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.
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Praise for Joshua Graham’s bestselling debut novel
BEYOND JUSTICE
“…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!
Connect with Joshua Graham at:
http://www.joshua-graham.com
http://www.facebook/J0shuaGraham
http://www.twitter/J0shuaGraham
THE ACCIDENTAL HERO
Joshua Graham
In all the years I’ve spent here at Salton Sea State Penitentiary, I swear I never met a scarier man than Big Pete. Ain’t no one in this place—in this world—like Big Pete, you feel me? Man, one look at him and you don’t start peeing yourself just a bit, you better go and get your pulse checked cuz you’re probably dead. If you know the stuff he did before he came here, you’d be too scared to even breathe the same air as him.
When Big Pete first arrived here at Salton’s death row, everyone said to me, “Yo, B! (my name’s Brian, but that ain’t so cool, so all my brothers calls me “B” instead) What’s it like being Big Pete’s cellie? You scared he gonna kill you in your sleep?” I just smiled and let them guess. It gave me some respect with the other inmates that I was a brother sharing a cell with the big, white, killing machine—and was still alive every morning. But they didn’t know Big Pete like I do. And I’m sure gonna miss him when he’s gone.
Far as I know, Big Pete’s story began like this:
Five years ago, in the Japanese Friendship Garden in Balboa Park, two men wearing black sunglasses, pastel Polo shirts, and khaki Dockers met with Big Pete by the Koi Pond. These clean cut looking guys weren’t what you’d expect. They were businessmen who were worse than any of the Bloods or Crips I ever met—and believe me, I met more than a few of them in my life. These men hired gangstas on a regular basis to do crap for them. But when they needed a real important job done? They called the best. Big Pete.
“So, you okay with this,” Bill Dawson said to Big Pete, who was sitting on a bench, not even looking at them.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Pete clicked his tongue.
Tom, a guy who owned three Beemers, a Benz and a Ferrari, sat down next to Pete. “You don’t have a problem taking out a man of the cloth?”
Pete shrugged, spit out a toothpick into the pond. “I ain’t religious.”
“You sure?” said Bill. “You’re not going to get all superstitious about killing a minister, and bail at the last minute?”
Without even standing up, Pete slipped his hand under his arm and jabbed the point of his knife straight into Bill’s side—just enough to puncture his pastel Polo and prick his skin.
Bill leaped to his feet, holding his side. “Dammit, Pete!”
Still staring out into the pond and never raising his voice, he scoffed. “That’s Big Pete to you, you weasely turd. I’ll gut and fillet you right here, right now and not even blink. You want me on this hit or not?”
Tom stepped forward between them holding up a hand. “Okay, we get it. You’re the right man for the job. Ten thousand now, and the other ten when it’s done.”
Pete finally turned his head and stared right into their sunglasses. The two homies didn’t even know they took a step back. “That’s not what we agreed to.”
Bill elbowed his partner. “The hell, Tom?”
“You trying to renegotiate terms, boys?” Big Pete stood slowly. His shadow covered both of them as he straightened out. He stood a head taller than both of them.
Tom sputtered. “Twenty thousand seems a lot for one friggin’ pastor of a church.”
“Are you crazy, Tom?” Bill muttered. “You wanna die? Huh? You wanna?” To Big Pete: “You gotta forgive my idiot brother here, Big Pete,” he glared at Tom, “he’s gone and lost his brains. Temporary insanity. Isnt’ that right Tom?”
Tom shrugged. “Shut up.”
Like the wimp he was, Bill pulled out a thick white envelop and handed it to Big Pete, who glared down at his hand and cocked an eyebrow. “You guys sure about this?”
Tom huffed and twisted his lip to the side. “Oh, who’s getting soft now, Big—? OOF!” His brother Bill interrupted him with an elbow in the gut.
“I’m just saying,” Pete said, “You two better not get cold feet and call this off because you went on and got religion or some crap like that. You do, and I’ll come for the rest of the money, cut both of your nuts off before I slice you into tender vittles for my cat.”
