Alchemist V: And His Power Over Life, Love and Death

By Jack Groverland

"A rare book that sucks the reader in and demands to be finished."

"Alchemist V is realistic, what makes it great is its fantastical alchemist's hijinks."

"This novel is rich with plots, subplots and suspense."

"The characterizations are exceptional."

"Alchemist V has a be

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brilliant Books Literary
• Release date: Dec 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889454519

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Alchemist V

Copyright © 2023 by Jack Groverland

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Printed in the United States of America.

ISBN

979-8-88945-450-2 (Paperback)

979-8-88945-451-9 (eBook)

Brilliant Books Literary

137 Forest Park Lane Thomasville

North Carolina 27360 USA

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1 The Letter and The Law

Chapter 2 One Last Useless Good Deed

Chapter 3 You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet

Chapter 4 Outside The Reality Box

Chapter 5 A Birthday To Remember

Chapter 6 A Stolen Star

Chapter 7 Voices In The Hall

Chapter 8 A Night To Remember

Chapter 9 Running on Empty

Chapter 10 Damage Control

Chapter 11 Sleeping It Off

Chapter 12 Waiting For The Endgame

Chapter 13 Actors with Great Smiles

Chapter 14 No More Lies

Chapter 15 Identity Theft

Chapter 16 Sharks In The Park

Chapter 17 A New Life In A New World

Chapter 18 Good Things Happen When Least Expected

Chapter 19 Walking In The Fields Of Gold

Chapter 20 Hollywood, The Home Of Gifted Waiters

Chapter 21 Dining On Hope

Chapter 22 Box Office, Box Office, Box Office

Chapter 23 Those Given To Play In The Fountain Of Life

Chapter 24 Of Good News And Bad News

Chapter 25 Facts, Not Fantasy

Chapter 26 Twists And Turns On The Highway Of Life

Chapter 27 Heart Breaking Twisters

Chapter 28 The Dark Night Of The Lost Soul

Chapter 29 Learning A New Language

Chapter 30 Disguises And Surveillance

Chapter 31 Fate Is A Coward’s Cop-Out

Chapter 32 A Fish Fit For A King

Chapter 33 Where Stars Shine Like The Real Thing

Chapter 34 Going To The Mat For Love

Chapter 35 There’s No Fooling Your Personal Secretary

Chapter 36 Get Closer

Chapter 37 You’ve Got To Know When To Fold Them

Chapter 38 Password For Murder

Chapter 39 Chasing The Good Life

Chapter 40 When Alone The World Fades Away Some

Chapter 41 Dead To The World

Chapter 42 If I Can Make It There, I Can Make It Anywhere

Chapter 43 Life Is A Crapshoot

Chapter 44 Limbo

Chapter 45 Investigating His New Life

Chapter 46 A First

Epilogue

About the Author

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First, I extend my sincere love and gratitude to my wife, whose love and feedback throughout the writing of this novel was essential.

TRUE FRIENDSHIP IS PRICELESS

My special thanks to my friend, Lori Inman, for the many hours of proof reading and selfless devotion to this novel.

The following friends, each living a full and busy life, refused to receive any compensation for their valuable rough edits and feedback on this book.

Wise blond, Professor Cathy Comstock, An emissary of wisdom.

Wonder Woman, Gail Waggoner, who’s spiritual strength inspired us all.

Mike, the magician, Schadle, whose technical mastery I relied upon.

Dean Hurtt, for his editing excellence.

CHAPTER ONE

The Letter and The Law

As Chicago Detectives go, Joe Costalino was a patient man. The job made him that way. His eyes no longer registered emotion and the lines creasing his face made him appear fatigued. In his thirty years on the job, he had seen the raw madness of mankind. After you witness enough criminal insanity, you throw in the towel on disgust and outrage. You just do the job and bear it.

Joe was doing the job and bearing it as he listened to Father Henry Dorcus ramble on about his missing friend, Ken McAlister. Finally, Joe broke in on the ramble.

I’m sorry, Father Henry— he couldn’t remember the priest’s last name, but no crime has been committed here, know what I mean?

Not yet perhaps, said the priest, but soon, if we don’t do something!

The detective looked over his desk at the priest with the ruddy complexion and wavy white hair. He felt a twinge of embarrassment, as he considered the drab, untidy office surrounding the gentle old man in the immaculate black suit. Joe concluded, from what he had heard already, that the priest had himself witnessed more tragedy than his mind could handle and was suffering delusions.

