The Jairus Man: The Girl on a Cross, #1

By Sailor Stone

She's bright, she's beautiful, she's young, she's smart, she's ambitious, she's an orphan. 
As the sun sets on the day before Maria Martin's dream is to come true, her tennis ball gets away from her as she practices her strokes against the garage door of her foster home and rolls down a hill and into the garage of the house below. It is the home of two dark and evil men.
He's the come-back champ. Left four years previous by the only woman he's ever loved, Russell Tucker has finally put down the bottle and resurrected his tennis career. As a bonus, he's just made a remarkable new friend in ball-girl Maria Martin at a pro tennis event and his life couldn't be better. Then Maria is brutally attacked, and as Russell goes to save her, she steps in front of a bullet that is aimed at him.
Holly Stone is a world-renowned singer, remarried and on top of the charts, her life is perfect. Until her brand new husband, the man she thought she knew so well, assaults her in their own home. 
Afraid for her life and with nowhere else to go, she takes a long red-eye flight to her childhood home where she finds her ex-husband desperately fighting to save a young girl's life.
Benny Gluman is a snoop; he's a paparazzi reporter and he's hell-bent on destroying the lives of Russell and Holly. 
Join him as he looks through his camera lens and tries to figure out just what they are up too with this young girl lying comatose in a bed on Russell's beach estate and then listen in with him as Russell and Holly give Maria something to cling to as they tell her the story of their lives in this epic coming-of-age tale that brims with love, hope, and new discovery.
But they must wake her quickly, for evil comes their way, and it seeks the secrets that Maria found in the shadows of that basement garage and then hid away so well.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mystica Holdings LLC
• Release date: Jan 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386043836

Sailor Stone

Sailor Stone lives in the southern United States on the Atlantic coast where he stays busy writing novels and short stories in many genres, including Magical Realism, Coming of Age, Christian Literary, and Thrillers. His stories often feature protagonists that are trying to find their way in a cold and uncaring world, and where many times they get a slight - sometimes helpful, sometimes painful - nudge toward the truth from the supernatural.  Besides writing, he enjoys playing sports, photography, and studying the arts, philosophy, and religion. He likes discovering great books written by great authors, tasting new beers and wines, playing tennis, sitting in the back of a darkened nightclub and listening to a jazz trio take a long ride, being out on the open water in a boat, and worshiping quietly in the back of a church.  He considers the enjoyment of all the above to be multiplied exponentially by the accompaniment of his family and friends. For more about Sailor and his books go to www.sailorstone.com.

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

Benny Gluman. That’s my name. You don’t remember seeing my name but you sure have read it—you just didn’t care to see it. Your eyes skimmed past it every time you read one of my articles, searching its words, looking for the scoop, for the naked skin, for the blood and the dirt—the nasty underside of the rich, the famous, and the beautiful.

I go by Benny but that’s not the name that some people call me.

Holly Stone for instance.

Slimeball.

That’s the name she gave me. I can’t blame her. Slimeball is as close as Holly comes to cussing. She’s sweet like that—which used to make me sick.

I’ve been told by my publisher that I can’t tell you what Russell Tucker used to call me, at least not on the first page like this. Some readers have delicate ears I guess, or maybe they’re just self-righteous. So, I’ll just move along to something more about me.

Nut-less pussy.

Sorry, but there it is. That’s what he called me. As far as names go, it’s too good not to print on the first page. There is no gray area with Russell. He calls it like he sees it.

The moniker strips me of my manhood and then some.

Why would Russell and Holly call me such names? Because all my life I’ve tried to sneak into, to lurk within, to hide from, to witness and photograph—in their moments of unadulterated passion—the dark and illicit actions of our world’s most beautiful and famous celebrities. I catch on film the transgressions of their hearts and bodies—acts of sin that they never want revealed in the accusing light of a photo flash. To put it bluntly; I’ve made my livelihood by trying to get up the asses of the rich and famous. Holly’s and Russell’s cute asses in particular.

