Resurrectionists - A Greystone Tale

  “Come back? Greg, what are you—?”

  “From the dead, Ruiz,” Loren said, finally looking at the captain. “With everything we’ve seen in this damn city over the years, I mean…is it possible?”

  “What?” Ruiz straightened in his chair. His previous concern was quickly turning to fear. “Greg, I don’t know what you’ve been—”

  “I saw something,” he said. “Someone. She couldn’t have been there but she was. I don’t…. How is it possible?”

  “It isn’t, Greg. It can’t happen.”

  “I know,” Loren said. He stood, hands wringing before him as he settled by the window, looking out at the gloom covering the city. “You’re the church-goer. My faith couldn’t fill a thimble, but you? All their talk about resurrection?”

  “Those are stories,” Ruiz said. “I know, God strike me down. The idea of the Second Coming? Just a story.”

  Loren turned back to him. “That’s where you draw the line? Heaven and Hell work for you but the Day of Judgment is a fantasy? How do you get to pick and choose?”

  Day of Judgment? This wasn’t only a curiosity to Loren. This was studied, which meant this was more than a question keeping the detective from sleep. This was real. To him, anyway. To Ruiz, though, it was a clear sign talking things out wasn’t going to be enough. His friend needed help.

  “My faith, my choice. So watch it, Greg,” Ruiz started. “What I believe comes next is for me and me only. Just like your faith is your own. That white light? That better place with old friends, family, and loved ones? I know it’s there.”

  Loren’s hand spread along the window. He stared into the gloom. “And if it’s not?”

  “It is,” Ruiz answered. “No doubt. But people coming back? Not possible. Dead is dead.”

  Loren turned away, lost in the rain.

  “Are you listening to me, Greg?”

  He turned back, head low. “Yeah. I’m listening.”

  Ruiz stood joining him at the window. “I know what something like that would mean to you.”

  “To anyone.”

  “You’re pushing too hard again. When was the last time you slept?”

  “I’m—”

  “Fine. I know. You’re always fine.”

  Loren nodded, his grin false. He started for the door. “I should go.”

  “We’ll fight Mathers on this, Greg,” Ruiz called, his friend turning away once more, his sad look lost in the shadows of the day. The gloom was more a reflection of Loren than the rain outside. The door closed behind him, soft steps carrying him down the hall. “If you have any fight left.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “It can’t be real.”

  The muttering continued for hours with Soriya Greystone rummaging through the myriad of texts laid around the Bypass chamber. Grabbing a stack from Mentor’s bedroom, the young woman nervously paged through each one in the larger room, the dull hum of the floating orb failing to soothe her.

  After finishing with one, Soriya dropped the book on the pile, a term used loosely as each slid from the top, creating a dumping ground. Each failed to provide her the comfort she sought. The answers to explain what she had seen the night before.

  “It’s not possible. It can’t be.”

  Another text dropped with a crash. Useless. Empty. She tried to catch her breath, her heart pounding in her chest. There had to be an answer, some insight she had failed to glean from her time in the church, surrounded by those people. And their loved ones.

  The dead.

  “It can’t—”

  “Soriya?”

  Mentor stood in the door to his bedroom, hand rubbing his stiff right leg. She tried to keep quiet at first, noticing the old man resting uncomfortably on his cot in the corner. The search took priority and his presence was forgotten. She needed it to remain that way, his look of concern frustrating her further.

  She turned back to the texts. Religious tomes, architectural studies on the city, anything that might clue her in on the process behind the church, on the raising of the dead—something impossible.

  “It can’t be real!” she screamed. The book in her hands, ratty from years of use, flew through the air in a fit of anger. It soared toward the waking man, a fastball cutting through the dim light of the chamber. Mentor deftly caught the projectile with a resounding snap of his fingers, flipping to the cover.

  “Feel any better?”

