The Suicide Society Complete Box Set: The Suicide Society

By William Brennan Knight

Zach Randall is plagued by visions of people in the throes of despair so deep, they have opted for the final solution. After discovering a name and address during one of the episodes, he sets out to determine if these people are real or simply the hallucinations of a man who is losing his mind.

 

Marshall Beiner is a high-functioning autistic person with exceptional talents. He and his gifted friends discover anomalies in their memories that do not match conventional historical accounts of different events. After careful and exhaustive analysis, Marshall and his group realize that someone, or something, is manipulating the timeline with devastating effect.

 

Mr. Cox emerged from a mining cave in a remote desert in Arizona with extraordinary power and reach. His mutant psychic abilities, coupled with his quest to dominate the world, has brought humanity to the brink of catastrophe. As he revels and feeds off the hatred, divisiveness and conflict he has inflicted on humanity, the final phase of his plan of conquest begins…

 

If you're looking for an unconventional saga that doesn't follow the tired path of predictable storylines and rigid genres, The Suicide Society may be your next great dystopian/supernatural/horror read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Brennan Knight
• Release date: Mar 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201100155

Book preview

Chapter One

Zach Randall clutched a cup of water with both hands while trying to control his shaking extremities. He was uncomfortably cold, but perspiration lathered his body in a slick, sticky film. An acrid stench radiated from his pores and filled every cranny of the small studio apartment. Groaning in agony, Zach fell from the chair and landed with a blunt thud. Blood began to seep into the whites of his eyes as he thrashed about in the worst of convulsive seizures.

Concentrate.

He forced himself to push back at the terrible invasive vision that eroded his will. Zach tried to picture Carol and Mandy, but the apparition was punishing and relentless.

As he inevitably gave in to the searing agony that permeated every cell in his body, the gray vision pushed his feeble defensive mental image aside. Swirling mists of steely gray slowly parted, and Zach struggled to control his ragged breathing.

It was a woman this time. Through the haze, he saw her in his own mind’s eye, sitting in an unraveled wicker chair. Her long brown hair was streaked with white, and unkempt clumps stuck to her face and forehead. A lit cigarette dangled between her index and middle finger, and her thumb flicked spasmodically at the filter tip. Her head bobbed from side to side while she mumbled incoherently. They always talked to themselves before it ended, almost like there was someone else in the room.

As the fog continued to clear, the frames in the vision looked like an old reel-style movie. Periodically they jumped backward, and the focus was lost as small snippets repeated in an endless loop.

Zach sorted through the murkiness, looking for the means. It was often a gun or a handful of pills. Sometimes they used something more gruesome, like a shot of Drano or a wad of Sterno gel. Whatever method they chose, the end never varied. The undertaker would have another dead corpse to drain and fill in the morning.

Zach stumbled over to the sofa and collapsed. He let out a grunt of satisfaction as he sunk into the soft cushions. The pain in his head subsided as he abandoned any further attempts to resist the vision. Like smoke spreading through a room, it continued to fill the recesses of his mind. Small blood droplets began to dry around his nose, and noticeable tremors receded into slight twitches.

The landscape was colorless and washed-out gray. The woman sat in a sparsely furnished room on a couch whose padding had long ago given way to age and the weight of its occupants. There was a kitchen table of the swap meet variety and a small range and refrigerator. Several magazines lay open, scattered haphazardly across the floor. A few unopened bills and an empty bottle of prescription medication shared space on a warped coffee table.

Zach forced himself to pause and focus the vision on the pill bottle. It was well within reach of the flabby arm that stretched over the side of the chair. From previous experience, he instinctively knew that it was the implement of death.

He changed his perspective back to the face of the woman as her shoulders slumped while she gasped for breath. Her head rolled to the side, and puddles of spittle began to form at the corners of her wrinkled mouth. She was dying, and Zach Randall would have an unobstructed, non-elective front-row seat to the whole affair.

With extreme effort, Zach lingered on the end table for a moment. There was something else of importance nearby; he could feel it. His senses were on high alert, and he examined every item carefully. There was a creased package of cigarettes, partially crushed and probably empty. A book of matches lay next to the wrapper, and small cockroaches scurried in and out of a stale bag of Doritos. A digital clock flipped numbers and read: 9:44. A yellowed envelope balanced at the edge of the table, almost ready to fall off. He looked at it through the gray mists. The envelope had writing on it; it had an address.

Zach grimaced and pulled himself up while concentrating his effort on the paper. Empirical evidence had never appeared in any of the previous seven visions, so this was a new and unexpected development.

Focus—focus, he chided himself while pushing his mind closer to the open envelope. He exerted such an effort that his hands curled and seized involuntarily. The writing was in a shaky cursive, and there was a deep coffee stain ring on the face of the paper.

Closer. He twisted his body in an effort to exert his will over the vision and control its perspective.

Clarity was fleeting, but Zach gritted his teeth and forced himself further. The first name was Helen—no, not Helen—it was Helena. Helena—Bostwick. Zach grunted, and his breathing quickened. He wiped a sheet of sweat from his brow and turned his effort to the second line.

The numbers were relatively easy: 501 followed by an N, which he assumed was an abbreviation for North. The next word remained elusive, but he recognized its importance. Through the reverberations and mists within the hallucination, he struggled to interpret the scraggly text. The process was painfully slow.

Somewhere in a corner of his mind, he heard a reverberating moan. The sound grew in volume as it expressed a complexity of raw emotion. Someone acquainted with the grievous mourning of the dead could recognize the sad expression of shock, sorrow, and indignation. Zach Randall knew the resonance well. He heard it on seven occasions before this evening and vividly recalled the wrenching pain of everyone.

Helena Bostwick was near death, and Zach’s voyeuristic intrusion into the last moments of her life would soon end.

Zach’s teeth clenched as his mind filled with an intense spike of pain. Waves of agony blurred the portal and further obscured the writing on the envelope. The image of Helena Bostwick faded, and the chance to find meaning in these visions would soon be gone.