I’m a freelance writer and photographer, one of the paparazzi elite. I have, in my day, made many people’s lives difficult, unpleasant, and downright embarrassing. In some cases, my photos and stories ruined lives and I was glad for it. What did I care? People have hearts of trash and I expose them for what they are.

At least that’s what I used to think. Then I witnessed something—I became a part of it even—and I lost my focus. I took my eye away from my camera’s viewfinder and I took a look around—at the wide-angle view as it were—and what I saw changed me.

And so, with this story; I repent.

This is my first step from the slime so to speak, or better (with a tip of my cap to Russell), my first try at growing some real nuts.

Russell always said I was gay. Maybe I am and maybe I’m not, but that isn’t my problem anymore. Maybe it’s yours. Maybe you should come out. If you’re famous give me a call and I’ll make sure everyone knows. If you’re not famous and you decide to come out please don’t give me a call because I just don’t care and neither does the rest of the world. But do read my book and then go tell all your friends how much you loved it because this is a story that needs to be told and they need to know what happened.

Everything that follows is true. I listened, I watched, I asked the right questions, and I did my research. Trust me this once. If you believed all the bullshit I wrote for your favorite supermarket tabloid then you have to believe this book because I’m part of the story. I’m not just hiding under the stairwell, or flying over in a helicopter, or sneaking onboard an exclusive yacht during a party as a waitress (not waiter, waitress!) to get you the scoop on the rich and famous.

Both Russell and Holly are so natural at everything they do and it pissed me off. Give Russ a ball, a bat, a golf club, or, heaven forbid, a tennis racquet and he is – All American, All World, All Universe. He can do anything on an athletic field and he will stomp on your throat if helps him to win because you don’t matter to him.

And Holly? Give Holly a piano and a microphone and she’ll write a song that bullets to the top of the charts and then sing it to sold out arenas all over the planet. People can’t seem to get enough of either of them.

It makes me sick how talented they are. I had to crawl through sewer pipes to get to where I was the best reporter (I worked hard. Busted my ass!) and they, with all their God given talent, land on the map as international stars at twenty years of age. That pissed me off too. I spent years chasing them around the world trying to get the dirt on them and I got it. You read it in your favorite weekly tabloid or watched it on your favorite Hollywood gossip show. You lapped it up with big spoons and I made big money, but not as much as Russ and Holly made, thanks anyway.

Enough of my rant. All of this is the past. What lies before you, printed on these pages, will hit you square in the chest—smashing into your heart and making it beat for the promise that is real life.

The truth, writing it, feels so strange, but at the same time, as Jesus said, the truth will set you free.

I don’t drink too much now, I don’t eat too much either, and my sleep is almost restful. Now, I’m not saying I won’t hide in your bedroom to get a story, but if I do, I’ll try my best to tell the truth about the pictures that I took while hiding in the back of your closet.

For all that I’ve talked about Russ and Holly, this isn’t just their story—it’s the story of a young girl, an orphan named Maria, who barely spoke a word—and yet she changed me in the most profound of ways.

Finally, there is this: Maria listens to Russell, Holly, and their friends as they tell her their story. The story that she heard is rated PG-13. The one that you read here, the way it happened years ago, in real time, is me doing my research and getting the way the words were spoken in the time that they happened. I’m just trying to keep it real baby and I don’t do PG-13, sorry.

Anyway, if you like cameras peering in windows, hot romance, great sex, incredible tennis, true love and bitter hate, great friends and arch enemies, drinking to excess, guns blasting out in the night, wars raging, violent death, angels fighting demons, and the mustard seed that is human hope and love fighting to live—then read on, or, if your ears are delicate, or you consider yourself perfect, then don’t. Who gives a rat’s ass about you anyway.

To everyone else—trust me, this is good stuff.

