Chapter 1
“This isn’t what I
thought it would be like.”
Mark Turner’s last conscious thought on earth was as cryptic
as it was prophetic. Lying in the middle
of his house, his blood rushing out from the fist-sized hole in his chest, it
was the only thing that came to his mind.
He’d lost the ability to move his arms minutes earlier, and now felt the
cold grip of death working its way from the tips of his toes north towards his
head. When it reached his knees, he knew
his time was nearly over.
A lifetime’s worth of memories rushed through his
brain: his childhood on the farm in
Kansas, falling in love for the first time, the horrors he’d witnessed during
the War of Southern Aggression....
What he focused on in his final moments, however, was the
woman who had gotten him into this situation, though it wasn’t her fault.
Three years ago, Mark’s life had changed forever. Shortly after Easter, a friend of his had
introduced him to someone who’d just moved to town. Mark had reluctantly agreed to the meeting
only after his friend had reminded him that “No man should have to die alone.”
As Mark now felt his life leaving his body, he mentally
laughed at the thought that he was, in fact, going to die alone.
Sandy had moved to Sutter’s Ridge from Iowa a few days
before they met. She’d been widowed
twice- once by the war, again by
smallpox-and had decided to leave Iowa for the Kansas plains. She was a simple woman: she dressed plainly in dresses she sewed
together herself, she insisted on tending to the garden, milking the cows, and
helping Mark take their produce to town to sell every week. She believed in God, but never tried to force
her beliefs on anyone else, Mark included.
He’d also loved the fact that while she was a very attractive woman, she
went to great lengths to be as plain-looking as she could be, since she valued
beauty much less than most other people, preferring instead what she called
“intelligent conversation.”
His mind froze on her face the first time he made her
laugh. It wasn’t the dainty laugh of a
fragile woman, but rather the loud, bellowing laugh of a woman who’d lived her
life to the fullest. She did, and
because of that, so did Mark. They’d
packed three years together with as many memories as some folks did in an
entire lifetime.
He then focused on the last time he’d seen her, moments
earlier. She was crying and screaming
his name after he’d taken two barrels of buckshot to the chest. One of the last sights he’d had was of her
struggling with the two men who were trying to force her out of the house. He’d secretly feared something like this
would happen for quite some time, but had never been able to convince her to
move.
“God will look out for us, my love”, she said every time
he’d suggested leaving Kansas for somewhere safer. Not wanting to offend her beliefs, and
knowing he’d lose if he made it an argument, he’d always agreed to stay.
As he lost the feeling in his chest, and felt death
finishing its work on him, he thought about the man who’d put him in this spot,
and it both angered and saddened him.
Six months ago, a fellow by the name of Darren Night moved
to Sutter’s Ridge. He’d come from
Missouri money, and brought that money with him, buying up most of the
businesses in town and building his fortune quickly. Night was a man who got what he wanted,
either by buying it outright or eliminating his competition, and the rumors had
it that more than one opponent to his purchasing property had been removed from
the equation, permanently.
Night had quickly taken an interest in Sandy, but she’d made
it clear she was only interested in Mark.
That hadn’t stopped Night from showering Sandy with gifts, which she’d
promptly returned to him, usually unopened.
That had only caused Night to double his efforts, which included subtle
threats to Mark about who would “take care of the lovely lady should something
happen to you.” Eventually, the threats
became less subtle, and that was when Mark had first suggested to Sandy they
leave town.
He was beginning to feel that he should have been more
forceful about that, but knew she’d have never agreed to it.
The feud came to a head an hour earlier, when three men
broke into the house, armed to the teeth.
They’d swapped off, with two men beating on him while the third beat and
raped Sandy, then swapping out until all three had taken a turn with her. At some point during the attack, Mark had
managed to get his hands on a knife, and when he used it to slash the face of
one of his attackers, their mood got much darker. The man who’d just finished with Sandy
grabbed a double-barrel shotgun and pumped a round into his chest.
Somehow, Mark had managed to stay on his feet, staggering
towards the man and still brandishing the knife. When the second barrel discharged, he knew he
was done. So did the men, who quickly
gathered their things and dragged Sandy out of the house, leaving him to die.