In frantic haste, he moved his attention to the last line on the envelope, looking past the unintelligible address to the numbers on the zip code. The woman exhaled a final, heavy sigh, and her head slumped forward. Simultaneously, the vision receded as reality encroached. In desperation, Zach strained to see the writing on the letter. As the blackness enveloped him, the numbers 60007 briefly emerged in negative relief.

***

The morning light crawled slowly across the bedroom through a small slit in the vertical blinds. Years of being pushed aside to reach the latch on the sliding patio door had warped the slat, and like the whole house, it bore the subtle imprint of a comfortable, long-time occupant.

Today would be far different.

She opened her eyes and stared at the light. Like nearly every summer morning in Arizona, the sun was blinding and intense. Reaching over the nightstand, she fumbled for a cigarette. Too many nights filled with endless what ifs. Even the nightmares were less terrifying than the miserable reality within her troubled mind.

The phone rang. The bill collectors rarely called this early, but you never knew. She waited for the second ring. The phone stopped, paused a few seconds, and then rang again. It was the secret signal. She picked up the receiver. Hello?

Kath, it’s Tammy…. How are you holding up?

I’m okay—I guess. I… it’s hard, Tam.

I know Kathy, you’ve been through hell. There was a pause. Do you have everything packed? What time do you have to leave?

The sheriff said I have to be out by two, but I’ll leave by nine, so I’ll only miss a couple of hours of work.

Soft static interrupted the silence. "All right, Kath, just get in here as soon as you can, okay?

Sure…. And Tammy?

Yes?

I don’t know if I could hold it all together without you.

Thanks, hon. I know how hard it’s been. But we still have to talk when you get in, okay?

Yeah, sure. I’ll get there as soon as I can.

Kathy Rodgers hung up the phone and lay motionless across the silk sheets that clung seductively to the Saatva mattress.

The sun was shining full now, and with effort, she dragged herself into the bathroom and started the shower. The water cascaded from the Barnard 14k gold fixture, and as it poured over her head and torso, Kathy began to cry. Soft and nearly silent at first, her sobs grew in intensity until she finally curled up on the shower floor in a semi-fetal position.

Why did it happen? In just over a year, her perfect world was violated and horribly disfigured. One phone call, a New York minute and all that, and everything crumbled around her with the shock of a figurative tsunami.

She could recite the phone conversation by heart. Doctors are technicians, and as such, their lack of compassion is almost comical in a macabre way. The words reverberated and rang hollow off the shower walls as she played the different parts through tears of pain.

"Mrs. Rodgers?"

"Yes?"

"This is Doctor Michaels, Ryan’s pediatrician from Ravenswood Hospital… I, ah, received the results from the tests we ran last week.

"Yes, and were they negative?" She remembered twisting her hair while the intervening seconds passed in suspended animation.

"Ah, there is a problem. Ryan has a 3-centimeter lesion in the fourth quadrant of his pre-frontal cortex. The doctor paused; his breathing was rapid and audible. It explains the dizziness, the fatigue and the sudden mood swings."

"A lesion? What is a lesion?" She had asked.

"It’s—a tumor."

That day, the doctors had given a death sentence to her precious little boy. The four-year-old with the sparkling eyes was going to die in a slow, agonizing way, and there wasn’t anything on earth she could do about it.

Of course, everyone tried. Tom quit the Prosecutor’s Office and spent the better part of the next year seeking out the country’s preeminent specialists. They went from conventional surgery and chemo to experimental treatments without success. All their effort ended on a small, obscure path of scientifically rejected potions and tonics offered up by greedy medical carpetbaggers.

Mercifully, Ryan died before his sixth birthday. She remembered the funeral for its small, white coffin, and flowers that looked almost artificial.

The burial was the last event that they attended together as a couple. Their marriage had traveled down parallel paths that ultimately arrived at the same destination. No matter how far they climbed, the gravity of despair seemed to pull them back down.

The divorce was far too civil, and as Kathy exited the shower and reached for the vodka, she realized that her drinking had started in earnest just after Tom left for good. She took the bottle with a shaking hand and filled a tumbler nearly half-full. A splash of tomato juice served as the last thread of self-denial. She brought the glass to her lips and drank heartily.

The ring of the doorbell jarred her from the indulgence of self-pity, and she donned a gray haltertop and ran down the sweeping stairs to the foyer below. As the door opened, she saw the sheriff fingering a folded envelope while shifting his weight uncomfortably from side to side. The man next to him was dressed in coveralls and a baseball cap that said Big Ed’s Movers.

Er, I’m sorry, Mrs. Rodgers, but you have to move out today. You know that, right? He offered the foreclosure eviction without making eye contact.

Of course, Sheriff Tyler. Let me just get my suitcase, and I’ll be ready to go.

She refused to let them see her cry. No matter how much it hurt, she would not give them the satisfaction. Grabbing her handbag, Kathy raised her chin, strode through the door, and nodded politely at the sheriff, who smiled and nodded back. He found no enjoyment in this part of his job.

Kathy got into the Jaguar, and with a shaking hand, started the car. The vehicle wasn’t new, but there was still a balance on the loan. If the repo company could catch up with her, she knew it would be towed away. Pulling out of the driveway, she turned south on Scottsdale Road and headed toward the offices of Wineskin, Stein and Marshall. She would be late again, but really, who cared?

***

Please, I’ve got to get away. Please help me! The woman jerked her neck backwards repeatedly. She appeared disheveled, agitated and quite distraught.

The trucker looked down from his perch inside the cab and shook his head slowly. He reached into his back pocket, extracted a moist handkerchief, and started mopping his neck while grinning sheepishly. I don’t know, he said while weighing the potential downside, I’m on company time.

The trucker drove a fuel tanker, a big rig out of Phoenix, 7000 gallons filled to capacity. He made the trip several times before, taking over for Big Mike when the doughnuts, bacon, and greasy spoon cooking finally caught up with the second-generation German immigrant. He leaned out of the cab and spat a wad of chaw that landed with a wet, thick splat, and splashed a few grains on the woman’s worn loafers.

Please, she repeated, this time with a hint of panic in her voice. "I said I’ll do anything…. Anything." She looked back over her shoulder. The message was unmistakably clear: this woman was in some serious trouble.

