Prologue

 

 

It was dark.

     It was black.

There was absolutely no light where he was, and yet he had no trouble seeing his hands when he lifted them before his face. Looking down, he could see his stomach, his legs, his feet.

     He could see that he stood on an old railroad tie. It was mostly black due to what looked like tar or oil that had long ago become part of the wood. It lay close to another. In fact, he realized now that he was surrounded by them; an unending field of the blackened lumber.

     It appeared that there was no specific order or pattern to their placement, though they seemed to be mostly end to end and side by side, creating an almost flat surface. He could see space between most of them, but he couldn’t see what lay beneath due to the lack of light.

     He got the impression that the place in which he stood was massive. He thought to call out to listen for an echo, but didn’t. Using his mouth and vocal cords seemed like a distant memory.

     He felt more alert and more observant than he’d ever before experienced. There was no hint of murkiness or confusion in his mind. It was sharp, keenly aware.

     And he was aware that he was alone.

     Completely and utterly alone.

     He instinctively knew that in this vast expanse of lonely  pitch darkness no one else existed.

     He stood.

     He stood longer.

     He breathed, and he stood.

     Never had he been so aware of absence.

     I’m alone. There is no one else. I exist completely alone.

     He bowed his head. He looked at his hands and feet. This is all that I can see of … me. I will never again see another person, and I cannot see, now, my own face. What do I look like?

     I look … sad.

     He began to weep. He wanted to call out for help, but instinctively knew that there was no ear to hear his cry.

     This is my existence. I am here. I am alone.

     I am afraid.

     He turned, but in no way did his perspective change. It was utter blackness for as long as the place stretched. And he knew in the core of his being that it stretched forth without end.

     He looked upward. Complete darkness. He’d never seen complete darkness before. Even in a dark room with one’s eyes shut, a person sees imaginary pin-pricks of light. Here, though, where his eyes were perfect, there was nothing imagined.

     He listened. As complete as the blackness was, the silence was equal in its power. He could hear nothing. Not the air entering or escaping his lungs; not the beating of his own heart. Again, he didn’t bother opening his mouth to make a sound. He knew it would be of no use. Yet, he knew that his ears were working as perfectly as his eyes.

     There would be no comfort here. No one would ever console him. No one would ever take his hand or stroke his brow. He would never feel the touch of another person again.

     He stood for endless ages. Eons. Time had no meaning.

     He stood looking into the eternal darkness of his futile existence.

     He did not matter any longer. Had he ever? He couldn’t remember. He was not important. His life held absolutely no significance; no value at all. He was forgotten.

     His heart broke. I want to matter.

     Silent tears fell from his eyes. He knew there was no hope to be found, or to be given, in this place. He had never experienced a place of such profound truth.

     He deserved this.

     This is where I belong.

     He stood.

 

 

 

Part One

Freedom Rings

 

 

“There is a way which seems right to a man,

but the end of it is the way of death.”

Proverbs 14:12

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

1981

 

 

Friday, January 9 – 10:35 p.m.

 

Please, don’t let them start. Don’t let the voices come tonight.

     The glow of the alarm clock on his nightstand was the only illumination in the bedroom. It wasn’t enough light. Any more light, though, and he’d never get to sleep, even if his nightly “visitors” remained at bay for once.

     “Is it even worth trying to ask you for help?” he whispered into the darkness. “You never answer.”

     They’re coming, all right. It’s only a matter of time.

     Brent Lawton lay in bed, staring at the dark ceiling. The darkness pressed in against him from every direction.

     How did I end up like this? This wasn’t the plan. All I wanted was a little control.

     Five bottle caps and a penny. It all seemed so … so safe.

     He took in and released a long breath. The tension didn’t dissipate even a little bit.

Brent had just turned sixteen-years old. A starter on his high school basketball team, he lacked neither athletic prowess nor intelligence. Not that either seemed to matter anymore.

     No, not anymore.

     The best jump shot on the team and the ability to ace nearly every test put in front of him wasn’t—at least so far—helping him out of the trap in which he now found himself.

     He felt isolated. Alone. Especially amongst his family.

     Except for Lydia, of course.

