Dark Resurrection

By Ron Chudley

Elizabeth and Tom Drummond are living quietly in Mill Bay, B.C., when their tranquil existence is disrupted by a singular event: out of the ashes of 9/11, borne by a person believed long dead, come riches beyond anyone's wildest dreams. But with the wealth comes danger-lies, secrets, insidious temptation and relentless pursuit by a grim figure whose motives may be a lot darker than justice.

Fear, guilt and loyalty mean that Elizabeth and Tom are on their own. All they desire, finally, is to be rid of the dreadful fortune-and to survive the attentions of those who would be rid of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Touchwood Editions
• Release date: Feb 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781926971124

Ron Chudley

Ron Chudley is an accomplished screenwriter and playwright, and the author of four other novels of mystery and suspense: Scammed (2009), Stolen (2007), Dark Resurrection (2006) and Old Bones (2005). He lives on an island in the Pacific Northwest and knows intimately the landscape where the story unfolds. Act of Evil is the first mystery in the Hal Bannatyne Mystery series. Visit sites.google.com/site/ronchudley

Book preview

one

The ferry disgorged its teeming horde and Art let himself be carried along, amidst the sweating bodies and pounding feet, out of the Staten Island Terminal toward State Street. Extricating himself from his fellow workers, he crossed the road and veered off into the brilliant sunshine—and relative peace—of Battery Park, flinging himself down upon a bench.

He still felt sick with fury. He and Blanche had had a lot of rows in the last months, but this had been the worst. Bitch! he muttered beneath his breath, as he’d done at least a hundred times in the last hour. And then, for maybe only the tenth time, What am I doing in this shitty town, anyhow?

The trouble was, of course, he knew only too well: he’d been trapped, that was what. A long time ago—years, in fact—he’d meant to move on, as he always had before. But this woman had got her claws into him, using the very oldest ruse in the world, getting herself pregnant. The problem was not fatherhood, per se, though God knows he’d never wanted that; the ghastly truth he’d discovered was that he didn’t have the guts to get out. So he’d let himself be snagged and bagged, his body buried in a mean little suburb, while his soul slowly shriveled in the nine-to-five jungle of Manhattan.

Why had he come to New York in the first place? To get away from the boredom of insipid old Toronto. To lose himself in the mystery and glamour of this nexus of all America. And what had he found? When the shiny skin was peeled off, the Big Apple was just the same as any other old fruit, only more rotten and less forgiving. If you were a go-getter, a self-promoter, a gangster or stock-jockey, the Apple was the place for you, yessir! Otherwise—fucking forget it: you were just one of a zillion blind worms squirming about in the core; used and abused, hurried and harried; forever grasping at the phony hand-holds always tantalizingly on offer, up into the American Dream, but with never a bug’s chance of really making it.

Art sat on his bench, the green of the park contrasting with the pale blue of the Hudson, the sight of the heroic statue out in the bay adding an extra layer of irony to his musings. Huddled masses yearning to be free? he thought sourly. Look behind you, lady. They’re all right here.

However, despite himself, the pause in the park on this bright morning did make him feel a bit better. Let’s face it, just getting away from his maddening family always improved his mood. Having barged out of the house without breakfast, he was early, so it would be an easy stroll to work. Arriving at his destination, he crossed the broad plaza and entered his building. There was still time to grab breakfast, so he stopped off at the 43rd floor. This end of the day, the Port Authority Cafeteria wasn’t too busy. He got coffee and bagels, figuring he’d have a few last moments of peace, before his depressing little cubicle—it could hardly be called an office—called him to the daily grind.

Hey, Art! How’s it hangin’, eh?

He didn’t have to look up, all too familiar with the speaker. Hank Leavinstone, his co-worker and fellow expat, had an uncanny knack of choosing the worst times to bug him. It was just 8:30, so Art had anticipated a few more minutes of peace. But, wouldn’t you know, there was Hank. Oh, well, the guy was a cheerful jerk, at least. Despite his assumption that being fellow-countrymen made them automatic buddies—a truly idiot notion—he was one of the rare individuals in their section who didn’t actually make Art want to puke.

