The Reluctant Savior: Book I : Re-Entry

By Krystan

Earth, it seems, is somewhat of a transitional planet. With its generally lower vibrational frequency, it allows for the co-existence of both good and evil. The choices we make with our own free will, predispose us to movement either up or down in frequency, with evil occupying a very low range, while love weighs in at the top of the scale. Parallel universes, such as those we characterize as “heaven” or “hell” are likely to exist at either end of the frequency continuum. Thus, someone who chooses a life of kindness, charity, love, generosity and gratitude, moves up to a higher frequency consistent with that of the state we commonly refer to as “heaven”. Our compatibility with such high frequencies begins with the vibrational level which we establish here on Earth—thus, as Jesus proclaimed, the “kingdom of heaven” is indeed initiated within our earthly bodies.



The incredible attraction of a universe whose ultrahigh frequency precludes all evil and negativity, plus time and space as we know it, makes such a state so desirable that few “heavenly” denizens would ever desire to return to Earth. Those who do, however, share one common motivation—an overwhelming love for kindred spirits whose divine spark is shrouded by their own ill-informed thoughts and actions. Peter “Deuce” Olsen, is one such being, perhaps the most recent in a relatively short list of avatars. Reluctantly agreeing to temporarily abandon his blissful state, at God’s request, Deuce (with a few personal incentives!) agrees to return to Earth on a very challenging assignment. The Reluctant Savior trilogy chronicles his re-entry, including a most unusual arrival, and a host of unexpected adventures which serve to further complicate his mission. One thing is certain, however—the planet he leaves behind will never be the same again. This vastly entertaining, enlightening, and somewhat tongue-in-cheek saga is one that you won’t want to miss!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781646542048

Book preview

chapter 1

Incipimus ad Finem: (We Begin Near the End)

(We Begin Near the End)

Portland, Oregon

May 21, 2011

It was just after 10:30 p.m. when Frank pulled up in front of a short row of town houses toward the end of Gaines Street. He knew that the redheaded nurse lived in the third one from the left, because he had followed her there from work a couple of weeks ago. Having no transportation of his own, both then and now, Frank had borrowed an old black ’82 Corolla from a friend, promising to use it only for a couple of hours each time. Tonight was different from his last visit, however, as he had arrived before she did and had plans other than just observing. As he cut the lights and turned off the engine, he was excited and somewhat edgy. Like a big cat seeking out its prey, all his senses were heightened and he felt a rush not unlike that from the line of coke he had done just before leaving his friend’s house. It was like a double high this time, though—the drugs plus the anticipation of what he planned on doing to the nurse when she arrived home from work.

This wasn’t just any nurse either. Frank couldn’t remember her name exactly, but she worked evenings at OHSU, and was often there when the cops hauled him in. She would always quickly flip her badge over in his presence so he couldn’t see her name. Can’t blame her, really, he thought. Who in their right mind would give out any personal information to a druggie like me, especially in the shape I’m usually in? Damn, I hate going to that hospital, but seeing her almost makes up for it. The way her ass wiggles when she walks down the hall…almost makes me come just thinkin’ about it. And those tits…oh my god, just like two overripe melons! I’d love to pluck those babies and suck on ’em till I die! And she was always such a smart-ass too. He hated it when a woman got the upper hand on him. Tonight he would get even, though.

Frank rolled a joint and lit up just to accentuate his fantasies a bit. He raised the windows and sucked in the sweet smoke that he so often depended on. Oh, yeah, he groaned as the weed took its intended effect. Tonight’s the night I’ve been looking forward to for a long time.

It was a pleasant spring evening in the city—partly cloudy, with temperatures hovering around sixty degrees. The moon was half-full as it illuminated the fronts of the four attached row homes, which were quite unique, even by Portland standards. With towering walls of glass in the front, and three levels of living, they backed up to a forested area that gave them a woodsy feel. Across the street where Frank was parked was a trail into the Marquam Nature Preserve, which offered miles of hiking into unspoiled Northwest habitat, ironically juxtaposed with Portland’s huge high-tech medical research complex. Frank studied the third town house very carefully, looking for any sign of occupancy at the moment. He was pretty sure that she would be returning from work shortly, as she usually worked the 3–11 shift and, at least on his previous visit, arrived home around eleven thirty. He also thought that she might have a boyfriend, as he had noticed a man through the window on his last surveillance visit. That complicated matters considerably and certainly made him a bit more cautious tonight. On the other hand, the thought of tying the guy up and fucking his woman right in front of him was almost more excitement than Frank could imagine. He had raped women before and had even done time for one of them, but the thrill of the struggle and conquest lingered strongly in his mind. Frank had heard somewhere that rape had a lot to do with repressed anger, but try as he would, he really couldn’t identify any such emotion in himself. For him, it was a lot like Lady Cain—all about the high, which was magnified so much more with a beautiful and struggling subject.

If he had thought about it, Frank would have easily seen that getting high had been the sole objective for most of his life. He had been in and out of foster homes as a child, with his police record starting at age nine, when he was convicted for sexually molesting the eight-year-old daughter of his sponsoring family. By his teenage years, he had numerous minor convictions for petty theft, drugs, and even one case of indecent exposure. His first real prison sentence began at age nineteen, when he was found guilty of raping one of the local high school cheerleaders after a big football game. At twenty-five, he was on the street again, residing primarily in homeless shelters, doing whatever drugs he could get his hands on, and continuing his sexually predatory practices. Had it not been so difficult to prove that his escapades were not consensual, he would have spent far more time in prison. As it was, his past few years had involved numerous brief periods of jail time interspersed with frequent hospital admissions for intoxication and drug overdoses. Now, at age forty-two, Frank was planning his biggest score: sexually assaulting one of his caregivers in her own home, with her boyfriend forced to watch—if he was around, that is.

