Lambs Books of Life

By Carla Richardson

Lambs Books of Life is the beginning story about a hunt for the volumes that make up the complete Book of Life, which is said to chronicle the names of every soul’s fate for eternity.
During his daily routines in the Detroit metropolitan area, Cris notices beings that he eventually finds out are Recording Angels, sent down to follow man through life and chronicle his actions with the documentation inside a group of books that they carry with them. As Cris learns more about angels from his mother and aunt, he joins up with David, a man he meets online. David has also been seeing angels, while dealing with the illness and death of his wife, Debbie.
Although Cris doesn’t know it at first, David happens to share a connection with Cris’ estranged sister, Genie. It is after talking with David and researching his Bible and online that Cris’ surmises that there are actually 7 different volumes that make up the complete Book of Life. The books are Wealth, Power, Poverty, Kindness, Birth, Death and Evil and are numbered, BOL-I through BOL-VI. The books change periodically to avoid any angel learning too much about one volume, and the only way a human can view the contents of a book is if they are chronicled within it. Cris’ interactions with these angels result in him ending up with one of the books, which he must somehow return to the angels while being pursued by both angels and demons.
When Cris travels to Dallas to meet with Cris, he is reunited with Genie, who happens to find another volume while going through Debbie’s things. Cris is also visited by two angels, Cass and Alana, that he thinks are there to retrieve the new book, but who turn out to be demons trying to get all the books for their own purposes.
After David is involved in a car accident with his daughters, who are unknowingly possessed by the demons Hepsur and Melina, he is visited in the hospital by two more angels, Dawn and Goldac, trying to protect him and his important role in destiny that is chronicled in the books. Meanwhile, one of the nurses, Tina, is working with the demons that have possessed David’s daughters to get the books and kill David, because he is supposed to have a key role in ushering in the New Covenant. After failing to kill David, Tina and the demon daughters return to David’s house and steal the book.
During this time, an additional story involving two angels, Esca and Heryl, is unfolding in California. Esca and Heryl note that the contents of the books are changing.
There is a fiery fight and reunion of the demons, Cass and Alana with Hepsur and Melina, at Tina’s house. The result of this fight is the escape of Cris and David with the book that was in Debbie’s things. Dawn and Goldac send Cris and David driving to California to meet up with Esca and Heryl and release the book, so they think. Before they leave, the book falls open and Cris sees his own name.
Along the way, Cris is overwhelmed by the desire to try to open up the book, which closes on its’ own, and which he thinks is the Book of Death. During their journey from Texas to California, the book opens and shows a name and age of a woman, and Cris takes this omen to mean that they are supposed to prevent this woman’s death. They detour their route to intercept her before she dies, only to find out that she is the one who is the killer.
While on their way to California, Cris and David are involved in a terrible multi-car accident caused by Cass and Alana. This plot twist involves an engineer and her boss who dies in the wreckage to be used in future books. While Cris is escapes with the book, David is trapped inside the wreckage. Before the firefighters can free David, Cris sees Cass and Alana take him hostage and disappear. Grieving on the side of the road and trying to figure out what to tell his sister, Cris is given another book and told by an angel that he has to collect the other five books.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carla Richardson
• Release date: Aug 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370462186

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I felt the tires lock and slide on the ice for a few inches, as I pulled into the parking lot of the credit union. I let out a sigh of relief and thanked God it was too early for the traffic to be heavy or I’d have ended up in the middle of someone’s way. There were three cars already in the lot, and I recognized each of them and their drivers.

When I parked the car and got out, I could hear the salted snow and ice crunch underneath my boots like potato chips. The air was cold and smelled of donuts and cappuccino. I kicked the snow off my boots and waited inside the small vestibule watching the others get out of their cars and head for the door.

There was John getting out of his green Ford Escort, fresh from his shift at the plant. As cold as it was, he still refused to put a hat on over his rapidly balding head.

Next was Mary with her Ziploc bag full of mini muffins or cookies or some other things to feed us this morning. Each day she came to the credit union, she treated us to a new and different recipe from her endless supply of cookbooks.

Morning, John, I managed before the sudden but expected burst of cold air hit my lungs.

