A Life of Death: Episodes 5 - 8 Read online

  A LIFE OF DEATH: 5 - 8

  BY

  WESTON KINCADE

  - BOOKS of the DEAD -

  “A well written story that flows off the page.”

  ~ Coral Russell, author of Amador Lockdown

  “Another awesome book by Weston Kincade – a paranormal coming-of-age mystery page turner. I could not put it down… I promise you will not be disappointed with this one.”

  ~ Chantale, Geeky Girl Reviews

  “A Life of Death is a completely amazing story. Fans of paranormal mystery and suspense stories should enjoy this book. Definitely give it a read as soon as you can!”

  ~ K. Sozaeva, Now is Gone

  “A Life of Death is my favorite kind of book, characters' emotions are painted in details. It's so vivid and alive I get a sense that Alex, the main character, is a younger version of Weston himself. This book in beautiful in unexpected ways.”

  ~ Helmy Parlente Kusuma, author of There is Hope

  “A Life of Death is quite simply, absolutely superb. I loved this book, it was an emotional and entertaining journey that had me hooked.”

  ~ David King, An Eclectic Bookshelf

  “A very good story.”

  ~ Kathleen Brown, author of The Personal Justice Series

  “The title drew me in and the novel itself is an experience that should not be left unread.”

  ~ Bruce Blanchard, author of Demon's Daughter

  “Mr. Kincade did a wonderful job telling this story. The characters are well developed and easy to relate to. I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed this book."

  ~ Christi, Alaskan Book Cafe

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  A Life of Death 5-8

  Copyright 2013 by Weston Kincade

  Visit: Weston Kincade on his website.

  For more information visit:

  BOOKS of the DEAD

  * * *

  A LIFE OF DEATH: 5

  BY

  WESTON KINCADE

  - BOOKS of the DEAD –

  Chapter 22

  Sunday

  October 9, 1995

  Sunlight gleamed off the church’s stained glass windows as I approached the entrance. Mary’s hands and face tilted toward the sky, pleading for help. At least I’m not alone, I thought with a semblance of consolation. Father Gilbert stood at the front door, greeting the congregation with a smile and encapsulating hands. His black pants and jacket stood in stark contrast to his white crown of hair.

  “Hello, Alex,” he said, wrapping his hands around mine. “How is everything?”

  “Okay, sir. If you have some time, I’d like to talk.”

  He released my hand and gripped my shoulder. His grasp was gentle but firm. “Sure, Alex, right after mass. Till then, take heart.”

  “I will.” My words echoed off the stone foyer as I moved past and into the main hall.

  The line of parishioners was composed of families and the elderly. They shuffled down the aisles searching for seats and companions. Many required walkers and canes. The procession was slow, hindered by friendly words shouted at friends as people stopped to gossip. While waiting in line, I learned about newlyweds, new births, and other events. Every person’s life appeared better than my own. The multitude of voices echoed into the wooden rafters. I folded my hands together and waited for the train to move. It was astonishing that such a large, open building could feel so claustrophobic. The seconds slowed as I watched the last pew, empty and beckoning to me. My patience vanished. I slipped out of line, walked past the clustered group of people, and sidled into the pew. A few pensive members of the congregation glared as they walked by, searching for a seat closer to the front. I grabbed a Bible from its perch in front of me and flipped open to a random page. I read, but the words were unintelligible. There were still too many things cluttering my mind. The questions I hoped to ask Father Gilbert ran through my head in silence.

  After an eternity of chatter, Father Gilbert stepped up to his podium and raised a hand. Few saw it at first, but the line of people slowly dispersed as the congregation gave him their attention. He began like usual, with a morning prayer, and moved on to the importance of family, a subject I cared little for. At first his words brought my father to mind, but they were overshadowed by my current home. The thought was depressing. My mind tuned his words out, again turning to the dilemma at hand. What was I to do for Homeless Bob? How could I reach people who refused to be helped? And how, in God’s name, was I supposed to help someone that died over a hundred years ago? The questions began piling up when I became aware that Father Gilbert had stopped talking. The other Church-goers were filing out the way they’d come. Father Gilbert was back at the door with a host of well-wishers, shaking hands and nodding as they passed. Was it over already?

  The morning wore on and the great room divested itself of its contents, and left Father Gilbert to attend me alone.

  “So, Alex,” Father Gilbert began as he slid into the seat next to me, “how did you like the sermon?”

  I could never lie to him and told his as much. “Honestly, it was one I could’ve done without.”

  The priest nodded. “I understand. Do you see much of your mother these days?”

  “No, not really. She spends her time working. The few times I see her, she doesn’t believe what I have to say.”

  “That’s a shame,” he muttered to the floor. “But maybe it’s how you’re approaching her. Often, people go on the defensive if you are too upfront.”

  “But how am I supposed to talk to her about these things if I wait? I barely see her as is.”