Benny Gluman

CHAPTER ONE

August 1995 – What They Did, Stayed in the Dark

She forgot her tennis ball. Maria snapped upright in the seat, instantly awake, her heart pounding.

The bus driver, seated behind the steering wheel and just in front of Maria, looked at her in his rear-view mirror. He raised his eyebrows and asked, You have a bad dream? You about jumped from your skin.

Maria took a deep breath and thought about it, Yes sir, something like that.

Well, relax young lady. We’re just driving here. Everything is okay, he motioned to the front window with his hand. It’s raining now but I suspect that in a few minutes we’ll be driving in the sunshine again. Sunshine always fades a bad dream.

Maria nodded and looked out the window to her left where the rain streaked across the outside of the pane blurring the landscape beyond. She looked forward, past the bus driver, to the road ahead and saw an endless procession of wet, red taillights fading into what looked like even heavier rain farther up the interstate.

She dropped her gaze to the tennis magazine in her lap and thought again about her tennis ball. It was still there—perched between a box and the cellar wall. It was bad news if those two men saw it. They would know it was hers. She was sure they didn’t have new tennis balls, fresh out of the can, lying around in that basement. Men like that didn’t play tennis. Tennis was played in sunlight. What they did stayed in the dark.

The tennis ball changed things. She had thought she had got away clean. Now she wasn’t so sure. She had to tell someone. Should she tell someone she trusted, like Ms. Jernigan, when she returned to the girl’s home, or was two weeks too long to wait? She wouldn’t know anyone in New York at the National Tennis Open Championships, much less anyone that she trusted.

She peeked at the bus driver in his big rear-view mirror. He was concentrating on driving in the rain. He furrowed his brow as he navigated the bus through the heavy traffic. Maria decided she liked him and wondered if she could trust him.

She studied him. He looked about fifty-five, he was African-American and he sat upright and strong in his seat. His uniform was clean and unwrinkled—a perfect fit to his body.

It was part of his job on this trip, she knew, to watch over her and get her safely to New York. He never let her out of his sight except when they made stops and she went to the bathroom. Even then, when she’d come out of the restroom, he’d be standing nearby, waiting to make sure she got back to the bus.

Earlier that morning, in Macon, on a scorching hot Georgia day, before she could get on the bus—he’d promised Ms. Jernigan, the director of the Peach Tree Girl’s Home and also her tennis coach, that he would get Maria safely to New York. He said he would never leave her unattended and would see to it that she was placed in the care of the director of the ball boys and girls at the National Open Tennis Championships.

He promised to check the official’s ID also. Maria thought this a bit over the top, but Ms. Jernigan liked the idea, and it got her out of the depot and on the bus to New York.

Maria fidgeted in her seat. Usually sure of herself, she’d been getting increasingly nervous the last two days. She tried to calm herself. It was natural, she told herself, to be worried about leaving the girl’s home and to be going to New York to be a ball girl at the National Open.

She forced herself to think positive thoughts by looking back on her summer. It had been an exciting three months, and with so many junior tournaments to play, she’d hardly stayed at the orphanage. She’d spent most weeks playing tournaments and staying in the homes of the local junior players whose parents had volunteered to keep her while she was playing the event.

At thirteen-years old, she’d played up an age division in the Girl’s 16s, and had won the two biggest state tournaments, so being ranked number one in Georgia was a lock. She’d also done well in the Dixie sectional tournaments and she was certain she would be ranked either first, second, or third in the Dixie Regional. She didn’t play any national tournaments because, even with help from the National Tennis Association, the Peach Tree Girl’s Home simply couldn’t afford to send her to the events. Raising money for her to play the Dixie tournaments had been difficult enough as it was.

That was all right though because a neat thing had happened. She had won the sportsmanship award for the Dixie region, and this year the National Tennis Association had invited all the junior sportsmanship award winners to come to New York, all expenses paid, to be ball girls and boys at the National Open.

