Fallen Evermore

Fallen Evermore

By

Kathleen Rowland

Published by Kathleen Rowland at Smashwords

Copyright © 2012 Kathleen Rowland

All Rights Reserved.

Dedication

For Gerry who takes up huge space in my heart.

Acknowledgements

Thank you, Ted Meyer of teddymeyerphotography.com,

for your photo, Fallen. Flowers to cover model Via Aclan.

Hearts to talented format and cover artist Lori Soard of Promo Divas

Trademark Acknowledgements

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following workmarks mentioned in this work of fiction.

Fallin’, Alicia Keyes

Abercrombie and Fitch

Crate and Barrel

Denny’s Restaurant

Dear Reader,

In 2008 my very first book, Mining Evermore, was published by Amira Press. What an honor to have had Publisher Yvette Lynn select my fledgling effort. Reviewers applauded Mining Evermore because the bones of the story had merit. Since then I have improved my writing. I have no reservations saying this which explains what I decided to do when the copyright was returned to me earlier this year. I dusted it off, rewrote it, and gave it a fresh title, Fallen Evermore. The tension is higher, the love scenes are more scandalous, and characters go deeper. I had fun inventing a new heroine, Filipina Sophia Mercola.

I cordially invite you to my virtual homes away from home!

Blog: kathleenrowland.wordpress.com

Website: kathleenrowland.com

Classes: writerspointofview.com

Chapter One

SEATED IN a corner booth at Denny’s, criminal lawyer Sophia Mercola drummed her fingers. Where was her client? Not here. For the second time she glanced at the entrance looking for the bearded guy with a smile, all fur and teeth. The animal was no smarter than the fish he caught but just as gentle. Handyman Buck Toolbox was her receptionist’s common law husband. Accused of robbing convenience stores along the California-Nevada border, the dirt road behind the restaurant led to his boyhood single-wide. Her month-long preparation for his trial here in El Dorado County was for nil, but no matter. It ended in an abrupt acquittal. Sipping ice water soothed her throat, parched due to non-stop talking. Soon she’d drive home to the coast, pick up her dogs, and enjoy life.

That would be hard with the horror happening there.

Since mid-September, vicious attacks had rocked Laguna Cove. So far victims were homeless beach bums, not quite murdered. Strangled into submission and buried neck level at low tide, they didn’t drown at high hide. Townspeople were glad they were alive, but it didn’t add up. Everyone was spooked, and it wasn’t yet Halloween.

Pulling at the loose waistband of her skirt, she’d dropped a size. No longer driven, she fretting, something she did when pressure lifted. In a tired-wired state, she twirled a finger around long black locks and spotted split ends. She’d squeeze in a trim before heading to the coast. Near the courthouse where felony judge P.J. Williams presided, a shop nestled between a gun shop and a bar. Maybe Buck was knocking a few back. Outside the window, a soft rain fell in dusty Lone Palm. She hoped it would clear the air for the local bad boy. Buck wasn’t any more popular at home on the coast.

She turned on her new iPhone, impressed she’d mastered the basics. The time was four-thirty. Too early for dinner, but she could use a glass of iced tea. With the staff short-handed, a wait was a small thing.

As an older waitress hustled toward her, she glanced at the woman’s name tag. Hello, Madelyn.

Our cook didn’t show. I’m doing double-duty. When she exchanged her water glass with a new one, water sloshed over the table and onto her lap. Sorry. She mopped the water.

It’s okay. Sophia gave her the benefit of the doubt but wondered if she’d splashed it on purpose. Buck’s trial was the talk of the town. Perhaps Madelyn got wind of his acquittal.

I know who you are. The waitress scooted opposite her in the booth. You’re Buck’s lawyer from Laguna Cove. The closer she leaned, the more red her face became. I heard the news. Who’s behind the crimes? Her rancid coffee-breath hit her with full force.

I don’t know, Madelyn. Always up for a negotiation, she’d begin with an agreement. It’s frightening.

You’re a criminal lawyer. She spat her words. You know criminals.

I do if they hire me.

What about the ghoul? Madelyn held her in place with a piercing stare.

The Chinese man, you mean? As illogical as it was, townspeople spoke of a ghost.

You’re Asian, like him.

I’m Filipina-American. News broadcasters had interviewed several people. Around midnight an old-time railroad worker roamed the streets. A chill swept through her.

He dresses like a coolie, the waitress insisted.