Morning he offered back, with a glance at Mary heading towards us. Looks like Mary wants to add a few more inches to my gut.

Right on schedule as always. I contributed, as my waistband fought to hold back its own avalanche of flesh built solidly from late-night cheeseburgers, fries and assorted junk food. My job as a corporate trainer meant being in hotel rooms more than I cared to remember with the only familiar face being that of a snickers bar or bag of potato chips.

Good Morning, ya’ll! Mary sang as she breezed through the doorway looking impeccably coifed and manicured for so early a time in the morning.

Hi, Mary, John and I replied in unison before laughing at our own silliness.

So what have you brought us this morning? I asked.

Mary smiled and waved her hand over the open bag, sending a drape of Chanel No. 5 and fresh baked goods floating towards us. This morning, I decided to bring ya’ll some pinwheel cookies with homemade fruit jam in the middle. And she thrust the bag directly under our noses.

To hear Mary talk, anyone would swear she was born and raised down South somewhere instead of right here in Michigan. I enjoyed the way her words seemed to roll off her tongue like music. I took a cookie with apple jam and listened without hearing as Mary and John exchanged information about their families.

I watched as a few more people squeezed into the tiny lobby. Now there were six of us inside, including the ATM machine, which took up the entire corner. There was the black lady and her daughter, whose name I never bothered to get because their dress and conversation were always more interesting. Today she was wearing a pair of torn blue sweat pants and the new gym shoes I recognized from recent commercials. I wondered how could someone afford $185 shoes but couldn’t afford to sew up the hem on some $12 sweats? The woman’s hair was brown and blond, and her daughter sported a ponytail filled with ringlets of black, burgundy and purple. Their conversation usually revolved around the place that they worked and it was peppered with obscenities, giving very little or no regard to those within earshot.

This particular morning another black lady joined us. She had on blue jeans and a white sweater and a long tan coat that had a huge hood trimmed in brown fur. She wore a pair of old brown work boots mostly worn by construction workers. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail that complimented her beautiful caramel skin and almond-shaped eyes. I had seen her before, but had never made conversation with her. She never talked to anyone, opting instead to just listen. Today she was holding a large brown book. She took turns listening and watching us and making notes in her book. I tried to read the cover without being overly obvious. The letters seemed to blend in with the texture of the book, making it difficult for me to decipher. Squinting my eyes to get a closer look, I could make out the letters B-O-L-I-V before John shifted on his feet and stepped in front of her. My eyes left the book and traveled up her sweater to her face where she met my eyes. Embarrassed, I quickly lowered my head.

The sound of the lock turning in the door behind me made me jump as one of the credit union tellers opened it up for service. I went up to the first available window and handed my slip to the teller through the small opening in the bulletproof glass. Turning around to look at the stream of people behind me, I didn’t see the lady or her book in the line or at any of the windows. I caught a glimpse of her about 20 people back from the front of the line, and wondered how she had gotten that far back. Her face held only calm and patience as she waited her turn with the others and continued to make notations in her book. I made myself a mental note to talk to her next week and apologize for staring.

Walking out to my car, the air seemed warmer now than when I first got out this morning. The snow had come earlier this year and had covered the entire state in a blanket of white. And while I liked the snow, I hated the ice. No matter how experienced a driver claimed to be, nothing could prepare them for maneuvering down a highway covered in black ice. Winter just happened to be a lousy by-product of taking up residence in the Midwest. The reward for strolling through beautiful Springs that tasted of rain and newness or playing softball and miniature golf wrapped in the warmth of a humid Summer and walking to school through barrelfuls of leaves that wafted down with a breeze carrying the scent of apples and Autumn was the drudgery of having to endure below 0 wind chills and road salt-spattered cars for three to four months out of the year.

My cell phone rang as I was warming my car up. I adjusted the blower down so I could hear better and glanced at the display screen that confirmed my mother was awake and ready to torment me in order to start her day off right. I pushed the button to talk.

Hi, Mom.

Hello, dear. Did I catch you at a bad time? She asked me, not really caring whether the answer was yes or no.

Nope, not at all. I’m just leaving the credit union. Is everything all right?