The National Open in New York City! Maria’s stomach did a flip-flop. For a thirteen-year-old orphan from the peach country of Georgia this was a chance at life. New York was her favorite city. She’d only read about it of course but it was the town where all the heroes of the world seemed to go to make it big. Maria knew that if she could stand on center court where the finals were played and walk the streets of the Big Apple that she was starting her journey toward her dreams of going to college, traveling the world as a touring tennis pro, and one day becoming the world’s best tennis player.

Maria folded the tennis magazine that was in her lap and tucked it away into her carry-on bag under the seat. She took a deep breath and tried to close her eyes again. She was going to the National Open Championships and that was good enough for now. No reason to worry about leaving her tennis ball behind or what she had found when she crawled under that garage door to fetch it. Not now anyway. She wasn’t even sure what it was she’d found, or what it meant, and she needed sleep. At least remembering the tennis ball helped her to figure out why she hadn’t been sleeping the last two nights.

She changed her position in the seat. It was hard to sleep on a bus—and while she wasn’t sure what she’d found, she knew it was bad. Bad enough to tell an adult—someone like a police officer—but she was embarrassed. Embarrassed, not because she was afraid of the police, but rather, that she’d seen herself in what those men did in that dark basement. It was so embarrassing that she took it, running up the basement stairs and out from under the partially closed garage door as they pulled back into their driveway. She’d been lucky they had not seen her. There was no way they saw her, not as fast as she had run. There was no way (God please!); she prayed they didn’t see her.

Maria pulled her feet onto the seat and folded her legs under herself.

She remembered three days earlier she had opened a new can of tennis balls and began to practice her shots against the garage door of her new foster home. She’d been staying there for a week on a trial run as Ms. Jernigan called it. If she liked staying there, and if the foster people liked her, then she and her best friend, Carter, would stay there through the coming school year.

Normally, both Carter and Maria would have stayed together for the trial week, but Carter, who loved to draw and paint, had been given a chance to go to art camp at a college in Savannah so only Maria had visited. Maria loved both the foster home and the two women, sisters, who would be their new foster parents. She and Carter would move in with them in two weeks—after her trip to New York and Carter’s return from art camp.

On the last day of her visit, with Ms. Jernigan soon on her way over to pick her up, Maria, as she’d done every evening after she had returned from the public courts where she played tennis all day, began to hit tennis balls against the garage door. She had absolutely worn out the three balls she had opened a week before and so she had no choice but to open a new can.

Tennis balls were hard for her to come by. She had no money to pay for them so she made them last as long as she could. Tennis balls to an orphan who dreamed of being a tennis pro were as good as gold, and so when she used them she always made sure to put them back in the can and put the lid on tight when she was finished. She used a ball until it was worn down far more than when other tennis players would just throw it away.

Her new foster home had a good setup to hit against the garage door. The door was smooth and seamless and the driveway was concrete and level. The only problem was that the home was on the side of a small hill with homes both above and below it. If she were to miss-hit a shot and send the ball wide of the door it could roll down the hill and into the yard of the home below. That was okay though, she would just have to concentrate and make sure not to mishit her shots. Steffi Graf and Stephan Edberg never mishit their shots and she would have to do so as well if she was going to make the tour.

She had a good rhythm going and her shots were pure and true. She felt like she could beat anyone, even a garage door that never missed its shots. She was about to stop and go in the house and get her things so she would be ready to leave with Ms. Jernigan when she stepped into a backhand and caught it perfectly on the rising bounce. She crushed the shot and at the same time her string broke in her racquet making a loud smuump sound. She knew instinctively that her string tension was compromised and she tried to bail out of her next stroke so that she wouldn’t send the ball careening—who knows where—but the ball reflected back off the door so quickly that she was unable to decelerate the swing of her next stroke.

The ball leaped off her strings towards the side of the garage door. It caught the brick corner of the home, kicked to the right, rolled across the yard, over the edge of the hill, and down toward the neatly groomed house at the bottom of the hill.

