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.

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Praise for Joshua Graham’s bestselling debut novel

BEYOND JUSTICE

“…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

Connect with Joshua Graham at:

http://www.joshua-graham.com

http://www.facebook/J0shuaGraham

http://www.twitter/J0shuaGraham

THE ACCIDENTAL HERO

Joshua Graham

In all the years I’ve spent here at Salton Sea State Penitentiary, I swear I never met a scarier man than Big Pete. Ain’t no one in this place—in this world—like Big Pete, you feel me? Man, one look at him and you don’t start peeing yourself just a bit, you better go and get your pulse checked cuz you’re probably dead. If you know the stuff he did before he came here, you’d be too scared to even breathe the same air as him.

When Big Pete first arrived here at Salton’s death row, everyone said to me, “Yo, B! (my name’s Brian, but that ain’t so cool, so all my brothers calls me “B” instead) What’s it like being Big Pete’s cellie? You scared he gonna kill you in your sleep?” I just smiled and let them guess. It gave me some respect with the other inmates that I was a brother sharing a cell with the big, white, killing machine—and was still alive every morning. But they didn’t know Big Pete like I do. And I’m sure gonna miss him when he’s gone.

Far as I know, Big Pete’s story began like this:

Five years ago, in the Japanese Friendship Garden in Balboa Park, two men wearing black sunglasses, pastel Polo shirts, and khaki Dockers met with Big Pete by the Koi Pond. These clean cut looking guys weren’t what you’d expect. They were businessmen who were worse than any of the Bloods or Crips I ever met—and believe me, I met more than a few of them in my life. These men hired gangstas on a regular basis to do crap for them. But when they needed a real important job done? They called the best. Big Pete.

“So, you okay with this,” Bill Dawson said to Big Pete, who was sitting on a bench, not even looking at them.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Pete clicked his tongue.

Tom, a guy who owned three Beemers, a Benz and a Ferrari, sat down next to Pete. “You don’t have a problem taking out a man of the cloth?”

Pete shrugged, spit out a toothpick into the pond. “I ain’t religious.”

“You sure?” said Bill. “You’re not going to get all superstitious about killing a minister, and bail at the last minute?”

Without even standing up, Pete slipped his hand under his arm and jabbed the point of his knife straight into Bill’s side—just enough to puncture his pastel Polo and prick his skin.

Bill leaped to his feet, holding his side. “Dammit, Pete!”

Still staring out into the pond and never raising his voice, he scoffed. “That’s Big Pete to you, you weasely turd. I’ll gut and fillet you right here, right now and not even blink. You want me on this hit or not?”

Tom stepped forward between them holding up a hand. “Okay, we get it. You’re the right man for the job. Ten thousand now, and the other ten when it’s done.”

Pete finally turned his head and stared right into their sunglasses. The two homies didn’t even know they took a step back. “That’s not what we agreed to.”

Bill elbowed his partner. “The hell, Tom?”

“You trying to renegotiate terms, boys?” Big Pete stood slowly. His shadow covered both of them as he straightened out. He stood a head taller than both of them.

Tom sputtered. “Twenty thousand seems a lot for one friggin’ pastor of a church.”

“Are you crazy, Tom?” Bill muttered. “You wanna die? Huh? You wanna?” To Big Pete: “You gotta forgive my idiot brother here, Big Pete,” he glared at Tom, “he’s gone and lost his brains. Temporary insanity. Isnt’ that right Tom?”

Tom shrugged. “Shut up.”

Like the wimp he was, Bill pulled out a thick white envelop and handed it to Big Pete, who glared down at his hand and cocked an eyebrow. “You guys sure about this?”

Tom huffed and twisted his lip to the side. “Oh, who’s getting soft now, Big—? OOF!” His brother Bill interrupted him with an elbow in the gut.

“I’m just saying,” Pete said, “You two better not get cold feet and call this off because you went on and got religion or some crap like that. You do, and I’ll come for the rest of the money, cut both of your nuts off before I slice you into tender vittles for my cat.”