He rubbed at his two-day stubble, deep in thought. "Well, yer sure yer sayin’ you’ll do anything?"

Yes, yes, anything—let’s just go! Her face contorted, and she pulled loose strings from her fraying and faded print dress.

Well, climb in then; I’ll take ya out to Phoenix, but that’s as far as I go.

The woman bounded up the entry ladder into the cab on the passenger’s side. The smell of chewing tobacco was suffocating, and it mixed with the odor of stale sweat and rotted beef jerky. While pushing beer cans and various wrappers from the seat, her hand landed in something wet, and she recoiled from the tobacco mess that clung like stringy snot from her fingers. The driver turned toward her and grinned, his lips peeling back to reveal teeth corroded by decay and stained a burnt orange.

The truck let out a belch of diesel and moved out on highway 96, and Sarah Johansen leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. She was breathless from the fear that enveloped her as the miners' shanties rushed past the moving semi-tractor, their dingy, peeled yellow color forming a near continuous blur. She fought against the tears while looking away from the trucker, whose greedy eyes fixed on her ample cleavage. He chuckled under heavy breath, and she shivered with the same naked fear that had become so much a staple of her everyday life.

Looking out the passenger’s window, she was drawn to her own reflection in the large side mirror. Like Arizona itself, the landscape of her face was a rugged map of craggy lines and deep scars.

She felt the hand lay heavily on her thigh and instinctively shuddered and stiffened. The trucker pulled back and sneered.

"Hey, what’s with yew? he asked. The deal is that I git whatever I want. I’ll turn the truck around and you can git off right where I picked you up."

No, you can’t, she said. Please, they’ll kill me if I go back.

The grin returned as his lips rolled back over his rotted teeth. Then I’d git a whole lot more friendly if I was you. The hand returned to her thigh. You like that don’cha? The tone of his voice was like thick, spoiled syrup.

Sarah shook her head and forced a smile. A well-rehearsed part she played for one so vile, the trucker was Errol Flynn by comparison. Long ago, she learned the best way to handle the assaults was to acquiesce. The sooner she complied, the sooner the episode would end.

She implored him to watch the road, and while the endless miles passed, the tension between the two of them grew. The trucker calculated how to make his next move and where he could stop to achieve his ends. Sarah plotted escape routes and ways to string him along until they reached civilization.

Ya know, he said as tobacco juice drizzled down his chin, there’s a truck stop up ahead where we could get some privacy.

Oh no, that won’t do at all. What kind of girl do you think I am? It was her turn to grin shyly. The least you can do is find us a hotel room in Phoenix.

The trucker grunted and turned his attention to the road. He pressed the pedal down hard. He hoped he wasn’t going to regret picking this woman up.

Chapter Two

They sat in a quiet corner of the café at the same table they always occupied on most Tuesday nights. Many peripheral relationships became awkward after the divorce, but saving this friendship had been worth it. They were in a comfortable place, and Zach desperately needed the companionship Jarad Anston offered.

Did you find anything? Zach asked.

Anston gave an incredulous side-glance as he reached into the breast pocket of his sport coat. He pulled out a photocopied paper and laid it on the table. This is it, Zach, all that I can give you. Now, how about telling me what’s going on here? Sharing sensitive IRS data with a private citizen could land me in prison, you know.

I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.

Zach carefully looked at the W4 form in front of him. He had a growing sense of both exhilaration and chilling fear as he gazed at her name. The document provided tangible evidence of Helena Bostwick’s existence and the motivation Zach needed for further investigation.

Are you certain this woman lives in the 60007 zip code?

It’s a suburb outside Chicago called Elk Grove Village. Apparently, her phone number isn’t current, so you'll have to find that yourself. But the address is what she listed on her last tax return.

Zach massaged the paper as though it might reveal something more than the antiseptic truth of her vitals. The form came from a previous employer and listed her as Helena Morgan Bostwick, with a birth date of December 13, 1981. The address was blanked out except for the city and zip code, and the phone number was also missing.

This is it? Can’t you give me anything else? Help me out here, Jarad.

Anston grabbed a breaded mozzarella stick from the sampler platter and generously dipped it in the accompanying marinara sauce. Awfully odd to tell you the truth. She had very little in her file.

C’mon Jarad. You’re a consultant for the IRS, for God’s sake. There has to be more on her than this.

Sorry buddy. I can’t dig any further without leaving a paper trail, and that’s way too much exposure. But—if you want to tell me what you’re working on…

I can’t. At least not yet. I’m not sure if I believe any of it myself.

Anston leaned back, puffed his cheeks out, and exhaled slowly. Zach, you’ve got to move on. It’s been over a year and a half. Your doctor has given you a clean bill of health, and this isn’t a good time to regress. The meetings are still on the first Monday of the month. You have an open invitation, and…

I’m not regressing, Jarad. I’m not hallucinating, projecting, obsessing or suffering from a functional brain deficit. I understand what I did, and I’ve come to terms with it. The past has nothing to do with this.

Look, I’m your friend, and I’ll help you in any way I can, said Anston. But as your support group leader, I have to admit I’m a little concerned. You call me and ask for information on some woman in Chicago you’ve never met. Do you realize—let me pick the words carefully—how unusual that sounds?

Okay, I’ll grant you it’s strange, especially in light of my past. But I promise you this has nothing to do with my… illness.

Anston leaned in closer to Zach. Did you know Carol is dating?

The words felt like a knife stuck directly into Zach’s heart. He lowered the teacup and set it on the table. She’s dating? Who?

Does it matter, really? The point is she's moving on with her life, and Zach, so should you.

Well, that’s great. I’m really pleased for her. Zach ran a finger around the rim of his cup. Jarad, if you’re asking me if it hurts, the answer is yes; it hurts bad. But if you’re wondering if the pain over my divorce is causing me to relapse, you’re wrong.

***

Pulling up in front of the Williams Center, Kathy Rodgers realized she had lost track of time. Glancing down at her wrist, her Cartier read 10:32. She was late, but it had become so much of a habit she only felt a twinge of guilt.