  “I don’t,” Soriya started, catching the anger in her voice. She kicked over the remaining pile of books, letting them join their brethren in the growing heap. She sighed, her hands running the length of her dark hair. She crouched down, collecting the treasures accumulated by the man watching her closely. She started to pull them up one by one, returning a handful at a time to the bedroom. “I’m fine.”

  Mentor stood silently, letting her continue. One pile after the other, the lone book caught in his grasp, the title still drawing him in. When she finished, there was a brief pause, then she moved for the stairs and the world above.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To work,” she snapped, the lack of sleep showing. Her head fell low and she stopped short of the stairs. Mentor’s hand squeezed her shoulder lightly.

  “What is it?”

  There were tears in her eyes and she quickly wiped them away. “You told me. You said it wasn’t possible.”

  “What?”

  She pointed to the book in his hand, at the image of Christ’s tomb at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. “To bring someone back.”

  “Is that…?” Mentor tried to ask, surprised by the question. She pulled away from him, heading back to the center of the chamber and the orb of green light. “Soriya?”

  “Did you lie to me?” she asked, her eyes sharp. “Because I was a kid? To make me stronger? To make me forget them?”

  Her parents. Her family. Hell, her entire former life. All lost the day of the car accident, her memories shattered to a blank slate. She always wondered, always wished, for some glimpse, some snapshot of remembrance. Some way to know who she really was, who she was supposed to be.

  Mentor moved close, his voice soft. “I would never—”

  “Because I didn’t,” she spat, the angry tears of a child struggling to tear themselves from her eyes. “I never did. Never will. My parents—”

  She stopped and wiped her eyes. The Bypass stood before her and she stepped closer, her hand grazing the rift. Mentor had told her about it so many times, how the floating orb linked to every where and every when. How it linked everyone in a thousand different ways. All possibilities. The past and the future.

  Where we all end.

  When she was a child she spent hours pondering their fate—her family, her parents, more than anyone else. Where they went in the end. How they were doing. If they ever thought of her like she did them. So many questions wrapped in the mind of a child. Wishing for answers.

  “If I could see them, Mentor,” she whispered, turning away from the possibilities tucked under the veil of the Bypass, “just once.”

  He smiled, his thin gray eyes tired. He pulled her close. “You will, Soriya. Someday. But to bring someone back….”

  She turned away. “It’s not impossible. I saw it.”

  “The graves.”

  Soriya nodded. “Loren and I—”

  His eyes widened. “Does the detective know as well? What is being done?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  His glare answered the question.

  “You think—”

  Mentor shook his head. “I think loss affects all of us differently, my child.”

  “You think he’ll bring her back.” She turned to the Bypass once more, watching the thin shadows flit along its surface. Dreaming the dreams of a child. “You think I’ll help him do it.”

  “For the right reasons.”

  Soriya nodded, remembering the lesson. “The kid in the cemetery. Fuller. You said the same thing.”

  Mentor
held out the book for her when she faced him, the page opened and folded over for her to see. Her eyes widened at the image of the dove adorning the sepulcher and at the rock wall beneath. It bore the same markings, the same look and age as the altar at the church she had seen the night before.

  “You have a choice to make, Soriya,” Mentor said. “Not for yourself or Loren. For everyone. Can you do that, no matter the cost?”

  Soriya took the book from him and the answer within, wishing she had one for the question asked. Hoping she would when the time came.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Richard Crowne was content. Even with the chill of the night air biting his exposed skin, even with the ache in his right arm from holding the lantern steady for close to an hour, his smile remained. He was joyful at the work at hand…but more than that, he was thankful at the fact that he did not have to do that work.

  Two men shoveled dirt in a large mound, covering the ground on either side of him. They worked without pause, without the banter of camaraderie. The earth gave way under their merciless digging, their purpose outweighing the lateness of the hour.

  Richard kept watch, scanning the cemetery grounds. The lantern in his hand stayed low to offer as much light as possible. The rain dripped on them, the clouds overhead rolling in quicker, getting darker with each new wave. The full measure of the storm would arrive soon. They would be gone by then, as long as they remained unseen.

