Plot Line

By Alton Gansky

There are places we were never meant to go.
Ray Beeman went.

Ray Beeman is a man in pursuit of a dream. With two published novels under his belt he knew he was on his way. Then his publisher went bankrupt. His future went dark. No money, no income, no profession. Could he start over? Yes, with the help of a stranger who offers him a dream job that allows him to continue writing. All he has to do is make up “PR” plot lines for a government agency. Not hard for a man with an active imagination. Dream jobs, Ray learns, often come with nightmares. Forced to see what no man should; forced to go where no person was meant to step; drawn across a threshold between worlds, Ray pays for his lucrative job with his sanity. Terrified as he is, he fears one fact more: His actions have put his family in peril.

There are worse things than evil men.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alton Gansky
• Release date: Jul 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476131276

Alton Gansky

Alton Gansky: Alton Gansky is the author of twenty published novels and six nonfiction works. A Christy Award finalist (for A Ship Possessed) and an Angel Award winner (for Terminal Justice), he is a frequent speaker at writer's conferences and other speaking engagements. Alton brings an eclectic background to his writing: he has been a firefighter, and he spent ten years in architecture and twenty-two years in pulpit ministry. He now writes full-time from his home in southern California where he lives with his wife.

Book preview

Plot Line

Copyright 2012 Alton Gansky.

ISBN: 9781476131276

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations in books and critical reviews.

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Scripture quotations taken from the New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation Used by permission." (www.Lockman.org)

Cover by Gansky.Communications

Images: © jorgophotography - Fotolia.com; © Stocksnapper - Fotolia.com

There are places we were never meant to go.

Ray Beeman went.

Ray Beeman is a man in pursuit of a dream. With two published novels under his belt he knew he was on his way. Then his publisher went bankrupt. His future went dark. No money, no income, no profession. Could he start over? Yes, with the help of a stranger who offers him a dream job that allows him to continue writing. All he has to do is make up PR plot lines for a government agency. Not hard for a man with an active imagination. Dream jobs, Ray learns, often come with nightmares. Forced to see what no man should; forced to go where no person was meant to step; drawn across a threshold between worlds, Ray pays for his lucrative job with his sanity. Terrified as he is, he fears one fact more: His actions have put his family in peril.

There are worse things than evil men.

Part 1

Man's steps are ordained by the LORD, how then can man understand his way?—Proverbs 20:24

One

There was a deep ache in the center of Ray Beeman’s chest; an unrelenting burning that grew hotter each passing moment. He rubbed his sternum and stared at the envelope before him. The envelope hadn’t changed. It was the same ivory color with his name and address typed neatly in the center of it. In the upper left corner was the blue and red logo of Prestige Publishing. Several lines of black ink were etched through the return address. Ray had made the marks himself, scoring each stripe deep enough to tear the fibers of the paper. His hand shook with each stroke as if he had been stricken with palsy.

Did you write this?

The words echoed distantly in Ray’s ears. He didn’t look up. Instead, he gouged another line through the return address.

The mail had come early that afternoon and Ray met the mailman on the front porch as he left the house. Already late, Ray did nothing more than say hello and take the small stack of letters from the postman’s outstretched hand. The mail remained unopened until he had arrived at the Wenham Mall in Temecula, California. The drive from his home in Riverside to Temecula took twenty-five minutes longer than the half-hour he had planned, all of which he spent in stop-and-go traffic while State road workers reduced four lanes of freeway to an inadequate two. Outside, thick, gray January clouds blanketed the sky.

Is this a novel? the voice asked again.

Ray had arrived at the book signing twenty minutes late of the scheduled 2:00 start time. He parked his car in one of the stalls of the expansive asphalt lot and walked as quickly as he could through the slow moving shoppers, apologizing each time he bumped into someone who, unlike him, had all the time in the world. Ray nearly slipped on the highly polished floor as he scurried into Tillman’s bookstore. His haste had been wasted. Although the book signing had been scheduled eight weeks before (he had scheduled it himself) no one in the shop remembered it. Still, they set up a small card table in the front corner of the store, just a short distance from the wide corridor where shoppers strolled.