Reaching into her purse, Kathy extracted a compact and applied a new layer of makeup. The image looking back from the small mirror was disturbing. The deep, thick lines emerging around her eyes belied the age of a 36-year-old woman. She snapped the compact shut, reached back into her purse, and pulled out a hip-flask of vodka.

The elevator stopped at the 17th floor; Kathy stepped out and walked through the huge mahogany doors into the law firm where she had been employed for the last six years. The golden letters behind the receptionist’s desk highlighted the name of the company and still glittered brightly. Wineskin, Stein and Marshall… How many years had she hoped that one day the name Rodgers might find its way onto that wall?

Good morning Mrs. Rodgers.

Good morning, Gail, do I have any messages?

No, but the partners want to see you in the conference room immediately. I’m to intercom them as soon as you arrive.

Kathy’s head cocked slightly. "Any idea what they want?

The receptionist looked away. I’m sorry Kathy. I have no idea.

She walked down the short hallway to the large conference room reserved for the corporate clients. When she entered, Rodgers immediately sensed the somber mood. Good morning, Kathy. Edward Marshall was the Managing Partner for the firm.

Good morning, Ed. Then, nodding toward the other occupants, she said, Good morning, Jim, Larry… Tammy.

Kathy, please, please take a seat. Would you like some coffee?

No thanks, Ed. She looked from face to face, reading body language that told her something was very wrong.

I’ll get right to the point then. We lost Rossier Airjet, Kathy. You didn’t make the court date on the 15th. That’s inexcusable in itself, but you left a client sitting in front of the judge without representation. We’ve looked the other way for almost two years now, but I have to think about the well-being of the firm. Wineskin and Stein employs 27 people who depend on this place for their livelihood. Marshall made an expansive gesture toward the main office area, which was lined with small, occupied cubicles.

So, what are you saying, Ed? Look, let me talk to the client. I know Jim Frontz; he’ll listen to me.

Marshall shook his head. No, he won’t Kathy. He says your error cost him millions in the court of public opinion. The media had a field day attributing his no show to an admission of guilt. He wrung his hands. It’s over, Kathy. I’m sorry, but we have to terminate you.

Rodgers smiled and let out a muted chortle, waiting for the prank to be exposed. After a few seconds of ensuing silence, there was little doubt that Marshall’s edict was serious.

Tammy? She looked at her friend, who continued to avoid eye contact.

I’m sorry, Kathy. We’re unanimous on this. You had so many chances. This is a business after all.

Rodgers felt light headed, and she staggered a moment. Could it be the stress of the meeting or the effects of the vodka?

Er, Kathy, you’ll have to excuse me, my 10 o’clock has arrived, said Ed Marshall.

An awkward silence fell over the room, punctuated by the whirring of the server in the IT closet and the muted sobs of Kathy Rodgers. Finally, gathering herself, she straightened her back and wiped the smeared mascara from her face. She pushed the conference room door open and spoke without facing her former co-workers.

I will pray for you all today despite what you’ve done to me. I will pray none of you will ever endure a tragedy like I have. For if you do, perhaps you’ll understand what compassion truly means.

Then, turning toward Tammy Adams, You, of all people. I thought you were my friend. You said you understood what I was going through, and you acted like you cared. Go look in one of your Latin books and see what, ‘et tu Brute’ means.

Her sense of satisfaction faded by the time she reached her car. Kathy Rodgers, the one-time rising star of the Arizona legal community, was homeless, penniless and now unemployed.

She slammed the car into gear and turned out on Shea Boulevard without any particular destination in mind. She might have driven for hours, but Rodgers was oblivious to the passage of time. With her foot planted firmly on the accelerator, she kept waiting for the nightmare to end. Irrational thoughts bubbled up through her subconscious. Perhaps more speed would obliterate this false veneer and send her back to the privileged life she once knew.

The speedometer read 95 and rising, but she couldn’t outrun the gloom that smothered her life. She turned on route 87, heading north through the Tonto National Forest toward Payson.

The desert remained hot, dusty and forsaken. Its hostility was palpable and evident in every unfriendly plant and venomous animal. Time slowed, and the landscape darkened, providing a rare moment of complete clarity. Kathy fully recognized the hopelessness of her situation.

Without an actual conscious thought, she made a nearly instantaneous connection between the car and a huge ironwood tree that stood towering against the backdrop of the Black Mountains. A sly grin crossed her gloss-painted lips, and she turned the wheel slightly, which put her on a direct path with the tree. Kathy tossed her head back, shook her long blonde hair and screamed as she slammed the accelerator to the floor. The vehicle plunged into an unexpected dark abyss.

Oooooo, death by blunt force trauma. I haven’t been in a car wreck for some time. Not original, but still exciting.

The voice came simultaneously from the passenger’s seat and from inside her own head. In slow motion, Kathy turned to look at the slight, ghastly, pale figure that sat beside her. She smiled at the man, convinced he was merely a hallucination. Her mind was clearly unraveling.

The car swerved violently, and for a painfully long moment, Kathy thought she would lose control. Two wheels came up off the ground and then slammed back down with a hard thud. The Jaguar skidded to the side of the road and gently came to rest against the ironwood tree, hidden in a thick cloud of brown dust. The paint on the car was barely scratched.

For a long moment, Kathy looked curiously at the passenger. He continued to stare back with an unwavering grin, and he periodically licked his thin lips.

Finally, he waved his hand and looked to the sky as if he was searching for the right words. You know, I enjoy watching somebody’s skull get crushed against a windshield as much as the next person. But perhaps, Ms. Rodgers, you would like to consider something different…

***

Zach sat in an oversized chair, looking out over the triangular park that anchored downtown Albuquerque. It was a vibrant city these days, and the pace of change was breathtaking. Only a half million people lived here when Zach migrated from Southern California, but when the fuel cell industry decided to call New Mexico home, the population exploded in just 10 short years.

The downtown Albuquerque library was the only place he could think of where he might find an out-of-state address. He tried the internet, but neither free nor paid searches yielded anything useful. Zach brought his focus back to the 5-year-old Northwest Chicago suburbs phone book that lay open on his lap. Running his finger down the long page of names, he felt a growing sense of excitement and apprehension. Boston… Bostros… Bosttus… Bostvock; and then he found it. He stared at the name for what seemed like an eternity, almost refusing to believe his own eyes.