Which he was about to do.
Mark felt the last movements of cold going up his face, freezing his
nose and eyes. With his last ounce of
energy, he thought out a final prayer.
“May God look out for you, my love, since I was unable to. I’m sorry.”
With a sudden jerk, Mark sat bolt upright, eyes open in a
look of complete surprise. Looking down,
he noticed that the hole from the shotgun slugs was gone, his shirt whole,
clean, and as neat as when he’d put it on that morning.
He blinked several times in confusion, wondering to himself
whether or not he’d dreamed the whole thing.
“That wasn’t a dream, friend.”
Frightened by the deep, bass voice that interrupted the silence,
Mark turned slowly to face the source.
His gaze stopped on the well-dressed stranger sitting at his dinner
table, cards laid out in what appeared to be a solitaire hand. By the looks of his clothes-black suit pants,
starched white shirt, tailored black vest, red and white polka-dotted bow
tie—Mark took him for Northern, big city money.
The stranger’s face—smooth, with a white moustache and beard and
glittering green eyes—had the look of authority, but the type of man accustomed
to GIVING rather than RECEIVING orders.
As Mark took in the stranger, he spoke again.
“Your death wasn’t a dream.
Those men really DID break into your house, you really DID get shot, and
you most certainly DID bleed to death.”
Mark was having difficulty processing what he’d been told.
“But….dead men don’t just sit up.”
The stranger laughed.
It was a deep, long laugh, like someone laughing for the first time in a
long time.
“That’s true, son.
Dead men don’t just sit up.”
“But…you just said I’m dead, and I just sat up…”
The stranger nodded, taking a moment to make a play on his
game. He smiled as he moved several
cards to the top of the table. Finishing
the move, he looked back up at Mark.
“Stand up, son.”
When Mark looked back at him, confused, he repeated his
request with a bit firmer tone.
“Stand UP, son.”
Mark complied, slowly standing up.
“But, I don’t see what this has to do with…”
The stranger held up a hand, cutting off the remark.
“Open your shirt.”
Mark blinked twice, but did nothing. The stranger smiled warmly back at him.
“Son, if you want answers, I can give them to you, but
you’re going to have to start trusting me.”
Mark slowly nodded, then began unbuttoning his shirt. After undoing several buttons, he gasped in
horror as he noticed the hole in his chest.
It was covered crudely in skin that was scabbed and bloody, but it did
appear to be healing itself in some way.
He looked up at the stranger, shocked.
“How…..? Why?.....”
The words died in his throat. The stranger nodded in response.
“You died, son. You took
two barrels of buckshot to the chest at darn near point-blank-range. Ain’t no living through that.”
Before Mark could respond, the front door opened. The man who stepped through was as
dark-skinned as the older man was light; darker skinned, in fact, than anyone
Mark had ever seen who wasn’t of African decent. His tan hat matched his road-worn
duster. He set his Winchester rifle by
the door as he entered, sliding out of his duster and hanging it on the coat
rack. He was dressed like a working man
in denim jeans, a red-plaid work shirt, and had spurs clanging on his boots as
he walked. Mark also noticed the
ivory-handled Colt Peacemakers on each hip.
His facial features, while darker, were similar to the older man as
well. His moustache and beard, as well
as his hair, were dark black, and his long hair was pulled back, keeping it off
his shoulders and out of his way.
The new entry headed for the fireplace, grabbing the coffee
pot hanging over it and pouring a cup.
He addressed the older man as he did.
“The boys have everything secured, sir.”
The older man nodded.
“And John?”
“He’s headed into town to collect our friend.”
“Well done. Thank
you, son.”
Mark suddenly found himself unable to speak again, which the
new arrival noticed. Failing to hold back
a smile, he broke out into laughter, a rich baritone laugh that contrasted with
the older man’s, as well as being the laugh of a man accustomed to much
laughter.
“I told you he’d have trouble with this, sir.”
The old man nodded.
“We were just getting around to discussing Mark’s present
situation before you came in and stole the show.”
