The Accidental Existentialist

THE ACCIDENTAL
EXISTENTIALIST

Joshua Graham

Published by Dawn
Treader Press

Smashwords
Edition

Copyright © 2010 Paul C.
Tseng

This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual locales, events or persons living or dead is entirely
coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of
this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed
or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in
or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the
author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Praise for Joshua Graham’s
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

“This is not a tame Christian
book

…full of heart wrenching scenes
that will make you shudder.

…one surprise after
another

…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

Visit Joshua Graham’s
website:
www.joshua-graham.com

On Facebook:
www.facebook.com/j0shuagraham

On Smashwords:
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/joshuagraham

The Accidental
Existentialist

Joshua Graham

There could be nothing
stranger
than looking at your own casket
adorned with wreaths and an American flag on the day of your
funeral. Warm sunlight flowed through verdant oaks, blanketing the
gravesite with a golden lattice. Sparrows sang a song of Spring,
celebrating new life, a new season. For all the world.

But not for Chris Connor.

From behind the tinted windows of a
black limo, he looked on through binoculars as they lowered the
casket into the ground. Unjustly beautiful and dressed in a slender
black dress, Marlena held little Robbie’s hand—an image evocative
of John F. Kennedy Jr. as a child, saluting his father’s
coffin.

I may as well be dead, Chris thought,
swallowing the tumor in his throat. But this was the only way.
Unless Khrenikov believed him dead, Marlena and Robbie would never
be safe. No way around it regardless of what chief of police Benson
said. And there was no way in hell Chris could have taken this
matter up with the FBI or any other agency. The reach of
Khrenikov’s tendrils knew no bounds.

Chris winced at the blast of the
gunshots. Three rounds, seven rifles. Then the bagpipes. Marlena
dabbed her eyes as Colonel Masterson handed her the folded flag.
Robbie kept looking down into the hole in the ground where the
coffin meant for Chris lay. “Daddy, daddy,” he cried, but from this
distance, Chris could only see his boy’s lips quiver, his two
little fists wringing the tears from his eyes.

His only remaining child.

Fatherless.

Chris couldn’t watch any
more.

He rolled up the window, put on his
sunglasses and chauffeur’s hat and started then engine. This plan
hadn’t been well thought out, but it had to be executed. Now, as he
drove down the winding road of Cypress Hills, he’d take the Jackie
Robinson out to the LIE and disappear somewhere in Great Neck, or
Little Neck, or hell, maybe skip town altogether before devising a
strategy for taking Khrenikov down once and for all. But like the
many heads of Hydra, the mythical serpent dragon, cut one off, and
two more grow back. And at this point, Chris didn’t fill his mind
with Herculean delusions.

Clouds white as wool hung before their
powdery backdrop. A Peterbilt roared by, its driver flipping Chris
the bird for only driving 70 in a 55. Then a candy red Prius cut
him off. Too numb to get angry, Chris simply ignored them
both.

He was alone. Had to be for now. But
he’d be back. He made an oath to heaven, to the Almighty. Chris
would see to it that Khrenikov and his entire network would not
only be stopped, but pay for what he’d done as well.

It’d gotten to the point that all he
wanted was someone to look him in the eye, greet him, just
acknowledge his existence. Alas, such was the burden of
invisibility. How much more of this isolation he could
take?

Soaring above him in the
ash colored sky, a seagull let out a plaintive cry. Chris sat on a
bench with peeling green paint and stared into the murky waves of
Sheepshead Bay. He hadn’t shaved for three days, wore tattered
jeans and let his hair become disheveled. The affectation of a bum
was deliberate, especially because he now sat in the lair of
the
Bratva
—the
mob controlled by Khrenikov. But this was the last place they’d
expect to see Chris, if they even bought his staged
death.