The envelope was shaking in Bill’s hand now. “No, no. We aren’t going to back out. This Pastor Rick is killing us, killing our cash flow. We’re honest businessmen, you know? We provide a much needed commodity to the community. And just because some right-wing religious nut don’t think so highly of adult entertainment and literature, doesn’t mean he has the right to take away our business.”

Big Pete didn’t care for porn any more than he cared for religion. He just cared about his reputation, doing his job and getting paid for it. “All he’s doing is standing on the corner of your smut shop, handing out flyers and talking to anyone who wants to talk. For this, you want him dead?”

“You want this job or not?” Tom said, trying wisely not to appear too challenging.

“Shut up,” Bill said. To Pete: “You think he’s just saying ‘Hi, howya doing?’ to those people? Since he started hanging out on my street, I’ve been losing thousands of dollars every month. Business is at its all time low! This stupid sonofabitch can’t keep his goddam religion to himself. No, he’s gotta come and mess with my livelihood. I got a mortgage, a family to feed. What about that?”

Pete grabbed the envelope and shook his head. He didn’t like whining women, but he really, really hated whining men. “I don’t care. Why don’t you go and complain to your wife and your two little girls about how the mean old preacher man is taking away your fine, upstanding customers who would otherwise enjoy all the fine porn you have to offer them?” He slapped Bill across the head with the envelope and walked off. “Un-frikkin-believeable.”

~~~

That night, Big Pete went back to his apartment in Hillcrest and ate his In-N-Out cheeseburger and fries. He sat in the dark, looking out the half-closed window with yellowing paint peeling and chipping off the frame. Big Pete didn’t like it when there was too much light on at night. In his line of work, he preferred the darkness and had gotten used to it. The only light in his studio was from that annoying street lamp right outside his window which always made it hard for him to fall asleep at night. ‘Specially nights before a hit.

Didn’t matter.

He didn’t need much sleep anyway, because the adrenaline rush from offing a target was enough to keep him buzzed for the entire day. Cold sweat dripped from his white In-N-Out cup, which was filled mostly with ice. That annoyed Big Pete, but he realized that was the way it was everywhere; at Burger King, McDonalds, Wendy’s….life. The bigger the cup, the more ice you got. You never got as much sweet Pepsi as the supersized cup promised. And yet, he still ordered the largest cup, every time. Good thing he ordered a milkshake too. What the hell, right? It was hot as hell and he’d probably lose all the weight by sweating it out.

This time, there was so much condensation—probably because it was so damned humid tonight—that he wondered if his cup was actually leaking. He lifted it up and looked underneath.

Odd.

Something was printed on the bottom.

John 3:16

Yeah, yeah. For God so loved the stinkin’ world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him shall have everlasting life. He’d memorized this verse as a kid in Sunday School so many times he was sick of it. Later, John 3:16 was nothing more than that crazy man who used to hold up that sign in the baseball games.

“Burger joint run by fanatics.”

Something troubled him, though—couldn’t tell just what. The night before he murders a preacher, then he sees a Bible verse. He thought of Mom, how she raised him alone after Dad died of a heart attack. She used to take him to Sunday school at that old Baptist church and he’d try to annoy the preacher by looking right at him during a sermon and picking his nose.

Big Pete laughed at the memory.

He hated preachers.

Especially Pastor Ken Lowry. He was married but always flirted with Ma, he was always up to no good. Nothing made Big Pete happier than when Pastor Ken got arrested for embezzling money from his own church, and got caught in an affair with his secretary.

Hypocrites.

All hypocrites.

It made tomorrow that much easier.

Just then, a flash of black passed before his eyes. If you know Big Pete, you know it’d take a lot to startle him. But Pete gasped, and jumped back. His chair tipped over and hit the ground. Freezing ice and whatever was left of his Pepsi splashed onto his lap. “Dammit, Whiskas!”

Eyes reflecting and glowing in the dark, Whiskas, his black Persan cat had leapt up onto the table and was nosing around through the wrapper of his half-eaten cheeseburger.

“Shoo!” Big Pete waved his hand at her, but she knew better. She just looked at him all, why-are-you-waving-your-hand-around? and started to chew on the cheeseburger. “Aw, all right. Go ahead. Wasn’t that hungry anyway.”

Rubbing her soft fur, he admired her ability to just go and take what she wanted. She didn’t believe in asking permission or forgiveness. Just like me. He picked up his chocolate milk shake—no way he’d let Whiskas have any of that—and just out of curiosity took a look under it. Sure enough, another damned Bible verse!

Revelation 3:20

A trickle of static electricity ran up and down his spine, to his extremities, and through his scalp. What was with these people at In-N-Out? And why, after all these years, was he suddenly noticing these verses—the night before…?

Pete pulled out his iPhone and googled the verse. Like a heavy blanket, dread fell over him. It read:

Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hears my voice, and opens the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.

“Gimme a break!” He slid his iPhone back into his pocket and didn’t give it another thought. He had a job to do, a reputation to protect. No one, not even God was going to get in his way.

That night, he tossed and turned in cold, wet sheets, even though the fan blew right at him.