     His thirteen-year-old sister still looked up to him, though even her admiration was usually tainted by gray.

     His thoughts drew him back in time to where and when it all started.

     Three years earlier—could it have been longer?—the day-to-day stresses of living in the Lawton household had become nearly intolerable. Brent had come to realize that he was tensing up every time he’d head home from school, knowing that it would only be a matter of time before another ‘discussion’ erupted between his mom and dad. If just two days passed without heated words, yelling, and impassioned threats, it was hailed as a miracle.

     Most times, just after the shouting would start, Brent would hear a light knock on his bedroom door. Lydia would wait for him to open it and then, with eyes filled with fear and cheeks dripping with tears, ask if she could “come in for a little while.”

     Brent always said yes.

     She’s the only one in my life who makes me feel important anymore.

     Sometimes he would just hold her, rocking her gently,    while assuring her that things would soon settle down. A thirteen year old consoling a ten year old. It shouldn’t have been made to happen. And yet, three years later it continued.

     The fights between his parents were a carousel of emotional diatribes. In fact, Brent could usually forecast with some measure of accuracy what day the next flare-up would occur, and sometimes even the subject matter.

     Just two days prior, his mom demanded to know why his dad had been fifteen minutes late from work…

     “Don’t start with me, Sharon.”

     “I suppose it was traffic again? Or are you going to tell me you stopped off at the store with nothing—once again—to show for it?”

     At the top of the stairs, in his bedroom, Brent heard the whole thing play out. His mom seemed to be insinuating unfaithfulness. But, it could also have been that she was a control freak, having to be so in charge of life events that Keith Lawton was allowed no freedoms of his own.

     To be fair, though, the yelling didn’t always start with his mom. The need for another altercation would sometimes begin even before his dad entered the house. Envelopes with the    name Keith E. Lawton behind transparent-plastic address windows would show up in the mail box, the senders of which had all-too-familiar names: Sears. J.C. Penney. L.L. Bean; names not coincidentally tied to his wife’s limitless stacks of catalogs.

     Heated words, yelling, and impassioned threats.

     Brent was sick of it!

    However, about a year and a half earlier—July of 1979, to be exact, the Summer prior to his first year in high school—life took what, at the time, seemed like a fortuitous turn.

   While outside playing ball with some friends, Brent’s attention was drawn to someone walking toward them from down the street. He recognized the individual instantly. It was Kim Cox.

     Kim. What kind of parent names a boy Kim? He was the guy on the street that everyone pretty much avoided. Older by some five or six years, Kim wore black a lot, had long blonde hair, and kept company with others who looked pretty much the same. All the kids at this end of the street knew to walk on the opposite sidewalk if they ever had to pass his house.

     “John. Tim. Look.”

   The three of them stood in the yard with muted stares as  Kim continued his advance. Five houses away, then four, then three, until he got to the property line of Brent’s home.

     “Hey, you guys. You wanna see some magic?” he asked.

     John, Tim, and Brent looked at each other momentarily; all eyes saying the same thing: Who’s going to say no? But, out of nowhere, with a slight shrug, Brent said, “Okay.”

     Strained whispers gushed from his friends. “Are you crazy?”

     Ultimately, they did approach Kim Cox, but John and Tim made sure that Brent had taken the lead.

     Kim took something out of the right pocket of his jeans. He squatted down on the sidewalk and waved the boys closer.

     “Let’s see if you can outsmart me. See these?” He held out his right hand, and in it were five bottle caps from Coca-Cola  bottles. “These are yours to control.” He laid them on the   ground before them. Now, more curious, the boys also took squatting positions on the sidewalk.

     “What do you want us to do with them?” asked John.

     “You are going to take this penny and cover it with one of the bottle caps. I’ll turn my back while you line them up any way that you want. Let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll turn back and tell you which one of the caps the penny is under.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Brent asked, “That’s it?”

“That’s it. Pretty simple,” Kim Cox replied.

     The three boys looked at each other, smiled, and accepted the challenge, no longer as nervous.

     Kim turned his back.

