An American Resurrection

By L.B. Frost

How hard can it be to end your own life?

For Peter Cameron, he must make one last journey then he can peacefully meet his maker in this break-out novel from author, L.B. Frost.

Unfortunately, even the simplest tasks can be muddled by the unpredictable nature of life and along the way Cameron finds himself caught up in a dangerous scandal he alone must fix. In the end, Cameron must come to terms with the beautiful insignificance of his life if he hopes to leave this world on his own terms. Read An American Resurrection today and discover a story about failure, redemption and a reminder that life is what happens while you're making other plans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.B. Frost
• Release date: Jul 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005694333

L.B. Frost

L.B. Frost is the author of the breakout Water Wars series and the two coming-of-age novels, Two Roads Diverged and An American Resurrection. His online home is www.lbfrost-author.com. You can connect with L.B. on Twitter @L.B.Frost2, on Facebook at www.facebook/frostauthor.com, on Instagram @lbsfrost and you can send him an email at [e-mail] if the mood strikes you.

Book preview

Part I

Chapter 1

He just was another American sociopath.

"Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness can be yours…" the man secretly mused, tethered once more to a treadmill set at full speed. Another pre-dawn workout inside the upscale Santa Barbara Athletic Club allowed him time to justify the unjustifiable actions to follow "…Doesn’t matter if others get hurt as long as you get what you want."

For Barry Heller IV, such cold and undetached thoughts were routine for a brain hardwired to carry out a dubious interpretation of the founding father’s declaration. In fact, these heartless meanderings continued during a quick shower at home and right on through the jarring buzz of another protein shake concocted in his kitchen blender. At all times, Heller processed life with unscrupulous judgment, even as he piloted his sleek, new Mercedes-Benz F800 through the privileged streets of Hope Ranch - the ultra-wealthy neighborhood where he resided. Unfortunately, he couldn’t shut off a madness bestowed upon him by something as undeniable as DNA.

On this particular foggy, Friday morning in April of 2010, the goal was simple - maniacally plot different ways to frame his closest friend. It was all too easy. His sadistic side merely crept into his soul like some horror-flick demon as he developed another plan of betrayal on his 20-minute drive into work.

*

Looking back, he realized he had learned from the best. The fourth Barry Heller experienced a childhood inundated on a nightly basis with the Heller family motto: "Kill or be killed."

But why does it have to be that way, Daddy? Young Barry would innocently question, while his mother feigned ignorance, pretending to be enamored with the flowery design on her wedding-day china.

Because, my son, Barry Heller III would respond between thrashing bites of steak, blood rare. It’s the American way.

And it was the same response every time. After awhile, young Barry stopped asking why and accepted that some family mantras could never be erased.

Later in life it was this same credo that fueled Barry Heller IV’s drive, especially after he followed his father into the high-stakes world of Santa Barbara real estate. It even played a concerning role when he took over his father’s company, Heller and Associates following his father’s dismissal in 2008 and it was inside the Spanish-tiled State Street offices three years later that Barry Heller IV continued to carry out his patriarch’s vicious take on the American Dream…kill or be killed…

*

Barry Heller IV was the first one in the office that bared his name above all others on the stylish, wood carved marquee posted over the front door. It was nothing unusual. He had always been driven, sometimes sleeping in the hideaway bed sunk below his leather office couch. He lived as a man possessed, guided by the thought that life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness was measured by one’s bank account and all the power and glory that came with financial dominance.

Displaying an edgy appearance in both eyes and movement, Heller had recently been set off by the recurrence of an odd sound on the other end of his office phone line.

"It’s the clicking, he whispered as he navigated through the vast hall of cold, gray cubicles that housed the associates at Heller and Associates. They’re catching on to you." Sadly, some would call it paranoia. The men in the Heller lineage called it survival.