Helena Bostwick, 501 Bianco Dr., Elk Grove

Village Illinois, 60007.

Slowly, he moved his finger to the other side of the page and stopped directly over the phone number. Zach sighed and gently rubbed his temples. He found her contact information, but what should he do with it?

For several minutes he sat quietly, absorbed in the muffled sound of his fingers rubbing against the page. He knew he should just walk away from this. Chicago was a huge place, and the odds of finding any imaginable name were pretty good. Even with an address and phone number, the whole episode was probably nothing more than a bizarre coincidence.

Still, the compulsion grew stronger; an itch he somehow had to scratch. Zach negotiated with himself. If he called her, and she answered the phone, that would be the end of it. He would contact Dr. Hankar first thing in the morning and make an appointment for a complete physical. In fact, Zach hadn’t told anyone about the visions. Maybe Anston was right. Perhaps he was regressing.

Zach fingered his cell phone nervously before bringing up the call screen. He stabbed at the digits as they registered across the top bar. A brief unsettling moment of doubt made him hesitate before he finally pushed hard on the send button.

A long pause followed as the satellites locked in sync, and the familiar click of a successful connection came through the ear piece.

One ring… Well, at least he had a working number, which was an encouraging sign.

Two rings… Zach drummed his fingers and rocked back in the chair nervously.

Three rings… The woman was probably at work or out having dinner. Maybe he called too late. What was the time difference between Albuquerque and Chicago, anyway?

Four rings… She must be… Hello?

Zach’s throat closed tightly; he couldn’t find the words.

Hello? Is there anyone there?

In almost a whisper, he said, Ah, yes, Ms. Bostwick?

Yes?

Zach exhaled and collected his thoughts. Either the visions were a fraud, or there was another Helena Bostwick living in Elk Grove Village.

Just to be sure, "Is this Helena Bostwick?" There was no reply. He wondered if the line had disconnected.

Ms. Bostwick?

Who is this?

My name is Zach Randall, and I’m, ah, an old high school friend of Helena Bostwick. I’ve been trying to find her for some time now. I hired one of those internet companies, and they gave me a list of possible contacts. You were on the list. I hope I’m not bothering you, but did you go to high school in California by any chance?

She spoke between whimpers and full-fledged sobs. No, my sister went to school here in Illinois. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I have to go. My sister, Helena—she, passed away last evening.

Zach’s pulse quickened, and his breathing grew shallow. Bostwick died last night, just as he had watched it unfold. All at once, the visions had meaning. He had so many questions to ask.

Ms. Bostwick, are you there? Ms. Bostwick? The line was dead. Randal hesitated, but then hit redial.

She answered after a single ring. Hello?

Ms. Bostwick, it’s Zach Randall again. I need to ask you a couple questions if it’s all right.

Why are you calling here, Mr. Randall? I told you Helena went to school in Illinois. Can’t you see we are grieving?

Well, yes, of course I can. But I have to ask you—I know this is unusual. Can you tell me how your sister died?

She muttered under her breath. Who are you? How can you barge in on our time of grief and start asking those kinds of questions? Are you from the insurance company? The woman’s voice remained level, but smoldered with underlying rage.

No, no, it’s not like that at all. You see, I have these visions… Last night, I had one about your sister. I saw something in the vision that led me to her. Pills. Ms. Bostwick, did she kill herself with pills?

… How dare you, Mr. Randall. I have caller ID, and I know your phone number. I’m calling the authorities immediately. You ambulance chasers will do anything to dig up filth on the dead. Let me tell you something, you dirty lawyer. Your client can claim innocence until the day he stands before God’s judgment, but it won’t change anything. Helena didn’t commit suicide. She took those pills because those bastards ruined her life. So help me, they will pay.

There was only a muted click, but Zach instinctively knew she slammed down the phone with force. He sat for some time gazing absently at the rows of books that lined the aisles of the library. His visions were genuine, and the bone chilling reality was almost beyond comprehension.

As the most perverted of all voyeurs, he had intruded on the saddest and most intimate final moments of eight people. The trauma and pain on their tortured faces seared deep into Zach’s psyche and tore at his soul with new meaning. The episodes could no longer be dismissed as mere hallucinations.

Zach stood up and steadied himself by grabbing at the corner of the desk. He felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. No matter how he tried to hide from it, the visions weren't going away. He was compelled to learn more, and the thought frightened him to the core of his being.

Chapter Three

The room was dark and silent. The only illumination came from a couple bulbs in a flashing sign from a Mandarin restaurant across the street. The woman's face was exposed as a ghastly, emaciated silhouette against the intermittent light.

In her mind, it had been a completely wasted life. Compromised, languid, settling for less when she could have achieved so much more. This would be her epitaph and her legacy.

In her lap lay an old yearbook turned to a page that showed the picture of a beaming teenager holding the class president’s gavel. Underneath the picture was the caption, Most Likely to Succeed. She glanced at the picture and still felt sorrow even after 30-plus years.

Where and why had everything gone so wrong? The answers still eluded her. At 51, how could she have ended up here in a run down two-flat on Badura Avenue in Las Vegas?

She rose from a creaking rocker and walked over to the bathroom, not bothering to turn on a light. Reaching into the rusting medicine cabinet over a stained basin, she extracted two items: a brownish vile filled with green, round pills, and a blade from a safety razor she used for shaving her legs.

With one item in each hand, she turned and headed back toward the rocker, her slippers shuffling against the tiled flooring. The ragged robe dragged along behind her, silently mopping up the accumulated filth.

The unexpected noise from the kitchen caused her to stop and stiffen. The light and hum from the microwave was unmistakable. Subsequent popping sounds continued, and the smell of fresh popcorn filled the apartment. There was one small problem—she wasn’t cooking any.

She moved a few paces from the living room towards the kitchen while grabbing a vase from a coffee table and raising it above her head. The outline of a person was framed by the light from the microwave. A stranger had entered the house.