She chased after the ball, hoping to stop it from rolling down the edge of the hill, but she was a split second too late and could only watch as it bounded down the hill toward the garage of the home below.

A black custom van, fully loaded, with ladder, chrome spare tire carrier, extended roof, and a geometric paint design that covered its exterior, was pulling out from the garage and Maria could see the driver reaching up to his sun-visor to push the button on the remote to close the garage door. Her ball hit the front bumper of his van as he began backing it down the driveway and it deflected toward the garage door as it rolled to a close.

She tried to wave to the driver to stop him so that he would know she didn’t mean to hit his van with the ball, but he noticed neither the bouncing ball nor Maria because he was turned in his seat, looking to his mirrors and out the back of the van, navigating his exit from the driveway.

As he pulled out onto the road and began to drive away from her, Maria noticed another man sitting in the passenger seat. This man didn’t see Maria waving her arms either and off they drove down the road. Maria watched them go until they were out of her sight but for the reflection of sunlight shining off the chrome colored spare tire cover that was fastened to the back door of the van.

The ball meanwhile had bounced under the garage door at the same time that it was closing and it got caught between the door and the driveway where it ricocheted up and down between them. This alerted the door sensor that something was under it and the door reversed course and opened—it stayed open.

Maria didn’t hesitate, she started down the hill. She had to get her ball and close the garage door for her new neighbors.

The garage was clean, in fact, it was all but empty. She stood in the evening light, just outside the open door, trying to spot her tennis ball in the unlit garage. She didn’t see it. She saw a switch by a door leading into the house that looked like it would shut the garage door. If she could manage, she would press it and run from the garage, stepping over the sensors, before the door shut. She looked even more intently for her ball as she had to get it first. There was nowhere in the garage that it could have gone that was out of her sight. Nowhere except for one other door, an open door, that was on the far wall from her. She looked back to the road behind her—no cars coming and no sign of the black van. She had to get her ball. She stepped quickly into the garage and over to the dark opening of the door. It led down to a basement. There was a small amount of light coming up from its depths providing just enough of an eerie glow for Maria to see her tennis ball. It was at the bottom of the stairs, perched between an opened box and the cellar wall. Without making a conscious decision to do so, Maria found herself taking the first steps down into the basement.

Young lady, young lady, wake up. Maria, you’re having another dream, it was the bus driver again, his words coming to her through the hot fog of another nightmare. It has stopped raining. The sun is shining like I said it would be.

Maria opened her eyes but didn’t answer. She looked about at the people on the bus behind her. They were paying her no mind. She let herself wake by looking out the window to where the yellow sun now shined bright, its rays sparkling like wet gold off the passing landscape.

After a few long minutes she leaned forward to the bus driver and asked, If you saw something… she hesitated.

The bus driver lifted his eyes to Maria and waited.

Maria tried again, If you found something that somebody did, and you thought it might be bad, who would you tell about it?

How bad?

Real bad.

The bus driver nodded his head, Is this a friend? Someone you know?

No, I’ve never met these people. Well, not really.

Is this what your dreams are about? You sure have made some noise napping this afternoon.

I think so.

Is this a kid?

They’re adults.

Sometimes the obvious is the best route. Tell the police.

Maria thought about this, What if I took it? Would they get me for stealing?

The driver looked to his side mirror, changed lanes, and began to pass a line of slow moving semi-trucks, Is what you took bad? Can it hurt someone?

I think they have already been hurt, Maria didn’t mention herself as one of the victims, though, for a moment, she considered telling him, but then there was the utter embarrassment of it all.

Is that why you took it?

Maria nodded, and said, I didn’t even mean to find it. I had broken the strings in my racket and miss-hit a shot. I was just chasing a tennis ball that had gotten away from me and rolled down a hill.

The driver, with a quizzical look at Maria in his rearview mirror, nodded his head and continued, I promise the police won’t be upset. Let’s look past that. Good people have been hurt by these bad people and you have something that will stop them. Take it to the police and they will do the rest.