She refused to add fuel to the fireball. An original Halloween costume, don’t you think? Because reporters sought a connection, the Chinese coolie was as newsy as the homeless men who’d survived a twelve-hour submersion day after day.

You have a point. Madelyn stood, stepped away to grab a menu, and glided it onto her table. I’ll be back in ten.

Okay. With a napkin, she wiped cold sweat from her forehead. Folding her arms, she rocked forward and then back where she straightening her spine against the bolstered cushion. Winning the case made her feel like an outsider, and for a split second she wished her mother was here instead of the Philippines.

After her father, Captain J.D. Mercola, had been killed in Afghanistan, Momma and she had moved from Los Angeles to her old neighborhood in Manila. No one told them grief felt like fear. Not afraid, but the sensation was like being afraid— the same fluttering in the stomach, the restlessness, the yawning. Five years later Momma worked for a travel agency, and Sophia won a scholarship to UCLA. Being too tall to be Filipina was not an issue in California, but she still preferred tea to coffee and pancit to pizza.

She pulled out her laptop to update profit-and-loss for the last several weeks. That would be easy. Having kept a running tab in a Day Runner, she entered the total in one fell swoop, impressive for one so technically challenged.

Her client, Robert Zeke O’Toole, also known as Buck Toolbox, had paid her a hefty sum of fifty thousand when she’d agreed to take his case. Those accused of criminal acts never shopped for the best price. Avoiding prison was non-elastic, and they paid the freight upfront.

She needed to let her associate know she’d be leaving the sticks in the morning. The private investigator’s sixtieth birthday was coming up, but he didn’t want to celebrate. His latest case weighed on him. Preferring minimum tech, she opened her bag, and made a note. On the drive back, she’d buy a present for him a present and trail mix for the high school kids she tutored.

While hitting the P.I.’s speed-dial, she decided against bringing up young Bruce. According to the Orange County Examiner, Laguna Cove police pegged the teen as a runaway.

Leviticus, it’s me. She didn’t expect chitchat. He was fed-up holding down the office in her absence.

Hey, girl, he said in his ebonized Jersey twang.

Doing okay? Five years before, he’d offered her office space and had put her name on the door. He’d become like an uncle to her.

He let out an exasperated sigh, letting her know he wasn’t.

You’re not sleeping.

I’ll sleep when I’m dead. He was munching, probably yesterday’s hoagie. How’s the trial?

Acquitted an hour ago, she said, brightening at the thought of being paid the same amount for less work. Evidence was insubstantial.

How so?

Video tapes were fuzzy. She pictured grainy black and white images. They’d reviewed security tapes for hours in the judge’s chambers. The perpetrator had worn a ball cap with a plastic pair of glasses and nose attached.

No other evidence?

A clerk heard the robber whistle through his teeth. She claimed she knew the Buckster. Thought it sounded like him. Sophia had never heard him whistle.

Not enough proof with a soundless camera. His tone bordered on critical. You rescued a two-striker from the three-strikes law.

Heck yeah. It feels good. I’m a litigator.

Buck hails from Lone Palm, right? He was pushing toward relentless and hadn’t offered congratulations. Something bothered him about the case.

You’re going to say he partied here on New Year’s Eve. The robberies took place on New Year’s Day.

Well, Judge Williams called it. He was too tired to ramble on. Where are you?

At Denny’s waiting for the recently acquitted, she said.

"Is the Harley-friendly ponytail is late? After a pause, he let out a baritone chortle. Criminal clients don’t go for formalities."

His laugh made her feel better. After a solo dinner, she’d get a haircut, and then drag her tired bones to the motel pool. A couple dozen laps would help her unwind. See you tomorrow? Out of respect for his age, she paused, waiting for him to end the conversation.

In case you wondered, I haven’t found the Jennings boy.

I did, and I’m sorry. Missing for two weeks, Bruce Jennings had dropped out of high school and spent nights at the beach. Where did your search end?

Fairgrounds. Interviewed his buddy. Cops think he ran away with the traveling carnival. He wasn’t buying it.

I read another homeless man was found along the beach below the Chaumont Estate. She pictured the secluded beach bordered by sycamores.

He wasn’t seen for days. Like the others, he was buried up to his neck in the sand. When dug out, he was brought to the psychiatric unit. There, he joined other victims who’d lived to tell of cruel taunting. He wore the thorny bougainvillea crown. No matter their common circumstances, the mental state of the homeless was questioned.

Tomorrow is a new day.