The time on his watch:
1:47 PM. Soon Rayshkin would arrive and one of two things would
happen. He’d continue to accept Chris’s cover and lead him a step
closer to the ever elusive Khrenikov, or Chris would soon be —to
borrow phase from the
Bratva’s
Sicilian counterparts—sleeping with the
fishes.

He set down the brown
paper bag in which his coffee cup lay nestled and picked up his
copy of the
Times.
The front page headline confirmed the successful conclusion
of the staged death business.

Lt. Christopher Conner gunned
down

Russian Mafia suspected

The report went on to discuss
everything he and Masterson had leaked to the press, the police and
even to staged witnesses. A messy but necessary measure, though he
and Masterson held divergent agendas and priorities.

As a director of the United States
Marine Corps Criminal Investigations Division, Masterson had kept
Khrenikov in his cross hairs for upwards of three decades. The “Big
K”, as they not so endearingly called him, had been responsible for
a frightening number of criminal operations ranging from narcotics,
to illegal immigration, to human trafficking. The number of deaths
Big K was responsible for (directly and indirectly) numbered in the
hundreds. He had to be stopped.

All of this, Chris agreed with. But
for him, it was so much more personal. You don’t attach
spreadsheets and statistics to the life of an eight year old child.
Khrenikov was responsible for the cold-blooded murder of Ben, his
firstborn.

Last year when he first transferred to
CID, Khrenikov sent several warnings. Unfortunately, the subtly of
those messages was lost on Chris. He didn’t heed them. In fact, he
didn’t even bother reporting them because they were personal
threats and as the new guy, he didn’t want to appear intimidated
before his C.O.

That pig-headed pride resulted in the
abduction and drowning of his son. Sins of the father. That’s why
there was no way he would make the same mistake. Not when his wife
and four year old would pay the price for his folly.

He was still reading the article when
someone sat on the bench next to him. Chris ignored him, but could
already smell the cigarette smoke on the guy’s breath as he opened
his mouth and cleared his throat.

“
They go fishing every
day.” The guy’s Russian accent could choke an elephant. Chris
turned the page and said nothing. “You like to fish? I take you on
boat, now. We catch snappers, bluefish.”

“
No thanks.” He remained
aloof, though he knew the guy sitting next to him was Rayshkin, one
of Krhenikov’s most ruthless assassins who would not think twice
about gutting him in broad daylight and dumping his entrails into
the bay, just to watch the silvery glint of fish coming up to the
water’s surface to feed on them.

“
You called me,
Nyet?”

“
Da.”

“
And now you mock me?”
Rayshkin ripped the newspaper from Chris’ hands. “You don’t want to
waste my time, O’Reilly!”

Slowly, Chris turned his head to face
him, lifted his coffee cup and took a slow pull. “That’s Mister
O’Reilly, to you Sascha.”

“
I call you whatever I
want!” Rayshkin swore in Russian and stood up. The white of his
snarl contrasted with the black scruffy goatee. The scar that ran
from his ear to the middle of his right cheek screamed B-movie bad
guy and almost made Chris laugh. But Rayshkin’s hand loomed
dangerously near his back, where no doubt he concealed a cruel
weapon. “Go to boat now. Or I put you under boat. You
choose.”

“
Don’t get your babushka
panties in a bind, Rayshkin.” Chris-
O’Reilly
-Connor said. Then in
flawless Russian: “You never mentioned any damned boat.”

“
You want to discuss with
my boss, I take you. You change mind, I kill you.”

Chris snatched back the newspaper. “I
wasn’t finished with that.” He opened the page and showed him the
headline about Lieutenant Connor’s murder. “Are you the guy who
turned this Connor guy’s face into Swiss cheese?”

Rayshkin leaned over, read the
headline and laughed. “I wish! Connor was pain in ass!”

“
So who gets the
credit?”

“
I don’t know.
Organization too big. Could be anyone.” He rubbed his fingertips
together. “Khrenikov pay big money to guy who kill Connor. And not
rubles. Euros.”