He had other problems. Since no one remembered he would be in the store signing books, no books had been ordered. The store had only a single copy of Tender Hate, his first novel, and two volumes of Love’s Labor Lost, his most recent publication. Fortunately Ray had a box of each title in the trunk of his car. It was a precaution he learned after a similar oversight during his first book signing. After a quick trip to his vehicle and back, Ray was ready to sign books—if anyone would stop. Few did.

With time on his hands, Ray read through the mail he had brought with him, dropping each opened letter in one of the boxes of books he had brought. It was the fourth letter that caught his attention—the letter from his publisher. He read it twice, then a third time, hoping the words would rearrange themselves into a different announcement, but the words stayed where they were. Unmoving, cold words that at first chilled him then filled him with the heat of anger.

Hello? Anybody home?

Ray looked up and saw a rotund woman in a bright blue dress with a large, gaudy, yellow flower print standing before him. She held Tender Hate in her hand.

I’m sorry, Ray stuttered, not feeling sorry at all. I was lost in thought.

So I see. I’ve been talking to you for the last five minutes.

Ray doubted the claim but saw no benefit in arguing. I apologize again. You had a question?

Did you write this? Her voice was sharp, her words clipped as if she were conserving her energy for some other cause.

Yes. That’s my first novel. It came out a year ago February. This one, he picked up Love’s Labor Lost, came out three months ago.

Is it fiction?

That’s what a novel is, lady. How many non-fiction novels can you name? Yes. The politeness was forced. It’s fiction.

She harrumphed and an expression of distaste draped her face. I see. She set the book down as if it had soiled her hands.

Do you like to read fiction? Ray was sure of the answer, but perhaps he could make a convert.

I don’t have time for such things. Life is too short to give one’s attention over to trivial matters.

Trivial matters? The burning in Ray’s chest grew hotter and his already churning stomach flipped again. Novels are hardly trivial ma’am. The novel has changed lives. Many attribute the English laws ending child abuse to the works of Dickens and . . .

I didn’t come here to be argued with, the woman snapped.

The muscles in the back of Ray’s neck tightened like compressed steel springs. His head was pounding with pain. Then why don’t you hop back on your broom and fly home.

Ray regretted the words. By nature he was quiet and introspective, avoiding confrontation whenever possible. Today, however, he was not himself. It was the letter’s fault. That blasted letter had ruined everything.

You can’t talk to me that way. The woman snorted. You might sell more books if you learned to keep a civil tongue.

Ray lowered his head and rubbed his temples. He felt ill. Already he had been at the bookstore for two hours and only five people had stopped to look at his books, six counting the woman who was too busy to read novels, but had plenty of time to insult the work of his life. None had bought books. He had been tempted to pay people to take them, but that would have required money in the bank, something he didn’t have.

What? Nothing to say now? the woman prodded. I don’t imagine your books have much to say either. Maybe I should have a conversation with the store manager.

I don’t work for the bookstore, lady, I’m a writer.

I don’t care. They shouldn’t allow rude people like you to sit in their storefront.

Ray closed his eyes and wished he were somewhere else.

A conversation, said a new voice, would require you listen—a skill I’m sure you lack.

Ray snapped his eyes open and saw a trim man in a black, collarless tee shirt and beige sport coat. His hair was black with touches of gray at the temple. The man glanced at Ray through steel blue eyes. His posture was erect, but relaxed, his expression unperturbed yet commanding. Pulling a silver object from his pocket, he began to make a clicking sound. Ray saw a square, shiny cigarette lighter, the kind his father had used to light his Meerschaum pipe many years before.

Click, click, click.

Wha . . . what? the woman stammered.

Listen lady, this man has written more books than you’ve read, and he’s only written two. Two excellent books I might add.

The red of anger crept up the woman’s face. "You .