The younger man bowed his head, embarrassed.
“Sorry, sir.”
The older man smiled.
“No apologies needed, son.
Get comfortable while Mark and I finish our conversation.”
The younger man grabbed a chair and moved near the window,
positioning himself so he could see his men outside. The older man returned his attention to Mark,
who was still staring at the younger man quizzically.
“Before we were interrupted, we were discussing how you
could be standing here if you’d died.
The truth is that you shouldn’t be.”
Mark’s stare returned to the older man, though shock still
held his voice in check.
“No one can survive what you went through. Even if you’d been shot in a hospital, you’d
have died from that.”
Mark staggered as the reality of the situation set in. He managed to grab the chair opposite the
white-haired stranger, sliding into it before he fell over. The old man sat silently for several minutes,
waiting for Mark to speak. Finally, Mark
found the words for his thought.
“So, why am I here?
Why am I sitting here talking to you?”
The old man nodded.
“To answer your first question, you’re here because this is
your house and this is where you died.”
He smiled at his comment, though it was obvious to him that
Mark didn’t get the joke. He quickly
shook his head.
“Your second question is a bit more difficult to
answer. You’re sitting here talking to
me because I have something to offer you.”
Mark was still confused.
The older man picked up on it, smiled warmly, and continued.
“From time to time, those who die an unjustified death are
given the opportunity to return in order to gain justice for their deaths. They agree to perform a task, and in return
are given the skills necessary to complete the mission. Once that happens, that person can finally
rest in peace.”
Mark seemed to take it all in, but it was obvious he had a
question. The old man nodded for him to
speak.
“So, basically what you’re telling me is that somebody’s giving
me the chance to get justice for my death, but I have to do something for them
in return, and I go back to being dead afterwards? No offense, but it sounds like a shit deal to
me.”
The younger man spit coffee as he tried, unsuccessfully, to
hold back a laugh. The older man smiled,
saying nothing. He continued to stare at
Mark as if he knew he had more to say.
“Besides, who in the hell has that kind of power? Sounds like selling your soul to the Devil
from where I come from.”
The old man finally spoke up.
“The Devil isn’t the only one who can offer that sort of
bargain, son. There is someone else who
could make that deal.”
“Who? GOD? Right.
Where was God when those bastards beat and raped Sandy? Where was he when they took her away?”
Mark angrily stood up, leaning across the table and poking
the older man in the shoulder as he continued.
“Where was God when those bastards shot me to death?”
The older man’s face shifted to a mask of neutrality, but he
said nothing. The younger man, however,
replied in a calm but firm tone.
“In spite of what you’ve heard about God, he can’t be
everywhere at once. He can’t see
everything at once. And, contrary to
popular belief, he doesn’t control everything.
He just nudges certain things here and there to help things happen.”
Mark was back to looking confused.
“How the hell would you know that?”
Both men smiled back at him.
Mark laughed, certain he was being played for a sucker.
“Okay, boys, I think we’ve had enough of the little
joke. Unless you two want to tell me
what’s really going on here, I suggest you both leave right now.”
The old man nodded.
“If you want us to leave, we will. However, your death wound will re-open, and
you’ll die minutes after we leave. I can
only assure you that what we’ve told you so far is indeed the truth.”
Mark’s anger was swept away by not only the sincerity of the
man’s words, but also the tone he used.
He felt a calm pour over him as the truth settled in. He stared at the older man in amazement.
“You mean…..you’re…..?”
The older man smiled again.
“I go by many names, son, depending on where I am. My associates call me ‘sir’, or, for some of
the less reverent, ‘old man’. You may
use either.”
Mark nodded, addressing the younger man as he did.
“That means you’re….?
The younger man chuckled.
“Call me Jay. That’s what
the rest of the guys call me.”
Mark nodded somberly.
“I’m sorry, sir, that I questioned you.”
The old man shook his head.
“None needed, son.
You’ve been through a heck of an ordeal today. I don’t blame you for being a little
suspicious. Besides, despite what you
might have heard, I appreciate those who aren’t afraid to question me. Keeps me on my toes.”
Mark nodded appreciably.