Known for his fastidiousness, Heller settled into his friend’s work space and immediately adjusted the height of his friend’s chair; he moved the stapler from one side of the desk to the other and rearranged the ballpoint pens on the desk so they all pointed due north. Finally, before getting started, he used the edge of his hand to sweep away a square patch of dust from the surface of the computer screen in front of him. Everything had to be in its place. Everything had to be clean – even if it really wasn’t.

Heller was so freakishly fastidious he even carried around a bottle of Purell hand sanitizer, routinely cleansing his fingers and palms. His obsession or quirkiness as he referred to it, led to his office mandate that all Heller and Associates’ employees carry around a bottle of sanitizer for their sake, and of course, his. It was the boss’s belief that cleanliness was not next to godliness, but above it, especially since he didn’t believe in an idea as impractical as "God."

Flipping on his friend’s computer, his renowned laser-focus coagulated as he waited for the machine to boot up. Intensity boiled below the surface of carmel-colored skin baked to a brown perfection every week inside one of the Santa Barbara Athletic Club’s many tanning booths. So intense was he that he didn’t notice the gorgeous, redhead approach him from behind.

Your laundry was just delivered Mr. Heller… the young woman said, draping a stack of plastic-wrapped button-downs over the wall of the cubicle. Barry Heller didn’t raise an eyebrow, despite the onslaught of the young woman’s Vera Wang Princess Perfume. Conversely, the secretary didn’t miss a beat. She was so used to her boss’s momentary departures from reality that she kept right on talking.

"…Oh and I downloaded those songs by Michael Buble you wanted onto your iPod for your date tonight. Need anything while I’m out getting your double-espresso frappuccino?

Heller continued to ignore the secretary’s presence. She took it in stride. The fresh-faced college grad sidestepped around the wall of one of the many prison cells in the office, hoping to distract her boss for a moment so he could answer her question. Unfortunately for her, the boss was more concerned with figuring out how to log-on to one of his employee’s computers. His only movement was the constant upward toss of the specially-made Magic 8 Ball seemingly attached to him most hours of the day. For him, this child’s toy held all the answers.

Excuse me, the secretary said, raising her voice, Sir-need anything while I’m out?

Heller remained deep in thought - not a surprise to the secretary completing her first year at Heller and Associates. He did that a lot. Sometimes, he even forgot her name. It was hereditary – his father did the same thing when he schemed. Like father, like son.

Mr. Heller? Can I help you with anything? You seemed stressed.

Fed up, the secretary raked her ruby red, manicured nails across the plastic wall of the cubicle, loud enough to shake Heller from his trance. He peered up at her with eyes wild with uncontrollable power causing her to dip her head like an embarrassed schoolgirl. Heller had a way of doing that to women. Maybe it was the boyish, black curls slicked regally back with a pound of product. Or maybe it was muscles rippling down his jaw line. Or maybe it was his sinewy body built by hours of barbells and yoga bends. Whatever it was, he could seduce like a serpent in the Garden of Eden.

Oh, Bella, didn’t see you there, Heller said. Been waiting long?

The secretary shifted her slim figure to one side. Anything I can help you with, Mr. Heller? Maybe the I.T. guy can help when he gets in.

No. This is a private manner and one that I’d like to keep between us two, okay?

Heller waited for the secretary to nod before continuing. I’m just getting some work done, he said, peering around the empty office. Seriously, sometimes, I’m amazed at people’s acute laziness…especially during times like these.

The secretary looked confused, which drew a cryptic smile from the boss.

Most of the others should be in soon, the secretary finally responded, which is why I need to go pick up your espresso so I can get back here to answer the phones. Can I get you anything else, besides your coffee while I’m out?

Heller’s lips happily parted, revealing bleached, pointed teeth like those found in the jaw of a mako or great white. He set down his Magic 8 Ball and nonchalantly spun 180 degrees around in his friend’s swivel-back chair, proceeding to dramatically lift his right hand. Extending his pinky and the extra-long fingernail protruding from the end of it, he ran his peculiar finger down the secretary’s toned thigh delivering an electric shock that made the ends of the girl’s glistening lips twitch. He allowed himself a short moment to enjoy the unease on the secretary’s face before returning to his task. The poor girl looked on, bewildered.