As she approached, the intruder kept his face turned toward the expanding bag. Yet, without seeing her, he held out an arm with his palm raised up in the universal sign for stop. I just love the smell of popping corn, he said. Microwave popcorn is okay, but nothing tastes like the kind they make at the theater, don’t you think?

Who—who are you? How did you get in here?

He turned. In the glow of the bulb she saw him smiling. Pasty, pale skin and teeth so white and perfectly straight that she thought they must be ceramic or porcelain. He wore a 70s-style, white leisure suit and a wide brimmed fedora.

Get out—get out, or I’ll call the police!

Maybel, Maybel, Maybel, he said while shaking his head. The smile grew even wider. Ah, the irony. You’re getting ready to off yourself, and you’re concerned about me assaulting you?

How did you get in here?

That hardly matters does it? The last few corn kernels finished popping, and the microwave shut off abruptly. The room plunged back into darkness.

The woman moved toward the nearest wall switch and flicked it on, which lit up the kitchen and gave her a clear view of the antagonist.

Awww, Maybel, now you’ve gone and ruined the mood. His smile stretched to grotesque proportions as he came forward, opening the bag of popcorn as he approached.

Maybel Downey set the vase down and edged back toward the far wall. Her eyes found the front door, which was still locked securely. She turned back to his penetrating gaze. How do you know my name?

He spoke between mouthfuls; his voice muffled by the food. Go sit down, Maybel, and we’ll talk.

I’ll do no such thing. If you don’t get out, I’ll call the police. She sprinted towards the phone, but when she arrived, he was inexplicably blocking her path.

"I told you to sit down. For a moment his smile faded and was replaced by an expression of sadistic ugliness. His eyes widened and burned coal black, and she reflexively recoiled. Walking slowly, she made her way to a sagging couch in the far corner of the living room. He sauntered over to a wooden chair adjacent to the sofa and took his place directly across from her. You have any Merlot?"

She looked surprised at the question but only shook her head.

Too bad. I love Merlot. It’s smoother than Cabernet, don’t you agree?

Who are you?

Oh, I’m sorry, where are my manners? He picked at his teeth for a stuck kernel. Call me—Mr. Cox. He looked back over into the kitchen. I’ll drink ginger ale if you have any.

Tell me who you are and what you want.

You know, I love popcorn, but it makes me so dry. Do you know what I mean?

She slowly lowered her head and began to sob.

Crying, very nice. Sorrow feels so good… All right, all right. I told you my name is Mr. Cox. What is it you want with me? she asked.

He shrugged. I want to watch.

What? Watch what?

What do you think, Maybel? I’m here to watch you kill yourself. I have a front-row seat. He gestured with a sweeping motion. So, get on with it. What are you going to use, the pills or the razor blade? He swung around and looked back to the kitchen spotting a distinctively shaped bottle. Ah, I see you do have some red wine. He got up, walked over to a group of cabinets, and rifled through the drawers for an opener. Cheap stuff, but I guess it will do.

How did you know?

The cork squeaked and then popped as he removed it from the bottle. He grabbed a glass and filled it to the brim. Ugh, tastes terrible, he said as he returned to the chair. He saw her slump even further, shoulders heaving. Look, it’s kind of slow, okay? I mean, we can’t have a 9-11 event every day, now can we? Even though I’m a busy man, I always try to make it to as many of the suicides as I can. I wish I could see them all, but some of you are, well, just not important enough, he said before taking a hearty gulp of wine. 

"But I love their faces, especially the ones that have regret after they realize there's no turning back. It’s just priceless. So go on, do it. Just do it."

Please, get out of here.

Why? I would think you would want company at a time like this. After all, everything has been so horrible for you with the bill collectors and the husband that ran out…

Stop it, just stop it! You don’t know what I’ve been through. You don’t know… She lowered her head and cradled it into her open hands. Now, I’m hallucinating. Oh, sweet Jesus.

His expression instantly hardened. Awwww, poor Maybel. It’s so much harder for you than everyone else, right? Nobody has ever lost a job or been in debt or had a spouse dump them. People have babies dying of cancer, but I’m sure you think you’re far worse off than they are. What a pitiful self-indulgent mess. But no matter, I like you better this way. C’mon, slash those wrists; I want to see the blood.

He moved up on the edge of his seat, and the smile returned. It was wide and sick in its malevolence. His eyes flashed, and he licked his lips.

Do it, Maybel, just do it. You have nothing to live for. Look at this pathetic slum you live in. You could have had it all. Girl most likely to succeed with scholarship offers to Clemson and Stanford. An engineer, isn’t that what you wanted to be? Look at you now, you loser.

No, no, she shook her head and picked up the razor blade, pressing it against her left wrist.

Yes, that’s my girl. Now slice it. One pull ought to cut the veins just so. Make the pain go away; just a little tug. Come on, you can do it—please. The last phrase grew assertive and compelling.

I will—I swear I will… She pushed harder on the blade until it punctured the outer layer of skin. They both watched as the blood bubbled up from beneath the wound. He rubbed his hands together and squealed with delight.

That’s right. Now just pull it hard. Slit your wrist; you can do it.

Maybel’s breath was ragged, and she found herself shaking uncontrollably. She put more pressure on the blade, reminding herself of why she wanted to die. Still, her hand seemed frozen as though she couldn’t will the muscles to make the deep slash needed to finish the job.

She chastised herself for this weakness. Maybel Downey could not find the strength for either solution. Maybe the stranger in front of her was right after all. She was too weak to slash her wrists and too cowardly to face life. She was the worst kind of human spirit. There seemed to be no way out.

As though sensing her doubt and utter despair, Mr. Cox examined his perfectly manicured fingernails while saying almost absently, You know, May, there is an alternative here if you can’t bring yourself to finish the job.

Maybel relaxed the pressure of the blade on her wrist just a bit. An alternative?

Yes, I can give you another way. That’s what I said.

And just what would it be?

Actually, it’s very simple. You come join me.

Join you? You’re a monster who enjoys the suffering of others; a figment of my psychosis. What kind of job could you offer—mass murderer?