“So, you’re offering me the opportunity to get revenge on
the men who killed me and did those things to Sandy, but I have to do something
for you. Plus, I die afterwards?”
The old man shook his head.
“Make one thing very clear, son. I’m NOT offering you revenge. We don’t DO revenge here. What you’re being offered is the opportunity
to get justice for your death.”
“But I’ll still owe you a favor, and I’ll die anyway once
that’s done.”
“Yes and no. Yes, I
will ask you to perform a task for me.
However, this task is of a more….ongoing nature. So, as long as you perform the task, you will
live.”
Mark eyed the old man suspiciously.
“What’s the catch?”
Jay’s face lit up.
“He’s starting to sound like the guy we’ve been looking for,
don’t you think?”
The old man smiled.
“The ‘catch’, as you put it, is that the task I’m asking of
you is a permanent post. I am in need of
a new ‘associate’ to handle certain jobs for me, and I’d like you to take the
position.
Mark took a second to consider what he’d been told, then
laughed.
“An ‘associate to handle certain jobs’? Sounds like the Angel of Vengeance to
me. I thought you said ‘we don’t do
revenge here’?”
As Jay spit coffee again, the old man replied.
“I can see why you’d think the two are related, and, to
humans, they are. To me, vengeance is a
bit different than revenge. You see,
there are beings walking this earth that have been sent from below, their only
mission being to undo the words the faithful live by. They tempt, steal, make hellish bargains, and
do whatever they can to undermine me at every turn. The Angel of Vengeance is the soldier I have
tasked throughout time to deal with the situation, and the position currently
stands open.”
“And, so long as I do the job, I get to live?”
“Yes.”
Mark smiled, stepping forward and extending his hand. The older man accepted it, returning Mark’s
handshake with one of equal force.
“I’m please you’ve chosen to accept the position.”
Mark nodded.
“I don’t know if I believe everything you said, but if it
gives me the chance to get the bastards that took Sandy, I’m in.”
The men broke away, spending several long seconds sizing
each other up. The sound of approaching
horses outside filtered in, and Jay rose from his chair, nodding to the men.
“I believe that’s our friend now.”
He headed out the door as he finished, grabbing his coat and
leaving Mark’s question directed at the older man.
“I’m sorry. ‘Our
friend’?”
The old man smiled.
“The man who will be handling your training.”
“Training?”
Mark seemed confused again, though the old man had expected
nothing less.
“Of course. If you’re
going to be my valued soldier, then I owe it to you to provide you with the
best possible training.”
“And this…’friend’….is the best one to do it?”
The old man nodded.
“He’s the only one I can trust to do it properly, I’m
afraid.”
As he finished, the door opened again, and Jay stepped
through, followed by a short, thin, sickly looking man dressed in hand-me-down
clothes. His hair was matted and
unkempt, as was his beard. He wore no
hat, and his sole possession was a tattered carpet bag he clutched as if it
were gold.
The smile on Jay’s face told Mark there was something more
to the new arrival than met the eye, so he chose to withhold his negative
comments until they’d been properly introduced.
The old man stepped over and shook hands with the new
arrival, clapping him on the shoulder as he did.
“My apologies for the difficulties you’ve been put through
recently, old friend. However, your
workload will lessen once you get our new friend here trained.”
The new man didn’t reply.
Instead, he stepped forward and eyeballed Mark, apparently checking to
see if the old man had sold him a bill of goods. After several minutes, he nodded approvingly
at the old man, who smiled, relieved.
“I’m pleased he meets with your approval.”
The new man snorted before replying.
“He’ll do.”
His voice was, to Mark, a very annoying combination of high
pitch and Southern drawl. While the
sound hurt his ears, Mark quickly realized he was being tested, relaxed, and
extended his hand.
“I guess you know I’m Mark.
You are?”
The new man took the offered hand in a grip that belied his
size, burned a hole through Mark with his steely blue eyes, and replied in a
tone that had changed from high-pitched and annoying to deep and damned-near
scary.
“Not that it’s gonna matter much, friend, but you can call
me Mike.”
No comments:
Post a Comment