So, why are you sitting in Mr. Cameron’s cubicle? the secretary foolishly asked, not even receiving the courtesy of a simple shrug. He didn’t want or need to respond because as far as he was concerned, Barry Heller–and only Barry Heller–asked the questions at Heller and Associates.

Guess I’ll leave you alone.

The secretary turned away, simultaneously pulling Heller out of his mental deliberations. He responded with a fervent list of demands:

Okay, so this is what I need you to do, Heller said, squeezing the last remnants of his Purell bottle into his hands. Pick me up a breakfast sandwich – egg whites and olive oil - from Longboard’s Café and then get some condoms from the Seven-Eleven - Trojans Ecstasy.

The secretary clamped her top teeth over the moist of her bottom lip. She didn’t want to play this game anymore because deep down she knew she’d lose. Desperate, she stiffened her posture and responded through the glistening mouth that now trembled uncontrollably:

I told you, Bar…I mean, Mr. Heller, I can’t do that anymore. I have a boyfriend now and I really think he might be the one.

Again, there was no immediate response. Heller had retreated back into his own, little world. Facing the computer’s request for a password, he entered one guess after another into someone else’s computer. Try Pete…No, Try Pete 1…Nothing, goddamnit. He even shook his Magic 8 ball for some guidance knowing receiving a response he lived his life by – MAKE YOUR OWN LUCK!

While the secretary stood by, Heller let his eyes wander over several photos scotch-taped to the bottom of the computer screen. He focused on one in particular of his college roommate, Pete Cameron, and Pete’s wife, Cindy, celebrating their wedding day with a kiss on Santa Barbara’s Rincon Beach. In the background, Heller loomed, longing for someone else’s life. He should have been kissing her, but instead he was relegated to being a mere Best Man.

Heller scanned over the other photos: Pete and his son, Austin, outside Disneyland; a childhood Pete and his father dressed in matching green and yellow shirts, posing in their front yard; Pete and Heller cloaked in their college graduation hats and gowns. He studied all of them for a long time, inevitably focusing his mercurial eyes on the breath-taking image of Cindy Cameron dressed in a elegantly constructed backless wedding dress. His blood pressure spiked.

Well, the secretary shouted, I’m going out now. Good luck, sir!

Heller merely grunted, resuming his search for possible passwords. Cindy…No, Austin…ACCESS… FINALLY! Rapidly going through several files, he found a folder titled 2010-2011 Transactions. It only took a couple of letters added here and a few clicks there to develop a deceptive trail that would lead back to his old friend, Pete Cameron and not himself. He did it because he knew they were closing in. And even then, he was not yet done with his dismantling of an innocent man’s life. He had already ruined Pete Cameron’s career. Now, Heller would move on to ruining his old roommate’s personal life. Like some sleazy character in a pulp novel, he reviewed Pete’s Internet search history until he came across a name from Pete’s past plugged into Google just a few days before. Heller happily bared his teeth the way a cobra bares its fangs. This was exactly the information he needed to have the life he deserved.

Shutting down the computer, he took another moment to scrape away any last bits of dust particles from the cubicle desk. Everything was just the way he liked it –clean – even if it really wasn’t.

Finally, he emerged from his internal asylum just in time to spot the secretary nearing the office exit.

Wait, Bella he yelled, get back here!

The young woman turned with a perturbed expression on an angelic face. A watery sheen covered her eyes.

Mr. Heller, I’m late and you seem busy. Remember, I’ve got to go out to get YOUR breakfast.

Heller waved his hand in a beckoning motion: Don’t be so fucking dramatic. Get over here. I need to show you something now!

