Fallen Masters (51 page)

Bobby was quiet for a long moment.

“Bobby, are you still there?”

“Yes, I do,” Bobby said, the words spoken quietly as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I am convinced that there is. Not only that, I believe that these killings are not only not random, but are part of some great plot. I think they are an intricate key of some sort that will, when completed—”

“Loose some cataclysmic, dark—,” Dawson interjected.

“Energy shift bigger than anything anyone has ever seen before—almost like a shift in the energy—,” Bobby continued.

“Right before a huge storm hits and wreaks havoc,” Dawson concluded.

“I knew it,” Bobby said. “I knew you would have a handle on this.” Then he remembered something Dawson had said, something that Mama G told Dawson. “It’s just like Mama G told you. The Key. The
key
to everything will be revealed in L.A.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve known Mama G for a long time, and I’ve known her to be dead on the money most of the time.”

“Then, you know I’m on to something, too?”

“Bobby, my friend, I don’t want to burst your bubble, but right now I don’t have an idea in hell what I’m talking about.”

Bobby chuckled. “Good, good. That means that we are, at least, reading off the same piece of music. What time does your flight get to Los Angeles, and more to the point, will you stay and help?”

“Twelve noon, your time—and yes.”

“I’ll meet you at the airport. On your tip, I contacted Mama G, and it appears that the old lady is flying here herself. She should be arriving soon, and I’ll check to see when she is supposed to get in.”

“So, she’s not coming by astral projection?” Dawson quipped.

“Very funny. She probably has a better grasp of reality than all the rest of us put together, friend. Save your jokes for after.”

CHAPTER

92

In the precincts of the Tribunal, rumbles of satisfied laughter, at the expense of the hapless victims of Earth, could be heard by any who had ears (physical or spiritual) to hear.

The leaders who would rise to the appointed task at the end of human time had already been carefully groomed. Years of ego and entitlement hunger, feelings that they had been personally wronged, as a culture, or individual against a family member or boss. At the signal from the minions of the Tribunal, small uprisings would be sparked all over the globe, and this friction would spark larger fires of battled consciousness … of person against person, son against mother, friend against friend. Pure chaos and negative energy! The masters of this evil agenda then could just plug into this eternal battery of energy and the Earth plane would plummet into a dark night of the soul that had only been seen in movies or read about in books—until now.

What a glorious plan, created in the depths of soul-consciousness and brought to life with malevolent intent! What chaos and misery would result!

In the moments of their awakening on the other side, the campaigning would begin, and the IRAs of that world—twisted guides well-schooled in the arts of persuasion—would begin to program them into feeling what they needed to feel in order for the Dark Forces to fuel on the remnants of their earthly energy. The jolt of negative energy from a familiar source would become a way of life, of habit and ultimate need. That dependency on Earth-sourced energy that falsely lulled and comforted, would motivate the chosen unit of souls to help design, fuel, and manipulate the currency of the earthly world. Through fear, and control. A means to an end …

That was their key to success: Harnessing the power of negative energies, on the Earth and in the universe. Dark matter would mingle with dark soul-energy to create an irresistible force to shackle the Earth in its iron cold grip—forever.

The Tribunal motivated their network of soldiers by broadcasting this energetic message of accomplishment. The legions of souls that embraced their messages were, in truth, seeking community and love, but they settled for attention and earthly energy as a plugged-in resource. They were, after all, only human.

Gathered before the pools of passion in their dark realm, the members of the Tribunal presented a motley but unified assembly. “The earthly clock is ticking down as the celestial skies align in our favor. Soon we will have the resources to allow us to grow and evolve. Soon we will be able to see our families who have crossed into the light and have been kept from us. Soon we will have the order that was promised to us and never delivered in the face of the Source and promise of eternal love and energy,” the leader of the Tribunal of Darkness proclaimed.

As the network of souls were infused with this message, clouds formed in the earthly skies, visible to the eye and felt in the depths of the soul.