Frank smiled sardonically as he inhaled the last of his joint and rolled down the window. There were no streetlights on this side of the street, so the black Corolla blended in well with the woods behind it. Passing clouds had covered the moon by this time, and the only light came from a streetlight in front of the second of the four town houses. Frank pensively scratched his four-day-old beard and ran his fingers through his matted and unkept brown hair. Deep wrinkles were etched in his face from years of malnutrition, smoking, drug abuse, and poor hygiene. His clothes were dirty and somewhat ragged, and his hands were rough, with nails resembling those of an auto mechanic. He wore an old pair of high-top work boots that someone had recently donated to the shelter, and a pair of loose-fitting jeans that showed lots of wear. His thin short-sleeved chambray work shirt revealed the tattoo of a large-breasted female torso on his right forearm. He hesitated as he reached for the door handle, as if finalizing some sort of plan in his mind.

Before opening the door, Frank looked carefully at the town house again. The unit to the left, which appeared to be identical, was vacant and for sale. He had seen an open house sign there the night when he had followed the nurse home, and made a point (much to the realtor’s dismay) to visit it the following Sunday. Clad similarly this evening, he caught a bus up SW 6th to Sam Jackson and on up Pill Hill to the hospital complex, walking the last few blocks to Gaines Street. No one was there but the realtor when he arrived, and she seemed very nervous as he slowly made his way through the property, noting all the room arrangements and access points. There was a two-car garage on the ground level, with a guest bedroom and bath behind. A door and several windows opened to a back deck, which looked to Frank to be the ideal entry point. There was a back stairway up to the family room, which was open to the kitchen. In the front of the home, up a flight of concrete steps, was the entry, formal living and dining rooms. Another stairway led up to the third-floor master bedroom, which was vaulted with a wall of windows facing the street. There was a second bedroom and bath on the back side. As he had walked down to the main entry, Frank rather sarcastically thanked her for the tour, and thought to himself that she was just lucky he had something else on his mind. Any other day he would have had that tight little skirt up around her waist and her legs spread apart before they had even left the garage!

Tonight there was only one small light on in the front living room, and the rest of the house appeared to be dark, at least from the street side. Opening the car door, Frank stood motionless for a moment while he paused to verify the contents of his right pants pocket. As his fingers wrapped around the familiar handle of his Beretta Bobcat, he felt reassured. Although he had never been much for outright violence, he found out the hard way several times that it always pays to pack a little additional security, and the Beretta certainly fit the bill in that respect. Small and compact, it was the perfect concealed weapon, fitting easily and unobtrusively into his pocket. There had been a couple of drug deals where it had come in handy, but primarily, Frank just enjoyed the advantage that the weapon would confer if necessary. As he ran his fingers over the barrel and trigger, he wondered whether or not he would have to use it tonight. Probably not, he reasoned. That redheaded bitch can’t help but give me what I want when she sees it, though, Frank smiled sadistically as he removed his hand from his pocket and shifted his attention to other details.

Then the nylon rope came to mind. Where had he put it? He felt for sure that it would be necessary, especially if the boyfriend was around. Where the hell is that fucking rope? Frank muttered as he groped through the dark vehicle. Goddamn it, I’m sure I didn’t forget that! he cursed as he searched further through the Corolla. Ah, there you are, you little fucker, he sputtered, breathing a sigh of relief as his hand brushed against the coil of rope on the floor behind the passenger seat. Damn, you ’bout gave me a heart attack, you little bastard! Frank glared threateningly at the rope as if it were an unwilling accomplice. Now where’s my ski mask? he growled, again canvasing the Toyota until he found it on the floor behind the driver’s seat, next to his small backpack. Organization and planning were not two of his strong suits, but tonight it appeared that he had what was needed. Better put the fucking gun in the backpack along with this other stuff, he grumbled, or I’m likely to shoot my leg off by accident! As he undid the pack and reached down inside, his hand felt a bottle in the bottom, which brought a grin to his face. Forgot I brought ole Jim along for company! he laughed as he opened the bottle and took a long swig. Ummm…that’s more like it! he reassured himself as he placed all of his tools into the backpack, where they would be safe. He finally emerged from the car, slipped the pack over his shoulder, and shut the door quietly as he turned to walk across the street toward the town house.

Avoiding the streetlight, Frank moved around the right corner of the fourth town house and stealthily to the back of the complex. The woods were pretty thick back there, and almost up to the decks of the town houses, but he shuffled as quietly as he could through the limbs and leaves. His left foot felt some resistance, and a sharp crackling sound startled him as the fallen limb beneath his boot yielded to his advance. Shit, Frank hissed under his breath, why the hell didn’t I remember to bring a flashlight? He tried to make out some sort of pathway through the woods before him, but the trees were so thick, and now with the moon behind the clouds, he could scarcely see his own hand in front of his face.

Suddenly, Frank had the uncanny feeling that he wasn’t alone back there. Almost immediately his ears detected a low menacing growl approximately twenty feet to his left. With no further warning, a large dog, apparently on the deck of the last town house, began barking ferociously and loud enough to be heard all the way to the children’s hospital.

Frank froze in his tracks. Sweat quickly beaded on his forehead, and he swallowed hard, wondering what to do next. For what seemed like an eternity, he didn’t move a muscle and tried his best to breathe shallowly, if at all. He knew any minute floodlights would come on and he had no real hope of escape. Ten, fifteen, twenty seconds went by with the dog still barking, but no lights. Then a glimmer of hope flickered through Frank’s brain. Maybe no one is at home, he thought, and I’ve only got to deal with this miserable dog. Another 10 seconds with no sound or movement from Frank and the dog finally stopped. He knew the animal sensed his presence, however, and from the sound of him, it was a big dog. Frank weighed his options. Apparently, no one home, that’s a relief, but after a couple of Frank burgers, that fucking dog’ll be gnawing on my bones in about 10 minutes. It’s so damn dark I can’t see shit, even what that goddamn dog looks like. Sounds like a Doberman to me, though. Jesus, I hate those dogs! That motherfucker would just as soon tear my ass apart if he could. Those last three words stuck in Frank’s brain. That’s it! he exclaimed to himself, he can’t! Must be tied up or something, or I would already have been dinner. Dammit, I wish I could see him!