Maria leaned back in her seat, I’ll tell Coach Jernigan when I get home. She can call the police.

That’s a great idea. Now you can enjoy your tournament. You can watch Jimmy Connors play. He’s my favorite.

Maria shook her head and laughed, No I can’t. He’s retired. The weight of her problem now sliding off of her shoulders like a backpack full of textbooks on the last day of school before summer vacation.

He’s retired, huh? I’ve got to keep up. Then who’s going to win this year?

Either Phillip Culler or Russell Tucker for the men. I love the way Russell plays, like an angry artist. That’s who my best friend, Carter, likes too.

And who will win for the women?

Maria answered all sunshine and smiles and that’s how the rest of her bus trip to New York went—all sunshine and smiles—for as soon as she returned home to Macon, she’d tell Ms. Jernigan about what she had found and then they could both go to the police. She told herself not to give it another thought—it could be taken care of later—after she returned from the tennis tournament.

As for the bus driver? He had his best New York route in years just driving and talking to Maria. This girl, he said to himself, will make it big someday.

CHAPTER TWO

October 1995 – As Far Away as God

Russell Tucker, as he’d always done, hit the ocean water at a full run. He kicked his knees up, not letting the water slow him down, and kept running. He jumped the small waves, leaned forward as the water deepened around his legs, then dove under the crashing wall of the first large wave. The momentum of his dive took him to the sandy bottom where he skimmed his fingers along the ocean floor before arching his back and cutting up to the surface for a breath of air.

Russell loved to run, the faster the better, and to swim, the farther the better. A series of sprints, a swim, then more sprints—that was his favorite exercise regimen.

Past the breakers now, Russ took his bearings. He put the beach behind him.

Sometimes you need to get away, he said to himself, and started swimming, to get away from yourself. Swimming freestyle, he aimed for the thin, orange, meager ribbon of first-light that lay over the distant edge of the Atlantic Ocean.

Like other champion athletes, Russell Tucker found mental clarity and insight during physical duress. Knowing this about himself, Russell began to think as he swam. He needed answers.

In his life, Russ had learned that when you run—you are trying to save your life.

Running, in its most primitive cut, is an act of salvation. Russ never ran and many people considered him brave. He didn’t agree with them. He had also learned that those who swim away, maybe like himself now, are trying to end their lives. Run to exhaustion and one must sit and rest. Swim to exhaustion, and, lacking a lifeline or shallow water to stand up in, one sinks and drowns.

Many years before, off this very beach, Russell, then constitutionally too proud to run, and much too proud to be helped, had tried swimming.

On this morning, as back then, Russell kept swimming. He was now far beyond the breakers. A large swell lifted him and he took a look to the south and saw that he was now also beyond the jetties that protected the boats as they entered and exited Murrells Inlet from the ocean’s waves.

The cool October water turned colder the farther he stroked to sea. This was a surprise. The water, that earlier (upon running, jumping and diving into) had felt warm compared to the Carolina fall air, was revealing itself to be quite cold. Russell, who had an aversion to fire, and an affinity with ice, considered this good. The old scars from his burns and the skin grafts that ran along the underside of his arms and along his chest never itched or burned when they were in cold water.

The events of the last two months had led Russ to where he now felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness. Russell was a doer, not a watcher, and having to watch the best doctors in the world do everything they could and not get so much as a deep breath from her was burning at him from the inside out.

The cold was penetrating his bones now, Keep going or turn back? Russ compromised, turned north, and began to swim up the coast. His breathing was now becoming labored so he rolled to his back and began to backstroke.

He found himself looking skyward to the morning stars. Sometimes, when he swam late at night, or early, like right now, the stars seemed so close. But this morning they were as far away as God.

He kept swimming and he kept thinking.

