DAWN TREADER PRESS
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2010 Joshua Graham
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual locales, events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions
Cover art by Compassionate Eye Foundation/Kev
Praise for Joshua Graham’s debut novel BEYOND JUSTICE
Barnes & Noble #1 Bestselling legal thriller (nookbooks)
Barnes & Noble #1 Bestselling Christian Thriller (nookbooks)
Best of 2010 Suspense Magazine
“…A riveting legal thriller…. breaking new ground with a vengeance… demonically entertaining and surprisingly inspiring.”
~PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“…hits the ground running…handled by a deft hand.”
~Adrian Phoenix, IN THE BLOOD (Pocket Books)
“This tense, fast-paced story of outrageous injustice, insidious evil, and looming disaster has everything the savvy reader should expect, and more. [Graham] belongs to a new, emerging wave of writers who dare to color outside conventional lines. And he does so with style!”
~Glen Scorgie, THE JOURNEY BACK TO EDEN (Zondervan)
“…a
genuine page-turner with a twist that makes it stand out from most
thrillers and legal dramas.”
“…What sets
this thriller apart is the deft handling of religion.”
“…When
Graham turns to courtroom drama, the writing is tense; when he’s
inside Sam’s mind, the emotions are wringing.”
~Author Magazine
“This
book was so much more than a mystery novel; it was an exercise in
faith, understanding, joy and mercy in their purest forms.”
“…twists,
turns and surprises to be found here.”
“…filled
with so much in the way of emotion.”
“…Take
the time to read this book. You will not be disappointed.”
~Suspense
Magazine
…A
MASTERFUL LEGAL THRILLER
…A book worthy of a
feature length Hollywood movie…
…Graham has
intricately woven together these elements of cyberspace and our
criminal justice system in a way that keeps avid mystery readers
spellbound.
…Graham’s BEYOND JUSTICE is the
best mystery novel that I have ever read.
…a
plot worthy of Hollywood, told by a fantastic author with a deft
touch and feel for intrigue!
…a fitting climax
in true John Grisham form.
…a powerful testament
to faith and religion, woven into a masterful murder mystery.
“This
is not a tame Christian book, it’s full of heart wrenching scenes
that will make you shudder.
There’s one surprise
after another and it’s a “can’t put down” thriller…the
ending was brilliant!
“This is Joshua Graham’s
first book and it is a doozy!!
I can’t wait to
read more from this very talented author.”
“…a
riveting legal thriller that has heart and a fabulous
message.”
“…really intense suspense!”
“
I was…balled up with emotions and intense suspense from start to
finish.”
“…a great legal thriller…”
“…
great drama and romance as well.
“…tied
together with a fabulous message of love and redemption.“
“…Superbly
done!”
“…a legal suspense thriller beyond
any other.”
“…Filled with page turning, edge
of your seat twists.”
“…most definitely a 5
star novel by an incredible author”
“… this
suspense novel will pick you up in one place, carry you through
thrilling turns and emotional rides, and will set you down at an
unexpected place, all the while leaving you with a powerful message
that will set your mind to thinking. About life. About loss. About
justice. About everything.”
…Joshua Graham has
become an author who I will be collecting books by for a long time to
come and has made me anxious for his next book!
“…an
edge of your seat thrill ride from beginning to end.”
“…a
brilliant thriller filled with unforeseen plot twists and character
behaviour changes unlike any other.”
“…I
quite literally was unable to set this book down…”
“…Joshua
Graham is definitely a name to keep an eye on, for he is one talented
writer…”
~
Rundpinne
“…the
Best book I have read and reviewed this year.”
“…this
book isn’t just about law and criminal justice, it is about faith
and realizing that everything happens for a reason.”
“…I
HIGHLY recommend Beyond Justice as a must read!”
~The
Winfields-7 Book Reviews
“…right
up there with the best.”
“…will tug your
heart. Don’t be surprised if a tear finds its way down your
cheek.”
