Mortal Soul

By Lon LaFlamme

Mortal Soul Copy: NOTE FOR ALL COPY POINT SIZE (back reviews, back body copy, back title, spine title and author):

Make point size the same as on authors other iUniverse published books: Lords of Paradise, Black Lies, Vanishing Breed, Bone Chiller

Mortal Soul Back Cover copy: Note: Background is dark blue, Pantone #_______

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Mortal Soul grabs your heart and never lets go.
----Mystery Morgue Magazine

A richly textured and timeless novel.
----Charlotte Austin Review

A superb story.
----Patti Nunn, Writers Showcase Review

(white type reversed out of the dark blue background for body copy, below):

Goblin shadows loom over a six-year-old boy restlessly waiting for parents who have vanished. Whispers of suicide or murder whirl around the abandoned child as he is passed from one relative to another.

Obsessed to unravel the mystery behind his parents disappearance, Gordon LeBeque escapes into an even darker world of New Yorks Hells Kitchen and a series of adventures that sculpt him from a frightened boy to a haunted man.

Even his worst nightmares cant prepare him for the truth behind the deadly secret relentlessly digging at his mortal soul.

(using front cover title color and typeface placed directly beneath the body copy):

Mortal Soul

Mortal Soul Spine Copy:

Note: Background is dark blue complementing dark blue on cover.

(book title using same color and typeface as front cover):

Mortal Soul

(author name in white, using same typeface as author name on cover:

Lon LaFlamme

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 20, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469755229

Lon LaFlamme

Lon LaFlamme has received numerous national advertising and public relations creative awards. The former AP wire service and daily newspaper reporter was most recently CEO of one of the largest marketing communications companies in the western U.S. He divides his time between Seattle, Washington and Salt Lake City, Utah.

Book preview

© 2001 by Lon LaFlamme

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writer’s Showcase

an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse.com, Inc.

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www.iuniverse.com

Mortal Soul cover design by Kat

ISBN: 0-595-18328-X

ISBN: 978-1-4697-5522-9 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

CHAPTER 67

CHAPTER 68

CHAPTER 69

CHAPTER 70

CHAPTER 71

CHAPTER 72

CHAPTER 73

CHAPTER 74

CHAPTER 75

CHAPTER 76

CHAPTER 77

CHAPTER 78

CHAPTER 79

CHAPTER 80

CHAPTER 81

CHAPTER 82

CHAPTER 83

CHAPTER 84

CHAPTER 85

CHAPTER 86

CHAPTER 87

CHAPTER 88

CHAPTER 89

CHAPTER 90

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

For that abandoned boy of six—my father, Frenchy,

and the child in all of us.

PROLOGUE

The brooding sky was turning as vile as his mood.

Nathan Justice pedaled his full suspension mountain bike up a rise along the Evergreen-hugging road. His face was pressed tightly against a brutally cold swell of wind.

He clamped the hand brakes and took a quick swipe at the sweat lining his numb cheeks. His gaze lingered on the inescapable natural beauty enveloping his journey.

Why, he wondered between heaving breaths, hadn’t Gordon LeBeque built his house a bit closer to the Friday Harbor dock?

Nathan had been wondering about a lot of things lately. Once at the top of his game, his former assignment editor had regularly doled out only plum story leads. Those distant days were becoming as foggy as the island’s ground-clinging mist.

How did everything go to hell?

At the seasoned age of thirty-eight, he had lost his edge, even worse, his passion. One story slipped into the next with little distinction between the lines.

He had gambled everything that was supposed to matter for the written word. His wife. His son. His life.

If Madison kept her promise, he’d be returning to an empty house.

Coasting over the top of the hill, he had an epiphany—nobody gave a damn about some yesteryear cartoonist. Least of all, him.

Nathan churned the pedals up another rise. The road snaked through a copse of trees, then unexpectedly opened into a clearing, like a curtain to a stage.

An unavoidable smile crept across his lifeless face. Darkness magically lifted. His cobalt-blue eyes danced in every direction.

LeBeque had created a monument to his life’s work, a Disney fable cottage fantasy in living color.