Then, many strokes and kicks later, sensing a change on the horizon, Russ stopped swimming, and from the tops of the swells he watched as the morning sun rose and cracked, melting upon the distant waters like a raw egg pouring upward from its shell. He continued swimming. Kept thinking.

With his pride now two months gone and showing no sign of a return Russ knew he needed help. Naturally, his first thought was of Holly. No help there. He’d managed to bury that marriage deep in the ground.

Now, at thirty-two, he remembered the first time he saw Holly, and how, in that moment, he couldn’t find his breath. It was a moment as intense as the first time he had won Wimbledon—only different, and better—it was the best moment in his life. To be eighteen again. To see Holly again.

Russ peeked to the rising sun, then to shore. Good, he was far from the beach and lost in cold saltwater. He adjusted his course and continued swimming north up the coast. He wanted Maria to have a moment like that. She was too young to die. She needed to wake up. He rolled in the water and began to breaststroke.

Another moment, Russell thought, as he adjusted his kicks to the rolling swells, that in some situations (like Maria’s now) was most alluring—was the moment of death. Death, he knew, could seduce with the promise of the sweetest relief. Can you hear death’s siren from inside of a coma? He knew the answer as soon as he had thought the question, and he hoped she was turning her mind’s ear away from it. But then her worsening condition suggested otherwise.

A large swell lifted him and he used the moment to look down the coast to his home. It was an enormous house, more like an estate, but from this far distance it looked small and dark—except for a single light in a window that he could still make out over the brightening morning sky. It was her window and he knew why it was lit—the morning nurse was in the room checking her vital signs, looking for improvement.

Misplaced optimism.

He could write her chart from here in the ocean—no improvement from the previous day, blood pressure continues to weaken—just like every chart, every day since her brutal attack.

As Russell slid down the back of another swell he noticed he couldn’t feel his feet. They were numb with cold.

You’ve pushed it too far.

Did he speak aloud, or was he hearing himself think?

His lungs ached and his legs felt like they had anchors for feet. He turned to shore and began to swim freestyle. The beach looked far and away. When it came to winning, and when it came to living, Coach had a phrase that, growing up, Russ got sick of hearing. Coach called these moments hard rows and Russ knew now that if he wanted to stand on dry land again he had a hard row ahead of him, and he had better start swimming—only swimming right now seemed a lot harder than rowing. Russell wished he had oars. A fucking boat would be nice too.

He put his mind to making it to shore, concentrating on every stroke of his arms, each kick of his legs and every breath of his lungs. His conscious mind now occupied with survival, his subconscious took a try at his problems.

He dared not peek at the shoreline, certain it would look too far away and out of reach, though he did feel like he was making good progress. His feet wanted to sink so he concentrated on making strong kicks.

It was when he couldn’t make another kick or stroke that he found his answer. He was too tired and cold to swim any further, so he rolled on his back and floated on the surface, bobbing up and down in the swells. He’d either get his strength back before the cold water got to him or he wouldn’t. In a short time he’d either be falling into a cold, wet, strangulated sleep or walking up the beach toward his estate.

Oh, what the hell, if I make to shore, I’ll sprint to the house, he thought he might have heard himself say.

This is where he had wanted to get—to where Maria was—the cold, dank place where death pulled at your feet, and life, arms open, tried to call you back. And here was his answer—hers too he realized. She needed to hear why he had swam out to sea fourteen years before, with, not just his skin, but also his soul, burning with fire, and how close he had come to not being anything, ever, anymore. She needed to hear a story—even if she was in a coma.

It was odd though. The deeper he drifted down, down into the cold water, the warmer he became…

Yes, it is time to remember. She hangs from a cross on a hill in a land between life and death. Go find her and save her.

Was that Jubilee Babcock speaking to him again? He’d pushed her from his mind years before—her and everything else about it for that matter. Too much violence, death, and rage.

Do it for the girl. You need to remember—and she needs to hear it. She is hiding in a land where she can never stay. Story-tell your way into her hell and bring her back.

…He thought he might swim