Just then, almost as if by command, the clouds momentarily parted and Frank’s wish was granted. To his left, on the deck of the last town house, about fifteen feet away, was the biggest, blackest Doberman Frank had ever seen. His teeth were bared, visible in stark relief against a canopy of black. Two steely black eyes, reflecting the moon in each pupil, likewise pierced the black veil and were menacingly fixed on his position. In the moonlight, the dog saw Frank as well, and once again began a low, threatening growl. Frank glanced quickly in the distance and could make out the nurse’s deck about 30 feet down and to his left. The trees were pretty heavy up to about two feet from the deck steps, and he knew there was no way to approach it silently. The growling intensified on his left flank, bringing his attention immediately back to that area. Then, as quickly as it had come, the moon was gone, but not before he saw, or thought he saw, a glimmer of something metallic behind the dog. God, is that a chain? Frank questioned his brief vision—something had caught his eye, but he couldn’t say for sure. As best as he could under the circumstances, he struggled for logic, although in the panic of the moment he seemed to have completely forgotten about the Beretta in his backpack. If the dog is free, he reasoned, he’ll get me whether I go forward or back. If he’s not, I may as well go for it, ’cause he can’t hurt me, and so far, at least, it doesn’t look like anyone’s home at either place. Besides, if I don’t do it now, that sweet little cunt may never taste ol’ Frank’s hot, creamy cocktail. Oh yeah…the very thought of her struggling to protect her feminine delights from his rapacious advances excited Frank all the more, and he began to notice a familiar bulge between his legs.

A twig snapping under the weight of his left foot, however, quickly extinguished that fantasy, as all hell quickly broke loose once again. The dog’s front feet were on the rail, his body arching in a struggle to clear it. His growl and barking had intensified from ferocious to just plain terrifying, leaving no doubt of his intentions. Fuck it, Frank swore as he broke into a dead run. If he gets me, he’s gonna have to catch me first!

Luckily, the clouds broke again for a few seconds, giving him a quick fix on the nurse’s back deck. The lunging, barking, and growling continued unabated as he zigzagged through the woods, avoiding limbs and briar thickets, honing in on his destination. As Frank glanced back over his shoulder, the dog again lunged toward him, then halted almost in midair. It was then that he got a clear view of the chain stretched taut, glimmering in the few brief seconds of moonlight and preventing the dog’s exit from the porch. Frank lunged for the steps, cleared all three of them, and collapsed on the deck, gasping for air, silently cursing all the while. Decades of abuse had rendered his body largely incapable of this sort of activity, or almost any activity, for that matter. Wheezing and dragging himself to a sitting position, he heard a clicking sound and was almost immediately illuminated by two blinding white orbs strategically placed above the back door. Oh god, I’m done this time, he moaned as he dropped quickly to a prone position, face-first into the deck boards, amid escalating barks, growls, and now what seemed like the light of a thousand suns shining directly on his back. Not really willing or able to move at this point, he just lay there, hoping he had been right about no one being home.

The next sixty seconds seemed like several years to Frank as his mind raced, trying to come up with some plausible explanation for his presence there on the deck. Let’s see, how about, ‘Hey, I’m Fred, the painting contractor hired by your homeowner’s association. Working late tonight, but just got off and stopped by to see what I needed to do to prep the decks here for staining. I am so damn clumsy…tripped on your top step and fell flat on my face! Sorry to alarm you!’ Hmmm…that probably won’t fly, he thought to himself. How about, ‘Hey, I’m your neighbor Tom from across the ravine here. I was just cutting through the woods on my way home when I saw a flash of light coming from your bedroom here. Thought it might be an electrical short or something, so I came over to check it out. Clumsy me, though…tripped on your top step, and well, here I lie, flat on my face!’ Much better, Frank thought, at least until he realized that the nurse had seen him several times before and would no doubt recognize him this time as well. Plus, he didn’t exactly look as if he belonged in the neighborhood at all!

A sharp click interrupted his parade of excuses, and just as quickly as the midnight suns had risen, they set. Frank tilted his head ever so slightly to catch a better view of the floodlights above the back door. Motion sensor, he muttered. Damn thing scared the shit out of me! No voices and no more dog barking either. Must not be able to see me without the light, he figured. And I was right in the first place…nobody’s home.

With that realization, a great flood of relief washed over Frank’s prone and motionless body. He had grown tired of his seemingly endless trips either to the Portland jail or OHSU Hospital. Maybe I’ll pull it off this time, he told himself in his most convincing monologue. Maybe just this once I won’t get caught—I mean…I did plan ahead this time…gun, mask, rope…sure would be nice not to go back to jail! That idea, however, was somewhat short-lived, as Frank now realized that he couldn’t move without setting the lights off and getting the Doberman going again. Or could he? Checking the angle of the sensor once again, he noticed that it was pointed just beyond the steps and slightly beyond his present position. Hmmm, if I slide just a little closer to the wall, I bet I can beat it, he figured. Ooching his hips and then his shoulders inches at a time to his left, Frank was soon dead against the outside wall. He sensed the Doberman’s attention, but so far, so good—no lights and no bark! Frank slowly rose to his knees, then his feet, and gingerly rotated his body counterclockwise until his faced pressed up against the screen of the window next to the door. His right hand stretched down and intuitively tested the door handle. No luck, locked tight and a deadbolt too. Shit. How about the windows? There were three of them, one directly in front and two to the left. Frank’s hand slipped softly into his pocket and slowly removed a small knife. Deftly slipping the extended blade under the screen in front of him, with a gentle pressure upward, he was able to dislodge the screen from its track and slide it down to the floor. He couldn’t see the lock on the double hung window, but a gentle pressure on the bottom pane revealed it to be securely in place. Fuck, Frank cursed quietly as he replaced the screen. Edging a couple of feet to his left, he tried the same procedure with the second window, again with no luck.

As he reached the third window, Frank recoiled slightly as a distressing thought entered his mind. What if they have a burglar alarm? He hadn’t even considered that before, but if either of the first two windows perchance had been unlocked, pushing one of them open would have unleashed a hellish cacophony exceeding even the one he had previously experienced. Lights, sirens, dog going insane—all the ingredients of an unmitigated disaster. Well, what now? he wondered, glancing nervously around the rear of the town house.

