Read The Resurrection File Online
Authors: Craig Parshall
The Resurrection File
HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
All Scripture quotations are taken from the New American Standard Bible ®, © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.
The following Scripture quotations in this book are not identified in the text:
chapter 33 John 20:2; Luke 24:11; Matthew 28:17; John 20:5; 20:6-7
Cover by Left Coast Design, Portland, Oregon
Cover Photo by Tayeko/Photonica
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. It is the intent of the author and publisher that all events, locales, organizations, and persons portrayed herein be viewed as fictitious.
THE RESURRECTION FILE
Copyright © 2002 by Craig L. Parshall
Published by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, Oregon 97402
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Parshall, Craig, 1950â
The resurrection file / Craig Parshall.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-7369-0847-4 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-0-7369-6038-0 (eBook)
1. Clergyâfiction. I. Title.
PS3616.A77 R47 2002
813'.54âdc21
2001043634
All rights reserved.
No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any otherâwithout the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author's and publisher's rights is strictly prohibited.
To my wife, Janet, who followed in the footsteps of the Gospel women. Like them, she hurried to this doubting man many years ago, brimming with extraordinary news about the tomb.
Contents
The Chambers of Justice Series
Much appreciation is owed to my administrative assistant, Marilyn Clifton. Her typing, editing, research, and constructive suggestions were invaluable, including her input as a member of the U.S. Marine Corps. Sharon Donehey's help in managing the office and interacting with editors was truly helpful, particularly as we approached deadlines.
My wife, Janet, was as always a source of inspiration, who also gave me the benefit of her pragmatic eye. So much of us is “between the lines” of these pagesâthe mountains and valleys that mark the pursuit of justice, the land of Israel, the archaeology of the Bible, the frontier where the gospel meets public policy, the influence of the media, and both the primacy of truth and the power of love.
I must also thank my now-adult children, Sarah, Rebekah, Samuel, and Joseph, for their love of the bedtime stories I invented for them as children. As an eager (but discerning!) audience, they taught me the interpersonal connection that can come with storytelling. (And now that Allison and Matthew have married into the Parshall family, I look forward to a whole new generation of rapt listeners, yet to be born!)
And, of course, a very special note of thanks is due to Harvest House Publishers: to Terry Glaspey and Carolyn McCready, for taking a chance on a new novelist, and for their unbounded support and encouragement in the creative process; and to Paul Gossard, for his superb suggestions in the final edit of the book.
Monroeville, Virginia
In the Near Future
W
ILL
C
HAMBERS WAS LATE AGAIN
. For the last year or so the forty-year-old attorney had been getting to his law office late almost every day. This morning his head felt like it had been pressed in a trash compactor. Coping with a hangover was part of Chambers' daily routine. Today, like most days, he was recovering from his liquid diet of Jack Daniels. He had spent the last night in the usual mannerâsitting alone in the great room of his empty, half-restored preâCivil War mansion, listening to music, and drinking himself numb. He would drink until things hurt a little less for a whileâand his personal demons were a little more fuzzy and a little less distracting. And he would fall asleep in his chair with his golden retriever lying next to him on the floor. Then, about two or three in the morning, he would awaken, stumble up the winding staircase, and fall into bed. Clarence, his big dog, would pad up the stairs close behind and bound onto the bed next to him.
This morning, amid the hammering inside his head, Chambers suddenly remembered that he had to be in court. He was grabbing around his cluttered office trying to locate his case file when Betty, his secretary, yelled for him around the corner. Chambers walked into her area. A lit cigarette was hanging out of Betty's mouth.
“Will,” she said in an exasperated voice, “You've got to get going. You're going to be late for court.” Will took two fingers and snatched the cigarette from her lips, crushing it out on a message pad at her desk.
“This is a non-smoking office, Betty,” he said. “Geez, you know that.”
Betty's eyes narrowed. “You're going to be late for court. Have a nice day.”
The lawyer looked at his watch and saw that he might not make it to the central Virginia federal court on time. He stopped for a split second to
examine the framed photograph of his wife that was prominently displayed on his bookshelf. He stared at the pretty face in the photograph, then carefully placed it back on the shelf. For a moment, he felt the old buried sorrow clawing once again to the surface. A noise outside jolted him back, and he grabbed his briefcase, picked up his suit coat, and dashed down the stairs, his almost shoulder-length hair flying wildly behind him.
When Will reached the street below he crossed it at a run, heading to his red-and-white 1957 Corvette convertible. There was a yellow parking ticket stuck underneath the windshield wiper, which he didn't bother to retrieve. He leaped into the driver's seat, tossing the briefcase to the seat next to him, and in one continuous motion started the car and wheeled it around in a half circle, cutting off a tour bus driver.
By the time Will had swung his car around by the front of his building, Betty had bolted out of the front door. She was waving the case file above her head that Will Chambers had forgotten. Will slowed his car down and motioned for her to toss it into the moving Corvette. With a lunge, she threw the thick brown folder onto the passenger seat. Will waved at her without looking back as he gunned the engine and accelerated out of sight, the yellow parking ticket flapping wildly underneath the windshield wiper.
W
HILE
W
ILL
C
HAMBERS WAS MOTORING
on the Interstate toward federal court in north-central Virginia, a small panel truck with a lone driver was heading toward New York City from across the river. The white vehicle bore only a sparse message in black lettering that read “Pay Load Truck Rentals.”
The truck was nearing the New Jersey border, heading for the George Washington bridge into Manhattan. Traffic was jammed to a crawl that morning during the tail end of rush hour.