He chuckled. Excellent, May, very funny. Look, I’m okay either way. I’m just offering an easy way out to a sniveling wretch like you. You want a nicer place to live? You want a better job? Money and power perhaps? I can make it all happen. She didn’t say a word, and he took it as a sign to continue. All you have to do is join me—us. It’s simple really. You’re responsible for carrying out some small assignments on our behalf.

Her face contorted and her head tilted slightly. What kind of ‘assignments’?

Do you think you ended up in this place by sheer circumstance? A lot of hard work goes into ruining people’s lives. You don’t really believe that all those investment bankers on Wall Street were that dumb, do you? Have you any idea how many lives were ruined by their bad advice in the ‘08 crash back in the day? The nasty ones with the huge bonuses; you think any of that was random? How about the virus? You really think that came from a bat? 

Sensing her confusion, Mr. Cox sighed. Look, I’m only asking for your loyalty. You work for the government. Every once in a while, we may ask you for some information. State contract proposals, tax records, nothing particularly complicated.

She moved her hand holding the razor blade away from her wrist. What the hell are you talking about?

Look, it’s an open invitation. You won’t believe how much better your life will become and how quickly. I’m like the insurance company. I have a whole lot of different plans. Maybe you’d like something bigger. That’s fine. We’re always looking for the ambitious ones to help eliminate the inconvenient. The more you help us, the better your life will be. Chaos is what we’re after, and a large amount of suffering wouldn’t hurt either. There’s lots of profit for those who get on board. But Maybel, the train is leaving, so don’t wait too long.

Get out! she screamed. Unable to grab something heavy, she threw the razor blade out of frustration. He grabbed it from the air and closed his whole hand tightly, shutting his eyes in a moment of pleasure. She looked back, and his grin had returned.

Okay, I get it. You bipolar, manic-depressive cowards are all the same. You can’t even kill yourself with dignity. It’s pathetic.

He rose from his chair and moved toward the front door. When he reached it, he stopped and rested his hand on the knob, his back facing the woman still sitting on the sofa.

You know, May, call me a pushover, but even though you disappointed me today, I still kind of like you. He paused and appeared to be deep in thought.

I’ll tell you what. Come tomorrow, you’ll find your rent is paid up for three months, and $1,000 has been deposited into your account. Take my generosity as a token of good faith. Should you decide you want more, just call me and maybe we’ll do lunch.

He opened the door and stepped through the threshold, Oh, and Maybel, life is never going to change as long as you rely on yourself. One way or another, I’ll be seeing you again.

He turned around, and in a motion similar to flipping a coin, tossed the razor blade across the room so that it landed precisely in the woman’s lap. With a wink, he walked down the hallway. 

Mr. Cox was running late for his next appointment.

***

They came through the Khyber Pass, an illegal immigrant trail deep in the craggy canyons and valleys that snaked around the Huachuca Mountains in southeast Arizona. The Coyote had been paid well, and the grin that spread across his lips as they had entered the U.S. side of the border belied his apprehension. He was always worried about the OTMs, the Other Than Mexicans.

In his experience, the Central Asians were the worst. The sooner he could collect the other half of his fee and get back to Agua Prieta, the better off he would be. Business was very good in the summer, and he had a seemingly endless number of Latin American nationals lined up and ready to pay handsomely to make the trip into the United States.

His four Kazakhstan customers were not particularly conversant, and the three-day journey was hot, dusty and miserable. Since the Coyote didn’t speak Kazakh, and the Central Asians didn’t speak Spanish, the opportunities for verbal exchanges were few. He could only talk to the leader of the group in English, a language they both knew but spoke in vastly different dialects.

They sat around a makeshift campfire while squatting on an unfortunate rancher’s land. The coyote could not help but sense the dark stares of his silent companions. His throat felt the familiar dryness of a man who had developed a heightened sense of survival in a business where high mortality rates were an accepted occupational hazard.

So, amigo, tomorrow I take you to Sierra Vista, and the van will bring you to Tucson.

It is good. Yes, tomorrow we reach Sierra Vista, parroted the Kazakhstani national.

Maybe you want to give me the rest of the money now so we don’t have to stop. You know, with the border patrol, it is not very smart to stop. The Coyote grinned and wiped perspiration from the back of his neck. The sweat may have come from the hot July night, or perhaps it was the chill that ran through him as he gazed into the thirsty eyes of his customers.

Money, yes. To give you money when we reach Sierra Vista. The Kazakhstani nodded while lighting a sickly sweet smelling Turkish cigarette that he dragged on enthusiastically. Like every other activity, they did this collectively, and the tobacco was quickly passed around. Soon, three more cigarettes were lit and consumed with equal fervor.

The group leader stooped over the fire and offered a smoke to the Coyote, who smiled and stepped forward to accept. As he leaned over for a light, he didn’t notice another Kazakhstani silently approaching from behind. The Coyote hardly had time to inhale as he felt the flexible wire wrap tightly around his throat.

He grabbed reflexively at the nylon thread as it dug into his flesh, collapsing his trachea and leaving his lungs thirsting for air. His arms thrashed wildly, and he reached back to grab the assailant, but it was to no avail. They staggered about for a few moments and then toppled backwards, the wire now hidden by the blood that ran freely from the deep, thin slit in his neck.

As his eyes bulged and the vessels ruptured, the Coyote cursed his own stupidity and prayed for his family back home.

Speaking in low tones, the Kazakhstanis praised God as they dragged the body of the Mexican over to a clump of mesquite in the middle of a desert pasture. Kicking aside the trash strewn by countless others who had passed before, they discarded the corpse in a shallow wash that ran along the property’s edge.

The one named Burikhan grabbed a few handfuls of dirt and tossed them on the guide while motioning for his comrades to follow suit. Together, they made a half-hearted effort to cover the body, but the task was too difficult without daylight and the ground being so hard. The Coyote ended up in a weathered plastic tarp, buried beneath a pile of decaying garbage. The terrorists found it deliciously ironic that someone of such low character and a corrupted soul would find his final resting place in his own element.

Burikhan, how will we find the van tomorrow without him? said Kabanbai in Arabic while searching through the Coyote’s knapsack.

You worry too much, Kabanbai. He foolishly told us of everything. He had the map in his pocket. It tells us where we need to go and who we need to bribe.

