ebook formats (Nook, Kindle, iPad, SONY Reader, and Kobo) and in trade paperback.

Table of Contents

PART I

Chapter One

Table of Contents

PART I

Chapter One