Oh, fine, fine, dear. Do you have to work today?

No, ma’am. Remember I told you that I had some time off… I can’t believe I walked into that one. I could have kicked myself.

Good, then you’re not too busy. I need you to take me grocery shopping. You know how I hate getting out in this weather. Bang, she got me.

I took a deep breath and dropped my shoulders. Sure, Mom, I can take you to get groceries. Where did you want to go? I asked, cringing in expectation of her answer because it was sure to include locations that covered the entire metropolitan area.

If I can find everything I need at that Meijer’s store out by you, then I won’t have to go anywhere else.

Fat chance of that, I thought. What time did you want to go, Mom?

I’ll be ready to go as soon as you can get here, honey. She replied.

Okay, I’m on my way. I quickly and obediently told her.

Fine, baby. I’ll see you soon. Be careful. There’s crazy people out there driving. She put out into the atmosphere right before hanging up the phone.

I will, Mom. Bye. And just like that, my mother spoke disaster into existence as I disconnected her call and backed out of my parking spot into the rear end of a passing car.

Fuming and cursing under my breath, I dug through the papers in my wallet to retrieve my license, car registration and insurance information. I threw my car door open so forcefully that it banged the car next to me. Just another layer of icing on that cake of despair, I thought. And even though the accident was totally my fault, I let loose an onslaught of insults to the other driver.

Are you crazy? Didn’t you see me backing out of that parking spot? You’re not supposed to be speeding your car through this lot, you know! I yelled without a pause.

The man who I was aiming my barrage of words at neither responded nor smiled. He handed me his license and insurance papers and continued to stand quietly while I continued my rant. I was yelling too much to even notice what I was copying down.

You know, I don’t know what the fine or ticket is for speeding through a parking lot, but you should get it! Do you know how many people bring their children with them to the credit union? What if one of them had been coming through this parking lot and you had plowed them down? The police ought to take you right to jail!

And as if on cue from a movie director, a police car pulled around the corner of the parking lot, flashed his lights to disperse the small crowd that was forming and got out of his vehicle to assess the situation. Because I was the loudest, he came to me first.

Officer, do you see what this idiot did? Speeding through this parking lot like he did and causing this entire accident? I yelled.

The police officer held out his hands in front of him and pleaded with me to gain control.

Look, let’s all just calm down shall we? The officer looked to be in his late 30’s and sported a thin mustache. Small sprouts of dark hair peeked out from both sides of his cover that left his earlobes exposed to the winter air.

I handed him my information and became instantly aware that my commotion had caused the crowd of people patronizing the surrounding businesses to stop, look and whisper. I searched their faces for understanding and found none, until I met the eyes of the lady from the vestibule I had lost in the crowd. Having concluded her business, she had joined the other onlookers. Still clutching her book in her hands, she locked eyes with me only briefly before scribbling something inside of the cover. She looked over at the police officer who had retreated to the gentleman from the other vehicle.

The man was elfish and appeared to be about 70 years old. His round head was uncovered and displayed wisps of white hair that danced in the breeze around the brown age spots. Though the wind was biting and slicing its way through my clothing, this man wore no scarf and seemed quite unaffected by the weather. His dark wool coat hung past his knees while his bare hands were peeking out from the top of his pockets.

He spoke very quietly to the police officer, so those could not decipher his words around him, and he nodded his responses to the officer’s inquiries.

I watched as the two of them walked around to where the two vehicles had collided and rushed over to join them to make sure my voice was heard.

Well, Officer, what kind of damage is it? I asked.

He stood up from his crouched position and lifted the brim on his hat. There’s actually very little, if any, damage done to either one of your cars. You must not have hit as hard as you thought. Pretty lucky break if you ask me.

I bent over and looked at both cars only to discover that it looked like they hadn’t touched at all. Trying to recall from my short-term memory whether or not I had actually heard the crunch of metal proved fruitless. Shaking my head and shrugging my shoulders, I began to apologize for my overzealous outburst.