~~~

The hit was to go down at Pastor Rick’s own church during their Friday night revival meeting. A revival meeting? Seriously? But yeah, that’s what the sign said outside their church. Only, it wasn’t a church building, it was a renovated movie theater. Used to be an Edward’s Cinema.

Big Pete meant to show up like he was a member of their congregation, but right away felt overdressed wearing a blue suit, a blue tie, and polished black shoes. He even went to a Christian bookstore, bought himself a big-old Bible and carried it with him as he entered the church.

“Hey, man!” someone called out. Big Pete turned around and this short black dude was smiling so big, you’d think he was his best friend from High School or something. He came right over, looked up and shook his hand. “How you doing, my man? Good to see you!”

Pete forced a smile. See, it’d been forever since he’d even set foot inside a church, so he had no clue how he should act. “Uh---Hallelujah! Jesus saves!”

The greeter’s smile looked like it wanted to fade, but stayed frozen there for the sake of being polite. Then he reached up patted Pete on the shoulder. “Right on, bro. Right on. Welcome!”

“Amen.” Pete’s ears were burning. Jeez, he’d lost count of how many people he’d knocked off, some with his bare hands, and here he was, sweating like a naked man covered in honey surrounded by a swarm of flesh-eating fire ants.

The greeter was still shaking his hand. With every pump, the Glock inside Pete’s breast pocket shook and bumped against his ribs. “I—I’m just gonna go find a seat. Anything in the front?”

“You bet.”

“Pastor Rick speaking today?”

“Of course, who else?”

“Just checking.”

“Aight.”

“Later.” It would be simple. Pete saw the emergency exit sign just a few feet from the front of the stage. From there, he’d make his escape into the parking lot, after he’d done the deed.

The door.

Behold, I stand at the door and knock.

Big Pete didn’t like being distracted by those Bible verses, minutes before he took out a preacher in cold blood. He shook it off like a mosquito sucking blood from his neck.

The red carpeted aisle to the front of the auditorium seemed to go on forever. Where was that smell of candles, dust, and peeling varnish? What about steeples, pews, stained glass? This wasn’t church like he knew it. This was weird.

So many smiling faces, hands to shake before he reached the front row. Pete had never felt so uncomfortable on a hit before, not even taking out gang leaders in the toughest parts of South Central L.A. This just didn’t feel right.

But it was never about the feelings. It was always about the job. The reputation he had to uphold. Be professional. Do your job and split.

Finally, he reached the front row.

Empty, thank God. (Oh, wait.)

Had to be the front row, because there would not be enough time to get up in the middle of the service, get close enough to fire the gun, and then cut out of the building into the parking lot for his escape.

Bill and Tom’s prissy little faces kept coming up in his mind. It repulsed him that he was getting paid by bottom-feeding scum like them. But they’d found him by way of referral from Morgenstern, one of his best clients, so he couldn’t turn them down. That might hurt his reputation.

The service began and instead of a pipe organ, a robed choir, and a choirmaster, a band came out. Guitars, drums, keyboard and vocals. They started playing some pretty good tunes, despite the cheesy, religious, “I love you, Jesus” lyrics projected on the screen.