CHAPTER

93

“Excuse me, sir. Are you Dawson Rask?” The questioner was a young woman. The operative phrase, Dawson thought, was “young.” She couldn’t have been much over twenty years old.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Oh, I just love your books. I’ve read every one of them.”

“Thank you,” Dawson said.

“I wish I had one of my books with me. I would have you autograph it.”

“I have some bookplates, I could—,” Dawson said, then he stopped. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. They are in checked luggage.”

“Oh, I know!” she said. “I’ll bet one of your books is in the terminal bookstore. I’ll go look.”

The young woman hurried away toward the bookstore, and as Dawson watched her, he saw an older couple that he assumed were her parents.

She came back with three books. “I can’t go into a bookstore and buy just one book,” she said with a broad smile. “For me, it’s like trying to eat one peanut.”

“Speaking as a writer, and someone who has been in the business for a while, that is a trait I much admire,” Dawson said.

The young woman handed a book to him. “Make it out to Susan,” she said. Susan was one of the characters in
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
. By now, Dawson was no longer surprised by the coincidences.

The book was
Perelandra,
by C. S. Lewis.

This is just too weird,
Dawson thought. He opened the book to the frontispiece and held his pen poised over the page.

“I’ll be happy to autograph this book for you,” he said. “But it wouldn’t do you much good to have a C. S. Lewis book signed by Dawson Rask, would it?”

“Go ahead, laddie, sign it. We’re good friends now, aren’t we?”

“Oh, heavens,” the young woman said. “I handed you the wrong book. My bad,” she quipped with a little laugh. She took
Perelandra
back and handed him a copy of the
Moses Mosaic
. “This is yours,” she said.

He signed the book, then handed it back to her.

“Thank you,” she said.

In the corner of the gate area, a large-screen TV was playing. On-screen now was the replay of the fateful moments when the President of the United States was shot. He had just stepped out of the car in front of the Gonzalez Center in San Antonio. Standing nearby was a color guard, with the U.S. flag, as well as flags of the army, navy, and air force. Standing to either side of the flag bearers were the honor guards, uniformed men holding a highly polished rifle at present arms.

One of the honor guards suddenly brought his rifle down and fired. The President grabbed his chest, fell back against the car, then collapsed to the sidewalk.

After that there were so many people who rushed to the scene that it was difficult to see what happened next. The screen then changed to a picture of the shooter, a man in his early thirties. He reminded Dawson somewhat of Timothy McVeigh, though unlike McVeigh, this man, who was identified as Justin Studdock, had scars and bruises on his face.

“Viva Domingo,”
Studdock said as he stared sullenly into the camera.

“Studdock,” the young woman said. “That’s odd.”

“Do you know him?” Dawson asked, surprised to hear her reaction.

“No, I don’t know him. But Studdock is the name of a character in one of C. S. Lewis’s books.”

Forty-five minutes later, the Qantas A380 Airbus had reached cruising altitude, and the pilot turned off the seat belt signs. Dawson was settled into his first-class seat, and he looked out the window over what appeared to be piles of whipped cream. He thought of all the unusual events and coincidences that were swirling around him.

Well, they certainly were unusual. The question was, were they mere coincidences? Was there some higher power at work here?

There must be, for there could be no other explanation for it. But why had he been chosen?

Dawson knew that if he continued to dwell on that, it would drive him crazy. So he put on his headset to try and just not think. When he turned on the in-flight entertainment system, there was a tribute to the works of C. S. Lewis on one of the channels. Dawson laughed.… He flipped the channel and found
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
.

“Are you kidding me?” he said aloud. Shaking his head and laughing, he flipped gain.
The Devil Wears Prada
. Flipping again, he came upon the miniseries of Sidney Sheldon’s book,
Master of the Game
. Next came the ’80s children’s cartoon
Masters of the Universe
. Then Keanu Reeves was chasing a white rabbit in the
Matrix
movie. Marlon Brando was on the next channel explaining to Christopher Reeve that they can’t alter mankind’s history, but Superman does it anyway, flying backward so rapidly as to reverse time and save Lois from a landslide.

