Revenant Rising
REVENANT RISING
THE SECOND CHANCES TRILOGY
BOOK ONE
A NOVEL BY
M. M. MAYLE
—INDIAN RIVER INK—
REVENANT RISING
Copyright © 2011 by M. M. Mayle.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the written permission of the author.
Published in the United States of America.
This book is a work of fiction. The literary insights and perceptions contained herein are based on experience; all names, characters, places, organizations, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
ISBN-13: 978-1463557331
ISBN: 1463557337
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61914-255-8
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011909455
CreateSpace, North Charleston, SC
It is never too late to be what you might have been.
—Often attributed to George Eliot
Contents
FIVE: Afternoon, March 25, 1987
SEVEN: Early morning, March 30, 1987
EIGHT: Early afternoon, March 30, 1987
TEN: Early morning, March 31, 1987
ELEVEN: Morning, March 31, 1987
TWELVE: Morning, April 1, 1987
FOURTEEN: Afternoon, April 1, 1987
FIFTEEN: Afternoon, April 1, 1987
SIXTEEN: Early morning, April 2, 1987
SEVENTEEN: Early morning, April 2, 1987
EIGHTEEN: Midmorning, April 2, 1987
NINETEEN: Late afternoon, April 2, 1987
TWENTY: Late Afternoon, April 2, 1987
TWENTY-ONE: Early morning, April 3, 1987
TWENTY-TWO: Morning, April 3, 1987
TWENTY-THREE: Midmorning, April 3, 1987
TWENTY-FOUR: Late morning, April 3, 1987
TWENTY-FIVE: Early afternoon, April 3, 1987
TWENTY-SIX: Midafternoon, April 3, 1987
TWENTY-SEVEN: Late afternoon, April 3, 1987
TWENTY-EIGHT: Late afternoon, April 3, 1987
TWENTY-NINE: Early morning, April 4, 1987
THIRTY: Morning, April 4, 1987
THIRTY-ONE: Morning, April 4, 1987
THIRTY-TWO: Morning, April 4, 1987
THIRTY-THREE: Morning, April 4, 1987
THIRTY-FOUR: Afternoon, April 4, 1987
THIRTY-FIVE: Evening, April 4, 1987
THIRTY-SIX: Early morning, April 5, 1987
THIRTY-SEVEN: Morning, April 5, 1987
THIRTY-EIGHT: Late morning, April 5, 1987
THIRTY-NINE: Afternoon, April 5, 1987
FORTY: Late afternoon, April 5, 1987
FORTY-ONE: Late night, April 5–6, 1987
FORTY-TWO: Early morning, April 6, 1987
FORTY-THREE: Midmorning, April 6, 1987
FORTY-FOUR: Midmorning, April 6, 1987
FORTY-FIVE: Late morning, April 6, 1987
FORTY-SIX: Early afternoon, April 6, 1987
FORTY-SEVEN: Afternoon, April 6, 1987
FORTY-EIGHT: Midafternoon, April 6, 1987
FORTY-NINE: Early evening, April 6, 1987
FIFTY-ONE: Late morning, April 7, 1987
FIFTY-TWO: Midday, April 7, 1987
FIFTY-THREE: Midafternoon, April 7, 1987
FIFTY-FOUR: Afternoon, April 7, 1987
FIFTY-FIVE: Evening, April 7, 1987
FIFTY-SIX: Evening, April 7, 1987
FIFTY-SEVEN: Early morning, April 8, 1987
FIFTY-EIGHT: Late morning, April 8, 1987
FIFTY-NINE: Early afternoon, April 8, 1987
SIXTY: Afternoon, April 9, 1987
SIXTY-ONE: Afternoon, April 9, 1987
SIXTY-TWO: Afternoon, April 9, 1987
SIXTY-THREE: Early evening, April 9, 1987
SIXTY-FOUR: Evening, April 9, 1987
SIXTY-FIVE: Late evening, April 9, 1987
SIXTY-SIX: Early morning, April 10, 1987
SIXTY-SEVEN: Midday, April 10, 1987
SIXTY-EIGHT: Midday, April 10, 1987
SIXTY-NINE: Evening, April 10, 1987
SEVENTY: Early morning, April 11, 1987
SEVENTY-ONE: Morning, April 11, 1987
SEVENTY-TWO: Midday, April 11, 1987
SEVENTY-THREE: Early afternoon, April 11, 1987
At the hospital in Portage St. Mary, Nate Isaacs is sole occupant of the waiting room where he was sent to complete preliminary paperwork. The room is equipped with a pay phone. He ignores it for now and plants himself in front of a window that gives back nothing but his own reflection.
He’s half surprised to see he hasn’t changed outwardly. He feels shorter, heavier, and older than he was at the start of the mission. He wouldn’t be shocked to discover that his hair had turned white when he went looking for help and his horror-struck expression had turned to stone when he confronted the carnage for a second time. But the only noticeable change in his appearance is a certain hollowness of eye and the need for a shave.
He continues to ignore the phone while considering what the outcome might have been had he not seized control of the pathetic recovery plan. There are no clear answers. Nor are there any answers regarding the whereabouts of an unaccounted for newborn who may not have survived a premature drug-addicted birth, and a vanished human head that may not have existed outside his overworked imagination.
Unable to ignore the link with the outside world any longer, he turns to the wall-mounted phone, debating who to call first and where to begin . . . .
Audrey Shantz Elliot has been missing longer than usual. She’s been gone a full seven weeks this time. To close associates and the press, she’s known as Aurora, the lame name adopted soon after her initial exposure to non-celestial starshine. To the several teams of private investigators that have eliminated her favorite hiding places in Europe, she’s known by a more common name—a cruder one.
Although he appears in full support of the effort to find her, expanding the search to include her least-favorite haunts strikes Nate Isaacs as ridiculous. First of all, Aurora is not shrewd enough to do the opposite of what’s expected of her; second of all, Aurora’s not shrewd enough—period.
Following hunches and questionable leads is unsupportable as well. The only reason he’s involved in this probable wild-goose chase is on the off chance it will be the last one, the one that breaks the Aurora curse.
Her husband, Colin Elliot, is silent in the passenger seat. According to the dashboard clock of a rented Buick Skylark, they’ve been on the road a little over two hours; two hours that saw them paused first, to buy cigarettes, then to pay the toll for Michigan’s Mackinac Bridge, and finally, for lunch at a harborside restaurant in the town of St.Ignace.
Now, less than five minutes north into Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, Nate begins to grasp what they’re up against. Pickup trucks of every make, model, year and description far outnumber passenger cars in this part of the world. Although the current model Ford F-350 4x4 pickup truck they’re looking for has been customized with dual pipes, twin rumbler mufflers, jacked-up suspension, and roof-mounted swamp lights, it will not be a standout within this field of camouflage. And to complicate matters, the 1984 deer-hunting season is in full swing with pickup trucks favored as the most practical means of transporting weapons and animal carcasses.
Outwardly unperturbed that they’re searching for a specific needle in a haystack of needles, Nate fiddles with the radio and produces nothing but static and bad country music, interchangeable as far as he’s concerned, and further confirmation of something already acknowledged. When one of the most identifiable rock stars in the world goes unrecognized by local airport personnel, convenience store cashiers, car-rental clerks, and restaurant staff—along with the patrons of those places—the message is that Colin Elliot does not chart here, not in any sense of the word. Not that it matters because they could easily afford to cede the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to Nashville; they don’t need this meager fan base, and they sure as hell don’t need the interference that goes with recognition if they’re to get through this fool’s errand.