“…more than just a mystery, more
than just thriller, it’s in a word terrific!”
“If
you love a good thriller then pick up this book, you will not be
disappointed.”
~Reading,
Reading & Life
…fair
warning before you pick up Beyond Justice by Joshua Graham–the next
24 to 48 hours of your life will be utterly consumed by this
book.
…[had] my unconditional and unwavering
attention from page one to the conclusion.
…draws
you in from the first page and literally does not let go of you or
your emotions until the rollercoaster conclusion.
…a
powerfully gripping legal thriller
…I was
absolutely captivated
…mesmerizing would be a
gross understatement.
…absolutely nothing short
of an act of God or nature would have stopped me from finishing this
book.
…unbelievably powerful and
spellbinding
…the story will stay with you long
after you finish it.
…Do not hesitate.
Rush to get your own copy of Beyond Justice.
PsychoticState.net
Connect with Joshua Graham at:
http://www.joshua-graham.com
http://www.facebook/J0shuaGraham
http://www.twitter/J0shuaGraham
THE ACCIDENTAL EXORCIST
Joshua Graham
I had to do it. They were my babies. Killing them was the only way to save them.
Throughout her career as a forensic psychiatrist for the state of California, Abigail Lee had heard such words more times than she cared for. Usually, they came from suspects going for a NGRI (not guilty by reason of insanity) but were, in fact, groping for a Hail Mary.
On the rare occasion, she'd find the suspect criminally insane. Unless it was so painfully obvious that San Diego District Attorney Thomas Walden would suddenly find Abby's services unnecessary. Such were the breaks—she'd still get paid at her standard rate of three hundred dollars per hour. But would NOT be asked to testify in court.
Before her, in the tightly monitored visitation room in Salton Sea Women's Penitentiary, sat Cheryl Morgan. The Cheryl Morgan who had killed all three of her children by suffocating them with Mylar bags. Her trial was set for next month, but it didn't seem like she would survive it.
"Cheryl, you need to talk with me. If there's any chance you might be found—"
"Guilty! I did it. I killed them. How else should I be found?" From beneath the mussed strands of auburn hair, Cheryl's eyes—dark as ink—burned with hatred. Had she been properly groomed and dressed, you could have mistaken her for a Hollywood starlet, not the psychotic housewife and mother of three—who in cold blood murdered her own kids.
"This isn't helping you."
Cheryl's entire demeanor morphed suddenly, like one of those CGI special effects when a person transforms into a werewolf, or a zombie. A menacing smile faded into view, baring cruel canines. Her eyebrows sharpened, her gaze jagged. "And you're here…to help?"
As though on the spindly legs of a tarantula, a chill crawled up Abby's spine. She'd seen just about every variety of psychotic over the past seven years, but something about Cheryl Morgan made her particularly uneasy. Post-partum psychosis—even with those resulting in infant fatalities never looked quite like this.
"Cheryl..."
"You have no idea what you're stepping into, my dear." Her feral eyes gazed straight into Abby's and for a moment arrested her breathing. A sense of dread coursed through her blood like Freon.
Abby pushed back slightly on her chair, as if the extra inch of distance could protect her. "I'm only interested in knowing the truth."
A snort, mixed with what sounded like a growl. Cheryl's voice deepened into a hollow, bottomless chasm of damnation. It was when she began to laugh maniacally that Abby knew something was different about her. Something that transcended schizophrenia and psychopathy. Cheryl smiled. But despite her chains it only made Abby more anxious. "Just what do you know of truth, sweetie?"
"Something's not right. I know there's more beneath—"
"More, yes. Legions more."
At that very moment, Abby feared for her life. She envisioned Cheryl breaking her own chains with her bare hands and leaping onto her, and tearing her limbs from her body as a boy might pluck the legs off of a beetle. She stood abruptly.
The chair scraped the concrete, fell on its back.
"Guard!"