The secretary paused, crossing her arms across an ample chest hidden under a chic, red blouse. Heller used his boyish grin to reel her back to his side and upon her arrival he grabbed hold of her exquisitely curved waist and tugged her into Pete Cameron’s cubicle. The redhead relented. She always did. Heller admired her figure as he ran his hands up and down the spandex skirt strapped around sleek legs kept trim by hours spent on the UC Santa Barbara running track. Leaning down, Heller sniffed at the hopeless girl’s midriff. Years spent reading his father’s bathroom sex book, Exploring Ecstasy, and all it revealed about the female erogenous zones made him an expert in seduction. In this case, he knew the secretary went wild when he paid attention to two specific parts of her anatomy.

Mr. Heller, she pleaded, I’m not going to have sex with you. I have a boyfriend now, Todd…

I know, Heller said as he slowly untucked her blouse, I get it, you want to be loyal. Loyalty is very important in this world. It’s very important to me. It might be the most important thing we have in life. I respect that, I really do, it’s just, well, you’re so goddamn beautiful I can’t keep my hands off of you.

Heller leaned his head forward and licked her navel, rimming his tongue around her perfectly symmetrical belly button. The first erogenous zone had been targeted. The secretary began to moan. Heller slithered his head upwards, gravitating toward erogenous zone number two.

I want to show you something before you head out, Heller whispered, then I’ll let you go.

The secretary nodded her approval. Heller casually got up from his seat and scooted around the skittish twenty-three year old. He put the devious plan for his best friend on autopilot for a moment. Now it was time for a little fun. The secretary playfully rolled her eyes and smiled, while Heller began to massage her shoulders, systematically breaking down the last of the young woman’s defenses with little effort. The secretary’s acquiescent sigh put a devilish grin on her boss’s face. Unfortunately, she never saw it.

So, what did you want me to see? the secretary asked.

Heller leaned his chin on her sloped shoulder and whispered in her ear:

Look at that photo of Cameron and his father. Cute huh? They quietly examined the photo - a proud papa and his boy standing at each other’s side.

It’s cute, the secretary responded, but did you really need me to come back and look at some old picture?

You know, Heller said, I’d love to have kids with you someday, Bella.

Come on Mr. Heller. You’re 10 years older than me. Besides, aren’t you dating someone? Marcy or Susan…oh, they both called by the way.

Heller slipped his hands down the secretary’s tense thighs. He spun her around and pushed her up on Pete’s desk. His right hand snaked under her legs and grabbed hold of the computer mouse. He paused dramatically. Bill Gates could never have imagined what Heller did next as he grabbed the secretary’s ponytail and tugged her head back. She moaned. She loved it when he got rough. Heller had her right where he wanted her. He nudged the mouse up inside her, sending the secretary into an orgasmic ecstasy rarely experienced in an office cubicle.

After a few minutes of foreplay, Heller undid his Gucci belt buckle.

Wait, the secretary asked. What about the condoms?

Don’t worry about ‘em, he said. He pulled her hair back once more and moved in for the kill.

Mr. Heller, just one more thing, the poor girl interjected.

Just be quiet.

Am I going to get that promotion you promised me? I really think I could do great in the Sales Department.

Heller smiled, but made neither a confirmation nor a denial. He simply continued to attack – to kill…

*

When it was over, Heller ordered the secretary to go out and get his double-espresso frappuccino and breakfast sandwich. She did as she was told, putting herself together in a hurry then bolting for the door.

Wait a minute, Heller called. He marched over to her with a serious expression on his face. Do you have your Purell on you? Heller asked. The secretary reached into her blouse pocket and handed a full bottle to her boss. He dripped an extra dose into his palms. Her heart sank and her eyes welled up.

Now can we talk about my possible promotion?

Heller turned away.

Later, he said, vigorously sanitizing his hands. For now I need you to go get my breakfast…and don’t forget the condoms.

The secretary suddenly felt dirty as she watched her boss get clean. Heller knew it too, but he didn’t care because he was just another American sociopath.

Chapter 2

He wanted to kill himself; instead he decided to pick-up a hitchhiker.