Frank’s eye soon fixed on a small gray box, barely visible in the darkness and just slightly above the deck, to the left of the last window where he now stood. It couldn’t be more than a couple of feet away, and to him it looked a lot like a telephone interface box. If I cut the line, at least any alarm won’t go to the monitoring station, Frank reasoned to himself. Might as well prevent that, he thought as he deftly severed the incoming phone line with the switchblade. Edging back to the last window, with the knife still out, Frank again pried off the screen and looked carefully at the window. It looked to him like the latch had not quite caught, and if he jarred the window a little, he might be able to raise it. Worst thing that can happen, Frank thought, will be sirens and lights, and then I’m outa here, running like hell for the car and right past that fuckin’ black guard dog, prayin’ to Jesus all the while that the chain is strong enough to hold him! Piece o’ cake, he mumbled softly while squinting his eyes shut, bracing himself for the worst, and gently shaking the window.

No lights, no sound, no action—at least not yet. A low-pitched growl emanated from the direction of the Doberman, however, who sounded like he had about reached his limit. One more lunge in my direction and that chain will probably snap for sure, Frank estimated. Then again, if I shake the top pane and jiggle the bottom one at the same time, that lock will probably separate and I’m in, dog or no dog. With no further hesitation, Frank shook the top pane hard while pushing up on the bottom one. He felt the lock slip and the bottom pane rise slightly.

As if on cue, the big black dog began an insane barrage of barking and leaped for the rail. The chain tethered him, his neck snapped back, and he fell to the deck, but not for long. Now in a frenzy, the dog got to his feet, backed a couple of steps, and with every ounce of energy he had, lunged for the rail. This time the chain snapped like a piece of hard peanut brittle, sending the dog over the rail and headfirst into the grass. Barely breaking his stride, he was back on his feet and now racing toward Frank, teeth bared and frothy saliva dripping from his open mouth.

This time, Frank knew he was out of options. With danger this imminent, his reflexes took over, causing him to shove the window up and dive through onto the hardwood floor. The dog was to the steps now and only seconds from the open window. Wincing, Frank rolled over, reached up, and slammed the window shut. Almost instantaneously the dog collided with the closed glass, apparently somewhat stunned as shards of glass flew in every direction. His head was extended through the jagged glass into the interior of the room, but his momentum had definitely abated. A cut on his neck was now visibly bleeding, and a glass fragment in his back paw had replaced the growls with a whimper of pain. He slowly stepped back, extricating his bleeding head and neck from the window, limped a few steps from the window, and apparently decided that he had had enough. With one large shard of glass visibly embedded in his paw, he gingerly backed away from the broken glass, hobbled down the steps, and slowly made his way back home, almost as if he had forgotten why he was there in the first place.

Breathing an immense sigh of relief, Frank collapsed on the floor, too stunned and exhausted to move. For a brief moment before he literally passed out, he gratefully realized for the first time that there was no alarm.

chapter 2

South of Broad, Heading West

Charleston, South Carolina

July 4, 2002

It had been a festive but hot Fourth of July in Charleston, South Carolina. Historic celebrations were always popular in Charleston, and today that had certainly been the case. As the parades, carriage rides, special plantation events, and boat tours started to wind down, everyone began to anticipate the traditional evening fireworks extravaganza launched over the water toward Fort Sumter. At the bandstand in Battery Park (a.k.a. White Point Gardens, named from the myriad of white oyster shells that used to wash up there), the local favorite band, South of Broad, was just finishing their last song as the sun began to set and its golden evening rays filtered through the leaves of the many towering live oaks that filled the park. The historic old streetlamps were flickering on as the last chorus of the band’s catchy reggae version of an old John Denver tune echoed through the park. A crowd of about three hundred locals and tourists had gathered there to hear the group and then view the fireworks display soon to illuminate the bay beyond.

Ryan Christie, the band’s founder and lead guitarist, was a tall sandy-haired slim young man with captivating green eyes and a mesmerizing personality that made him an ideal front man for the group. His rather avant-garde rendition of the 1969 Peter, Paul, and Mary hit was a fabulous remake of the old song, and tonight served as an apropos reminder of the upcoming departure of both Ryan and his lifelong friend Julian Russell—the band’s somewhat-reserved and definitely more traditional bass player. Julian had always been a sort of straight man behind Ryan—not quite as physically striking, with his five-foot, nine-inch slightly pudgy frame, and definitely not as loquacious. Nevertheless, he was quite witty himself, although in a more dry, less showy sort of way. Julian was a good sounding board for Ryan’s rather eccentric ideas, and frequently assumed the role of devil’s advocate, in order to shield his friend from his own impulsive behavior and highly unconventional thinking.

As Ryan finished a very funky guitar solo, he winked over at Julian, as if to say, This is it, buddy…our last gig with South of Broad, so let’s leave them a great memory! Julian instinctively knew what Ryan was thinking as the two harmonized masterfully their version of a goodbye to all their fans:

We’re leaving’ in an old van

Don’t know when we’ll be back again

Oh, yes…we hate to go…

Not quite the original lyrics, but aptly chosen as their swan song to Charleston, for tomorrow the boys would be heading west to Portland, Oregon, regrettably in Ryan’s old VW bus rather than a sleek jet plane, but nonetheless with the mission of settling into their new digs before college started in the fall. Lots of old friends and fans cheered and applauded as the tune faded and they realized that this was probably the last time South of Broad would be playing in their midst. The band looked sharp in their summer attire—off-white slacks with matching floral short-sleeved shirts—as they joined hands and bowed to their audience, acknowledging their gratitude for the popularity they had achieved there in the past year and a half…an amazing feat, actually, for four boys just now graduating from high school.

Not that they hadn’t earned the accolades, mind you. Ryan and Julian were the young Lennon and McCartney of Charleston, both incredibly talented in their own unique ways, with Julian being more the thinker, philosopher, and lyricist, while Ryan was something of a musical genius, effortlessly translating Julian’s ideas into music and playing at least three instruments with incredible finesse for an eighteen-year-old. It was Ryan’s stage presence, however, that was the big draw for the band, as he also possessed that remarkable charisma of a natural leader, and always maintained an incredible connection with audiences wherever they played.