Reminds me, I’ll be at Rotary in the morning. After that, the mayor’s rally. Leviticus was one of Mayor Cord Smith’s strongest supporters. Odd, the mayor never seemed to age. Cord Smith wasn’t always the mayor. Before politics, he played the saxophone at the Red Beat Café. While on break during law school, she’d made a big point of hearing him play.

Recently she’d contributed to his campaign. Smith’s platform addresses the high school drop-out rate.

That and the wetlands, Leviticus said and then wished her a safe drive home.

Cordell Smith worked to protect land for everyone to enjoy. When her dad had been on leave, their family of three had taken the seven mile bike-way through the Boca Chica wetlands.

Sophia remained a birdwatcher with plenty of aviary trivia to discuss with Cord. Oh, for Heaven’s Sake, she and Cord hadn’t met, not in a true sense. Once while taking a stage break, he’d mingled and danced with the crowd. On a slow song, he’d asked her.

In perfect rhythm the muscles of his hard body moved beneath his jeans and gray t-shirt. Longing to brush against him again, she imagined her head on his shoulder. Sometimes she found herself daydreaming in private at his photo on the CD she’d bought. Facial hair would look scruffy on most people, but his was trimmed. Now and then the memory danced in her heart. Researching him on the internet only brought up his re-election. She couldn’t break through his tidy political image.

She hadn’t seen him in ages. Was she going to weave fantasies about them meeting? She was not a starry-eyed dreamer. That was enough!

* * *

Having a half hour between the Rotarian breakfast meeting and his rally, Mayor Cordell Smith scuffed through sand on the misty beach. The scent of salty air mixed with wood smoke. Passing a man dosing beside his fire pit, he said, Sir, it’s dangerous here.

He opened weary eyes. This is my spot, man.

Head over to the grounds of the municipal building. Free donuts and coffee. After letting him know about the soup kitchen, Cord walked on. He warned two more beach bums before heading back to his car.

He’d tried to call off his rally. With a psycho at large, his platform issues didn’t matter, but no one wanted to call it off. Desperate and afraid, townsfolk wanted to take action, and his rally served as their meeting place. Collecting his thoughts, he hoped to organize a town watch. If the fog lifted, he’d suggest a beach clean-up. With a teen missing, it served a dual purpose.

Behind him he heard the voice of Private Investigator Leviticus Blake as he headed toward his car. Cord backtracked, hoping to pick his brain prior to discussing the crimes. Ten feet away, Cord could hear him jingle his keys and knew exactly why his hearing was acute. With a beep the detective opened his door.

Looking down at the sand as he walked, Cord saw a red plastic case and dropped it in his pocket. Rounding a rock outcropping, he tripped and landed palms down. Plum hard. Can’t be a volleyball. Feels like hair. Down on his knees, he flinched. Rolling back on his heels, he brushed off sand.

Not this. Not the face of a teen. He smelled the boy’s fear, tasted it in the back of his throat. Gripped with rage only an immortal could feel, Cord shouted, Leviticus. Over here! He regretted the alarm in his voice, not wanting to draw a crowd. No one else was close by.

What’s up, Cord? Leviticus rounded the boulder.

Raw sorrow spiraled down his throat, and he swallowed hard. Nodding downward, he said, I tripped, fell on a human head. He tunneled his hands around the boy’s body and began to lift him out of the sand. He thought of the homeless men, under wraps in the psychiatric unit. A sadist looked at each of them like a praying mantis looks at its mate after sex.

Bending down, the detective’s bearlike frame was calm. The veteran was accustomed to grim scenes and knelt to dig. These clothes are rags. I’d say over a week of tidal movement.

Cord leaned within an inch of the boy’s face and sniffed the scent of fennel, an immortal’s aroma. Niffing from immediate surroundings, the scent had leached into leaves and pinecones. On his own skin after exercising, fennel ponged through pores. His frequent showers and aftershave concealed it.

The body’s not decomposed. Leviticus’ eyes widened. Dr. Gredell told me about this phenomenon. Can’t say I understand it.

Cord took out his cell and connected with the fire department. In their small town, the fire department handled every type of emergency. Mayor Smith here, Main Beach. We need transport for a comatose teenager to the hospital. The herbal scent let him know the boy was bonded to live forever. For a second his eyes followed feathery fennel plants all the way to the monstrous peak. Deer grazed on fennel. Ticks fed on deer. Deep in the mine, bacteria within ticks mutated. When ticks fed on living creatures, the scent remained with the metamorphic bacteria. Due to a higher body temperature, those with everlasting life could not reproduce.