Sir, I’m really sorry that I blew up like I did. It seems as if there is no damage to the cars at all. I felt like a fool, and I thrust out my hand to shake his. Through my gloves, his hand felt tiny as he returned my firm handshake with one of his own. The old man nodded his head to me but spoke nothing before returning to his car and departing. The officer evaporated into the business of clearing the crowd, and I was left standing alone at the tail of my car and dignity. Feeling extremely ridiculous and petty, I pulled my coat around me for warmth and comfort and got in my car.

CHAPTER 2

David Mitchell stood staring at the glaring Texas sun come through his office window. Despair held him prisoner and had him completely incapable of little more than courtesy chitchat. All his thoughts, pains, joys and fears were of his wife and only love, Debbie.

Debbie had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer over six years ago, and David could remember every office visit, chemo treatment and injection that had taken place since then. And although at one point it had been in remission, the disease had come raging back to spread to other parts of her body. He picked up their wedding picture that he kept on his desk and traveled backwards in memory.

Young, headstrong and fresh out of college with a degree in business, David was living the carefree life of ease. Luck had been with him when he managed to secure an entry-level management position working for Davenport Industries in downtown Dallas. Having grown up in nearby rural Corsicana gave David the advantage of being able to live with his parents while he saved enough money for his own place.

While walking through the tunnels underneath the busy streets of the Dallas heart, David was caught by the aroma of fresh roses. Perfectly framed within a backdrop of yellow, white and red flowers, was Debbie, working the register. Though she didn’t notice him that day, David returned daily to watch her work. Her delicate features in such contrast to his own, David couldn’t help wondering how her thick blond hair would feel underneath his fingers. Her smile was delicious and infectious and caused her green eyes to twinkle against the brightly-lit flower closets. It took over a month of walking through that tunnel and past her shop before David grew enough nerve to go in and speak to her. Then it took another month of convincing before Debbie would even agree to go out with him.

Debbie had grown up in Michigan, before coming to Texas on a scholarship to Southern Methodist University. Being raised within Muskegon under the strict rule of her religious parents caused her to rebel and sacrifice everything to get away from them. When the semester breaks came between December and January, Debbie opted to find employment locally rather than spend a month under the constant snowfall of western Michigan.

Deciding that it was easier and less expensive to live together, David and Debbie celebrated their 8-month anniversary by moving into an apartment together outside of Dallas. Debbie reveled in her new role of homemaker for the two of them. She budgeted and shopped and planned romantic meals for the two of them while David worked his way up through management at Davenport.

When Debbie became pregnant in the middle of her graduate studies at SMU, the stress of handling a household, David, school and work took their toll on her health and caused her to miscarry. And although David had been unprepared for fatherhood, the loss of the baby left a void in their young lives. He watched the sadness fill Debbie’s eyes whenever the silence enveloped them, and he knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life making sure she never knew hurt again. So he asked her to be his wife. They had been together almost thirty years before he broke that promise and watched Debbie be wheeled down the hospital corridor to yet another chemotherapy treatment.

The pungent odor of bleach and cleansing agents peppered with apple juice and sickness burned David’s nostrils as he waved to Debbie down the endless hallway. Allowing a single tear to trail down the side of his nose and salt his lips, David tried to remain upbeat and cheerful for his daughters. Not that it mattered. His two daughters had to be the most selfish, ungrateful individuals that he had ever known. The outgoing, loving, generous spirit of his wife had never seen the light of day in his girls, Diane and Doris. They were cold, selfish, and vindictive.

Standing alone in the hospital hallway deep into his own thoughts of desperation and despair, David didn’t notice the priest who had appeared next to him. Not uttering a single word, the priest took David’s arm and led him down the crowded hallway to the chapel. Once there, the priest waited patiently while the tears flowed from David without interruption and he spilled his tale of woe to this stranger. When David thought he could cry no more, the priest got down on his knees and motioned for David to do the same as he prayed to God for the Mitchell family. He calmed himself and lifted his head to thank the priest for his powerful prayer only to find himself alone in the dimly lit sanctuary.

David rushed to his feet just in time to see the door closing. Bursting into the unusually quiet hallway, David approached one of the nurses.

Excuse me, Nurse, but could you tell me where I can find the hospital priest? he asked.

