Design For Honor

By Joshua Holmes

Freelance graphic designer Remi Painter is fresh off of another close brush with death. To re-focus, he enters a design contest that promises some notice and a cash award. He shows to the event, where he expects to receive the coveted honor. Remi hopes that his story of persistence in the field and quality competition, despite his condition, epilepsy, will inspire those in attendance. Just as Remi is preparing to accept his honor and tell his story, however, he has one of the worst seizures he's ever had. Instead of waking to an expectant audience, he awakens to a nightmare, where the attendees are also on the floor next to him, either injured or dead. As rumors of terrorism spread, so also does speculation of a hijacking, and talk of other technicalities tied to the contest. Can Remi defeat postictal exhaustion, sift through the lies of the press, and pinpoint specific details about the tragic evening, to restore a semblance of honor to those lost, and in time to save the living?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Holmes
• Release date: Dec 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370748976

Joshua Holmes

A GRADUATE OF the Pennsylvania State University (M.Ed.), the Edinboro University of Pennsylvania (B.A.), and the Art Institute of York-PA (B.S.), Joshua Holmes has studied the fine arts, design, and writing for over 20 years.The sole proprietor and lead designer of JAHbookdesign, he also specializes in all areas of publishing, graphic design, and illustration (portraiture, animation, and wildlife). He has been commissioned by numerous collectors and authors within the community, and has won several awards in various shows and fairs. He has authored an autobiography, a how to series, and two fiction series about life with epilepsy, seventeen novels to date - The Art of Pastel Mastery, The Art of Colored Pencil Mastery, The Art of Oil Paint Mastery, The Art of Graphite Pencil Mastery, Memory Lapse, Grand Mal, Seizure, Status, Trigger, Design To Kill, Design For Justice, Shattered Lung, Design To Escape, Design For Honor, Design For Power, Design For The Cure, and Painting The Whole Picture: Portrait of an Artist with Epilepsy - all of which are available in print, ebook, and audiobook.He attributes his success to the Lord, and the strength God gives him in order to persist and grow as a more patient and thorough artist and writer. A vision cut in both eyes from brain surgery for epilepsy, and CP in his right side since birth, with the Lord's help, Josh continues to write, to see more detail, and to improve with time.He encourages you to explore and exercise your creative side, and enjoy what the Lord does through it.Visit Joshua Holmes at his professional site jahbookdesign.com and at all online book distributors.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

MASSACRE

I HAD EXPERIENCED my worst Grand Mal seizure ever. At the worst time ever. In the worst place ever. A pretty mortifying inconvenience, all around.

My faculties had just returned to me, fifty minutes after the arranged ceremony, the recovery time lasting ten minutes longer than usual. Fresh off of a concussion, my eyes crossed, and my ears filled with the sounds of an underground tunnel. I still fought confusion and a postictal fog that only I knew and as only I could.

Nevertheless, I expected an eager audience to clap, and that I would start where I left off. I would get up from the floor, gather myself the best I could, go onstage, accept the award to more applause, and give the inspirational speech I intended to all along.

I pondered over and refined the speech’s content and message for weeks, just blocks away at my favorite bar, The Big Red (where in years past, I met two love interests in Mona and Rachel), so that I might touch someone in need. It wasn’t everyday you had the opportunity to share your story and formally encourage a random or not-so-random person from behind a podium. I didn’t hold back.

I worked too hard to personally postpone this big night, or to have anyone else do the same for any reason. I’m talking hours and hours of composition before and after completing the speech, drawing thumbnails and design possibilities that would beat out my rivals. My condition would not keep me from the accolades I pushed myself to earn. Save the re-schedule for the weak.

A regular to epilepsy and its random attacks, I seized and awakened like this to curious bystanders—in multiple contexts throughout my life—more times than I could count, so I was just anticipating my norm. Granted, a concussion added an extra dimension, so I’d take a moment to assure those more concerned about liability. And then I’d get right back to business.

However, something else was off. I sensed it, yet didn’t comprehend it immediately. It hit me at half-speed, perhaps. A deepening pit that formed in my stomach also distracted me. But the more I looked around, the more I saw, the more it all began to register and take shape. I realized I not only returned to consciousness, but also to something far worse: A massacre.

1

IN A PILE

I CRAWLED OVER the bodies at the base of the stage like a wounded soldier atop a ravaged battlefield. On all fours, my head hung low and pounded, and my body burned as I leaned forward and pushed my way through the obscene pile of corpses.

I couldn’t afford to sink beneath it all, either. I had to be selective about how and where I moved. There was no telling—with a miscalculation— whether I could compromise and again reach the surface.

Anybody here? I yelled. Anyone at all? My shaky voice didn’t travel far, quickly muffled by the dead flesh, soaking into the maroon walls and ceiling.

An eerie silence filled the auditorium. Even the gaudy, Renaissance décor seemed to serve its purpose with an unsettling hush. Toward the back, a lone, white light barely attached to the drop ceiling revealed that row after row of ornate seats—a thousand plus initially arranged like graduation ceremony types—were empty, some chairs upright, some chairs tipped.

I couldn’t dwell on it now (or ever, for that matter), but I assumed the people who should have been spectating, alive and well out there as a group, were the same as those haphazardly sprawled face up and face down beneath me, comprising the pile.