The envelope was shaking in Bill’s hand now. “No, no. We aren’t going to back out. This Pastor Rick is killing us, killing our cash flow. We’re honest businessmen, you know? We provide a much needed commodity to the community. And just because some right-wing religious nut don’t think so highly of adult entertainment and literature, doesn’t mean he has the right to take away our business.”
Big Pete didn’t care for porn any more than he cared for religion. He just cared about his reputation, doing his job and getting paid for it. “All he’s doing is standing on the corner of your smut shop, handing out flyers and talking to anyone who wants to talk. For this, you want him dead?”
“You want this job or not?” Tom said, trying wisely not to appear too challenging.
“Shut up,” Bill said. To Pete: “You think he’s just saying ‘Hi, howya doing?’ to those people? Since he started hanging out on my street, I’ve been losing thousands of dollars every month. Business is at its all time low! This stupid sonofabitch can’t keep his goddam religion to himself. No, he’s gotta come and mess with my livelihood. I got a mortgage, a family to feed. What about that?”
Pete grabbed the envelope and shook his head. He didn’t like whining women, but he really, really hated whining men. “I don’t care. Why don’t you go and complain to your wife and your two little girls about how the mean old preacher man is taking away your fine, upstanding customers who would otherwise enjoy all the fine porn you have to offer them?” He slapped Bill across the head with the envelope and walked off. “Un-frikkin-believeable.”
~~~
That night, Big Pete went back to his apartment in Hillcrest and ate his In-N-Out cheeseburger and fries. He sat in the dark, looking out the half-closed window with yellowing paint peeling and chipping off the frame. Big Pete didn’t like it when there was too much light on at night. In his line of work, he preferred the darkness and had gotten used to it. The only light in his studio was from that annoying street lamp right outside his window which always made it hard for him to fall asleep at night. ‘Specially nights before a hit.
Didn’t matter.
He didn’t need much sleep anyway, because the adrenaline rush from offing a target was enough to keep him buzzed for the entire day. Cold sweat dripped from his white In-N-Out cup, which was filled mostly with ice. That annoyed Big Pete, but he realized that was the way it was everywhere; at Burger King, McDonalds, Wendy’s….life. The bigger the cup, the more ice you got. You never got as much sweet Pepsi as the supersized cup promised. And yet, he still ordered the largest cup, every time. Good thing he ordered a milkshake too. What the hell, right? It was hot as hell and he’d probably lose all the weight by sweating it out.
This time, there was so much condensation—probably because it was so damned humid tonight—that he wondered if his cup was actually leaking. He lifted it up and looked underneath.
Odd.
Something was printed on the bottom.
John 3:16
Yeah, yeah. For God so loved the stinkin’ world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him shall have everlasting life. He’d memorized this verse as a kid in Sunday School so many times he was sick of it. Later, John 3:16 was nothing more than that crazy man who used to hold up that sign in the baseball games.
“Burger joint run by fanatics.”
Something troubled him, though—couldn’t tell just what. The night before he murders a preacher, then he sees a Bible verse. He thought of Mom, how she raised him alone after Dad died of a heart attack. She used to take him to Sunday school at that old Baptist church and he’d try to annoy the preacher by looking right at him during a sermon and picking his nose.
Big Pete laughed at the memory.
He hated preachers.
Especially Pastor Ken Lowry. He was married but always flirted with Ma, he was always up to no good. Nothing made Big Pete happier than when Pastor Ken got arrested for embezzling money from his own church, and got caught in an affair with his secretary.
Hypocrites.
All hypocrites.
It made tomorrow that much easier.
Just then, a flash of black passed before his eyes. If you know Big Pete, you know it’d take a lot to startle him. But Pete gasped, and jumped back. His chair tipped over and hit the ground. Freezing ice and whatever was left of his Pepsi splashed onto his lap. “Dammit, Whiskas!”
Eyes reflecting and glowing in the dark, Whiskas, his black Persan cat had leapt up onto the table and was nosing around through the wrapper of his half-eaten cheeseburger.