Hands steepled, her head lowered, Cheryl stared up with eyes of pure evil. Wild hair hung on her shoulders which bounced as she laughed. Despite the blaring white overhead fluorescents, a thick darkness filled the room, smothering Abby. A darkness not perceived with the eyes.
She pressed the intercom again. "Guard!"
Slowly, Cheryl rose from her seat, her gaze focused. Abby had no doubt whatsoever that this murderous psychopath had every intention of hurting her.
Abby beat her hand against the locked door repeatedly, the pounding echoing her own racing pulse. "Please! Somebody open the door!"
Cheryl’s nails scraped against the worn varnish of the table, the sound reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard. She rose, her face pointed down and looking up through dark-ringed eyes, reddened with malice. Her voice dropped an octave into an eerie basso profundo. "You'd best run...or we'll take you too." More terrifying than the change in her voice was that it sounded like a chorus of evil.
"Guard!"
An empty shell of a person, Cheryl's body moved like a marionette. She bore her teeth, coiled her elbows back. Crouched slightly.
There could be no doubt, this hellish...thing was about to pounce.
Oh my God...
A wolf-like snarl.
Her eyes rolled back.
Then she lunged.
Abby squeezed her eyes shut.
Let out a shriek.
A loud slam.
Rattling metal.
Something grabbed her arm. Yanked her violently to one side. Her heart lodged so tight in her throat she couldn't speak. She opened her eyes expecting to find the ashen features of a female Hannibal Lechter.
Instead, it was the dark complexion of Sergeant Grimes, the prison guard. She had pulled Abby aside and stood between her and Cheryl. “Sit down, Morgan!”
The chain attached to her ankle restraints was pulled taut, like those connected to her wrists. Cheryl glared at them, then smiled as though nothing unusual had happened. She complied, sat nicely in her chair, tossed an errant lock of wiry hair from her face, and put her hands in her lap. Her entire demeanor transformed in an instant. She could have easily passed for one of the Stepford wives, so docile and sweet. “What’s the matter, Dr. Lee? You look like you’ve seen—”
“Shut your mouth!” Sergeant Grimes turned to Abby, rolled her eyes and murmured, “Let these psychos talk too much and they try to get into your head.”
“Yes, well…there’s usually a component of verbal manipulation involved.”
They stepped out of the meeting room, but not before Cheryl waved goodbye with childish innocence and called out, “Thank you so much for coming to visit me. It was so nice to meet you, Doctor!”
Superficially, there was nothing in Cheryl Morgan’s behavior that deviated from anything Abby had seen before, in both the legit “criminally insane” and the fakers. But there was something about her that struck a dissonant chord within her. She couldn’t say exactly what that was, but it was something deeper than a visceral reaction to the shift of Cheryl’s multiple personae. This disturbance resounded in a place deep within Abby’s thoughts. Somewhere deeper than she had been aware of, a place she didn’t know existed, heretofore.
Grimes took her gently by the elbow and led her down a long hallway with flickering white tubes overhead. But for the soft padding of their feet, all was silent. Every now and then, the cries and shrieks of other female inmates could be heard echoing through the shut doors that led to numerous rows of cells. The Maximum Security Wing, however, remained deathly silent.
Abby stopped and regarded Sergeant Grimes with a look of concern, meant to conceal her uneasiness at effect of the Cheryl Morgan episode. “You’re Ms. Morgan’s correctional officer, right?”
“One of ‘em.”
“Have you observed anything unusual in Ms. Morgan’s behavior—I mean, given that she is a psychopath?”
“She sure talks a lot.”
“To whom?”
“Herself, other inmates in the cells around her.”
“What does she talk about?”
“Different things, ‘pending on who she is at the moment.”
“How many personalities have you encountered?”
Grimes rubbed her earlobe between her fingers. “Oh, I’d say...geeze, I’ve lost count. Maybe ten or more.”
“Ten?”