Hi, Hank. He gave a curt nod, then turned away to the window, gazing as if in deep thought out toward the other tower.

Undeterred, Leavinstone plunked himself down. He was a little younger than Art, but going to fat, with clothes that always seemed a couple of sizes too small. Unlike many northerners, who melted swiftly into the US scene, Hank remained almost aggressively Canadian, emphasizing his hayseed Ontario accent to the point of nausea. He’d been in New York even longer than Art but, though he admitted to having not a single tie above the border, he still believed that playing the Canuck card made him special: ridiculous, when you realized that most Yanks, if they noticed Canadians at all, saw them either as poor relations or, as Art had heard it expressed more than once, Mexicans in sweaters. Despite all that, he had to admit that Hank had done one hugely clever thing: he’d remained single. Perhaps this wasn’t surprising, since he was hardly a babe magnet, but Art respected him for it anyway.

Hank had coffee, which he slurped messily as he chatted. Art finished his breakfast, letting the words flow over him, saying little, as always, taking the passive path. Then it was coming up to 8:40, so there was nothing for it but to finish up and head for work.

They made for the up-bound elevators and, as they rounded the corner, there was one right there, its doors just closing. Since they weren’t in a great rush, Art slowed down, meaning to wait for the next car. But Hank lumbered ahead and grabbed the door. He held it open and, with a shrug, Art followed him in.

The elevator took off. It was packed, and scooted up more than 20 floors before anyone squeezed out to relieve the congestion. For Art, as for most city dwellers, elevator rides were as memorable as passing wind. He stood stolidly, listening to the hum of the fast-rising car and ignoring the sensation of his ass being crushed into the fat belly of his companion. Apart from the machine hum, it was quiet: even New Yorkers quit their yammering when the body density reached critical mass. Finally the car stopped and there was the inevitable jostling and rearranging as people exited, but too few to relieve the crush. The car resumed climbing, stopping more frequently now, yet still with only a handful getting off each time. As they passed the 80th floor, Art came out of his elevator trance sufficiently to glance about, glimpsing many familiar faces. Jesus, he thought, no wonder this shitbox is still so damn crowded. Most of the sardines were his co-workers. Well, big fucking deal! If this trip into the sky was going to take much longer, maybe they should all strip off and have a party. Art was grinning at the image of 30 fat secretaries and overweight execs writhing naked in an elevator car—when the sound happened.

It was strange: sharp enough to be clearly heard, but not so loud as to be exactly alarming; sufficiently unusual to catch the attention, but also atavistically familiar. In the first moment, it was impossible to tell whether it was generated by a large source a long way off, or a smaller one nearby, seemingly part of the very structure through which it was transmitted. Art was put in mind of a baseball bat striking a thick mattress, but magnified many times. Wow, he thought, they must be doing some heavy-duty construction nearby.

Whereupon the elevator gave a sickening lurch and stopped.

Someone shrieked, then someone else giggled. The lights flickered, off then on again—followed by a moment of complete silence. At that point, Art was pressed against the elevator door. Suddenly, from directly outside, he heard a piercing scream. This was followed by what could only be an explosion, a ripping, rending roar. In the elevator, people started to yell, to shove, to jerk about—but then something worse happened: the floor was snatched out from underneath their feet. One instant everything was solid, the next it wasn’t; their world leaped into an abyss, which also banished the light.

In blackness they plunged, but only momentarily. Under cover of dark, the floor abruptly recreated itself, turning upon those it had once supported, swatting them from below like a vicious hammer.

Fortunately for Art, at the time of the impact his knees were bent, so though the blow was painful, nothing was broken. Others were not so lucky. As the confined mass of humanity rolled, jerked and splattered—against floor, walls and each other—there was a hail of gasps, groans and screams—an explosion of agony which grew and grew—and then again there was light.