It is fine then. I was growing tired of his bad jokes and smell. He was foul.

Soon the prayer rugs were rolled out, and they were chanting, smoking and bowing in unison while the real coyotes of Arizona howled at the moon.

Chapter Four

He sat on a bench outside the market for hours while flipping through the wallet-sized pictures of his family. He watched as the young Israeli children skipped rope and sang the V’ahavta, Lecha Dodi and other popular songs. The banter was excited and full of life. Yet, here he sat, a dead man already. Not of this world, not quite of the next.

He had been promised many things. Most importantly, that his family would be taken care of and removed from the oppressive poverty he was unable to extract them from. He was an honest man—honest to his wife, his parents and to his religion. The son of a shoemaker, he had toiled at the textile factory for many years. It was a constant struggle to scrape enough together to keep food on the table.

As his wife, Rawda, had reminded him many times in his most desperate of moments, he had given them enough. The children never went to bed hungry, and there was always an abundance of love that allowed the family to prosper and grow.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t stayed that way. Instead of improving their circumstances, a series of rapid and sudden events had reduced Basim AlJamal to this—a man sitting in a Jewish city with a series of high explosives strapped to his body.

In fact, he was easily persuaded. He had shown up to work one day and was called into his supervisor’s office. There were two Al-Hurriiya officials waiting for him. The meeting was brief, and Basam was told that his work was substandard, and he would be replaced.

The encounter was simple and cold.

The owners of the factory ranked high in the AlHurriiya organization, and they demanded loyalty in return for jobs and medicine. Basim understood political reality and had faithfully pledged his allegiance to the movement. He took part in the obligatory staged Israeli flag burnings, and he had always respectfully paid his dues. However, none of this seemed to matter. Fanatical groups must continually find examples of disloyalty, and for some reason, Basim had been targeted.

Living from paycheck to paycheck, it was only a matter of weeks before the family was evicted from their meager apartment. Basim was unable to find any work as rumors spread through the town. Eventually, they were forced to seek shelter at the refugee camp. Sitting around a makeshift fire in an oil drum, Basim experienced a rage he had never known before. It was during one of these cold evenings that he was casually approached by an Al-Hurriiya lieutenant.

After buying bread and milk for the children, the smiling bureaucrat invited Basim for a Turkish coffee. Cupping the brew in his hands and huddling so that the heat would not be wasted, Basim listened to the familiar and tired tale of Zionist oppression and atrocities. He nodded dutifully when appropriate and waited patiently for the job offer he prayed would present itself.

You see, Basim, the bureaucrat said between large mouthfuls of goat’s meat, you cannot fight these people in conventional ways. They have nuclear weapons, after all. We need volunteers to carry out the will of God. Are you with us?

He was told that the movement needed martyrs to attack the enemy and revel in the glory of God. The bureaucrat laughed heartily and slapped him on the back. "Your family will receive great wealth and security in your death. You will be a hero and martyr to all of our people. Your family will live in a luxury two-bedroom apartment in Hebron, and your children will be educated at a university in France when they are old enough.

It’s either serving the glory of God, or… this, the Al-Hurriiya man said with a sweeping gesture toward the cardboard city. He raised his eyebrow. In fact, Basim, it could get much worse.

With great reluctance, the broken Palestinian agreed to the training, and several months later, he was deemed ready to die for the glory of God by blowing up innocent civilians in Tel Aviv. Tears welled in his eyes, as he watched a group of children happily playing in a park next to the open market mercantile. It was a strange sensation to be the only one who knew they would all soon be dead.

… Er, I said, excuse me, can I sit here?

Huh?

I was wondering if I could sit next to you a moment. These shoes are very tight, and my feet hurt.

Basim looked directly into the eyes of a Hasidic Jew; a curled lock of hair hung from either side of his head, which was partially hidden under an odd black hat. It was a warm day, and Basim speculated that it must be stifling under that thick woolen coat.

Ah, I suppose so, he said. There was fear that turning the man away might draw more attention.

Thank you… and shalom. The Jew sighed deeply as he sat on the bench and placed his feet out at an angle so that only his heels rested on the pavement. He reached down to rub his sandaled feet while sighing repeatedly as he massaged.

You know, I have this neuroma. It’s a fibrous growth between my third and fourth toes… Feels like broken glass in there.

Basim looked straight ahead, trying to avoid conversation. The large clock set in the concrete tower read 12:15, which meant he was already 15 minutes overdue.

… very warm. My friend, you seem preoccupied, and I don’t think you heard a word I said, and here I am rambling on. My name is Shlomo Epstein, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance.

In spite of himself, Basim pulled his hand from his pocket and extended it. I am sorry. I am known as Basim Al-Jabar.

Ah, Palestinian?

Yes, Basim looked at Epstein cautiously.

Epstein patted his leg reassuringly. Do not worry my friend. I am far too old to be political. How are you today?

Basim contemplated the question for a long moment. I am actually not doing very well, Shlomo. He looked down at his shoes and spoke very quietly. You see, I am going to die today. Many are going to die today.

Shlomo Epstein lifted his eyebrows for just a moment. When he spoke, it was slowly and carefully. You have a bomb strapped to your body, don’t you?

Yes, I do.

I suspected as much. I was a security agent in my younger days. Your uneasiness gives you away.

There was a brief but awkward silence.

I suppose if I ran and screamed for the police you would detonate it, wouldn’t you?

Yes, I am afraid so. You see, the fate of my wife and children depends on the success of this mission and how many die.

Epstein sighed deeply. So you have no desire to be here yourself?

Basim shook his head slowly, and tears again welled up in his eyes. No, but what I want hardly matters. They have ruined my life and pushed me to this moment.

There are always choices my friend.

Not in this case, Epstein. Basim paused and looked off in the distance. Please, walk away quietly. Go home to your family and hug your grandchildren.

There was a significant period of quiet. Only the happy sound of the children and the chirping of the sparrows in the marketplace could be heard. Finally, Epstein turned to Al-Jabbar. Let me take all the children away from this place. I beg you.

Basim regarded the question thoughtfully and shook his head. "I am afraid not. There