With all due respect, Father, what you are reporting is unbelievable. Even if your friend is harboring some weird fantasy, that’s not a crime. Tell you what, your friend, what’s his name...?

Ken McAlister.

He’s also a priest?

No, detective, not anymore.

He’s missing, that’s all you really know, and that’s out of my jurisdiction. You can see Sergeant Coulter down the hall. He handles missing persons.

Please, Detective Costalino, allow me to read Ken’s final letter before dismissing me. You will realize he is in serious trouble. I’m asking you as a human being to hear his letter.

Joe, because he was a Catholic of sorts, and because he thought the letter would be short, smiled and consented to the priest’s request. Immediately Father Henry removed the letter and began reading.

Dear Henry, beloved friend, I apologize for being out of touch for so long, but I have been truly lost. This will be my last letter to you, and I ask that you receive it as my last confession.

Forgive me, Father, for I am about to sin. I am planning to steal a young man’s body—not the dead body of a young man but one fully alive, healthy body. This is not a kidnapping as the law defines that crime. In fact, there isn’t a name for the crime I’m about to commit. What would you call it if a man administers an ancient potion to cast a spell on someone in order to dispossess his soul and replace it with his own?"’

Nuts! Joe interjected. Wacko, off the charts! Father, if this is a letter from your friend and not something you made up, your friend is certifiably insane. Either that or he’s pulling your leg, know what I mean, joking with you? Some priests do that, don’t they?

He is no longer a priest, detective. But he is not joking, as the rest of his letter will verify. May I continue?

Joe decided to endure the rest of the letter. He thought the old priest might be right and that his friend, if he really existed, might be seriously dangerous.

Father Henry raised the letter closer to the desk lamp and continued reading.

‘Frankly, Henry, I don’t know why I’m confessing this to you. It has nothing to do with cleansing my soul of sin, for I no longer believe in sin as the church defines it. I chose to confess to you because you are my dearest friend and may actually understand why I am about to take over another person’s body.’

Politely put, wouldn’t you say? chuckled the detective.

The priest paused, unsettled by the comment. The detective’s tone waxed serious.

For your sake, Father, I need to tell you, giving false information to an officer of the law is a crime. What I’m saying is, if you wrote the letter, now’s the time to tell me. No real harm has been done; no crime committed yet, know what I mean?

I know, the priest stated emphatically, as he searched through his briefcase, retrieving a photo and handing it to the detective.

This is Ken McAlister. He’s not a figment of my imagination, as you can see!

Joe looked at the photo of Father Ken McAlister seated in a wheelchair. He looked to be middle age, with a full head of close-cropped black hair, graying in places. He had a masculine face, strong chin, but his cavernous eyes and sallow complexion revealed a man who looked more like a weary warrior than a priest.

He’s what, paralyzed? asked the detective.

From the waist down, responded the priest. He was born that way. Actually, he was born out of wedlock to some street urchin, a dropped-out teenager. I think her name was Ilene or Arlene. McAlister, was one of the assumed names she used in the dark world she inhabited. It’s hard to imagine how this girl managed to care for an invalid child for eight years without a husband.

She was probably a prostitute, said Joe.

Ken never spoke of her that way.

Well, Father, unless she was a trust-fund brat, there’s no other way she could cover the tab of a paralyzed kid. Know what I mean?

Father Henry scowled, Ken never spoke of her as being immoral in any way. She was destitute that’s all!

Considering the circumstances, who wouldn’t! How did she die?

The priest shook his head despairingly. In jail, in Las Vegas I think. Ken never gave the details.

Probably suicide, offered the detective.

I don’t know, said the priest, choking back tears. I only know he loved her beyond words!

Joe reached across the desk and patted the priest’s hand. Continue your letter, Father.

The priest blotted his tears with a tissue, then resumed reading. As Detective Costalino listened to the rest of the letter, the missing person, Ken McAlister, was less than three miles away preparing dinner for the man whose body he planned to inhabit.

