Will's Impact

By Stephanie Kenrose

You have to be kidding me.

That's what Will Botolph thinks when he opens his fortune cookie. The terrifying message is clear: You die soon.

Is he going insane? Or is a mysterious curse forcing him to board a plane that will send him plummeting to his death?

Mathematics teacher Botolph is supposed to be having a relaxing vacation. Instead, he uncovers the key to an ancient cipher buried for millennia in the depths of African lore. With the help of his sister, a linguistic anthropologist, he unwittingly brings the forgotten prophecy to life-a prophecy dictating Botolph's every move for the next eight days. In a breathless attempt to outrun his fate, Botolph finds his friends and colleagues conspiring behind his back to send him to his death.

When Botolph finds out the real reason for his trip on the doomed flight, his friends' bizarre behavior becomes clear. Can Botolph avoid his certain fate? Or is he-like his parents-doomed to die in a plane crash?

WILL'S IMPACT follows one man's rapid transformation from skeptic to believer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andale LLC
• Release date: Oct 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465894281

Book preview

Lockerbie, Scotland: December 21, 1988

You just be here when your father gets home from work, William Botolph’s mom said, minutes before a 40-ton chunk of aluminum fell from the sky and vaporized her. And I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t get out his belt.

But why do you have to cancel the whole trip? William asked. We can drive and then take the ferry to Spain, can’t we?

William’s mom tightened her lips and turned her full attention to a simmering pot of beef stew.

Eleven-year-old William stomped out of the back door and slammed it shut behind him. The low hum of traffic from the nearby Glasgow-bound motorway cut through the valley’s still air. He walked a block over to his friend Alistair’s semi-detached cottage, using the collar of his anorak to shield himself from the biting wind. He kicked a can: it rolled with a clatter underneath a streetlamp’s dull amber glow and rattled into the shadows that cloaked the deserted street.

Lockerbie folk tended to stay indoors on winter nights, except on titillating occasions like the annual sale of hill-suckled calves at the auction house. William and Alistair often found themselves sitting in front of the empty town hall for entertainment, launching rocks at the Christmas tree lights. William reached Alistair’s cottage and rapped the brass knocker. Moments later, Alistair’s baby face poked around the edge of the gray door. People called them the Terrible Twins, but William didn’t see the resemblance. Alistair’s freckles were thicker, his hair a brighter orange, like mulched carrots.

Do you want to come out back for a ciggie? I stole a Dunhill from Ma’s pack, William whispered.

Aye. Anything but another hamshanking episode of This is Your Life. Alistair glanced over his shoulder at his TV-addicted parents, ensconced on the couch in the lounge. Let me grab my coat.

William loved playing Afterburner on the Commodore 64 at the McKintyre house, but he hated the stink of pipe-smoke and baby diapers. Thankfully, Alistair took only two joggles to return with his oversize parka.

The pair trotted around to the back of the cottage and hopped inside the decrepit outhouse. Half-empty boxes of tiles and cans of ancient paint were stacked up in the corners of the cramped space, which smelled of rust and mold. Pencil-thin streaks of light from the kitchen seeped into the wooden structure through the lunchbox-sized window. Rain drizzled on top of the corrugated roof in a pitter-patter song.

William crossed his fingers for the kitchen light to stay on. His Winnie the Pooh night light was his dark secret; he would rather open every crepuscular closet on the entire street than be called a wee baby. He retrieved one of the larger paint cans and used it as a stool.

Alistair plopped down on the chunk of plywood that covered the rusted toilet. He lit the Dunhill: the orange tip glowed in the gloom. I thought you’d be packed and gone by now, pizza face.

Aye, we were supposed to leave at six and meet Dad at the airport. But Ma says we’re not going now. Crater chops.

You’re jokin’? You’re gonna be stuck here in rainy ole Scotland for Christmas instead of sunny Spain?

William plucked the cigarette from Alistair’s lips, puffed on it, and pushed the smoke into his cheek. He’d tried to inhale once before, but only succeeded in throwing up his lunch. We were at the market this morning. This creepy old hag came up and told us we were all going to die in a plane crash. Ma canceled the trip and Dad’s on his way home from work right now.

Alistair’s eyes widened in surprise. She just came up to you and said you were gonna die?