But in order to blend in, Pete had to sing the words, clap his hands, and lift them up to the Lord when the band leader prompted. Then the entire congregation vamped on one phrase. Over and over.

“I surrender all to you, Jesus.”

Hating every moment cuz he felt like a hypocrite, Pete put his hands up and shut his eyes just like everyone around him and sang:

I surrender all to you, Jesus

I surrender all

I surrender all to you, Jesus

I surrender all to you

Where was that damned Pastor? They’d been singing and carrying on for at least half an hour.

“All right,” said the worship leader (the lead singer with the Taylor guitar), “I want you to put your hands on your heart and repeat after me.”

Everyone did so.

When Big Pete did, he felt the Glock, cold and hard, pressing against his chest. Everyone repeated after the worship leader: “Thank you, Lord. You’re the God of second chances. Thank you that no matter how far I’ve strayed, no matter what I’ve done in my past, you accept me. You forgive me. You make all things new!”

Even as Big Pete said the words, which he refused to allow through the concrete around his heart, something was happening. He didn’t know what it was exactly, but it was a mixture of sadness, anger, relief, worry.

The worship leader started to vamp on that phrase.

You make all things new, Jesus.

You make all things new.

The faces of the many people he’d killed came to his mind, the lives of people he’d snuffed out—innocent or not. Never before had he realized the gnawing feeling in his gut. But it was there. Oh man, was it there. For the first time in his life, he admitted to himself that he’d been wrong.

Where was that pastor?

The congregation started to sing, “What can wash away my sins? Nothing but the blood of Jesus…”

That was the song Mama used to sing to him during those awful nights after Daddy passed and little Petey was too scared to sleep alone. Daddy had always put him to bed, read him stories, and often fell asleep clear till the morning next to him.

Daddy was Superman, Spiderman, Ironman. Daddy was the kind of man Petey always dreamed of becoming. But that dream died when Daddy died.

And only now did he understand.

He’d been blaming God for that his whole life. He’d made all these terrible choices just to show God that if He was going to take Daddy away, then Pete didn’t want anything to do with a lousy god like that.

The entire congregation entered a time of silent prayer. The keyboard played lush, sustained chords that floated like white silk over a flowing river of peace. The worship leader started to improvise, making up a song on the spot with the words from the old hymn, “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.

With his hands lifted up, his eyes closed tight, Pete felt a warm presence surround him. He had expected his one and only encounter with the Almighty to be at judgment day. An angry God would judge him unworthy and throw him into the fiery lakes of Hell, and Pete…Big Pete would go down, shaking a his fist.

But it was nothing like that now. He felt…loved. Accepted.

Forgiven.

Warm tears streamed down his face.

Just then, an older, deeper voice came over the speakers as the soft, heavenly music continued to flow. “This is a holy moment, church. Let’s just stay in the place a few more minutes.”

Pete opened his eyes.

Up on the stage stood Pastor Rick. A modest looking gray-haired man. In the back of Pete’s mind, a distant voice whispered, Take him out now. Do it fast, or it’s all over for you.

But that same voice that he had come to depend on, that had guided him to murder dozens of people throughout his career as an assassin, now seemed like some kind of alien voice; cold, dark, dangerous.

Pastor Rick started to speak. “How can God ever forgive me, you ask, when I’ve done this, or that? But I say to you, there is nothing God cannot do. And you know what? He wants to forgive you. He gave his only begotten Son for you. There’s someone out there right now who is ready to come in from the rain.”

He wasn’t looking directly at Pete, but his words pierced his chest like a sword. It was all Pete could do to choke back a sob.

“This is what Jesus said, ‘Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.’”

Pete looked straight at the Pastor. All the years of pain that had boiled to the surface faded away like steam. He had a chance to do the right thing.

Kill him now. This is just a mind game.

The pastor now was looking in Pete’s direction. “If anyone wants to come home, God has his arms open wide for you. He’s waiting to receive you like the prodigal son. If that’s you, I want you to come up to the altar. We’d like to pray with you.”

Pete sniffed wetly.