“That I’ve seen. But you don’t keep track of crap like that. You give ‘em their food, take ‘em to the dog walk, hose ‘em down, and don’t let them talk too much.”
They continued to the end of the hallway. A dim light shined through the tiny square window at the upper part of the reinforced steel door. Grimes put her hand on the scanner and punched in a security code into the keypad.
The locks disengaged loud and abrupt, echoing down the hall. Made Abby wince. Her heart stopped for a beat or two. In the intermediary area by the check-in desk, actual sunlight nosed its way into C-Block. Flecks of dust floated in the air like pixie dust, when in fact, they were nothing more than dead skin particles.
Grimes put her hands on her belt. “Anything else I can help you with, Dr. Lee?”
Abby took a deep breath. She couldn’t count how many times she’d visited potentially insane suspects, but none of her past experiences led her to this degree of disorientation and….anxiety. All she wanted to do was go home and take a long shower and try to forget the experience. But her scientific curiosity refused her any such indulgence. “How do the other inmates regard Ms. Morgan?”
“Oh, they’s scared a’ her. Some of ‘em got all spooked and superstitious and crap. Call her some kinda voodoo-witch-doctor or somethin’.”
“Why’s that?”
“She get into their heads, ya know? Fact, just last week, Jessie Harper gone and hung herself with a noose she made out of her pants. They say Cheryl Morgan voodooed her and made her do it.”
Trying to shrug off the chill creeping up her spine, Abby huffed. “Many inmates harbor suicidal tendencies—”
“Nah-ah! That Harper girl was a tough bitch! She’d a killed everyone around her before she ever done anything to herself. She was always mad and violent to others. But to herself? She was all narci—narccis…”
“Narcissistic.”
“Yeah, that’s the word. No one and nothing could have made her do that. But there she was one morning, hanging in her cell.”
“What makes you think Cheryl had anything to do with it?”
Grimes’ demeanor grew intense. She gazed straight into Abby’s eyes. “Her cell was right next door. And besides, the other inmates heard Cheryl whispering to Jessie all night, the night before.”
“More than likely an unfortunate coincidence.”
“We’ll never really know now, will we?”
For the better part of her adult life, Abby had considered herself open-minded, able to consider the unlikely, sometimes even the impossible. But today, her credulity tank was running on empty, even though that something deep within warned her not to ignore it. “Some things are as good as fact. Thanks for your help, Sergeant.”
“Anytime, Doc. Come and visit any time.”
A wry smirk. “Yeah.”
Halfway to the exit, Grimes called out. “Hey Doc, what’s the verdict?”
Abby stopped, turned around. “The trial’s next month.”
“I mean, are you going to report her as criminally insane or not?”
That was, after all, the question, wasn’t it? Part of Abby wanted nothing more than to see Cheryl put away forever, the proverbial key thrown away. And this too was an unfamiliar feeling. But the professional in her compelled her to execute her duties to the best of her abilities, with the utmost integrity.
She shrugged. “I’m just not sure yet.” And with that, she left hoping never to have to see Cheryl Morgan again.
Much to the dismay of the public, the court found Cheryl Morgan not guilty by reason of insanity. Even though the D.A. dismissed Abby and her reports which concluded that the defendant was in fact criminally insane at the time she committed the murders, the defense under Jodi Bauer, found another expert witness to testify to the same effect. None of the crimes were premeditated, nor was there enough evidence to show intent, so she should therefore not be held responsible for the killings.
Bauer knew how strong a case they had and didn't have much difficulty convincing Ted Morgan, the defendant's husband and father of the victims, to persuade Cheryl to reject the D.A.'s late offer for a plea bargain.
Unlike Rusty Yates, former husband of Andrea Yates, the Texas mother who drowned her five children, Ted Morgan remained married to his wife, though Cheryl had been committed to the Spring Valley Institute out in El Centro.