On the next flip he was watching the opening credits to
Lost in Translation
.

Dawson laughed once more.

Ding!

“Flight attendants, prepare the cabin for landing.”

The captain’s voice awakened Dawson—who couldn’t remember the last time he had slept—and he returned his seat to the upright position, as the flight attendants, two men and two women, moved up and down the aisle checking for seats, trays, and so forth.

“How long before we land?” Dawson asked a young male attendant as he passed by.

“About fifteen minutes, I would expect,” the attendant replied.

“Thank you.”

Dawson checked his watch, was momentarily surprised by the time, then realized he had not reset it since leaving Melbourne. He looked through the window and saw several boats, some with colorful sails, some without.

He heard the whirr, and felt the thump as the landing gear went down. The airplane banked, rather steeply Dawson thought, to the left, his side, and he was able to look almost straight down as the pilot turned on final. The flaps went down and Dawson felt pressure from his seat belt as the plane slowed precipitously and the nose lowered. They passed over Vista Del Mar and he could see the traffic congestion, then, as they flattened out and he saw another road, a fence, an inner road, then the diagonal white markings at the end of the runway. The plane touched down, and he felt the weight as it compressed wheel struts. A moment later he heard the roar of reverse thrust and was pushed hard against the seat belt.

Dawson was tired, and felt groggy after the sixteen-hour flight from Melbourne. For a moment he resented the time it took; then he thought of how long it must have taken in the days of ocean liners.

“That’s true, but traveling by ship was much more civilized,”
C. S. Lewis said.
“Dining with the captain, dancing in the ballroom with Joy, strolling along the promenade deck.”

“I thought you were gone,” Dawson said. He had not realized he had projected his thoughts to his new literary-agent-in-spirit. It was still a novel idea for him …

“Heavens no. I told you, we need you. You have a job to do, and I will be here for you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know if that is good or bad.”

“Why do you say that?”

“What if you and I start a conversation in front of Bobby? He will think I’ve gone nuts.”

“Don’t you know? No one can hear me, and you don’t have to talk aloud for me to hear you.”

“That’s good to know.”

Dawson stayed in his seat for a moment after the plane pulled into the Qantas gate. He waited until the aisle was somewhat clear of the rush; then he stood, took his laptop down from the overhead bin, and walked to the front exit where all the attendants were standing by, smiling and greeting the disembarking passengers.

How do they do it? The flight was as long for them as it was for him, but all of them looked as if they had just stepped out of the shower, and all of them were smiling as brightly as they had been when he got on. And they had to do this all the time.

*   *   *

Agent Bobby Anderson had been at the airport for well over an hour. He had hoped to encounter Mama G but even with some checking couldn’t find out exactly what flight she was on. He had bought a paperback novel when he arrived, a western because he wanted to get his mind as far away from the ritual murders, the assassinated President, and his missing son as he much as he could. But even a story of rustlers and steely eyed gunfighters couldn’t hold his attention, so he put the book down in the seat beside him then got up and walked around to drain off some of his nervous energy. He checked the arrival board, all it said was: QF93 … Melbourne … Arrival 1200 … On Time.

Bobby missed the days when passengers could be met right at the gate as soon as they stepped off the plane. But those days were long gone. Now he had to wait in the faraway lobby area, and watch as hundreds, no, thousands of passengers came from the security area.

He stepped into a snack area and bought a cup of coffee. When he finished he went back to the arrival board.

QF 93 … MELBOURNE … AT GATE

Bobby walked over to the nearest information desk and stood there watching the crowd of people, searching for Dawson. His cell phone rang.

“Yeah.”

“I’m here, are you at the airport?”

Looking up, Bobby saw Dawson, standing with his back to him. He smiled.