And smoke.

In the brief seconds of darkness, the air had been transformed into a bluish haze. Wisps of smoke were threading through the door cracks, and now there was coughing and renewed yelling, and people around Art were banging on the doors, clawing at them, while above everything came shouts: "Open! Open the doors! Help! Christ, let us out!" rising to a hysterical crescendo.

Then the doors moved.

A hundred frantic grasping fingers, strong and slender, high up and low down, got into the act, pulling the doors from both directions, forcing a gap, which widened—widened …

Revealing solid wall. The elevator had stopped between floors. The bottom of the outside doors was at waist level to those trapped inside. But even as this was discovered, the outer doors parted. The individuals milling around outside seemed in a daze. Only when people actually began to scramble out of the marooned car did hands reach down to help.

For Art, it was a sort of miracle. Being right by the doors, he was up and over, rudely hoisted out, free almost before he knew what was happening. Others were also emerging, and he twisted around to help a woman nearby. She was screaming, flailing, not understanding that this was the road to safety. As Art reached for her, he grew aware that more and more people were scrambling and squeezing past. Back in the elevator, others shrieked and shoved, desperately trying to make it to the front; timid creatures hesitating, brave ones helping friends, some injured or catatonic with fear; the unluckiest of all lying where the first cruel blow had felled them.

Art was aware of this for only the briefest moment, as of a scene caught in a strobe light. Then the hand of the woman he was helping flailed across his face, nails ripping his brow. Pain exploded in his head. He let go of the woman, almost tumbling back into the elevator. But he steadied himself, pain receding, even as he was half blinded by blood. He brushed it away, regained his balance, then his arm was grasped from below. A face loomed near. A voice yelled, unmistakable even over the din.

Art! Art, buddy! Help me!

It was Hank: goddamn Hank—but for whom they wouldn’t be here in the first place. Art had a flash of rage, but reached down, trying his best to boost the fat guy out of there. Hank’s hand grasped his shoulder, then slipped off. Art bent lower but, such was his frail balance, he was deathly afraid of falling back down. At last he got hold of something, the lapel of Hank’s jacket. He held on, then shifted his grip, trying to get more of the garment so he could finally lay hold on the man.

Hank! Art yelled. "Hank, for fuck’s sake, grab on to me." Hank tried to do that, twisting and straining, features fiercely contorted, as if trying to lift himself by sheer will. But it was impossible; something was broken below, a leg maybe or a hip, so he just couldn’t raise himself. Art still had only the lapel of the coat, and dared not let go, lest the guy slip out of reach entirely. Help me! he shouted again. Come on, Hank. You can do it!

But Hank couldn’t. And when Art made a last desperate attempt to improve his grip, his fingers slid even farther, leaving him with only a useless handful of coat lining.

At that moment, there came a sound like the crack of a high powered rifle.

Following that—a time-sliver of utter stillness …

Then the elevator vanished.

It was like a grotesque magic trick. One moment the gondola with its desperate cargo was there, then, with an air-rush like a giant’s intake of breath—it was gone: gulped by another dimension.

There was no time to let go. The occupant of Hank’s jacket was snatched away, leaving Art clutching a remnant: only by some rare chance was his arm not severed by the roof of the car. Someone else was not so lucky. A split second after the elevator disappeared, a black snake crashed from above, whipping round and amputating the head of a man nearby. Both parts of the body followed the severed cable into the pit. And Art, who would carry that image to his own grave, staggered back, retreating from the scene of horror—and directly into the mouth of hell.

≈  ≈  ≈

He was descending endless stairs—had been doing so for what seemed like an eternity.