Tonight, he wiped a tear from his eye as he looked out into the crowd and saw his family—parents, Martin and Cathy, plus sister Sara—and the Russells standing next to them, waving their arms and cheering for their sons. Julian’s parents were almost indistinguishable from his own in Ryan’s mind, having been friends with Julian and his family since kindergarten. Living literally a stone’s throw away—the Russell home on Meeting Street and the Christie residence backing up to it on Church Street—the boys always had ample opportunity for overt and secret rendezvous. There was a gate in a wall between the two properties that they scampered through many times a day as children and still used regularly to this day. The timeless elegance of old Charleston was in their blood, and the thought of leaving their singularly unique city was almost overwhelming.

As the two boys stood there with their bandmates, taking in the applause and appreciation from friends and families they had known all their lives, they couldn’t help but mourn their upcoming loss and wonder if they were making the right choice.

Julian was especially skeptical of their decision and reluctant to leave the only home he had ever known. As was often the case, he had let Ryan talk him into flying the coop and testing their wings in unknown territory, but right now, he felt like they might have made a big mistake. He loved Charleston—its timeless traditions, venerable history, genteel lifestyle, and overall predictability—all of which would be notably absent in the new surroundings. The band had been fun, too; he truly enjoyed writing songs and performing. Although pretty much always in Ryan’s shadow, he really didn’t mind that, for now at least. It took the pressure off of him and allowed him to be more of the quiet, pensive person that he was. Ryan, on the other hand, was always a bit over the edge, at least in Julian’s estimation, but that was what made it all such a hoot. He enjoyed Ryan’s charisma, spontaneity, and winsome way with the crowd. It actually brought more incidental recognition to him than he ever would have achieved on his own. The limelight sometimes did filter out in his direction, too, like this evening, and that was more than enough.

Sadly, when it came to personal vision and sense of direction, Julian, at least at this point in his life, was at a total loss. He lacked the clear-cut goals and unfaltering tenacity that Ryan always seemed to have. This current lack of purpose and sense of identity made their upcoming departure all the more upsetting to Julian. With no overriding vision to motivate him, apart from Ryan, he probably would have been content just to hang around Charleston and his family until he began to figure out the course of his future. "Too late now, though," he mumbled reluctantly to himself. Alea iacta est! (the die is cast!)

Obviously, both sets of parents had expected their sons to continue on at the Citadel, or the College of Charleston, but it was pretty clear, at least to Ryan, that it was time to leave the nest—the security and tradition of old Charleston—and get out on their own. The West Coast, with its more liberal thinking and unconventional lifestyles, seemed particularly appealing to him, and far enough away to discourage frequent parental visits. He and Julian had made several trips out West since the beginning of their senior year, looking for just the right spot, and had finally decided on Portland as a nice mix of California and Washington. Their applications to Portland State University had been accepted, with Ryan pursuing a degree in biochemistry and Julian still struggling to find his niche, leaning more toward philosophy and psychology. They were both excited, in varying degrees, to be embarking shortly on their new lives apart from parents, but the emotion of leaving Charleston was still overpowering at the moment.

Julian looked over at Ryan and whispered, I sure hope we’re doin’ the right thing here, Ry…you know, skippin’ out on our home and all. I’m pretty sad to be leaving the band AND all our friends and family, aren’t you?

Yeah, Ryan whispered back, still smiling out to the crowd as he wiped the last of the tears from his cheek. There’s nothing like home and family, he agreed, but it’s time to move on, don’t you think? We can start another band, but we’ve lived in Charleston all our lives. We’ve gotta see something new, and try livin’ on our own for a while. It’s just time, Jules.

I guess, Julian somewhat hesitantly concurred as the applause finally faded and they set their instruments down. Uh-oh, here come the parents!

Hey, you guys! shouted Martin Christie. Great show! I loved that last song—hadn’t heard that since I was growing up! What a cool rendition too! Your band has really gotten a lot better since the last time I heard you…shame you’ll be leaving all that behind.

We agree, seconded Mrs. Russell. It’s never too late to reconsider and go to the College of Charleston. You could keep your band, live at home and…

Mom! Julian interrupted, enough! We’ve already been down this road. We love you all, but it’s really time to get out on our own. At least we’ll be together, so you won’t have to worry too much.

Maggie Russell rolled her eyes as Cathy Christie smiled at Julian and added, Ry being with you is probably not nearly as comforting to Maggie as you being with him is to me! she laughed, knowing full well that her son was by far the more adventurous of the two and had always benefited from Julian’s reserved and less spontaneous nature. Anyway, you guys have to leave home sometime, so I guess we should make the best of it. We’re going to walk down to the seawall and watch the fireworks…y’all care to join us?

Later, Mom, Ryan interjected. We’ve gotta get all this stuff packed up and out of here first. I wouldn’t want to lose my new guitar! he beamed, looking down at the cherry-red 1964 Gibson SG Standard that his parents had given him for graduation.

You got that right! Martin agreed. That guitar was about two weeks’ salary for me, so you’d better take good care of it! he grinned. Sounded great, too—that’s the first time I’ve seen you play it, in the band at least.

Well, you just need to get out and see us more often, Ryan chided. This is about the tenth time I’ve used it since y’all gave it to me. I really love it, though. Thanks, Dad and Mom!

You’re welcome, son, Martin replied as Cathy was pulling him toward the water.

We’re very proud of you and Julian. I hope you’ll get a lot of use out of that guitar out West.

That’s the plan, Ryan concurred as he carefully placed the prized guitar in its case. We’ll see you guys later, and thanks for coming. It was good to see you all out there!

Wouldn’t have missed it for anything! Keith Russell chimed in. The band sounded great—hard to believe it was our own sons up there, he beamed. Guess we’ll see you tomorrow, Ry?

Sure thing, Mr. Russell. Dad, I’ll catch up with you and Mom soon.

Thanks again, everybody! Julian seconded, looking around for his bass case. Where did I put that thing? he muttered to himself, searching through a tangle of wires and amplifiers until he finally located it toward the back of the bandstand. You gonna watch the fireworks? he asked, looking over at the band’s drummer, Kyle Kennedy.