  The payouts helped at first. Security guards were never well compensated, and had to take multiple jobs to afford a decent living in the city. An extra thousand here and there to look the other way was always appreciated. You simply had to ask. Payouts, however, only went so far. Pressure to end the string of robberies throughout the cemetery network of Portents meant the risk was too great to continue greasing the wheels.

  Speed and efficiency came next, distracting the staff with other members of their congregation. The bereaved were unable to be consoled without assistance. Two such individuals stood at the entrance, keeping guards facing a different direction.

  It wouldn’t always be like that. Richard knew it better than most, his excitement at stepping out of the shadows palpable. The need to hide their miracles drew to a close. The world would soon understand what they could offer.

  Richard couldn’t wait for the unveiling. Soon everyone would see the gift of the church, the power of their altar, and what it offered those lost. No one needed to suffer or be alone anymore. They would all witness the miracle, as he did.

  First, there was someone else who needed it. Their gift, the power behind their faith. A friend in need, Richard considered him. A true friend thanks to their shared loss. He had been given a glimpse of their work. Even though he ran from Richard’s explanations and the sight of his wife in the diner, questions plagued his friend—questions that demanded answers.

  It took some convincing for the Founder to agree. But he knew Richard was right. Richard had been right to follow the nameless, hooded figure to the church all those months earlier. Faith and trust all leading to the truth.

  To the miracle of resurrection.

  Richard heard the sound of a shovel hitting metal, the clang drawing the hands of the men to tremble, hoping to avoid any further noise. They peered up to the assistant district attorney, who nodded. No more time need be wasted.

  Richard looked around the grounds of Black Rock Cemetery, stepping to the head of the plot. He crouched low, his hand grazing the tombstone, fresh as the day it was installed. His fingers settled into the grooves of the lettering, feeling each turn. He needed her to prove to Greg Loren, his true friend, the power they could share with the world.

  Richard smiled. Soon Greg would see. Soon everything would be right with his world.

  As soon as he had Bethany Loren next to him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Another sleepless night. He needed to be at work. He needed to help Soriya track down leads, or at least share the ones that had popped up in her absence. Instead, Greg Loren sat at the edge of his couch, the light of the television keeping him transfixed. Zoning.

  No, not exactly zoning. More like obsessing. Richard’s intervention at the diner screwed him up more than he admitted. What it meant, the return of Richard’s wife, how her presence impacted Loren and everyone else? The image of her was too much for him to process with any speed or clarity. He needed time. Time to figure everything out, to figure out the church that had brought back Kelli Andrews’ mother-in-law as easily as Richard Crowne’s murdered wife of three years. Everything circled back to one thing. The same thing it always did when it came to Loren.

  Beth. Always Beth.

  Loren slammed the power button on the remote, dropping the living room into darkness. He shuffled to the window in the front of the apartment, ignoring his dismal appearance in the mirror over the mantel. It was raining, a fierce, blowing rain, pounding against the side of the apartment building. The rhythmic patter drowned out his neighbors, the noise of the city, leaving him in solitude.

  Was it truly possible? Could she come back? Could he ask her to do that? To give up the afterlife for him? To make him whole again? Would she even be enough at this point? He had fallen so far over the last four years. Even work was threatened now by his own apathy, his own inability to fight. To put in any effort. Like nothing mattered or had since he lost his wife.

  Not lost. Taken. Beth was taken. Couldn’t he have her back? Was that too much to ask?

  His head settled against the window, feeling the cold right through the thin pane of glass separating them. He needed another beer. More than that, he needed a cigarette. A pack of them. A trip to the corner store wouldn’t be too extreme.

  Loren scanned the block and stopped at a car parked across the street. His brow furrowed.