Nathan drank in over two acres of immaculately groomed grass, evergreens and towering vertical poplar trees set amidst a floral explosion of exotic and traditional yellow, deep purple, and crimson.

A river rock wishing well and small arched bridge over a stream meandering to a swan and mallard-covered pond were perfect brush strokes setting off LeBeque’s surrealistic masterpiece.

The uniquely rounded cottage roof was built atop light cream exterior siding and brown slat trim. The cottage was further dramatized by huge hand-forged hinges on an oversized rounded front door, with windows beveled in leaded diamond shapes. Willy Wonka’s magical world instantly came to mind.

Nathan slipped the camera from his backpack and frantically began snapping shots of a wonder he was sure the world had yet to discover.

As the reporter rotated on his heels, he eyed the front door opening through his viewfinder.

A silver-haired character perched at the entrance was waving him over. Moving closer, the old man’s owl-like bushy eyebrows and carpet-thick moustache reminded him of Disney’s Pinocchio creator, Geppetto.

The old man’s dark chocolate, soulful eyes began awakening the buried writer in Nathan to a story far more interesting than the history of animation. At six-foot-three-inches, Gordon LeBeque’s presence commanded attention, respect.

I assume you’re the story teller, the old man said in a deep resonating voice carrying a trace of a French accent.

Sorry, I can’t believe what you’ve created here. Nothing new to you, I’m sure. After a short, awkward delay Nathan reached out an open palm. "I’m Nathan Justice, features editor with the Olympia Tribune.It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. LeBeque."

And how do you know it’s an honor when we only know each other’s names? He watched LeBeque size him up through narrowed eyes.

Your reputation precedes you.

The old man perched an eyebrow. I didn’t know anybody knew or cared who’s behind the curtain. Please come in, Mr. Justice. Oh, and call me Gordon. It makes me feel a little less ancient.

Nathan glanced in every direction. I hope you won’t consider it rude, but until I see this incredible place of yours I won’t be able to concentrate. Why hasn’t it been on the cover of—

"Architectural Digest about four years ago. An error in judgment I intend to never repeat. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you for that film if this interview is to go any further. I was forced to open my house to neighbors and people traveling from all over the world just to see it for almost two years after that story ran."

I only brought one other roll.

Good. You can take all the pictures you want inside the house as long as I get to see a final draft of your story and pictures before they’re published. Just say the San Juans, not Friday Harbor. You understand.

Compromise wasn’t an option. Nathan removed the roll of film and reluctantly handed it over.

Thank you. Now you’re welcome to enter LeBeque’s World, he said, his eyes sparkling, childlike.

As they crossed the front door threshold, Nathan gawked in stunned silence. Every piece of furniture was high gloss, pounded out of natural mahogany. An oak reproduction of Pinocchio was propped against the wall facing the entry on a crudely carved, round-top table next to a dried sunflower arrangement. The multi-shaded stone fireplace in the living room had a bulbous black kettle in its center, suspended from a metal bar. Antique fire and cooking utensils were strewn near the hearth. A green leather and mahogany chair and matching footstool were illuminated in the pale yellow glow of burning pine logs.

The walls had eyes. Snow White, all seven dwarfs, Porky Pig, Elmer Fudd, early and current versions of Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny, Cinderella and a host of other ‘Who’s Who’ cartoon character film cells covered the walls in every hallway and room. Each cell was signed by the characters’ creators with a personal notation to LeBeque.

These signed film cells have got to be worth a fortune, said Nathan, feasting on characters as familiar to every American as a family member.I read recently that just one original film cell of Snow White and all seven dwarfs was auctioned at Sotheby’s for twenty-five thousand dollars.

The old man tipped his chin down with seeming disinterest, watching while Nathan wrote a few notes on his pad. I began with a clay model crafted by one of my friends in Disney’s former character modeling department. They are amazing guys, sculptors who created beautiful little clay figures of each character to help us bring them to life three-dimensionally on the screen. I’ve got a huge collection we’ll see later in my animation room. Walt used to give them out as gifts, Gordon said chuckling. Eventually you could hardly get your hands on them. Kind of like the game ball.