For the next two years, Abby kept in touch with him for updates because she had developed a deep-seated fascination for Cheryl’s condition. She also communicated with Cheryl’s doctors over this period of time. Apparently, given the proper therapy and medication—which she never had prior to the tragedy—she was doing remarkably well. Hers doctor would soon clear her for release and reintegration into society.
Ever since the court declared Cheryl not guilty and sent her to Spring Valley, Abby had become somewhat obsessed with the strange manifestations of her mental illness.
In other case studies resembling Cheryl's, Abby found several commonalities: acute personality shifts, vocal modulation, and emotional manipulation of people around the subject—some leading to self-inflicted fatalities.
Among those similarities, one peculiar factor showed up in the files of more than two of the fifteen she’d examined: Questionable paranormal theories. At first she thought of Sergeant Grimes and her ridiculous voodoo conjectures. But over time, alone in her La Jolla apartment, staring out into the surging moonlit waves, she wondered, Are you truly open-minded, Abby?
To prove to herself she was, the very next day she delved into the N.O.S. (Not otherwise specified) subfolders of the following subjects: Marc Lucian, Josephine Damon, and Marley Fitch, each of whose N.O.S. subfolders contained over five pages of documented activity prior to their suicides. None of them had turned violent towards others as Cheryl had, but they did exhibit the same symptoms along with some unexplained phenomenon. Oddly enough, each of these ancillary reports had been filed by members of the clergy, Catholic, Pentecostal, and Southern Baptist.
Ms. Damon had repeatedly cut her wrists, but despite the bleeding which should have killed her each time, she survived. Mr. Lucian was reported to have put a Jesuit priest in the E.R. because he had somehow caused glass picture frames and vases to fly around the room and hurtle at Father McGhee’s head. Five stitches were required.
But the strangest of all was Ms. Fitch. She exhibited vocal modulation (in chorus) and radical shifts in personalities. Two of her home care attendants committed suicide within the year before she took her own life.
Abby had not been able to reach any of the clergymen who had worked with these subjects, but did notice the word “exorcism” noted on two of the N.O.S. reports—Lucian’s and Fitch’s.
It was then that she closed the files.
Exorcism indeed.
She hadn’t been to church since she left for college, but even then, this was something she never quite understood. Though she knew many Bible stories, and even memorized many of the scriptures as a child, the stories of demons were always too frightening for her. She always avoided them. Always.
Nevertheless, in the interest of complete openness to possibilities, she decided to email several of her colleagues and peers about the idea of a spiritual component in these cases.
Now, given that each of them had at least one or two PhD’s each, the tone of their responses surprised her.
Dr. Keith Madden: Are you out of your frikkin’ mind? (pardon the expression).
Dr. Yelena Svetlanova: If you think the answer lies in devils and occultism, you should turn in your degree and stop by the local Shaman-Mart. I hear they’re having a half price sale on crystals, rattles, and drums.
Kenneth Thomas, PhD: Psychologist, heal thyself!
Only one person replied with a modicum of decency. Freidrich Koehler, professor at UCSD, renowned for his studies on unclassified psychological phenomena. Besides being the most respected authority in his field, he had been her doctoral advisor and mentor.
He simply wrote back: Come see me tomorrow, 8:00AM, BYOC (Bring your own coffee.)
Koehler’s office was a living, breathing contradiction. On first glance, it looked like a tornado had struck, hurling books and papers into absolute disarray all over. But upon careful observation, and by his insistence, there was order in the apparent chaos.
White froth from his latte lingered on his unkempt mustache, beneath which a smile emerged. Never one to waste time on trivialities such as grooming, the professor‘s appearance had always evoked images of a hybrid between Johannes Brahms and Albert Einstein. When he spoke, his shrill voice with a weighty German accent only solidified the impression. Today was no exception. “Well, well. Abigail Lee, what a pleasure. What’s it been, fifteen years?”
“Nine.” Seated on the far left side of a worn, red leather couch, Abby reached over to the end table to set her travel mug of Oolong tea down, but there were too many piles of papers held together only by large black binder clips.