Not exactly. Ma bought a rose from her for a pound and gave her an extra 50 pence for a fortune. That’s when she said somethin’ about a plane crash.

Hoots, mon! I’d not be getting on that plane either. How did she even know you were going away? Maybe she was a witch.

William handed Alistair the cigarette and gave him a playful slap. Och, not you too. You’ll be believing in fairies next. Didn’t you know that driving a car to the airport is sixty two times more likely to get you killed than flying on a plane? William had read that fact in that morning’s Annandale Herald. His dad scoffed, calling the article, a gab of rubbage.

Your dad’ll talk sense into your ma. He won’t want to see all that money flushed down the bog.

Alistair stood up and handed the cigarette back to William, pretending to open a wallet and shake it into the bowl. He pulled an imaginary handle and made an elaborate swooshing sound.

William chuckled and took a large drag. He accidentally inhaled the burning smoke into his lungs, then coughed and spluttered the noxious smoke back out. A minute passed before he could catch his breath enough to speak. I hope you’re right. But even if Ma changes her mind, Margo went on the train to Carlisle. She said she won’t be back ‘til supper.

Och, that’s twenty minutes away. What did your sis’ do that for?

She went shopping with her friend. But not before she screamed at me and said she’ll never forgive me for ruining Christmas.

Alistair scrunched his brows. Why did she say that to you? I thought you said that—

Oh, I meant, Ma. She screamed at Ma, not me.

William’s cheeks flushed hot, as if he was too close to a roaring fire.

Three bursts of abbreviated thunder crackled a warning far in the distance. A covey of partridges panicked in the field behind the outhouse, cackling harsh 'skeeer-ick' calls as they scuttled away.

Despite the dank chill in the air, William’s hands broke into a sweat. You hear that?

Alistair stubbed out the cigarette underfoot. Aye. It sounded like thunder. Or fireworks.

Alistair stood up in a giant’s lumbering stance and stomped on the wood floor. Maybe it’s a giant coming across the causeway from Ireland to steal our Christmas presents.

Nae, I don’t think so. William cocked his ear for another sound. It had been four years since the IRA bombed the Brighton hotel in an attempt to kill Margaret Thatcher. BBC News ran a piece every anniversary telling everyone to be on high alert; William’s mom became suspicious of every empty paper bag in the street and any¬ pram left outside a store without a baby in it. Despite his dad’s reassurances that they lived in Lockerbie, a town of farmers and oil workers, not politicians, his ma pressed a beady eye to the window of any parked car with tinted windows.

The hairs on William’s arms prickled. An image of his mom flashed into his mind, her eye pressed up against the darkened window of an empty truck. A second boom detonated in the distance, changing the image into one of shattered glass exploding into his mother’s face. An approaching roar cut off that train of thought.

Alistair froze in place, gaping wordlessly at William for a long instant.

William cracked open the outhouse door. He stared with fascinated horror at an astral orange glow, hurtling through the sky in a downward spiral. Get down! It’s coming our way!

The two boys tumbled into a frenzied heap onto the dirt floor.

Alistair’s next words were swallowed by a deafening explosion that rocked the outhouse. The ground trembled and shuddered. The floor of the shed whipped and snaked. A blast of air knocked the outhouse roof off and left the walls. The ground rumbled to a halt. Smells of smoke and fuel choked the air.

William’s hands trembled as he leaned forward and nudged the creaking door back open. A scarlet glow surged upwards and out, above the neat row of cottages. Another ball of flames scorched the sky in the distance: it shrieked through the air like a missile, skipping on the rooftops and careening into the road. The whole sky lit up a fiery crimson. Thousands of red sparks turned into downward flying projectiles. Smoke trails streamed behind the objects as they whistled to the ground.

Alistair gazed at William in wide-eyed panic, wheezing in short, high-pitched gasps.

William’s stomach contracted into a painful knot. He flinched at every sound. Something hit the ground outside with a tremendous shudder, shattering the tiny window pane. A postage stamp-sized piece of buckled metal struck and bounced off the sheet of plywood, leaving a deep dent. A silver object landed next to him with a thud and a clatter. William picked up the buckled fork and stared at it in incomprehension.

A wave of terror rose up from William’s belly. We need to get inside your house. Don’t sit there and shit your pants, come on!