He wasn’t sure what he’d do. By instinct, he stepped forward. The killer’s autopilot instinct was kicking in. Pete stepped up to the foot of the stage. Pastor Rick had come down to meet the half dozen people coming up for prayer.

Pete reached into his breast pocket.

Gripped his gun.

The idea of coming home, in from the cold, the rain drew him like a moth to a porch light. And yet, the part of him that was so natural, so ingrained compelled him to finish the job. Don’t get taken in. You’re just getting emotional.

He was sobbing now, but it didn’t draw any undue attention. The other people coming forward were also weeping. Tears of joy, tears of repentance. Something amazing was happening to them.

And something horrible was happening to Pete.

His mind, his soul was being torn in two.

He thought of his hatred for God.

He thought of his love for his father.

Without thinking, but sobbing shamelessly, Pete pulled out the Glock.

Screams went out. People spread out away from him like oil from a drop of dish soap.

Burly security guards rushed forward.

But then Pastor Rick shouted, “Wait!” Somehow he knew.

Stunned, the guards stopped.

Pete fell to his knees, holding the gun by the muzzle and offering it to anyone who would take it. “I’m sorry! God, I’m so sorry!” The gun fell to the floor with a quiet thud.

Burying his face in his hands, he rocked back and forth and felt something deep in his spirit—a place he didn’t know was there and yet, he always knew.

Peace flooded it.

Right there, right then, Big Pete prayed with Pastor Rick, and asked The Big J into his life. He’d never known peace like that in his whole life, because he knew he’d been forgiven.

Big Pete felt so much joy because that day, when he set out to kill a man of God, he found his redemption. It wasn’t hard for him to turn himself in and confess to the judge and jury all the crimes he’d committed because he’d already made the big confession.

So he pled guilty to twelve counts of murder and didn’t bother to appeal. The judge sentenced him to death. But he did some good, my man Pete. A whole lotta good, you know? He turned in all those people who’d hired him for murder, and that wasn’t all. For the nine years he’d been here on death row, he’s become the most respected and feared inmate in Salton Sea State Penitentiary.

And not only that; he’s helped over a hundred and fifty men, young and old, find the same peace and forgiveness he has. Some gang members here really turned it around through his help, even went back into the real world and have become ministers, and youth workers helping kids avoid the same mistakes they made.

Big Pete speaks once a month at the chapel and says, he needs to pay for his crimes here on earth, it’s only right. But he knows that he’s been forgiven—even someone with as rotten a past as his. And one day, like the prodigal son, he’s going to go home to where all things will be made new.

So right now, I’m looking at Big Pete. He’s smiling at me, even though he’s in chains about to be led into the execution chamber where they’re gonna pump him with a lethal cocktail.

“You okay, Big Pete?” The words snag in my throat like a hook.

“Yeah. Don’t worry about me, B. I’m good.”

I reach over and hug his neck, bash knuckles with him, and try not to cry, but I can’t help it. Big Pete’s been like a father to me. He turned me around from an angry, violent kid, to someone who’s helping other inmates find their redemption. “You’re a good man, Pete.”

He shakes his head. “I only pray that those families will find it in their hearts to forgive me for what I’d done. But even if that don’t, I’m ready.”

Pete stands. The chains around his feet jangle as he meets the guards at our cell door. He’s about to walk the Sunset Mile, that long orange corridor to the chamber. His eyes light up. “Don’t worry, B. It’s not goodbye. Not forever.”

The cell door slams shut. I watch as he strides with his head held high past cells and cells. All the inmates that Big Pete has reached, too many to count, stick out their hands, pat his back, his shoulder. They all call out their good wishes, some of them—big tough men—their voices breaking.

“Goodbye, Big Pete!”

“We love you, Big Pete!”

“You da Man, Big Pete!”

Big Pete stops for a moment. The guards just wait. He turns around and smiles, his eyes shimmering. “Y’all be good. I’ll see you all there, on that day.”

Then he takes a deep breath, turns to face the corridor,

And walks the Sunset Mile.

FROM THE DESK OF JOSHUA GRAHAM

Dear Reader,

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for reading THE ACCIDENTAL HERO.  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.

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