After escaping the terror of the elevator, Art had entered a scene of pandemonium. He was somewhere above the 80th floor, a space filled with cubicles and desks, not unlike his own place of work. But now, as he stumbled along, all he was aware of was the roiling mass of humanity, the screams and coughs and cries, the swirling smoke and, in the background, the mindless bleat of the PA system, ordering everyone to evacuate—evacuate—evacuate …

Art had no idea what had occurred. The only thing clear was that there was a ferocious fire raging above their heads. As he shuffled along, joining a band of terrified but now mostly calm workers making for the stairs, he began to hear snatches of talk. There’d been some sort of massive explosion at the top of the tower: an electrical overload had caused it; no, a bomb had gone off; no, a plane or maybe a helicopter had hit the building: a coked-up pilot was the culprit, terrorists were responsible, shoddy construction was to blame … No one had any real idea of what had happened. All they did know was that there was a holocaust, and they had to get the hell out.

It couldn’t have been more than 30 yards from where Art had burst onto the scene to the nearest stairwell, but it seemed to take an eternity to get there. The smoke wasn’t as bad as it had been by the elevator shaft, but it was increasing. Reaching at last a place where he could see out, the bright September sun angling through the haze, Art got a view of the other tower. Pristine and shining, it seemed to glint a reproach at whatever madness had overtaken its twin.

Then, even as he watched, the impossible happened. A plane flew by outside the window: a jetliner.

So close, the wing appeared to barely miss the building. So loud, it seemed no eardrum could survive.

It was below eye level.

A mere second was afforded for reaction because, in the next, the plane reached the end of its journey—the only destination possible in its fatal trajectory:

The other tower.

Observing what came next, he understood—his soul stripped for all time of innocence and delight—what must have happened to his tower.

The plane—now a missile—hit the other tower several floors below their own level. Their viewpoint prevented their witnessing the exact place of impact, but there was a gigantic explosion. A billowing, boiling cauldron of red, yellow and white spewed forth, an erupting volcano-head, twice as wide as the tower itself, expanding upward and outward and downward simultaneously, like the creation of a new star. From the midst of this cataclysm, smaller spumes and geysers leaped like satanic fireworks. Finally, expanding almost at the speed of light, came an all-engulfing shroud of sulfurous gray smoke.

All of this happened in seconds. During that time, the watching crowd was in a trance. Then somebody screamed—and the spell broke. What had been an orderly passage to the exit became a panic-fueled flight. Caught in the midst of the melee, Art was shoved and buffeted along, trying to keep his feet in the struggling throng, as the crazed mass converged on the exit.

That most of them made it through was a marvel. Art, who had lost all sense of direction, was sucked to the centre of the crowd and was one of the first through the door. In the stairwell, a stream of people was already surging from above. The convergence of these with the newcomers made a log-jam of bodies, packed and immobile. There were curses and screams, but also reassuring cries and sobs of real pain. The forward bulge of the jam reached the stairhead and the first ones went over. Most managed to keep their feet, but a girl fell and went flying; then an older man, who’d tried to save her, was himself propelled over by folk frantically squeezing by. He plunged, rolled and hit his head, sliding down to the next landing, where he did not move. Art saw all this from near the wall, where he’d managed to crawl after being ejected onto the landing and almost trampled. Then a clump of churning limbs blotted everything from view as the bulk of the crowd squeezed itself onto the stairs, scurrying downward and out of sight.

There were still people escaping from higher levels, but the number quickly shrank to a trickle. For those caught above the fire, exits were apparently being cut off fast. The stairwell, which had been mayhem, now became reasonably safe to navigate.

Art’s natural tendency to be solitary now served him well. Instead of hurrying to catch the others, he made himself take it easy, descending steadily but warily; this also helped calm his own wildly pounding heart.

On the first landing he came upon the girl he’d seen fall. She was on the floor, quietly sobbing, a shattered arm hanging grotesquely by her side. The man who’d tried to help her lay immobile nearby.

It was then that Art made his fateful decision: no doubt he’d encounter many such unfortunates, before—and always assuming if—he made it out of here; since he couldn’t help them all, he’d better concentrate on not becoming a victim himself. Ignoring the two on the landing, averting his eyes, he hurried by. When he came upon the next casualty just two floors down, a beefy man who