Alistair gulped like a border collie swallowing a t-bone steak in one bite. It’s War of the Worlds—they’re coming up outta the ground.

He flung himself out the door and bolted. Arms flailing and legs pummeling, he hightailed for 10 yards when a screaming UFO planted itself on top of him with a sickening thud.

William crumpled backwards into the corner of the outhouse. He stared in horror at the silver and black object that had swallowed Alistair and embedded itself into the ground. A slow realization took hold. A great big wheel? He flew to the cottage’s back door, hammered on it with his fists and yelled at the top of his lungs. His words spluttered out in a jumbled frenzy. Oh, shayt, help, somebody help, help, open the, help! Open the door!

William backed away from the heat, staring in utter confusion at the orange flames that flickered in the window. A single spark singed the net curtain and set it alight. William edged backward, his breath coming in short, painful gasps.

An overpowering terror propelled him around the cottage and down the debris-covered sidewalk. Bits of metal tinkled under his feet as he ran. At the house on the end of his row, burning wreckage littered the yard. Everything was smoldering or doused in flames: the McDougal’s hedgerow, the Graham’s prize rose garden, the Wilson’s new Mini Cooper—once cherry red, it had turned coal black. Telephone poles were snapped in two as though a twister had raged through his street. The side of his neighbor’s house was sheared off, its contents displayed as a macabre stage set.

William stared at the smoking crater that lay where his house used to be. His father’s empty van sat yards from the chasmal hole. Numbness took hold of William’s body as he gaped at the thing that just couldn’t be.

The old woman’s fortune had come true.

Chapter Two

Twenty Three Years Later: Eight days to Impact

30:19: 56.856 N

-87: 8: 32.373 W

Will finished the last forkful of lo mein and pushed his dinner plate toward the center of the Golden Pond’s dining table. The renowned Pensacola restaurant provided gourmet food and a romantic rooftop dining area. It overlooked a crystalline beach, where a pink-hued sunset heralded the end to a perfect day. The clean scent of the ocean filled the air as the waves washed onto the beach one story below. He found it ironic that a scent most people found inspirational and soothing was actually the scent of dying phytoplankton. Most people assumed it was salt in the water: ignorance can be such bliss. Will cracked open his fortune cookie and stared at the paper slip for a moment, not believing he had seen right. You have to be kidding me, he thought.

Roneisha Ronnie Brown, Will’s fellow math teacher at Treaty Oak Middle School in Jacksonville, raised her glass. Pride flowed from her sparkling eyes. I’d like to make a toast to Florida’s Private School Teacher of the Year, she said with a refined New Orleans twang. Our own, brillian’, William E. Botolph.

Reading the text again, Will felt a rush of heat to his face. Hang on a sec, Ronnie, I mean, thanks, I—I—

Ronnie’s voice trailed off. Will? What’s wrong? You have the same look on your face as my Momma did the day she opened the telegram from ‘Nam ‘bout my Pappy."

Will glared at his wife Yvette, sitting to his left. He weighed her reaction with a critical squint. Did you do this?

His question was first met by perplexed silence.

Just minutes earlier, Will’s arm had been draped over Yvette’s shoulder. We might have our problems, he thought, but a whole weekend without a single argument? Maybe things are finally going to be all right. That was before he cringed at the sight of two empty bottles of chardonnay on the table. He restricted himself to one glass because of the five hour drive ahead of him. Ronnie was a non-drinker, and he watched Morgan nurse a single glass of wine like it was 1787 Chateau Lafite. Surely, he thought, Yvette couldn’t have drunk that much? How could I not have noticed?

Yvette swallowed the last drop of wine from her glass. She shook the empty bottle in apparent disgust. Did I do what?

Will detected a slight slur in Yvette’s voice and a glaze in her elk-brown eyes. He worried that the wine chased Valium again. He passed his fortune to his wife.

Yvette read it out loud in a slow, confused manner. Will soon die in a plane crash.

Will imagined his wife doubled over, consumed with an obscene laughter that filled the room, mocking him for being such a gutless wuss, for not getting THE JOKE. Ronnie and Morgan—Ronnie’s Rwandan-born husband—joined in, pointing their fingers at him, laughing like Will was the fat boy in the class and they had pinned a sign on his back that said KICK ME I BOUNCE. Joke’s on you, Willy boy.