The nurse gave David a puzzled expression that melted into concern. Are you a member of the family?

David shook his head and tried to clarify himself. No, no, I just wanted to thank him for praying with me just now.

The nurse, whose stitched name read ‘Gloria’, put down her pen and bit her lip. Sir, the hospital priest died just a few days ago, we haven’t had a chance to replace him yet.

Oh, well maybe it wasn’t the hospital priest. But there was a priest in the chapel with me just now that came out right before I did. I saw the door closing behind him.

No, sir, I’m sorry. That was me who opened the door. You had been in there alone for over an hour, and I was just checking to see if you were all right.

A red light suddenly flickered for room 143. Sir, you’ll have to excuse me. I have patients waiting. She said to David as she pushed herself through the small opening between the desk and the wall and walked down the hallway and disappeared into one of the rooms.

David watched Gloria until she was gone, and then he turned in the opposite direction and walked away.

As David stared down the 38 floors from the window of his office in downtown Dallas, he wondered if Debbie would ever fully recover from the terrible monster that had plagued her so long and remembered that day in the hospital. He picked up the airline tickets that lay on his desk and thought about the upcoming trip to Toronto, remembering Debbie’s difficulty in getting around in the cold weather. These treatments cost over $16,000 and were designed to make Debbie stronger. But they seemed to leave her worse than before. He closed his eyes in silent prayer and begged the God of his grandfather and the never forgotten priest to release either him or Debbie from this torture.

CHAPTER 3

As I turned the corner at Merriman and Schoolcraft to get on the freeway, my cell phone rang once again. Even without looking, I knew the incoming call was from my mother.

Yes, Mom?

What’s taking you so long? You should have been here by now. Where are you? My mother fired her questions at me like a sharpshooter.

I just got on the Jeffries. What do you want? I retorted, hoping she wouldn’t chastise me for my rudeness.

Your Aunt Perrylene just showed up. She needs you to run by the store on your way here.

Why can’t she just go with us to the store once I get there?

Because she is making me something over here while we’re gone. Now stop questioning me and write this stuff down.

Thankful that I had invested in the hands-free headset for my phone, I used one hand to drive and the other to dig through the contents of my cluttered front seat for a pen and a scrap of paper.

Go ahead, Mom.

I nodded my head as I wrote down my aunt’s extensive and somewhat confusing list of supplies. From this list, I couldn’t tell if she was cooking up one of her mother’s old recipes or exorcising a demonic spirit. With her, it could be either. What, I wondered, was armyworm?

My Aunt Perrylene is a true missionary. One of the only missionaries I know and that included all the women in white who went to my mother’s church. I think that she must have accepted her calling from the Lord at a very early age, even though my mother has told me stories about how Aunt Perrylene mistreated her as a girl.

The oldest of ten children born to my grandmother, Gussie, Perrylene had watched over her younger brothers and sisters all their lives. Though the brood represented the fruit of three husbands, whom none of the grandchildren ever knew, all of her children were very close to each other.

My grandmother worked picking cotton in the fields of Texas and New Mexico, and her children along with her. Long days in the searing sun, moving and working wherever there was money to be made had become common existence for the children. And Perrylene, was the toughest and strongest. Able to pick as much or more cotton than most of her male counterparts, Perrylene also watched over her siblings.

My mother was the only child from the short marriage between her parents, and Perrylene singled her out for abuse because of it. Always with a desire for cleanliness and neatness, even when picking cotton, my mother endured the wrath and teasing of her oldest sister. When young men would come around to gain my mother’s attention, Perrylene would make up wickedly nasty stories about her in an attempt to discourage them. But despite all the terrible charges she was forced to defend, my mother never retaliated against her sister. Time proved to be the greatest equalizer as my mother had been married to my father for fifty-three years before he passed and my aunt had never married.

Though I’m sure Aunt Perrylene would attribute her lack of male attention to her devotion to God and the mission work, I believe that it was a result of what she had done as a young woman. The way you treat others affects your own life’s circumstances both directly and indirectly. The response to what a person releases from their spirit always returns to them in some form or fashion. And although she had completed numerous missionary assignments throughout the world, there was a loneliness in Aunt Perrylene having never been intimate with a man.