     Each of the boys had done his part to make it impossible to know which cap the penny was under. Two of the caps were twisted to get the Coca-Cola name to face other directions; the placements of two others were shifted a bit, while yet another was made to remain exactly in the same spot and position that Kim laid it down. It was under this cap that they had decided to put the penny. “Okay. We’re ready,” said Tim.

     Wanting to be skeptical, but overcome with a hopeful curiosity, the boys watched as Kim turned around, closed his eyes, and began to pass his right hand over each of the caps, palm down.

     What the heck is he doing? Brent was transfixed as he looked up from Kim’s almost ghostly-white hand to look at his closed eyes. This guy needs some sun, he thought to himself, both amused and struck by Kim’s pale appearance.

     After a couple passes with his hand, Kim opened his eyes. He simply reached down and picked up the second cap from his right, revealing the penny.

     “That was pretty cool,” said John. Brent and Tim agreed. “Let’s see if you can do it again.”

Kim smiled with confidence, with a knowing that caught Brent’s attention. “You got it. But nothing you can do will cause me to make a mistake.”

     Time after time they played his game. Each time Kim’s hand came down to the hidden penny. For a short while John and Tim thought it was fun, but they were getting restless to do some things that, in their minds, really took some talent; things like throwing supposed “sliders” across home plate on their makeshift front-yard ball field. Tim taking the lead, all three of the boys stood up.

     Tim asked, “So, what’s the trick? How’d you do it?”

     After he picked up his caps and the penny, Kim Cox stood, silent. With his black clothes and additional inches of height, the guy was daunting.

     He looked Brent dead in his eyes—that’s how Brent remembered his eyes, too. Dead. After several painfully-long seconds, Kim said, “Powers.” That’s all he said. And with that one word, he turned around and began walking back down the street.

     The boys stood there for a moment, unsure whether they should maybe try again for a real answer or just accept what they’d been given. In the end, though, John turned to Tim and said, “Your turn to catch.”

     That had pretty much been it. Fifteen minutes of tricks that shouldn’t have affected anything in his life. Except that in that brief period of time Brent was sure that he had seen something that went much deeper than a mere trick.

 

 

 

 

 

     That evening at home, as it turned out, was one of the "miracle" nights. It was peaceful; a welcome respite from his normally tight gut and on-edge nerves.

     As his mom and dad lounged in the family room watching Family Feud, Brent sat down at the dinner table nearby with a deck of playing cards.

     If it can be done with a penny and five bottle caps, he thought, maybe it can be done with playing cards. It was worth a shot.

     Brent rifled through the playing cards, pulling out four red cards and the ace of spades. He lay them face down on the table, closed his eyes, and mixed them up. He then situated them into a row, confident that he had no idea which was the ace.

     Looking down at his neat little row, he placed his right hand over each of the cards, wondering what that was supposed to accomplish. It was obvious to Brent that Kim’s trick had something to do with having marked one of the bottle caps. But after a moment’s thought, Brent realized that Kim would have had to mark the right bottle cap before the penny was placed under it; something else seemingly impossible.

     Okay, Brent thought, There has to be something to this hand-over-the-cards thing. Was it a sense? A feeling? Brent refocused. Okay, the ace of spades. Ace of spades. Which one are you? He suddenly grabbed for the nearest card. He turned it over. Two of diamonds. Well, that didn’t work. He flipped the card back over and mixed them up again.

     Kim had closed his eyes while moving his hand over the bottle caps. Brent, too, closed his and leaned his head back as   he had seen Kim Cox do. He began to move his hand over the cards again.

     “What are you up to?”

     Brent jerked upright. It was his mom. She sounded a bit amused and was now standing behind his chair. “Umm … just working on a card trick I saw earlier.”

     “Oh yeah? Are you any good?”

     “We’ll see in a few minutes, I guess. Gotta figure it out first.”

     “Well, you’ve got my curiosity piqued. Let me know when you’re ready to amaze me and your dad.”

     As his mom went to sit down near his dad, each in his and her own recliner, he returned to the task at hand. Okay, let’s try this again. He closed his eyes, leaned back his head, and placed his hand over the cards, moving it back and forth.

     Thinking it was about time to drop his hand, he did so. He opened his eyes, flipped the card, and saw the annoying red of the seven of hearts. He sighed. What’s the trick?!