Was he in the middle of a demented dream? Will snapped back to reality, and no one was laughing.

Ronnie took the paper slip from Yvette. Her jaw dropped open like a mailbox flap. Oh, my Lord. What’s this?

So… Will said, his voice cracking, …which one of you did this?

Ronnie blinked in surprise. Will, you can’t think—

I don’t know what to think, Will snapped. But don’t you think it’s a bit strange that everyone gets innocuous pieces of pseudo-Chinese bullshit and I get this?

A blanket of silence cloaked the air. For a few seconds, everyone glanced at each other, as if waiting for the guilty party to step forward.

You know none of us would do anything like that, Will, Ronnie said.

Will glared at Yvette, who was busy smearing on fifty dollar Nordstrom’s lipstick in front of a compact mirror. Will didn’t like the harsh color: it washed out her pale skin. But when he thought of it, her skin looked paler than normal, verging on chalky. I’m sure neither you nor Morgan would do anything like that.

Well, why don’t we check mine to see what it says, Morgan said. "Maybe it’s just as bizarre.

‘You have a strong interest in ancient Chinese dynasties’. What the heck is that supposed to mean?"

Yvette snapped her compact closed. It means you like Jackie Chan movies.

She drummed the table with her fingers, indicating she wanted to go ‘right now.’

Let’s see what mine says, Ronnie said. We probably just got the bad joke batch. Betcha some guy at the factory had a good laugh typing that one into the computer. She broke open her cookie. Her lips twitched. Play lotto soon. Lucky numbers on back.

Will scowled at Yvette. Even if she somehow orchestrated it, she wouldn’t admit it. She probably hadn’t figured on it going so sour. The last time she played a joke—pretending she was pregnant on April Fool’s—ended with Yvette displaying her formidable Frisbee skills with their one set of decent china. What the hell was going through her head? The more he tried to understand her, the more complicated she became.

Morgan picked up Will’s fortune, and compared it to his own. They’re the same paper, the same type, everything.

So it’s just a bizarre coincidence, that’s all, Ronnie said.

Yvette donned her jacket and shook her hair over the collar. Her hair had a musty odor: it usually smelled like peaches. Will would have chalked it up to the smoky bar they were in earlier if it hadn’t been for the slur. She’s not taking care of herself, he thought. In fact, he couldn’t remember her washing her hair the entire weekend.

He caught the waitress’s attention. You forgot to bring me my credit card back?

The waitress leaned in close. Your card declined, sir. You want me to run it again?

Will shook his head. He made a mental note to ask Yvette about spending on his card in the car. He wondered how much she blew this time.

The waitress must have seen everyone’s stoic faces, because her next question was, You have a problem with the food?

No, actually, Will said. There’s no problem with the food. It’s the fortune.

A look of confusion set into the waitress’s face.

Morgan handed her the slip. It says he’s going to die in a plane crash.

The waitress blinked with incredulity as she read the text. We not give out fortune like this. Not in almost fifteen years of business. One of your friends play joke on you perhaps?

Exactly what I thought, Will said. Just bring the credit card back, I’ll pay by cash.

You can’t think any of us would do this, Ronnie said. We know wha’ you went through.

No offense, Ronnie, but I don’t think anyone could even begin to imagine what I went through.

Oh, puh-leash, Yvette said, swaying in her seat. You’ve whined about that crash so many times I practically lived it. I know those people were conscious when they hit the ground. I know you found 50 people in your back yard still strapped into their airplane seats. I know about the woman clutching her baby and the man clutching his crucifix and the little girl with the headless Barbie. You tell me about them every night when you wake up screaming. God, when are you going to get over this?

Will stared at Yvette in utter shock for a moment. He shifted his focus to the table. He snapped open his wallet and threw $100 onto the table. Is that what she’s been thinking of me the whole time: a whiner?

Well, uh, congrats again, Will, Morgan said. He knocked the salt container over on the way down from his toast. Morgan had all the grace of a lion at a tea party; at six foot seven and 300 pounds of pure muscle, he could have played power forward for the Jaguars.

Will took his jacket off from the back of his seat. Throw a pinch over your right shoulder. Or is it the left? What the heck. I don’t know. I’m not superstitious.