He ran his hand across the edge of the dining room table. It took five years to build this, he mused. Entirely hand-made to the last detail. I commissioned craftsmen from around the world to make my drawings a reality. All ten rooms are designed to have a view of the San Juan Channel and nearby islands.

As LeBeque navigated them through the halls, Nathan noted that every corner of the house had been molded into a flowing shape.

Greatest challenge was the roof, the old man continued. It was a bugger. We ended up using enough hand-cut duroid shingles to cover fifteen ordinary roofs of the same size.

Nathan ducked slightly when they passed from the kitchen to the living room. The old man turned and nodded. Gives the illusion of being small, don’t they? All the door hinges were hand-forged in England to my specifications.

Mind telling me what this world of yours cost?

I really don’t know, the old man responded, rubbing his chin as though the idea of overall expense would be interesting.

Gordon’s glare fixed on Nathan with such intent that he wondered what it was that the old man was seeing. Got a family, Nate?

He suddenly felt vulnerable, exposed. I had one.

The old man swung his arm around his shoulders as though he were a comforting friend and guided him out the back door to a bench perched at the cliff ’s edge. You know, Nate, I’ve learned little in life that’s worth sharing, except maybe a couple of pointers. Not much of a story.

Nathan stoically nodded.

The old man paused, folded his arms slowly and shook his head.

The reporter fixed his gaze on the old man. There it was again, that unasked-for invasion of his very being.

"I just might have a story for you, the Frenchman said in marble smooth tones.He rose from the bench.I’ll get us something to keep the chill off our bones. Would you like an Irish coffee?"

Yes, I could really use a drink.

Moments later the old man returned with the drinks and two afghans. He covered Nathan’s shoulders with the throw, then sat down and scooted uncomfortably close. It all begins with a terrified little boy.

CHAPTER 1

The gangly runaway eased down the steep fortress-walled stairway leading to the St. Lawrence River and its bustling boat dock.

As the boy reached the edge of the pier, the heckling of adolescent voices erupted at his back like a wave rolling into shore. Two grimy dockers leaped out and caught twelve-year-old Gordon by both arms. Their beefy, gap-toothed leader lumbered up a breath away, his eyes blazing murderously.

Gordon shot back a defiant look.

Check his pockets, the gang leader spat out, looking around like a wild dog on lookout for passing strangers. Paper bills totaling twelve dollars and change were torn from Gordon’s pants pocket. The wily leader seemed puzzled. Now, what do we do with him? Should we throw him in the Lawrence? No, I’ve got it! He glared at Gordon. You’ve got one day to live and another if ya get us food.

But you’ve got my money.

Listen to him. He thinks I mean to pay for food. The garish character uttered a wicked laugh. No, stupid little shit, you’ll steal it, and we’ll show you where. Fact is, we ain’t leaving your side.

Gordon didn’t resist as they shoved him roughly along the dock until they arrived at Old Quebec’s massive tent-covered produce market. The place was overflowing with imported fruit and vegetables, local flavored honey, jams, and an array of homemade breads.

Easy in, easy out, shithead, the Neanderthal-jawed leader said, grabbing him by the arm. Stuff as much as you can down your coat and we’ll meet right here. We’ll be right behind ya, so don’t even try to run or it’s the river. A body can freeze to death in less than three minutes in the river this time of year. Seen it before and I’ll see it again if ya don’t do what we say.

Trembling inside, Gordon looked around. Policemen and hired floorwalkers were on every aisle, carefully eyeing any item lifted from the tables. Gordon looked up from one of the fruit stands into the suspicious leer of a produce clerk. He stood completely still as her eyes swept over him, head to toe. A soft sigh of relief escaped his lips as the woman smiled. He must have passed inspection.

His relief was short-lived. There was no way he could grab anything with so many people watching. Certainly not enough to feed the lot of them. Gordon’s eyes darted nervously from the nearest police officer to the dockers and back again. Maybe he had a chance. Squinting his eyes, he took a big gulp of air like he was diving into the river and lunged for the closest blue uniform before one of the dockers could grab him.

Officer, those boys, he gasped, pointing to empty space where they’d stood just a moment before.

What is it, boy?

There were boys at the dock who forced me to come in here and steal food for them or they said they’d throw me into the river.

Where are these boys? The officer looked skeptical.