Yeah, when I get all this stuff packed up and help Lenny (the keyboardist) with the PA, mikes, lights and things. You guys go ahead, we’ll catch up to you later. Really great show tonight, by the way. We’re gonna miss you both—sure won’t be much of a band without you two, Kyle lamented, sadly shaking his head as he packed up his drums.

Ditto that! seconded Lenny. I’ll probably be back playing elevator music for the tourists in hotel lounges pretty soon. I wish you the best, though. Maybe we can come out and play a gig with you two sometime.

Yeah, that would be fun, Julian agreed. Probably the Western punk version by then! he laughed as the nearby sky suddenly exploded with color. Hey, can you guys take our stuff with you? Ry and I really want to catch up with our parents if we can find them. Probably won’t have this chance again for a good while.

Sure man, go ahead. We’ll make sure your stuff gets home safe. Enjoy the fireworks, Lenny grinned as the familiar sights and sounds of Independence Day filled the air over Charleston Harbor. It’s almost like the Civil War all over again, he laughed as the sky over Ft. Sumter was brilliantly illuminated with the sights and sounds of exploding fireworks.

At least no cannons this time! Julian grinned. Ok, see you guys! he yelled over his shoulder as he caught up with Ryan and headed across the street toward a better vantage point on the seawall.

Hey, Jules! Lenny yelled. We may try to stop by your place in the morning to wish you goodbye, if that’s okay with you. What time are you all leaving?

Around ten, came a scarcely audible reply from the darkness.

Ok, tomorrow then, if we wake up in time! Lenny grinned, searching for his keyboard cover. Looking toward the water, he marveled as the darkness yielded to a magnificent display of color and sound. Independence is way better than Civil War, don’t ya think? he asked, looking over at Kyle, who was scarcely visible behind a small mountain of drum cases.

Right on, brother, Kyle concurred. Let’s get this stuff packed up and in the van. I wanna enjoy the fireworks too!

You got it! Lenny agreed, as another cascade of brilliant colors filled the evening sky. I just love the 4th of July, he said, as he quickly went about his work and hoped they would finish before the show was over.

The Next Morning

It was almost 10:00 a.m. when Ryan pushed open the driveway gates at 40 Meeting Street and piloted his prize ’73 aqua-blue-and-white VW camper van slowly into the parking space in front of the piazza of the Russells’ landmark 1740s Charleston single house. Keith and Maggie were justifiably proud of their family treasure located on a prime parcel of real estate just blocks from the Battery Park, where the boys had serenaded Charleston with their final concert just the evening before.

Ryan felt a curious mixture of fatigue from yesterday’s performance and excitement about the cross-country trip about to unfold as he climbed the piazza steps and rang the doorbell. Inside, he heard the shuffling of feet and the familiar bark of the family English bulldog, Beau, as he heralded Ryan’s arrival. Beau, namesake of Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard, the famous confederate general whose Charleston Civil War headquarters had been just across the street, was a great pal of his, and reserved a special bark for Ryan’s arrival, which he uncannily sensed prior to even seeing him. As Mrs. Russell opened the door, Beau scampered out to greet his friend of many years, and then sauntered over to relieve his bladder on one of Maggie’s prize azaleas—a ritual he regularly performed for the Russells’ guests.

Hey Beau! shouted Ryan amid Maggie’s all-too-familiar scolding of the dog for his choice of restroom facilities.

Beau, stop that now, you hear? Maggie shrieked, knowing all too well that her efforts to discourage the dog were totally in vain. He had his ways, not unlike most Charlestonians, where tradition filtered down even to the pets. Upon completing his mission, however, he gave Ryan a hearty welcome, even as he dashed past him into the house in search of his favorite toy, which he knew Ryan would toss high in the air for him to retrieve. It was such fun, and Ryan always enjoyed the ritual as well. Today, however, he seemed a bit more focused than usual as he yelled up the stairs for Julian.

Hey Jules, you ready? Come on man, we gotta go—I’d like to get to Asheville before dark! Clearly, Ryan had an itinerary already in mind, which was par for the course in his case. Julian was used to it, however, and was most often content just to follow his friend’s adventuresome direction, mostly because it was so much easier than the inevitable challenge that would ensue if he didn’t.

Comin’, Ry! he yelled as he folded the last of his shirts and placed it neatly in his meticulously organized suitcase. Structure and order had always been important for Julian, most likely due to the influence of his accountant father and very traditional Southern mother, who always liked things neat, tidy, and in their proper place.

As Julian struggled to descend the stairs with his large overstuffed suitcase, he saw that Ryan was already engaged in one of his favorite pastimes—tormenting Beau. Finally reaching the foot of the stairs, he could see Ryan’s lanky frame facedown on the living room floor, growling ferociously at Beau from just about his level. Beau found this maneuver highly entertaining and reciprocated with several intimidating growls of his own before pouncing on Ryan and tugging at his shirt. This little ritual had been going on for years, and always culminated in Ryan feigning surrender and begging Beau for mercy. Easy, Beau! he shrieked as the dog growled and tugged at his shirt. I give…you da dog, Beau, you da big dog!

Capitulation and praise were a combo that always worked with Beau, and he released his death grip on Ryan’s shirt, yet not without a triumphant Don’t mess with Beau! look as he climbed off of his victim. Maggie’s familiar warning, Beau, you get off of Ryan right now, you hear? drifted in from the dining room, where she had been packing up some snacks for the boys’ trip.

I declare, Ryan, she admonished, one day that dog is going to tear the shirt right off your back!

Nah, Mrs. Russell, Beau and I are pals. I’m really his therapist, you know. I encourage him to release all his pent-up aggression—keeps him more mellow around you guys! he laughed.

Well, I guess we’re in trouble now that you’re leaving, Maggie sighed. Sure you wouldn’t like to reconsider? You could come stay with us if you just need to get out of the house—I’m told boys your age just have to do that!

Not quite far enough, Mrs. Russell, Ryan grinned. Besides, what about Jules here? He’s gotta at least go north of Broad for a few years, don’t you think?

Ha ha! Trekking twenty-five hundred miles to the West Coast is hardly what I would call snobing, Maggie responded, rolling her eyes while using the common Charlestonian colloquialism for venturing slightly North of Broad.