Like hell you’re not, Yvette said.

What’s that supposed to mean? Will asked.

Yvette glowered at him. You don’t even read the horosh-copes because you’re afraid of what they might say. I’d call that superstitious.

Are those dark circles under her eyes? Will couldn’t tell through the thick layer of under-eye make-up. That’s different. I don’t read them because I don’t believe in them. He knew better than to talk to her when she was sozzled. Yet he couldn’t resist the urge to get her rankled. Part of him imagined her storming out of the restaurant, never to be seen again. He would sit with Morgan and Ronnie, maybe have a glass of wine, and bask in the glory of his Podunk award. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her. Sober, she was his dream wife. Drunk, she was fodder for the Jerry Springer show.

Whatever, Yvette said.

Aw, one man’s bad luck is another man’s fortune, Morgan said, breaking the awkward silence. He tossed a pinch over both shoulders and swept the remaining salt off the table with his napkin.

Like that ancient story about that Chinese farmer, Ronnie said.

"What Chinese farmer story?" Will asked.

I never told you it? I learned it in philosophy class.

Ronnie had returned to college the previous summer to pursue her Masters of Education at Jacksonville University. She tried to persuade Will to go for his, but he brushed her off, preferring to relax in his free time. He’d endured four years of book-stress in the latter half of the nineties and hadn’t feel the inclination to return to it any time in the future. Besides, he didn’t think a 2.9 GPA would quite make it into grad school.

So tell us this story then, Will said, grateful for the distraction.

Well, this farmer lost one of his best horses, Ronnie said. His neighbor said ‘that sure is some bad luck.’ The farmer replied, ‘Who knows what’s good or bad?’ The next day, the horse returned with a whole herd. Good luck? Maybe, until the farmer’s son broke his leg riding one of the horses. Bad luck? You’d think so until I told you that the next day the army came looking for young men to conscript and they overlooked his son because of his broken leg. The point is—

Who knows what’s good or bad, Will said.

See? It’s like I’ve been saying, Yvette said. "I told Will that airplanes aren’t neshers…neshess…always bad. But he won’t listen as usual. I think he should take that flight next week and get over it."

"What plane next week?" Ronnie asked.

Will’s mouth dried up. It’s part of the award. They gave me a plane ticket to the national conference in St. Louis.

That’s fantastic! Morgan said.

Not really, Ronnie said. A look of concern crossed her face. Will doesn’t fly.

Oh, Morgan said. Why’s that?

Ronnie shot her husband a withering look. Remember, honey, I told you?

It’s alright, Will said, glancing at Morgan. My parents died in a plane crash when I was young.

That was Will’s standard reply. No one needed to know the gory details. No one wanted to know.

Morgan shifted in his seat, affecting an apologetic smile. "Ronnie did tell me. I forgot all about it. I’m so sorry."

Don’t be, Will said. It was a long time ago. I hardly remember it. The truth was, while the week following his parents’ deaths had long since rendered into a blur, the flight with his Floridian aunt from Glasgow to The States was ingrained in his memory like a first kiss. Despite a stinging shot at the doctor’s office that sent him into la-la land for almost an entire day, his nightmares replayed the scenario over and over again with perfect clarity. Each time his terror ended with an engine fire, a spinning descent into blackness, and waking up under sheets soaked with cold sweat.

Well, you aren’t alone, Ronnie said. Did you know Aretha Franklin once cancelled a tour because she was so afraid of flying?

And John Madden has pteromerhanophobia, Morgan said. He travels everywhere by tour bus.

Terra-what-a-phobia? Whew! Try shaying that after a few beers, Yvette said.

Ronnie raised her eyebrows and studied Yvette with amused wonder. Maybe you could take the bus, Will. They’re not so ghetto nowadays.

I can’t get that much time off work. Not around exam time.

You can’t cower on the ground forever, Yvette snapped, moving forward in her seat, away from Will’s arm. You’re going to blow your only chance at making something of yourself.

Ronnie straightened up in her seat and put her mother hen face on. Let him alone. He just won a very prestigious award.

"Yeah I know. But he’s up for a National Award. That’s going to mean a book, TV appearances—"

Whoa, Will said. Look, I’m not going. That’s all there is to it.