It was no big deal. Pete Cameron had picked up hitchhikers before. He remembered the first one he drove – a ginger-shaded black guy who called himself "Uncle Sam. The crazy son of a bitch wore a white Lone Ranger vest complete with braided tassels and studded buttons and he had a dog with him called Spirit" that smelled like stale air blown through a swamp cooler. Pete only picked the guy up because he was so goddamn lonely during another trip from Phoenix to Santa Barbara and he was starting to talk to himself again.

He recalled the African American drifter spewed out a garbled rant about America’s bad karma and all this other random stuff that popped into an afroed head covered by a bedazzled ten-gallon hat.

Things going to get hella crazy around here, Uncle Sam slurred, I’m telling you, hella crazy. There’s a shit storm coming and we going to be in the line of fire…

Strangely enough, one month later Al Qaida flew a couple of jumbos into the World Trade Center Towers and things did get crazy-hella crazy. For a long time, Pete Cameron wondered if Uncle Sam was a figment of his imagination. For a long time, Pete Cameron wondered if he was crazy-hella crazy.

Ten years later and just a few days prior to another Easter Sunday, Pete Cameron found himself again on trek across the desert and although he knew his wife would be furious, he desperately needed some company. He was starting to talk to himself again.

While he searched the highway shoulder for some contemporary companionship, Pete simultaneously propped open the center console of his minivan with an elbow and plunged his hand into the cluttered basin. This was his Mobile Medicine Cabinet. He pulled out a blue and white pack of Newport Menthols and two pill bottles–one blue, one orange. He smoked the Newports because it made his breath seem fresh. Of course, he knew they were the most harmful cigarettes on the market, full of enough nicotine and tar to turn your lungs into a shriveled scab, but that didn’t matter to him as long as his breath was fresh.

As for the bottles, Pete used the two different types of little, white pills inside to help discourage his chronic anxiety or fight off his chronic lethargy. The blue bottle numbed his senses, while the orange bottle shot him to the moon. They were a gift from his old friend, Heller and in just a few months he had become hooked on the blue bottle’s Vicodan and the orange bottle’s Adderall.

Feeling a sensitive surge coming on, he opted to drop the orange bottle back into the console and proceeded to jam the blue bottle into his mouth, using his teeth like a workbench vice to twist it open. Inside himself, his endorphins vaulted, anxious for another round of numbness.

Time to forget your problems for awhile, Pete said, dropping two pills in his mouth and swallowing them down with the convenience store coffee he picked up back in Buckeye, Arizona. In twenty minutes, he would feel better. In twenty minutes, he would feel less crazy.

Now it was time for a smoke. With the push of his right thumb, he sparked the car lighter. It only took a short moment for the lighter to warm to an orange heat, which Pete used to singe the end of his Newport. All the while, he continued to survey the Arizona highway for someone to join him inside the cab of his family’s deteriorating, beige minivan. He was particular in who he stopped for – Pete didn’t want any whack-jobs riding shotgun. He was all ready stocked up on insanity.

The first hitchhiker he passed – a weathered caveman draped in black cowhide and anger gave Pete the bird as the minivan zipped by. The second possible candidate - a man dressed like a woman, but really just a man, flashed two physically altered breasts in Pete’s direction. He gunned the engine. Finally, as the loneliness sunk deeper into his brain and the Vicodan sunk deeper into his blood, Pete Cameron passed a white-haired drifter who offered a pleasant wave and a welcoming smile. Looks like a good enough guy…besides…I’ve got protection.

Moments later, the elderly man climbed into the Cameron family minivan, a dilapidated Chrysler Chariot. He gratefully thanked Pete as he plopped down into the passenger seat and pulled his door shut. A grinding sound surprised the old man, turning his serene expression into one of troubled shock.

Did I break something, son? the old man asked.

Nah, Pete said, "the wife accidentally rammed my car with hers in the driveway. Haven’t had the money to get it fixed. Trying