I always make out a face, as if the mineshaft stares down at me. Older generations warned of evil there, massive unbridled evil. The wise don’t look up. A rider for the Pony Express, he hadn’t known the rule when he’d chased his girlfriend’s dog into Hellmouth. 1861 was the year Victoria Comstock and he had gained the curse. He’d lived among The Eternals until seventeen years ago. After being dumped by his life-long partner, Victoria, and curious about life down from the mountain, he wandered into town and took pity on a distraught pregnant woman. She’d begged him to marry her. Their marriage failed, but when she abandoned him with her baby, he reaped his long life’s greatest reward.

The human brain is built for survival. It can block out decades, can swallow years of adulthood, and turn the traumatic into strips of memory. Living in real time, Kerrigan was safe at school. For him time had lost immediacy.

He’s feverish. I’ve seen people die. He should be dead. Leviticus patted the boy’s face to wake him up. I’ve never seen anything like this.

Few have. That’s why we keep the mine sealed. While assisting Leviticus as he exhumed the warm teenager, seawater filled the shallow hole. Tidal water should have washed the sand away. Someone continually buried him deep enough to hold him prisoner.

Leviticus said, His eyes are open but aren’t focusing. His sunburn is severe.

I reckon he’ll make it. He trusted Leviticus but couldn’t talk of immortality with an outsider. He’d direct the Eternals to increase the fear level of the mine. Anxiety about accidental falls kept townspeople away. Cord stole another glance upward. Sunlight streaked through fog, but misty clouds encircled the entrance, concealing the glow. A fiend had found a sinister use, drowning without the relief of death.

Leviticus pulled a photo from the pocket of his jacket and compared it to the boy’s face. This is Bruce Jennings.

Kerrigan knows him from the school band. She’d referred to him as nerdy and too nice to drop out of school. Seeing the older man struggle to stand, Cord lent him a hand.

The Jennings couple hired me to find Bruce. After phoning them, he arranged to meet them at the hospital.

Cord groped in his pocket. Saw this red plastic case before I tripped. He held up the evidence.

Exacto knife cover. Leviticus opened a plastic bad to catch it and made a comment about the missing blade. He and Police Sergeant Ditzman enjoyed a back-scratching relationship with Police Sergeant Ditzman. The P.I. pointed the cop in the right direction, and in return the cop shared video cams, crime data, and computer programs. Remind Ditzman about my prints.

Of course. The P.I. discussed salt water’s effect on fingerprints and then headed for his car. See you at your rally.

It won’t be my rally. Kneeling back beside Bruce and holding his limp hand, Cord felt conflicted. He could use the detective’s help but couldn’t risk a leak. He contemplated discussing perpetual life with the local microbiologist. Dr. Henry Gredell’s theory was on track, but Cord felt compelled to dismiss it. Fear with no solution would throw the town into Bedlam. Giving Bruce’s hand a squeeze with his own trembling hand, he thought of Chung Han, an immortal he trusted.

A siren grew louder. He breaks it down by pitch, by tone before the emergency vehicle crunched onto the beach. A dozen footsteps followed. As soon as Bruce was lifted onto a gurney and into the back of the vehicle, the crowd doubled. Word was out. Along their craggy coast, a fiend buried another person at low tide who’d suffered days of drowning at high tide. It was different this time. The victim was a teen.

* * *

The straight-arrow highway through the Mojave Desert gave Sophia the afternoon to compress. On her CD player Cord Smith and his soothing saxophone brought her home. As twilight closed in, his instrumental, Fallin’, appealed to her soul and made her curious about him. Cord, like other California entertainers with name recognition, ran for office and got elected.

Rolling down her window, the ocean breeze was a perfect seventy-two.

Cruising along the leafy boulevard, she saw a stoplight turn green. She expected the navy Lexus in front of her to move forward. It didn’t. She stomped the brakes but not in time. On impact, she lurched toward the metallic crunch. Her seatbelt snapped tight, knocking the wind out of her.

Ahead, a long arm motioned to pull alongside the curb. She groaned. The thump was her fault, but she wanted to stop by the office. Maybe she still could. With insurance information in hand, she stepped out of her car and collided with a hard chest. Looking up, she faced Cord Smith, the man she’d worshipped from afar, and staggered back. "Clumsy of me, fender-bendering you. I