CHAPTER TWO

One Last Useless Good Deed

Classical music wafted through Ken’s one-bedroom apartment in a well-kept brownstone in an impoverished Chicago neighborhood. The time on the copper peyramid wall clock was quarter to seven. It was still an hour or so before his guest, Joel Ellendorff, was scheduled to arrive, and Ken couldn’t break free of his depression. Strauss’s ‘Voices of Spring’ playing on the stereo, music he always enjoyed, only added to his gloom, and preparing the meal of Beef Stroganoff wasn’t demanding enough to sufficiently distract him. He was planning to take a young man’s life. What madness! he thought. Shaking at the thought of murder, Ken managed to open a bottle of wine, pouring himself a glass. And while he sipped it he considered canceling the whole plot. I can still just have dinner with Joel, talk about his plans to open his own repair shop. The idea brought him some solace. But how could he abandon his plan, unless he was willing to kill himself? It was one or the other, he knew that. If he backed out now, with an almost perfect candidate, he would never regain the confidence to go through the painstaking process process of culling another. Perhaps he’d been lying to himself all along. Maybe deep down his own soul knew he never could, never would do the terrible deed. All the work, the planning, the lying, for what!"

Ken reviewed the months of stalking that led up to this night of unrelenting anguish. He’d met Joel Ellendorff in a Spanish Language class six weeks ago. Attending night school was a ploy he incorporated to find suitable young candidates for the switch. Joel was twenty-three and appeared to be physically fit. Except for his mother, who lived in England, Joel had no close family ties, and was more or less a loner. He worked as a handyman, another small advantage, which provided the ex-priest the opportunity to employ him and gather the necessary information in the process. It didn’t take Ken long to forge a friendship with the young man, and after a month of intense research, in the guise of friendly conversations, Ken decided to make his move. That was the day he wrote his last confession and mailed it to Father Henry Dorcus. The ex-priest continued to review the many calculations leading to the rejection of several other candidates and the choice of this most likable fellow, Joel. One thought kept intruding on his calculations. "Are you sure you’re not crazy? Are you sure that this entire plot, all the planning and stalking and lying are not just the contrivances of your deranged mind?" Ken sipped his wine as he contemplated the nagging question again. This time, instead of tying to drive it out of his mind he chose to review the events that led him into this diabolical situation. His reflection began with the Las Vegas gun shop. The brightly lit glass cases that displayed the handguns were vivid in his memory. Then he was there having to listen to the sales clerk with the Justin Bieber haircut who looked too young to be selling guns to people.What kind of hand gun are you looking for, Father?

Oh, something with the fire power to blow my brains out at close range, thought the priest, who said, It’s for an anti-war display we are setting up at the church.

Immediately, he flushed with embarrassment, having told his first full-blown lie since becoming a priest. The young man behind the counter responded by removing an Army .45 from the case and handing it to the priest.

This is an authentic military issue forty-five, Father.

The priest examined the weapon in hand, as though he knew something about guns. Handing it back to the clerk he said, This is exactly what I’m looking for. I’ll take it.

With that, the clerk leaned over the counter and whispered, as though there was someone else in the empty store, This gun will cost the church two hundred and eighty-nine dollars. You can get a plastic one that looks totally authentic at K-Mart for six bucks.

Thank you, son, but it has to be the real thing. And I need the real bullets also.

Upon exiting the store, Ken maneuvered his wheel chair through the parking lot toward his van. He had been concerned that there might be a problem buying the gun, and there might have been, if it weren’t for the naive young Catholic behind the counter. As Ken approached the maroon colored van he pressed the unlock button on his remote key. Immediately the dashboard computer screen lit up, the driver’s side door slid open and the entry ramp slid out until it rested on the pavement. As he had done a thousand times before, he guided his wheelchair up the ramp and maneuvered it into place behind the steering wheel. Satisfied with his position, he then tapped the highlighted lockdown triangle on the dashboard screen, which triggered the metal device that latched the chaise of his chair to the floor of the van. Ken concluded the entry ritual with a tap on the Driver Ready rectangle illuminated on the dashboard screen, which withdrew the ramp and closed the driver’s side door. Moving the boxed gun and bullets from his lap to the passenger seat, Ken fastened his seat belt and checked the time on the screen—9:45 p.m. Depending on the cross-town traffic he could be at the cemetery in two hours or so. He started the van and drove toward his final destination.

The fatigue he experienced on the long drive from Chicago began to subside as feelings of relief flooded his consciousness. His ordeal to stay alive was over. For the first time in his life he had a personal advantage over other people still striving after life. He alone, in this city of blazing lights and excitement, was seeking peace, a peace he would have before the night was over. Scanning the selections on the computer music menu, Ken chose one of his favorites albums. Requiem performed by the New York Philharmonic Orchestra.