“Ah-ah!” Not the manuscripts!” Koehler set his mug down, got up from his desk, slipped his hand beneath the papers and lifted them with the delicate hands of a brain surgeon. He then turned to the left, squinted at a mountain of papers—some bound in clips, others loose—and dropped them into the heap.
Abby grinned. “Was that the order or the chaos?
“Apparent chaos.” He sat back down and pushed aside the pile of papers in the center of his desk, like Moses parting the red sea. “Now, let’s get to the point, shall we? What is at the heart of your question?”
“I wouldn’t have come to you if….” Forming the words in her mind, Abby’s cheeks and ears began to warm. By now, she’d ostracized herself among her peers. Had the professor joined in the chorus of ridicule, she would have abandoned this pursuit with her tail between her legs. “Oh, it’s so far-fetched!”
Koehler folded his hand together and leaned forward. His bushy grey eyebrows arched up and his eyes brightened with anticipation. “Out with it, already. I haven’t got all day.”
“Did you look at the case studies I emailed you?”
“Yes. Intriguing analysis.” Then his face became awash with concern. He lowered his voice and peered over the rims of his gold wireframe glasses. “You didn’t share your thoughts with your peers, did you?”
All at once, Abby was the young doctoral student, sinking into her chair under the scrutiny of her professor. “Yes. A few.”
“With whom, might I ask?”
“Madden, Svetlanova, Thom—”
“Ach! You didn’t!”
Innocently, Abby nodded.
“I hope they are not in any position of influence or power in your current career.”
“No, sir.”
“Your personal life?”
“Thankfully, not.”
“Gut! Sehr Gut! However, you have most likely lost their respect.”
She lowered her gaze in concession. Then, to Koehler, she looked with hope. “But not yours, Professor?”
“Nein.” A paternal smile/frown. “Now, sans fear and self-consciousness. Tell me what you are thinking.”
With a deep breath, she sat up tall and went over each of her case studies, their commonalities and references to exorcism. Koehler never said a word, just shut his eyes, listening, nodding, hemming and hawing.
“So, what I want to know is, could it be that there is some possibility of paranormal involvement?” Abby swallowed hard, almost regretting the question.
Koehler opened his eyes, gazed straight into hers. “Traditionally, matters of science and religion do not mingle well.”
This was it. He had heard her out, indulged her because of his patience. But now, he would make his pronouncement and Abby would lose the confidence of the last person who seemed to respect her professionally.
“Let me ask you something, my dear Abigail.”
“Yes?”
“How much faith have you in science—all its theories, laws and concepts?”
“Well, I—”
“Ah-ah! Wait! Before you answer rashly, consider the question carefully. I asked how much faith do you have in science. Faith. Because whether you are the Pope, or Nietzsche, it all comes down to faith.”
“I don’t understand. What about you? ”
Judging by the surprised smile on his face, the professor must have been pleasantly surprised by the challenge. “I thought you would have known by now. I am—”
Somewhere, the phone rang, muffled no doubt by piles of papers, periodicals or God only knew what, under which it must be buried. He grumbled in German and held up a finger. “A moment, please.”
Digging through his piles of ordered chaos, the professor threw loose sheets into the air, kicked aside a mountain of textbooks and finally blurted out, “Ach!”
The phone’s ring, and old-fashioned physical bell, grew instantly louder when he exhumed the handset, its curly black wire pulling taut. “Guten tag.” He continued to speak in German in hushed tones, but said little besides, “Jah, Jah, and nein.”
Finally, he returned. “My daughter Helga in Leipzig. Her son is in what you Americans call the terrible two’s. She usually does all the talking, and then figures it out for herself.”
“I see.” He probably wished Abby would do the same. “So, professor. Are you a man of faith?”
He stood, one hand holding the lapel of his brown tweed blazer and puffed out his chest. “But of course.”