They took off, but if you’ll go with me we’ll find them. They’re probably right outside.

I can’t be leaving my station. Now get away from me, boy. He brushed Gordon off like he was one of the flies buzzing around the fruit.

Gordon paused a moment, then grabbed two large apples and stuffed them down his shirt in full view of the officer.

Hey! Wait a minute, you.

He started to bolt, crashing right into the arms of one of the dockers who popped up directly in his path. A filthy hand darted into his coat, removing the two apples before he could pull away. Seconds later the officer had a hold of the back of Gordon’s coat.

Hey, not this time, kid. Hand over the fruit.

Gordon reached in his jacket by instinct. I took ’em. Arrest me.

The officer’s body search produced no evidence and a scowl covered his face. Get out of here, thief. I never want to see you again.

The officer didn’t even look for the dockers, but Gordon knew they were there waiting for him. Desperate, he kicked the officer in the shins as hard as he could. The officer reached for his lapel even as he bent over in pain, then opted for a punch instead. As he drove his fist into the boy’s chin, Gordon felt himself falling back as another hand firmly reconnected an unyielding hold on his coat. The blow caught his tongue between his teeth, and a steady flow of blood seeped down both corners of his mouth.

You got your wish, boy, the officer spat through clenched teeth. Motioning another officer to join him, the two men each took an arm and dragged him through the crowd to the black Maria behind the tent. The paddy wagon’s metal door closed before he realized he wasn’t alone.

What did they do you for? a high-pitched voice sounded from the darkness in the back of the chamber.

Gordon squinted, trying to focus his eyes on the source of the voice. Gradually, a boy’s face appeared in the bar-shadowed light pouring in from a side window. He looked as innocent and lost as Gordon felt. I’m not a thief.

Me either. My name is Jean Paul.

CHAPTER 2

An arm streamed out from darkness to light. I’ve been looking for somebody like me, Jean Paul said.

The boys shook hands like they were meeting on a downtown street. Jean Paul slid over on the bench to Gordon, allowing him to get a better look.

You haven’t been on the streets long, Jean Paul said in a tone beyond his years. I’ve only been without a family and home for a month myself.

Why did… Gordon started to ask, and then remembered the rule of the streets to never ask questions about a person’s background.

Jean Paul didn’t seem to care. I didn’t leave home. My parents were both killed in a train accident while I was away at cadet training school here in Quebec. My aunt and uncle got custody of both me and my parents’ money. They got the money, I got the boot.

My parents are dead, too, Gordon said. His voice lapsed hollow and distant as he spoke. I think, he added. Anyway they’re gone. I got passed around to relatives until my Uncle Phillip broke my… It doesn’t matter now. Nobody can hurt me. He sighed.

The two were transported to one of the three city jail cells reserved for runaways and juveniles. Perversely eager for companionship, Gordon ignored the circumstances that took him there and encouraged the other boy to talk. The two swapped stories throughout the night.

Bilingual in French and English, Jean Paul provided ample credence to his stories of a privileged upbringing. The young man had led an even more sheltered life than Gordon. Most of his time on the street had been in hiding from people like the dockers. He had graduated from sleeping with newspapers for warmth on docks, cellars, basements, alleys and doorways, to a St. Vincent de Paul shelter for the homeless.

~

All around them the jail was infested with criminal creatures. It was-n’t long before the boys were lectured and released. They were shoved out of the warmth of the jail into the icy darkness. Gordon kept a wary eye out for the dockers. Eager to escape the cold, Jean Paul led the way through the white-blanketed streets towards the security of St. Vincent’s.

At the towering iron gates of the recessed institution, they were stopped by a faceless nun clutching an extended donation cup with a feed the homeless sign secured to the fence behind her. Where do you boys think you’re going? she asked, thrusting her arm straight out across the closed gate.

I’m Jean Paul, Sister. I’ve been staying here. This is my friend.

I’m sorry, boys. The expression she wore was grim. You’ll have to come back another time. We’re more than full right now. There’s barely enough food for those unfortunates with us here right now. Come back in a week.

Sister, we’ll freeze. We have no food, Jean Paul pleaded.