The automatic doors of the store welcomed me inside with the aroma of fresh fruit and vegetables and bright fluorescent runways eager for my approach. I swiftly maneuvered the crowded aisles and plucked the desired items as fast as I could find them, just to have to wait in a long line to pay for them.

Standing in the supermarket line behind hordes of senior citizens taking advantage of mid-week specials afforded me the opportunity to gain my bearings and prepare some excuse for not being able to stay at my mother’s for any length of time.

In the middle of concocting what I felt would turn out to be a believable lie, I sensed someone watching me. It was like the feeling you get when you’re in a room all alone and you are keenly aware of everything around you. The feel of the floor underneath your feet, the way the light of the room feels across your skin and the sound of even the tiniest fragment of movement around you is disturbed when the energy of another being enters the same space you currently inhabit. The sound of their energy crackles inside your ears like a television being turned on.

I looked around through the weary faces of elder shoppers and caught the eye of a middle-aged gentleman dressed in a navy blue suit sprinkled with small squares of gray. He was standing two lines over from mine and scribbling into what looked to be a diary or journal. Although he noticed me watching him, his eyes only left mine to return to his book and notes.

I tried not to stare, but there was something about him that drew my attention. His skin seemed whiter than normal, almost translucent and seemed to glow against the darkness of his suit. And even though he was standing in the line to pay for groceries, he didn’t have a basket. The more I watched this man, the less able I was to stop staring at him. I found myself studying him from head to toe, drinking in every detail about him as if I was going to be tested or asked to pick him out of a lineup. My own line moved more quickly than did his, and I found myself in front of the cashier before too long. The brief moments it took for me to retrieve my money and pay for the groceries must have been the window of opportunity the gentleman needed to leave, because when I took my bag from the boy who bagged them and looked back in the man’s direction, I couldn’t find him.

CHAPTER 4

The warm smells of my mother’s cranberry orange candles met me as I used my key to open her front door. I could hear the muffled conversation of my mother and Aunt Perrylene above the hum of the furnace forcing hot air through the floor vents.

A thousand memories flooded my mind as I took off my wet boots before entering the living room. Always spotless and waiting for visitors invited and unexpected, my mother’s living room had served as my blanket fort on the rare occasions when my father wasn’t around and we children were allowed to play here. The vents had served as our personal space heaters during Sunday afternoon naps when we didn’t want to venture upstairs to our room. No matter how far away from here I traveled, this house on Mark Twain would always be home to me. For home is made up of the memories you have, and this house was full of them.

I didn’t bother trying to interrupt or figure out what the conversation between the two women was about before entering the kitchen where they sat sipping coffee. I planted a kiss on the cheek of each of them and sat down and waited for them to include me in whatever they were talking about.

Mary ought to know by now that Travis is grown and it’s no use trying to raise a grown man after he’s got that way, my mother was saying.

She never should have let him spend so much time with his daddy back in the days when John was hanging out in the alley. Aunt Perrylene added.

My mother laughed. Mama used to try to whip that boy and keep him in line, but Mary didn’t want her to do it. And when John lost his mind and thought he was gonna tell Mama what not to do in her own house….she almost cut him up and sent him to Jesus!

He should have known better than that. We all told him Mama was crazy! At this point, both my mother and aunt broke into raucous laughter.

After the few moments of laughter quieted down, my mother said quietly, Yeah, I miss that old woman. Aunt Perrylene nodded and they both sat silently for what seemed like an eternity dwelling on the memory of their mother. Finally my aunt spoke to me.

So baby, did you get everything Auntie asked you to get? I nodded as she peeked in the bag that I had placed on the table in front of her, inspecting each item carefully.

Was the store crowded? My mother asked.

Yes, I nodded and rolled my eyes as I relaxed further back into the chairs. It was horrible. Filled to the brim with old people just like you two. I laughed.

Watch it now. My mother swatted at me with her purse.

But there was a strange man at the store. I told them while I tried to draw a mental picture of him.

What do you mean strange? Aunt Perrylene asked.

"Well, even though the store was crowded and he was standing in line, he didn’t