The pile felt unreal, and yet loomed larger than any in my worst nightmare. Part of the mound—cold, unresponsive torsos and limbs—fell in and onto me from multiple angles. Another part—warmer bodies—clung to my skin like moist washcloths. Random articles of clothing occasionally brushed against me. While the heap ahead seemed to angle upward, literally rising above me.

So far, I’d only seen one familiar face in the crowd. Not that it made the situation any better. But yeah. I recognized the event host—previously a clean-cut, refined guy—who was now lying there, discolored and motionless.

Please! I tried again. Answer me! Anyone!

Fear filled me. Sweat soaked me. Adrenaline raced through me. Even so, I didn’t know how much longer I could traverse the cadaver spread. I saw a small opening by the platform amp that I would try to reach, but I just didn’t know if I’d get there. As I said, I only emerged from consciousness minutes before.

It’s me, Rembrandt Painter! Perhaps a foolish attempt. I didn’t know. It was hard to predict whether or not my name would help, but it was the only thing I could think to add.

I dreaded the possibility that in this room I was the only one alive, and prayed desperately I’d find other survivors. Minus any severe, physical trauma, preferably. And, in particular, my three best friends, hacking genius Jethro Silva, and motorcycle-loving investigators, Marshall and Lela Houston.

I’d come tonight to accept an honor that would’ve made all three of them proud, helped to pad my resume and my wallet, and instead—to put it mildly—I landed a tragic scenario straight out of a disturbing, suspense flick.

God help me.

2

FIRM

LINCOLN HARRIS, THE face of private investigation firm, See Thru, Inc., was happy that he remembered his sunglasses. They were a part of his no-nonsense agent persona, and a mask that synonymously hid the fear in his eyes.

He wouldn’t openly admit to it, but he was nervous for two big reasons: 1.) He and his crew had analyzed numerous crime scenes, but had never been asked to unofficially assess that of a massacre, and 2.) A number of previously investigated, innocent men and women—namely Rembrandt Painter, Lela and Marshall Houston, and Jethro Silva—were among the attacked, which inevitably impacted his objectivity.

There was a third reason he felt nervous, but he held it especially close. Having achieved a degree of fame after a couple, widely covered investigations, Harris had to embrace his notoriety, even though his actions could either unite supporters, or evoke dangerous, emotional responses from opposition.

He wanted to trust—after every case—the general public would remember he was human, that they would prove grateful of his efforts, and forgiving of any oversights.

No one had to remind him of his timely arrest of Mayor William Savage for illegal dealings with local homeless shelter, the HUNGER HOUSE. Or of his mistaken chase of Jamie Sillinger, blameless Red Lion resident and talented perfumer, when Carlin Kravitz—aka The Modifier—emerged instead as the disturbed, homicidal maniac.

But with all the city riots of late—in Baltimore and Philadelphia and Chicago, to name a few—you just didn’t know how civilized or uncivilized the public would be.

The ride from the firm’s attic office in Yoe, PA to Ground Zero in mid-York city, PA did afford Harris the opportunity to ponder these things, to prepare himself for any and all surprises. But a thirty-minute trek could only allow for so much bracing.

*

BROTHER DIRK WOULD help Lincoln if there happened to be a physical altercation, or if anything deemed dirty work arose.

As Lincoln liked to think, Dirk was the brawn of the company. A former tight end in semi-pro football, beefy and bald he hovered over everyone. His stature alone encouraged scared witnesses to talk, and the resistant ones to reconsider their options. When his appearance wasn’t enough, he didn’t hesitate to flex his muscle. An unorthodox asset, some said.

As independents, though, they relied on unorthodoxy. The unforeseeable approach was what set them apart, and helped them achieve success. Even so, Harris didn’t expect a resortment to violence.

Instead, Lincoln hoped his super vain yet intellectually superior sister-in-law, Dakota, would temporarily stop primping her red hair and filing her nails, would work at the top of her game, and offer her regular, trusted judgments and perspectives.

It was funny and perplexing to Harris how each investigation began with order, guided by standard procedure and expectations—certain people fulfilling allocated roles—and yet ended in a mishmash of activity, random people picking up where others left off, the inquiry leading to several possible outcomes, and closing with the most unlikely of answers.

Making his way into the lobby of The Strand Capitol Theatre, toward the tape barricade outside the conference hall, the same conflicting emotions surfaced.

3

THE STAND

OLIVE DAMATO REMEMBERED her first attempt at entrepreneurialism, selling lemonade behind a homemade, cardboard stand along the road in front of her house. She was five at the time. Maybe six.

Days prior, upon completing the stand cutout, she asked her mother to take her shopping at the local store. They both drove to Weis Markets, where Olive used the small allowance she’d accrued in her piggy bank to buy water, lemons, and sugar. Her purchases would serve as a good starting point.

Numerous people were kind enough to pull over and oblige Olive, donating above and beyond the quarter she asked for a cup of tart lemonade. She was hardly an expert, but she put her all into pleasing her customers. It gave her a rush.

She’d since seen many like her attempt to achieve that sense of accomplishment by doing the same, and each time the news outlets showcased an editorial piece on a youngster’s inspiring entrepreneurial spirit despite incredible odds, it warmed her heart.

That strong desire to do her best at everything and always push for better had been drilled into her from the beginning. And she embraced it, as it was all she ever knew. Call it successful