The drive went without incident. It was a little past midnight when Ken turned off the highway onto a two-lane blacktop that lead to the town of Appaloosa. The road soon narrowed to one lane as it snaked through the barren prairie land. Five miles later he came to a large beautifully carved sign:

APPALOOSA POPULATION 1258 JESUS REIGNS HERE

Except for the single street light above the sign, the town was dark, everyone was either asleep or huddled around a late-night TV movie. For certain, no one was out dancing or night-clubbing in this town of the most righteous. Ken chuckled at the thought of the commotion his suicide would create. The pious population would be talking about it for decades, especially when they found out it was his mother’s grave on which he shot himself, and how she lived and died a sinner. "Not one of them, mused the ex-priest, could ever imagine that this poor girl, this sinner, had more love in her heart than their precious Lord.

Ken drove past the huge Church of Our Savior, behind which was the cemetery of ‘the saved.’ He had to drive a mile beyond the town, and half a mile on a dirt road to reach the Cottonwood Cemetery where the unsaved were buried and forgotten. His mother was buried among the poor and the destitute. Decades ago the Las Vegas power brokers funded the remote cemetery to inter the paupers. In their minds, paupers were those who lost the game of life. When it was cheaper to just cremate the losers they stopped funding the cemetery. The iron gate surrounding the defunct cemetery was rusted out and large sections of it were missing, probably the work of some ambitious junk dealer. There were a few weather-worn tombstones spread out across the property. Most of the rusted metal grave markers were hidden by the prairie grass which overran the place. The only building on the cemetery was a large prefab metal shed where the grave digging equipment used to be stored. It stood just a few yards from his mother’s grave. The rusted shed doors hung open and bent, resembling a giant gaping mouth with crooked teeth. Ken pulled the van behind the shed, running down the grass leading to his mother’s grave before he parked.

He switched on the light in the cab, removed the gun from the box and opened the carton of bullets. The ex-priest proceeded to load the clip as the instruction manual illustrated. Not that he was anticipating more than one shot, but he was mentally adrift in the faded, all but lost memories of his mother. If life existed after death, he would gladly give all of it for just a couple of minutes with his mother, to thank her for the love she lavished on him.

With the gun loaded and lying on his lap, Ken removed some snapshots of his mother from his wallet. The one he cherished most was taken at Disney Land. She was holding him on a white horse on the merry-go-round. She looked so young and beautiful, too young to be his mother. Ken placed the photos in his pocket. Removing a pad and pen from the glove box, Ken wrote,

"Dear Henry,

My only suffering at this moment is the thought of the grief my death will cause you. Please don’t blame yourself, for there’s nothing you could have done to stop me. I know you will pray for my soul, fearing I have sinned, though I no longer believe in sin as the church defines it, or heaven or hell, which are determined by a most arbitrary fate. I learned that in a coffee shop where I witnessed several high school kids involved in a kissing contest. Their full-hearted laughter captured my attention because in my whole life I never laughed like that. That thought triggered a revelation that the Kingdom of Heaven is literally in our midst, right where Jesus said it was. Heaven is right here, right now, Henry—not for everyone of course—not for me, not for the handicapped—but certainly for the blessed young, healthy and beautiful people—for those kissing kids it’s here and now. And here’s my take on hell, Henry, Been there done that! I have never had happiness like those teenagers were sharing, or peace, as a priest in the service of God should have. I faked it, dear friend, for there never was a day in my life that I didn’t experience some pain, some discomfort, in this disabled mess of a body which continually claimed my attention. So, grieve not for my passing, dear friend. Rather, be glad that I have finally escaped from hell. With Gratitude and Love, Ken"

Ken placed the pad on the dashboard, the gun on his lap and unclipped his seatbelt. Hitting the icons on the dashboard screen that triggered the mechanical exit protocol, the ex-priest maneuvered his wheelchair around and rolled down the ramp to the ground.

The night was pitch black, no moon, no stars, just darkness. No sound but crickets. Ken thought about returning to the van and switching on the headlights but didn’t want to expend the energy. He felt weak now, an all-consuming fatigue, no doubt brought on by the long drive and the emotions he experienced in the last two days. Instinctively, he motored the few yards to his mother’s grave. He wouldn’t see her nameplate tonight. It didn’t matter. On previous visits, he would pull up the grass around her nameplate and place f lowers down. Tonight, he just wanted to die, to forget everything and be himself forgotten. With some trepidation but no regret, Ken cocked the gun and placed the cold barrel into his mouth, the way he had seen it done on television.

Out of the blackest night headlights flashed and the sound of a car approaching shocked him. Immediately, Ken pulled the gun from his mouth, as though he didn’t want to get caught committing suicide. Before it dawned on him how absurd he was acting, a car pulled up on the far side of the shed, the motor and the headlights turning off simultaneously. Ken just listened as the car door opened and shut. A moment later he heard the sound of the car trunk opening, followed by some scuffling sounds along with the grunts and strident voices of two men.