You’re right about that, Ryan agreed. Then with a twinkle in his eye and a bit of his usual wit, he added, I guess we’re actually ‘swobing’…going significantly west of Broad!

We’re not going anywhere if you two don’t cut it out! Julian interrupted from the entry hall at the foot of the stairs. I thought you wanted to catch that group at the Orange Peel in Asheville tonight.

Yeah, I know. Just had to say goodbye to Beau here, he smiled, patting Beau on the head, AND give your mom one last tease!

Tears began to well up in Maggie’s eyes as the truth of that statement swept over her. I know you have to go, she began, fighting them back and putting an arm around each boy, really, I do. Ryan, you’ve been hanging around here since you were a baby, and Julian, you’re our only child. What else can I say? I knew this day had to come, but it still hurts horribly. I love you both so much, and I’m really gonna miss you!

A flood of emotion now flowed from all directions as the three embraced and savored for a moment that indescribable human bond that love miraculously weaves between one spirit and another. It was as if all eighteen years were suddenly condensed into a single second and the intensity of feeling was overwhelming. As Ryan wiped his eyes, he looked down at Beau, who was providing a welcome moment of comic relief. Hey you guys, look at Beau! he laughed, as all eyes turned to the dog, who was lying on the floor, covering his ears with his paws.

Oh Beau, you precious little fella! Maggie whispered. Well, at least one of my boys will still be around! she sighed in an effort to console herself. Reaching down to give Beau a reassuring pat on the head, Maggie took a deep breath, and regained some measure of her Southern composure as she looked out the window and saw Ryan’s parents coming through the gate. Time to get going, boys—here come Martin and Cathy. Julian, let me find your father so he can help send you off.

Egos snapped back into place as that special moment of clarity and connection gave way to the demands of the task at hand. Hey Ry, exhorted Julian, can you help me with this bag? It weighs more than I do!

I doubt that, Ryan thought to himself, glancing over at his shorter and slightly pudgy friend. I’m gonna get that kid in shape if it kills me, he resolved as he reached down to help Julian with what was apparently the majority of his earthly possessions, carefully compressed into one overloaded receptacle. Come on Jules, I got it, he grinned as he effortlessly thrust the bag through the open doorway and toward the waiting van.

I sure hope that thing is up to the trip! Julian remarked, looking tentatively over at Ryan’s hippie mobile, as he called it.

Oh, don’t worry about that! echoed the voice of Martin Christie, as he and Cathy made their way through the garden to the piazza. Ry and I went over that baby with a fine-tooth comb! She was purrin’ like a kitten by the time we finished, he grinned. No sirree, you boys are good to go. That thing would take you to China and back if you needed it to!

Famous last words! Julian thought to himself, already having experienced quite a few breakdowns in the van since the Christies got it for Ryan on his sixteenth birthday.

Sensing his friend’s hesitancy, Ryan quickly concurred with his father, Don’t worry, Jules…old Vinnie here is rarin’ to go! On the day of its arrival, Ryan had christened his van Vinnie VanGo, a moniker still retained amid other original Christie works of art displayed ubiquitously on virtually every metallic surface of Vinnie’s exterior, in homage to one of Ryan’s foremost heroes. Oh yeah, he reassured himself, patting Vinnie affectionately as he hoisted Julian’s bag into an interior already packed with what appeared to be every imaginable item that Ryan could envision the two boys needing over the next four years—guitars, amps, microphones, speakers, books, computers, and even a few less essential items such as pots, pans, kitchen utensils, clothing, and last, but not the least, a US road atlas.

"Vinnie VanGone, I wish," Julian thought to himself, as he stared at the van’s rather dubious epithet, boldly painted on the side facing the piazza, and recounted the numerous missions that had to be aborted due to Vinnie’s proclivity for mechanical failure. Surely, this wouldn’t be yet another of those, he hoped as the bulging bag containing nearly all his earthly possessions disappeared within the bowels of the beast.

Don’t worry, Jules, everything will be just fine! came Ryan’s voice from inside the sliding bombardier door. Vinnie won’t let us down this time, you’ll see!

Sure, Ry, came a slightly less-than-enthusiastic response. Are we all loaded?

Just about. How about Beau? Think he’d like to tag along?

Don’t even think about it, Ryan Christie! came a threatening female voice from the piazza. One son lost for today is plenty, thank you!

Just kiddin’, Mrs. R. Ryan laughed as he walked over to give his mom and dad a hug. I’ll miss you guys, he nodded, not quite able to muster the same level of emotion that had unexpectedly escaped him with Maggie and Julian a few moments earlier. The getting-out-from-under-the-parental-wings desire served as a counterbalance to whatever sadness he normally would have felt, for even though Ryan loved his parents dearly, he had definitely been a challenge for them, and more than a few unpleasant memories still lingered on both sides. He imagined his parents were feeling as much relief as he was, in spite of the love they all had for one another.

Do your best out there, Ryan, and always know that you can count on us if ever you need anything, Cathy promised as she gave her son a big goodbye hug.

That goes for both of us, Ry, his dad added, giving him an affectionate slap on the back and a firm, manly handshake. Don’t be a stranger, he added quickly. You know you always have a place here whenever you want to come home.

Thanks, Dad. I’ll do my best to grow up and make you both proud. Hey, tell sis I’m sorry she couldn’t make it and that I hope she’ll get out to Portland to visit sometime soon.

Just then, Mr. Russell burst through the front door, cell phone in hand, apologizing for being late. Sorry, you guys, I had a client on the phone with a big tax problem that just couldn’t wait. You boys have a safe trip now, and if you run out of money, call the Christies! Just kidding, he laughed, as Maggie gave him a threatening look. Julian, you watch out for Ryan now, and Ryan…try to keep the insanity to a manageable level, you hear?

Amen to that! seconded Martin, looking directly at Ryan, who managed a weak assent. Keep up with the Gibson, too, Ry. I want to get my money’s worth out of that thing, he grinned.

I’ll do my best, replied Ryan, sliding into Vinnie’s well-worn driver’s seat. Well, Jules, I guess we’re a bit early for Lenny and Kyle. Sure gonna miss them…Oh well, all aboard, bro, this train is heading west! he exclaimed as the old bus sputtered to a start.

