Ancestral Spirits

By Alfred Bekker

by Alfred Bekker

 

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Strange, inexplicable things have been happening in the life of a young lawyer in Canada since she began defending an Indian shaman accused of murdering a businessman and whose hotel and golf course were built on the site of an ancient Indian cult site. Is she being pursued by vengeful Indian ancestral spirits or is she more likely the victim of a perfidious conspiracy? Soon there are more victims...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alfred Bekker
• Release date: Mar 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393596516

Alfred Bekker

Alfred Bekker wurde am 27.9.1964 in Borghorst (heute Steinfurt) geboren und wuchs in den münsterländischen Gemeinden Ladbergen und Lengerich auf. 1984 machte er Abitur, leistete danach Zivildienst auf der Pflegestation eines Altenheims und studierte an der Universität Osnabrück für das Lehramt an Grund- und Hauptschulen. Insgesamt 13 Jahre war er danach im Schuldienst tätig, bevor er sich ausschließlich der Schriftstellerei widmete. Schon als Student veröffentlichte Bekker zahlreiche Romane und Kurzgeschichten. Er war Mitautor zugkräftiger Romanserien wie Kommissar X, Jerry Cotton, Rhen Dhark, Bad Earth und Sternenfaust und schrieb eine Reihe von Kriminalromanen. Angeregt durch seine Tätigkeit als Lehrer wandte er sich schließlich auch dem Kinder- und Jugendbuch zu, wo er Buchserien wie 'Tatort Mittelalter', 'Da Vincis Fälle', 'Elbenkinder' und 'Die wilden Orks' entwickelte. Seine Fantasy-Romane um 'Das Reich der Elben', die 'DrachenErde-Saga' und die 'Gorian'-Trilogie machten ihn einem großen Publikum bekannt. Darüber hinaus schreibt er weiterhin Krimis und gemeinsam mit seiner Frau unter dem Pseudonym Conny Walden historische Romane. Einige Gruselromane für Teenager verfasste er unter dem Namen John Devlin. Für Krimis verwendete er auch das Pseudonym Neal Chadwick. Seine Romane erschienen u.a. bei Blanvalet, BVK, Goldmann, Lyx, Schneiderbuch, Arena, dtv, Ueberreuter und Bastei Lübbe und wurden in zahlreiche Sprachen übersetzt.

Book preview

1

Look there, Doug! The figure! exclaimed the pretty woman in middle years. Her eyes were wide open. She bit her lip involuntarily and swallowed.

Doug McAllister, a gray-haired man in his fifties, frowned. In one hand he held a drink while his gaze passed through the large windows that were so characteristic of the Victory Hotel. With his eyes he searched the rolling hills of the gigantic golf course that stretched around the equally oversized hotel complex.

Where, Clarissa? asked McAllister impatiently.

There! Clarissa McAllister, his wife, held out one of her slender arms as McAllister stared in disbelief toward the horizon, then set the drink aside. He walked a little closer to the window.

My God, he whispered. This can't be happening...

McAllister swallowed.

On one of the hills a strange figure could be seen. From a distance, it looked like a bizarre cross between a bison and a human. At first, this figure seemed to McAllister like a demon in the flesh from the spirit world of Indian shamans.

But of course he knew that this could not be. He narrowed his eyes.

The figure was a half-naked man whose back was covered by a bison hide and on whose head the hollowed skull was emblazoned like a crown - along with the curved horns.

And the figure danced in a strange, stomping rhythm.

It's that crazy guy again! scolded McAllister.

Should I call the police? inquired Clarissa, whose features betrayed concern.

Do that. But it will be too late anyway. Call up all the hotel detectives you have at the moment!

Good!

At that moment, a nondescript man with a half bald head entered the room. He was stocky and pale. Mr. McAllister, I need to speak to you urgently, he explained somewhat timidly.

Not now, Mr. Baring! hissed McAllister.

But...

Baring broke off abruptly when McAllister turned his face to him and he saw the expression on the other's face.

Baring swallowed.

And then McAllister stormed out, through the sliding glass door into the open.

The air was muggy and oppressive. McAllister opened his shirt collar and loosened his tie. He was breathing heavily.

While he watched the strange figure dancing on the hill, he felt as if an unknown force was strangling him.

McAllister clenched his fists involuntarily. Anger welled up in him. Unbridled rage mixed with nameless fear. Then he looked over at the electric carts the golfing guests were using to navigate the terrain. McAllister made a decision. He got into one of those electric carts and drove off - straight toward the dancing man in the bison hide. It had been a hot day. Sweat stood on McAllister's brow, but in the distance the clouds had piled up into huge towers that loomed menacingly over the land. There was going to be a thunderstorm.

The first cool winds were already blowing across the hill country.

Mr. McAllister, wait! someone called after him. Wait for the detectives, they'll throw this guy out.

But McAllister didn't listen.

He drove on.

His gaze was fixed on it. The strange dancer had come to McAllister's attention in the meantime. He looked down from his mound at the newcomer. McAllister knew him - not by name, but had met him once before.

The strange Indian had waylaid him several times before, trying to frighten and intimidate him.

Finally, McAllister had reached the hill. He jumped out of the electric car and walked toward the dancer.

What are you doing here, he scolded. How dare you show up here?

The man was tall, about a head taller than McAllister, and he was already not a short man.

His skin was bronze, his eyes dark and calm.

His gaze rested on McAllister.

You're on foreign soil here, mister, McAllister stated. But that made no impression at all on the dancer.

He stood there, almost frozen in a pillar of salt, just looking at McAllister. Then he said, slowly, in a dark voice: You're cursed, Doug McAllister.

What is this nonsense, McAllister shouted. Go to hell!

The Indian lapsed into a chant. He snatched a pouch from his neck and held it in Doug McAllister's direction.

Stop it, just stop it already.

The Indian grew quiet. His dark eyes scrutinized McAllister. Then his gaze wandered to the left. The hotel detectives were approaching-three burly men in gray suits. Clarissa followed at a little distance.

It's that crazy Indian official again, one of the detectives opined. I think he's harmless.

If you're not mistaken about that, McAllister growled. He stepped a little closer to the Indian.

You are cursed, the Indian repeated his grim threat. His voice sounded dark and the terrible certainty that rang out of it made McAllister shiver involuntarily.

You're trying to threaten me, McAllister yelled.

I'm not threatening, the Indian said. I'm just announcing to you what's happening.

And what would that be?

Death is certain for you. but not only that. Your spirit will wander restlessly over these hills, like the spirits of our ancestors who lie beneath this earth desecrated by men like you.

With that, the Indian turned and walked away.

McAllister turned to the somewhat perplexed looking hotel detectives.

What's the matter? Aren't you going to do anything?

What are we supposed to do, one of them said, We know his name and address, and we've already hit him with dozens of ads.

At that moment, David Three Hands, the man with the bison hide turned and yelled, You're as good as dead, McAllister!

2

Madeleine Dubois was a young lawyer who had passed all her exams with distinction. She was brunette and had her shoulder-length hair pinned up, which gave her an air of elegance. She had learned by now that her job was not only about what someone could do and knew, but also about the right appearance.

Madeleine could be pleased with herself. She had managed to get a job with a renowned law firm in Calgary, Canada, right after her exams. She actually came from the French-speaking part of Canada, but since she spoke English just as well as French, that was no problem for her, at least professionally.

However, she sometimes missed the more informal, lighter lifestyle