Don’t, Bobby! Please, please give me a chance to explain!

Shut the fuck up! You were all over her in my bed! What am I, a fucking idiot! Start walking, asshole. I said, walk!

Ken heard the men approaching in the dark. He glimpsed the broken shadow of a man walking in the beam of a flashlight. He was stymied, frozen in a state of total confusion as he listened to the men rage on.

We lost our heads, Bobby, just drank too much! It was the first time. You’ve got to believe me! She loves you, man—she loves you to pieces!

Wrong response, asshole! Keep walking... She’s seventeen, for Christ’s sake! And you raped her, you low-life motherfucker!

No, Bobby, I swear to God! We just drank too much!

The two men drew closer and closer to Ken until they were but one grave site away. When the flash light went out Ken felt no fear. So what if he was about to witness a murder, or was about to be murdered himself!

What a world, he thought. "You can’t even kill yourself privately, in peace! And how in Heaven’s name will the ‘righteous morons’ down the road ever figure out what happened tonight? Did they even have a police station, or would that be an embarrassing indicator that Jesus didn’t really reign in Appaloosa?"

Ken’s thoughts were interrupted as the men’s voices reached a fever pitch.

You see that grave in front of you, that’s—

I can’t see shit! Bobby, listen—

That’s your final resting place, scumbag!

Just listen a second. I can give you the secret to eternal life. I know it sounds crazy but—

Admit it! You drugged my wife and took advantage of her!

I swear to God! It was just a drunken mistake! Look, Bobby, this is premeditated murder. It’s the end of your life too!

Not really, scumbag! This is no man’s land! They don’t bury people out here anymore. Nobody’s ever going to find your fat ass! How does that make you feel?

Look, look, I swear—you want me to admit it—all right, Bobby, I owe you that as a friend—all right, I did it. I drugged her and I’m sorry, man. You’re my friend—it was totally wrong—and—and I’m going to leave town. You’ll never see me or hear from me again. I’ll go to Europe— Brazil—I swear—I’ll be out of your life and hers forever!

Sorry, Taulb, you’re just a fucking creep! You drugged the wrong girl. Molly is so messed up in her head she thinks she loves you!

It’s the drug I gave her. It will wear off in a few days. I’ll be gone, in Brazil by then!

Ken sat in the darkness coming to his senses, not ten yards away from the two men. Up from the memory of a past seminary sermon came a thought shared by Buddhist monk, Tully Boccti: Even if one believes there is no God, no purpose to life, that one should more logically seek to alleviate suffering.

Why not one last, useless good deed, Ken thought, when he heard the distraught man cry out as he was shoved into the grave, followed by the sounds of dirt being kicked in on top of him—sickening laughter—then a shot.

Enough of this! I don’t want to die in this evil, thought Ken, as he fired his gun in the air, and heard himself shout. Drop the gun, or I’ll shoot you! Ken barely got the words out before the pain in his wrist from the recoil claimed his attention. The warning drew a volley of gunshots, the bullets whistling past Ken’s head. "Holy smokes, Ken thought, this is my ticket out of here!" Lifting the gun in both hands and firing wildly into the air, Ken paused waiting for a return volley to take him out of the world. It never came. In spite of the ringing in his ears he was able to hear the shooter scurry off, jump into his car and drive away. After a long silent pause, Ken collected himself enough to speak.

Mister, are you there? Are you okay?

Yes, I’m okay. He missed, came the raspy voice of Ebizer Taulb.

That’s good, said Ken, at a loss for anything else to say.

Can you help me get out of this hole, buddy?

I’m sorry but I can’t. Responded Ken as he motored carefully toward the voice in the dark.

You can’t help, or you won’t? I have a few hundred dollars on me—

I can’t. I’m paralyzed, in a wheelchair.

You’re joking, right!

No sir, I’m not.

With the perseverance of a man who knows his life may still be at stake, the strange man clawed his way up and out of the grave. In the darkness, he was just able to discern the priest in a wheelchair a few feet away.

You saved my life...

Oh, okay, said Ken, aware that he was speaking to a tall man but unable to make out his face in the dark.

Well then, let’s tackle the big question, suggested Ebizer Taulb. What the hell are you doing out here in a wheelchair in the dead of night?

It’s a long story, responded Ken.

"I don’t suppose you have