    Then it hit him. Kim had never said anything about it being a trick. He had initially used the word magic, and later, when asked, he had said, “Powers.”

    What did that mean? What kind of power? Power that the penny had? That he had?

    “Power, huh?” Brent said under his breath. “Well, then, let’s get a little hocus-pocus weird with this.” Once again he shuffled the cards and set them in line. He, again, closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He, again, placed his hand over the far right card and began moving it to the left. Power. Power. What kind of power? He began making a second pass back to the right.

     Determined that something would be different this time—that something would stand out—Brent kept his hand hovering and moving over the cards. With eyes closed and his brow furrowed in concentration, a thought sparked in his mind. Power to see! He believed he was onto something now.

     The ace of spades. Black. Shaped like a … spade. The picture formed clearly in his mind. He could see the card. He also visualized the tiny words printed below the spade. Maybe the name of the card company, he thought.

     Without warning, what felt like a blast of heat shot up into the palm of his hand!

     What the…? He opened his eyes and jerked his hand back. He did not just imagine that. He examined the palm of his hand, but didn’t see anything unusual. Turning his attention back to the row of cards, he lowered his hand to the one over which his hand had just been. His heart began to beat hard with anticipation. Had he done it? Had he just figured it out? He flipped the card over.

     There it was in all its black beauty. The Ace!

     “Yes!” he nearly shouted.

     “Figure it out, Hon?” inquired his mom.

     “I think I actually did!”

     “Good for you.”

     Brent reshuffled, redistributed, and reattempted.

     It happened again. Heat. The secret was heat! He saw the card in his mind, and he actually felt heat rise up from it. This… this is amazing! He took a steadying breath. Okay… Okay… Let’s see. I’ll bet it doesn’t have to be five.

     He reached for the deck of cards and looked for an additional two red cards. He shuffled them, placed them in a line and, once again, found his ace. I’m three for three with this!

Again he reached for the deck. Let’s make it thirteen. Another attempt, and another success. Twenty-five? Success. Thirty-five? Success!

     He could hardly contain his exhilaration. Even more  exciting was that he was accomplishing the feat with black cards mixed into the rows.

     All fifty-two? Why not? Why shouldn’t it work?

     With all fifty-two cards spread out in neat rows, taking up most of the table, he closed his eyes and concentrated on his card. As he moved his hand over the first row of cards he felt no heat, just normal room temperature. He opened his eyes and gathered those cards to the side.

     “Okay, you’ve got us both curious now.” It was his dad. “What’s the goal?”

Brent looked over his shoulder. Both were standing there. “Well, I’m looking for the ace of spades.”

     His dad cleared his throat, and with humor playing in his voice, asked, “Isn’t part of performing an illusion the knowledge of where the card is while your suckers remain clueless?”

     Brent found humor in that, too. “You’d think so, huh? But, this isn’t an illusion. This is just as exciting for me as it is for anyone watching.” He turned back to the table. “Okay, no talking. Give the Great Brent the atmosphere he needs to astound you.” He heard his mom restrain a laugh.

     He concentrated. He moved his hand. He felt some warmth. He pushed aside the cards that had remained cool. The card   that had just generated the warmth didn’t quite feel right, though. He’d leave it for the moment and continue his search.  He cleared another six cards before coming upon another card that was generating some warmth. I wonder what that means? He continued on.

     After his hand had passed over the last of the fifty-two cards, he looked at what remained. He was down to seven cards that had caught his attention because of the heat they seemed    to generate. He took a deep breath and looked back at his parents who were watching intently. His dad, with arms folded and a slight smile on his face, was obviously entertained.

     As Brent was about to continue, his dad said, “Sharon, hand me that pile of cards our magician just pushed to the side. Let’s see how impressive he is before he makes his final pick.” His mom picked up the pile and handed them to her husband. He re-formed the deck and then began to search through them. Brent held his breath.

     “Well, Brent, you’ve got something going on here. Your ace of spades is not in this deck.” He set the cards down on the table.

     “Okay,” said Brent, “Let’s see how impressive I really am.”