  I’ve seen that car. At the diner last night. But—

  A man stood beside the Chevy, staring up at the second-floor apartment and the shadow of Greg Loren. He tried to look casual, checking his watch, but the rain took that out of the equation. No one would want to be out in this weather. Especially with their car right there. Loren recognized the man’s balding head and burgeoning gut. He had seen him enough at the station.

  “Standish?”

  Robert Standish checked his watch once more then started up the block, slowly. He tucked his coat tighter to impede the rain. Loren waited a short moment, then raced to the front door, slipping on his jacket.

  By the time he made it to the sidewalk in front of his apartment building, Standish was a block over. He was still in sight, walking with a slight shuffle. Loren followed, double-checking his six at every opportunity.

  He maintained his distance, tracking his former partner down the Knoll and away from the expressway. Not the best part of town—the residential neighborhoods giving way to mom and pop stores long since closed for the night. Deep alleys and more shadows forced Loren to slow his pace, marking each movement in the dark.

  Why didn’t I bring my gun?

  They traveled like this for eight blocks, Loren curious why Standish didn’t drive, and instead chose to fight through the rain. Caution? Or something else?

  Standish cut across the street at Fourth for an alley next to a recently shuttered salon.

  Loren peered around the corner, tucking close to a dumpster, most likely used to clear out what remained from the defunct shop. Standish held his back to the mouth of the alley but his companion was in full view of the peeking detective.

  Myron Jacobs.

  “Son of a bitch,” Loren muttered. The scumbag that walked two days earlier, thanks to evidence that suddenly decided to pull a Houdini.

  “Did you bring it?” the tall black man with the thick sideburns asked. His voice loud, carried over the rain. He was always yelling. A point of pride for him.

  “This isn’t some corner deal, Jacobs.”

  Loren inched to the edge of the dumpster, fighting to hear Standish through the rain.

  “And I ain’t playing
with you, cop. Did you bring it?”

  Jacobs stepped closer to Standish, hoping to intimidate the older, out-of-shape officer. He was greeted with a gut shot that sent him reeling to the floor of the alley. Standish, though not known for his fitness, carried enough muscle under his bulk for the job at hand.

  “Who saved whose ass from jail time, pal?” Standish asked. Loren heard the grin behind the man’s words. “Say it.”

  Jacobs struggled to his feet, nursing his stomach. “You did.”

  “Damn right. Show some respect.”

  Jacobs laughed, spitting hard at his companion, barely missing his shoes. “To a cop on the hook to half the bookies in town? Tough sell.”

  “You stupid son of a—”

  Standish wound up once again, and Jacobs fell back a step.

  “All right, all right!”

  “The money,” Standish shouted. “Now.”

  Jacobs fell back in the alley, reaching beneath a pile of old placards and billboards tossed aside like refuse. He came back with a black bag. “Here. What about my—?”

  Standish reached into his coat, pulling out a large envelope. He tossed it on the ground beside Jacobs. “You’ll find the evidence in a locker at the Southside terminal. Information and the key are inside. And a bonus.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Standish slung the black bag over his shoulder. “Leave town tonight. Ticket’s inside.”

  Jacobs retrieved the envelope. “And if I don’t?”

  When he looked up Standish was holding his gun. Jacobs stepped back once more, hands up yet clutched tight to the envelope drowning in the rain.

  “Then I show you the other prize you’ve won. No one’ll even blink at a dead junkie in the street.”

  Jacobs nodded. The message was clear.

  “Pleasure doing business with you, Jacobs.” Standish turned for the mouth of the alley. Loren tucked close to the ground, sliding deeper into the darkness.

  “Go to hell, Standish,” Jacobs yelled over the storm.

  Standish laughed, pulling the black bag tighter to his back. “Like I’m not already there.”

  The cop shuffled away from the alley on the other side of the dumpster before heading back up the Knoll to his waiting car. Loren shifted toward the abandoned building, part of the shadows. Jacobs followed soon after, hugging tight to the small locker key.