Don’t drive too fast, honey! called Cathy amid a flutter of goodbye hand-waving.

I wouldn’t worry about that, Julian mumbled as Ryan backed the van out of the gate and onto Meeting Street. This thing wouldn’t go over sixty if Van Gogh himself were waiting for us in Portland! he laughed to himself as they chugged off toward Broad, leaving behind four loving parents and the only world they had ever known.

Still think this is a good idea? Julian asked tentatively as Vinnie rumbled up to the stoplight at Meeting and Broad—the well-known Four Corners of Law, and the line of demarcation between the highly genteel, ultratraditional, remarkably unchanging historic district to the south and the more modern Charleston business district to the north.

Oh yeah, Ryan replied with no hesitation whatsoever. You know, we’ve both grown up here and I love it as much as you do, but it’s definitely time to see more of the world, don’t you agree? I mean, there’s a lot of new thinking, new ways of living, and new ideas out there, Jules. Don’t you remember how cool it was when we flew out West? Portland is my kind of town, dude—purple hair, funky clothes, nose rings, tattoos…those people look and act however they want to and nobody cares. That would never happen in Charleston, especially south of Broad!

That does indeed sound like progress, Julian jibed back in his usual manner. No doubt you’ll be wanting to do all those things just as soon as we arrive, he continued, rolling his eyes upward as the van crept past Calhoun Street and Marion Square on the left.

You just don’t get it, Jules, Ryan countered. I’m not saying that I personally want to do all those things. I just think it’s cool to experience a culture that’s way different from what we’ve known here all our lives, that’s all. Maybe even you will loosen up a bit! he laughed as he reached for his sunglasses and flipped on the radio to his favorite oldies station. Oh my god, Jules! he shrieked as the chorus of an old Eric Burton and the Animals tune blared out between them. This is unbelievable—what an omen, dude! he insisted, turning the volume up even louder as Eric crooned the final chorus:

We’ve gotta get outa this place

If it’s the last thing we ever do

To Julian’s horror, both of Ryan’s hands had left the wheel and were in midair now, mimicking the lead guitar riff at the end. Dah da, dah da, his voice synchronized with his fingers before being interrupted by Julian screaming, Ryan, watch out!

Ryan instinctively grabbed the wheel and slammed on the brakes as a vehicle pulled out right in front of them from a small side street to their right. Damn tourists! he yelled as a Lexus with Georgia plates sped across their lane toward the Visitors Center, narrowly avoiding a collision with the lumbering van. Good thing Vinnie’s a little on the slow side, Ryan muttered, shaking his head and trying to regain his composure.

Almost dead, and we haven’t even gotten to the interstate, Julian moaned as the entrance to I-26 loomed ahead. If you really want to get outa this place, I strongly suggest that you keep your hands on the wheel and your brain focused on driving! Julian warned as the van accelerated and shook noticeably as they approached the freeway speed of 60 mph.

Say goodbye to tradition, Jules! Ryan grinned, looking back over his shoulder one last time at the towering spires of St. Michael’s and St. Phillip’s churches, well-known landmarks of the historic old city.

Mother of God! Julian grumbled, hoping desperately that Lady Madonna wouldn’t be next on the oldies playlist. At least we’ve made it to North Charleston! he consoled himself as the van rumbled up I-26 heading for Asheville.

Orange Peel, here we come! shouted Ryan, motioning northward out the window with his index finger while Julian shook his head in total disbelief, fully convinced that his demise was imminent, most likely prior to even reaching the neighboring town of Summerville, a mere twelve miles up the road.

chapter 3

Drugs, Thugs, and a Minor Deity

Portland, Oregon

July 6, 2002

Ben felt slightly anxious as he flipped on the turn signal of his dark-green Mazda Miata just prior to a sharp right onto NW Maywood Drive. It was a partly cloudy summer evening in Portland, with the temperature hovering around 70 degrees and the sun already beginning to create a spectacular array of pink, orange, red, and violet hues in the western sky. He checked his watch, 7:30—good, right on time. The light was already beginning to fade as he wound his way up the hill toward his parents’ home on Culpepper Terrace, and as usual, his tensions also began to fade with the ascent. Prior to moving into the dorm his junior year at PSU, Ben had lived there with his parents since his first year of high school and honestly thought it was one of the most beautiful neighborhoods on the planet. The Amanis lived just a couple of houses from Hillside Park and Community Center, in a rather-lavish home perched high on a hill overlooking downtown Portland with a view to die for. He remembered many times sitting out on the deck, watching the sun rise, with its golden rays reflecting off the buildings and beautifully silhouetting snowcapped Mt. Hood farther east beyond the city. From that deck he could see Mt. St. Helens and, on a clear day, all the way to Mt. Ranier, farther to the north. Who couldn’t love the Pacific Northwest with a view like this? Ben often thought to himself, this evening being no exception, as he rounded the last curve and pulled up into the alley behind his parents’ home. Far below, the entire Portland metroplex was coming to life, with myriads of twinkling lights now beginning to augment the fading summer sunlight, creating a mesmerizing visual amalgam that extended in all directions almost as far as the eye could see. In the darkening sky to the east, what he liked to call city stars were now becoming visible as they descended in perfectly choreographed omnidirectional patterns, indicating the arrival of seemingly endless numbers of air travelers making their final approach toward PDX, the city’s international airport, several miles to the east.

Ben had seen his parents only briefly at Christmas, and sensed then that they wanted to have a talk with him about his future. He assumed that their invitation to dinner tonight might have such a purpose, and while part of him actually appreciated their interest, he also knew that their disparate backgrounds would likely result in a career tug-of-war with him in the middle. Not a pleasant thought, really, but the breathtaking beauty of the city below offered him considerable solace at the moment. As he parked in the driveway behind the house and walked up the rear steps, that feeling was further augmented by the pure nostalgia of just being home.

Margaret Amani—a trim, attractive, and now slightly graying woman in her late forties—must have seen her son’s headlights when he pulled in, since she was standing by the large eight-foot sliding glass door leading into the great room from the back deck, just waiting to give her son a big welcome home hug. As Ben stepped up onto the deck and headed toward her, she did her best to throw her arms