I’m sorry. You’ll have to come back. Don’t bother going to our other home, either. They’re overfilled too. Winter is our most difficult time. We just can’t help everyone.

The boys exchanged glances, then turned and walked away, leaving the nun still chattering about capacity.

From their first meeting, Gordon had noticed his friend’s moods vacillating from exuberance to deep, unshakable depression. When Jean Paul led him down a secluded alley and fished a bottle out of a pile of old rags, Gordon thought he knew why. The illegal concoction Jean Paul tucked in his coat pocket had been earned by erratic opportunities to sweep floors or sell newspapers.

Jean Paul motioned Gordon to join him in the cramped alleyway. Want a sip, Gordon? Good for what ails you, as the English say. Jean Paul took a deep swig, then held the bottle out toward Gordon. There’s got to be rubbing alcohol in here. I can taste it.

Why do you drink that instead of spending your money for food? Gordon asked.

I don’t know. Keeps you warm.

Once back among the merchants and tourists, Gordon stopped, eyes wide open. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about New York, Gordon said. With your perfect English, we could hop a freight train to the States. Aunt Henie used to sell dairy products in New York. I heard a lot of stories about the place. We could get jobs there and start a new life. Gordon could see his embryonic idea brought a light to Jean Paul’s face.

Hey! That’s a fantastic idea! A glimmer of hope in Jean Paul’s eyes lent sincerity to his weary voice. I studied the progress of the Canadian Northern Railway in school. You know, since the turn of the century the railways have connected many outer provinces with the new world.

I wasn’t asking for a history lesson, Jean Paul. Do the trains go directly from Quebec to New York City? Changing trains could be tough.

Of course. Three years ago Canadian Northern built tracks from Quebec all the way to Vancouver on the west coast. We can get to New York in a day’s ride. If we don’t like it, we’ll come back. Jean Paul gazed around. What to, I don’t know. He tried to stifle a yawn.

Gordon yawned too. They hadn’t slept much in the jail, but it was cold and they had no place to rest. After tossing around their options, the boys decided to go right to the train station to watch the movements of the bulls, men with billy clubs in hand who rooted out bums and hobos, car-by-car.

Shantytowns, built of corrugated metal scraps, discarded building materials, and other creative substitutes, lined the railroad tracks near the train’s main station. Making their way through the alleys and streets near dusk, numb from cold, they were drawn to the first shantytown campfire. The tempting smell of soup simmering over the flame caused Gordon’s stomach to rumble in response as the pair approached the menagerie of faces, mostly mean, illuminated by firelight.

Jean Paul cleared his throat. Could we have a bit of your soup? We haven’t eaten in nearly a day-and-a-half.

A man with a face of worn leather turned from the fire and smiled wickedly. Both boys stepped back.

We haven’t eaten in nearly a day-and-a-half, the bum mimicked. We have people here who are lucky to eat three times a week. His eyes lit up as though he were a demon in the fire’s glow. Get away from our camp before we throw you in with the vegetables. The last comment drew laughter from the motley bodies around the blaze.

Is this a hobo or a bum’s camp? Gordon asked.

Did you hear that little piece of garbage? He called us bums. A hairy ox of a man with a nose bigger than his head turned from the fire to the boys. He pushed back his rag-torn coat and began retrieving a long object from his bulging belt, silver flashing in the firelight.

His homely face broke into a carnivorous grin. Come here, boys. We’ll take care of you. He burst into a deep belly laugh, slipping the hunting knife back in its sheath. The haunting sound of his laughter followed the boys as they raced away from the cluster of hovels to the railway station.

Gordon and Jean Paul ran as far as their aching legs would carry them, then dropped on the nearest vacant bench to catch their breath and consider what to do. A gangly, pop-eyed train porter followed them to the seat.

If you two have any intentions of hopping a train, you had better give up the idea right now, before you get yourselves killed. That camp you just came from is a den of cutthroats, thieves and gypsies. They sell kids like you for, well, sexual pleasures, among other ghastly things.

How can you tell a hobo’s camp from a bum’s? Jean Paul asked, still breathing hard.

Don’t make no difference, the man shook his head. "Even sixteenyear-olds are regularly found dead in empty box cars.