“Lutheran, Catholic?”
“I’m a devout atheist.”
“Devout?”
“Oh jah. I daresay I have as much faith in my beliefs as the most rabid zealot, and the most learned theologian. Perhaps more.”
“But, you’re an atheist.”
“It’s all a choice, if one is to be perfectly honest. Because we cannot know anything with absolute certainty. We can only believe. So we must choose judiciously. I choose to believe there is no God, no heaven, no Hell.” He wagged his eyes mischievously. “Und I damned well better be right, eh?”
“I never thought of it that way.”
He came over and sat on the far end of the couch opposite of Abby, then spoke into the open space between them. “Faith is not what you profess to believe. Rather, it is that which you believe enough to live by, and act upon. That said, far be it from me to influence you one way or another. I have great respect for people of all faiths, and fully concede that in the final analysis, I could be wrong.”
“A bold statement for someone as self-assured as you.”
“I’m only being honest with myself. Nevertheless, whatever faith I chose, I must live with conviction and refuse to doubt. That is, after all, the essence of it, nein? So, what do you believe?”
Abby thought about it quietly for a while. She believed in science, but she was not entirely ready to abandon her childhood beliefs, even though they had been irrelevant to her until recently. “I’m just not sure if science necessarily excludes things of a spiritual nature. There’s not enough definitive proof for one to discount the other. But if I, like my colleagues, dismiss the very notion of demons and exorcisms without fully examining them, am I anything more than a flat-earther?”
Koehler stood up. The leather coach squeaked dully. He extended his hand, which she took, stood and shook—a gesture which meant the session was over. “Doctor Lee, I believe you have found your answer.”
The peculiarities of Cheryl Morgan’s case and the others in the N.O.S. files soon became an all encompassing pursuit for information, now that Abby felt free to investigate. But she had driven herself so hard, that when she saw her doctor for her annual check-up, he ordered her to take her first vacation in over five years.
“To put it bluntly,” he had said, “Take a week off or you’ll kill yourself.” Today was the first day of her vacation and dammit, she was going to enjoy it.
Or die trying.
Do nothing, go nowhere, study nothing, just relax and enjoy the view of the beach from her deck—something she never took enough time to do (such a shame.) Now, as seagulls sang their plaintive songs, while the tall verdant fronds of Queen Palms swayed in the cool afternoon breeze, she sat back, bathed in the sun, shut her eyes and told herself it was more than okay to enjoy some “me” time.
There was nothing more liberating than sipping Oolong Tea in her patio chair, bare feet up on the teakwood bistro table, reading the New York Times on her shiny new Barnes & Noble Nook, and for all intents and purposes, disconnected from work.
Nothing could remove her from this much needed serenity.
Except her iPhone buzzing like an angry hornet in her robe pocket.
“Oh, come on.”
The caller ID read: BLOCKED.
As it continued to buzz, she thought about answering it. But that would defeat the purpose of her vacation at home, wouldn’t it? She pressed the ignore button and relegated it to voicemail. “There. All better.” If it was important, they’d leave a message—which she would consider returning after she checked it.
A few seconds later, the new voicemail alert chimed.
No. I’ll check you later.
Tonight.
Maybe.
In the headlines: President Obama passes legislation for yet another stimulus package, 7.2 Earthquake rocks Tijuana, and finally...concert reviews. Twelve year old prodigy pianist, Austin Lee debuts with New York Philharmonic. Her favorite nephew from Philadelphia, in the New York Times! Eagerly, Abby scrolled to see if the critics loved him or…
The iPhone buzzed again.
Again: BLOCKED
Annoyed, she sent it to voicemail again. This time she wondered if it might really be important. With her thumb on the “slide to unlock” button, she almost relented and checked the voice mail.
But this was the first day of her vacation. Start answering calls now and she might as well go into the office.
Back to the review.
AUSTIN LEE amazes audiences with
Brahms Piano Concerto No. 2 in Bb.