  “That is a problem.” He thought for a moment before adding, “Have you tried talking about her? She might be more open if you find out what kinds of things have been bothering her. Express an interest in her life. She deals with your stepfather, too. I’m sure it can’t all be roses on her end. Maybe you can find some common ground where she’d be willing to talk and consider your problems, too.”

  “Maybe,” I whispered with a shrug.

  “But that isn’t what brought you here, is it?”

  I shook my head. “I’m seeing more things, more people’s deaths. I even tried to help Homeless Bob, but he acted as though I had the plague and ran away screaming. How am I to help people who don’t want to be helped?”

  “Ahhh, so you took my advice to heart.”

  “Yes, Father, but there are so many questions, it’s hard to know where to start.”

  “Well, let’s begin with your first question. Simply put, you can’t help them unless they are willing to accept your help. I assume you know his real name?”

  “Yes, James Michowsky.”

  “And are you aware of what happened to his son?”

  I nodded again. “Michael was thrown off the bridge by Daniel Brogand, Grant’s father, and a bunch of his friends when he was a kid.”

  Father Gilbert peered down at me with wary eyes.

  “It’s true Father. I saw it. And in Homeless Bob’s backpack, I found a picture of them all, taken the same day. Daniel Brogand even left a message on the back of it.

  “Wow!” muttered the priest. “If that’s true, it’s quite a secret, and quite an adversary.”

  “I know. How can I do anything against someone like him?”

  “Well… that’s not something I’m familiar with. But, I wouldn’t do anything too hasty until I was certain of the facts
and had proof.”

  “That’s just the thing. How can I say anything? As soon as I say that I saw it in a dream, they’ll have me committed to a loony bin.”

  “That’s also true. It’s the same problem Joan of Arc had long ago.”

  “Now, I did say something to Coach Moyer, but I didn’t say where I’d gotten the information.”

  “And what did he do?”

  “He disappeared. He up and left and no one’s seen him since.”

  “So that’s why he wasn’t here today,” muttered Father Gilbert. “What did he have to do with it?”

  “He was one of the other boys on the bridge. I think he skipped town.”

  The priest let out a long sigh. “That certainly supports your story, but so far as the Brogands are concerned, I’m still not sure what you can do. I doubt they’d act the same way to idle accusations.”

  “Speaking of their family, Grant’s grandmother was killed and an innocent man died for the murder. How am I supposed to help them?”

  Father Gilbert stared up at the large cross adorning the front of his chapel. I waited, but no answer came. Finally, he muttered, “Time will tell. You won’t be able to help everyone, but that doesn’t mean you should stop trying.”

  “What about people that died in a war?” I asked, thinking back to Able. “I went to the battlefield yesterday and got to know some of the soldiers quite well. I saw some of their families, too. The weird thing was, I passed out after a couple visions and some of the soldiers actually spoke to me, and not as one of the dying people whose death I’d relived. They said it wasn’t my time and I could swear I felt their hands touching me.”

  The priest’s eyes turned uneasy. “Dead people spoke to you, Alex?”

  “Yes, I almost hope I’m going insane, but it can’t be. Too much that I’ve seen has been true.”

  “Alex,” he said with somber, regulated words, “if they spoke to you, you can’t give up. It may just be that they want people to understand what they died for. Do you think that’s possible?”

  His words reminded me of Paige’s. Memories of loved ones the soldiers left behind flooded my mind like random clips on a filmstrip. “Yeah, it has to be that.”

  The remainder of the conversation left me with more questions than answers, and I left feeling more confused than when I’d come. Paige and I had agreed to meet after church for ice cream. It was her idea, and one she thought the girls might enjoy. So, I headed home to retrieve them. The previous night, Gloria’s eyes lit up at the mention of such an outing, while Abby glared at me as though I must have had an ulterior motive. It took a while, but eventually I convinced her otherwise, or at least that she should come. It would take the rest of my money, but I could go without lunch until Thursday. I’d done it before. After retrieving the girls, I left a note on the kitchen table, and we walked to the small ice-cream shop on First Street. Paige was waiting at one of the outside tables, her cheeks tinged red from the crisp autumn air. They matched the fall colors of her blouse and the contrast made her porcelain face glow.

  “Hey girls,” she said, with a smile.

  “Hey…,” replied Glory, her words trailing off as memory failed her.

  Paige filled in the gap. “It’s Paige.”

  “Nice to meet you,” replied Gloria, rushing forward with her hand outstretched. Paige shook it and her smile stretched into a large grin.

  “And you, too.” Her eyes turned to meet Abby’s, who looked upon her as though she were a rabid animal. “And you must be Abigail.” Abby nodded but said nothing.

  “Hey there, beautiful,” I muttered with flushed cheeks.

  “Hi, how was church?”

  “Eh.” I shrugged. “It could have gone better.”

  Her eyes registered the sluggish remark, but stored her questions for later. She looked back at the girls and asked, “So who’s ready for ice cream?”

  “Me, me, me, me, me,” shrieked Gloria as her hand shot into the air. Abby just looked back without answer.

  I grasped the door handle and pulled. “Okay, last one in is a rotten egg.”

  Glory rushed in, not to be beaten, while Abby meandered behind Paige. We got in line and looked over the menu above the enclosed counter. Gloria chose birthday cake and shouted it at the clerk, while Abby perused the menu in silence.

  “Want me to order for you?” I whispered to my dark haired stepsister.

  “Nah, I know what I want.”

  I shrugged and waited as she and Paige placed their orders.

  “Mind if I get this?” asked Paige when we’d reached the register.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, you got last night. It’s my turn,” she replied with a wink.

  “If you say so.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. Paige knew my budget and had planned accordingly. I wouldn’t have to skip lunches this week after all. By the time we were seated and the girls had piled their coats on the next table, Gloria was almost through half her cup. Abby, on the other hand, picked at it with her spoon as though testing its fragility.

  “So, what did you expect him to say?” asked Paige, meaning Father Gilbert.

  “I was hoping he might have a few more answers. Really, I wound up with more questions than anything.”

  She nodded. “It figures. Nothing like this is ever easy.” She paused for a moment, then whispered with a nod toward the girls, “Do they know?”

  I shook my head and filled my mouth with another spoonful of double chocolate.

  A moment later, Paige changed the subject. “So, where are we at with the project?”

  “I’ve got a few things put together, but not much. I know what I want to do it on, though. That trip to the battlefield was… helpful.” It was the best way I could think to describe it. “I really want to focus on what they were fighting for, who they left behind, and why it was so important.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” she mumbled through her strawberry colada. “Want to get together tomorrow, after school?”

  I nodded. At that moment, a familiar car sped into the lot and caught my eye. I watched through large panes of glass separating us from the outdoors as Vivian straddled a painted line and came to a screeching halt. She leapt out with exhaust still spewing into the cold air, threw open the door, and shouted, “Hurry! Get in the car.”

  Her odd behavior set our boots on fire. I snatched up the bundled coats and we piled into the small coupe.

  “What in the world is going on?” I yelled from the back seat, leaning forward between Abby and my mother’s shoulders.

  Vivian flipped the car into reverse and peeled out of the lot before saying a word. “Frankie’s been hurt.”

  “What?” I barked. “I just saw him last night.”

  “Yeah,” Paige added. “He wasn’t really in the best of moods, but he was fine.”

  “Alls I know is that he was in a wreck last night. The cops just called us. They found him lying in a ditch. He was still breathing, but just barely.”

  “Why’d it take so long for them to call?” asked Paige. I hadn’t even considered the delay.

  “He didn’t have anything on him, no license, nothing. They didn’t know who he was till Officer McCullin came in.”

  Paige looked at me in askance.

  “Their uncle, Fred McCullin,” I answered with a glance at the girls.

  “Oh…”

  “Is he okay?” I asked.

  “No,” answered Vivian as she swerved through traffic. The small four-cylinder engine revved as she broke into a vacant lane and slammed her foot on the accelerator. “They wouldn’t say what was going on, just that we had to get down there.”

  “Jesus,” I exhaled. If they didn’t say, it couldn’t be good. I didn’t want to say as much in front of Glory, though. Abby was old enough to understand. Paige and I leaned back in the seat in silence. She took my hand as the rollercoaster ride to the hospital continued. The warmth was reassuring. I had never liked Frank, but I didn’t want this for
him.

  Chapter 23

  The Guilt of Wishful Thinking

  When we reached the hospital, Vivian rushed into the emergency room shouting, “Where’s my Frankie?”

  “Ma’am, please calm down,” pleaded a nurse from behind the desk. Her voice was calm but stern. “Ma’am, now… what was his full name?”

  “Frank McCullin, where is he?” whined Vivian.

  The nurse punched the name into the keyboard and halted, staring at the monitor. “Wait here one sec,” she replied, rising from her seat. She walked over to a thin doctor in a white lab coat, whispered something, and pointed at us huddled around the counter. The man had short cut hair, graying at the sides, and his ID badge read, Dr. Alberrat. He strode over with a somber look.

  “Mrs. McCullin?” His voice was sincere and his grey eyes held pity in their depths.

  “Yes,” mumbled Vivian.

  “I’m Dr. Alberrat. Why don’t you have a seat?” He motioned to a line of chairs arranged along the walls of the waiting room.

  We moved through the loud room, and my shoulders slumped. The look of his drooping brows and slack jaw encouraged my remaining hope to flee.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” he said, under muttering voices and the cries of sick children, “but your son passed away last night.”

  My mother slumped into the padded wooden chair as though anchored for a fortnight. Tears streamed down her face, and she burrowed into her hands. “Why, why doctor? What happened?” she muttered through salt stained fingers.

  “We believe there was a motorcycle accident. He was driving while intoxicated, but was wearing his helmet. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. He hit something, or someone, and was thrown into the ditch a ways from the road. No one found him until it was too late.”

  “What do you mean ‘no one found him?’ What road was he on?”