“Shoo!” Big Pete waved his hand at her, but she knew better. She just looked at him all, why-are-you-waving-your-hand-around? and started to chew on the cheeseburger. “Aw, all right. Go ahead. Wasn’t that hungry anyway.”
Rubbing her soft fur, he admired her ability to just go and take what she wanted. She didn’t believe in asking permission or forgiveness. Just like me. He picked up his chocolate milk shake—no way he’d let Whiskas have any of that—and just out of curiosity took a look under it. Sure enough, another damned Bible verse!
Revelation 3:20
A trickle of static electricity ran up and down his spine, to his extremities, and through his scalp. What was with these people at In-N-Out? And why, after all these years, was he suddenly noticing these verses—the night before…?
Pete pulled out his iPhone and googled the verse. Like a heavy blanket, dread fell over him. It read:
Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hears my voice, and opens the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.
“Gimme a break!” He slid his iPhone back into his pocket and didn’t give it another thought. He had a job to do, a reputation to protect. No one, not even God was going to get in his way.
That night, he tossed and turned in cold, wet sheets, even though the fan blew right at him.
~~~
The hit was to go down at Pastor Rick’s own church during their Friday night revival meeting. A revival meeting? Seriously? But yeah, that’s what the sign said outside their church. Only, it wasn’t a church building, it was a renovated movie theater. Used to be an Edward’s Cinema.
Big Pete meant to show up like he was a member of their congregation, but right away felt overdressed wearing a blue suit, a blue tie, and polished black shoes. He even went to a Christian bookstore, bought himself a big-old Bible and carried it with him as he entered the church.
“Hey, man!” someone called out. Big Pete turned around and this short black dude was smiling so big, you’d think he was his best friend from High School or something. He came right over, looked up and shook his hand. “How you doing, my man? Good to see you!”
Pete forced a smile. See, it’d been forever since he’d even set foot inside a church, so he had no clue how he should act. “Uh---Hallelujah! Jesus saves!”
The greeter’s smile looked like it wanted to fade, but stayed frozen there for the sake of being polite. Then he reached up patted Pete on the shoulder. “Right on, bro. Right on. Welcome!”
“Amen.” Pete’s ears were burning. Jeez, he’d lost count of how many people he’d knocked off, some with his bare hands, and here he was, sweating like a naked man covered in honey surrounded by a swarm of flesh-eating fire ants.
The greeter was still shaking his hand. With every pump, the Glock inside Pete’s breast pocket shook and bumped against his ribs. “I—I’m just gonna go find a seat. Anything in the front?”
“You bet.”
“Pastor Rick speaking today?”
“Of course, who else?”
“Just checking.”
“Aight.”
“Later.” It would be simple. Pete saw the emergency exit sign just a few feet from the front of the stage. From there, he’d make his escape into the parking lot, after he’d done the deed.
The door.
Behold, I stand at the door and knock.
Big Pete didn’t like being distracted by those Bible verses, minutes before he took out a preacher in cold blood. He shook it off like a mosquito sucking blood from his neck.
The red carpeted aisle to the front of the auditorium seemed to go on forever. Where was that smell of candles, dust, and peeling varnish? What about steeples, pews, stained glass? This wasn’t church like he knew it. This was weird.
So many smiling faces, hands to shake before he reached the front row. Pete had never felt so uncomfortable on a hit before, not even taking out gang leaders in the toughest parts of South Central L.A. This just didn’t feel right.
But it was never about the feelings. It was always about the job. The reputation he had to uphold. Be professional. Do your job and split.
Finally, he reached the front row.
Empty, thank God. (Oh, wait.)
Had to be the front row, because there would not be enough time to get up in the middle of the service, get close enough to fire the gun, and then cut out of the building into the parking lot for his escape.
Bill and Tom’s prissy little faces kept coming up in his mind. It repulsed him that he was getting paid by bottom-feeding scum like them. But they’d found him by way of referral from Morgenstern, one of his best clients, so he couldn’t turn them down. That might hurt his reputation.
The service began and instead of a pipe organ, a robed choir, and a choirmaster, a band came out. Guitars, drums, keyboard and vocals. They started playing some pretty good tunes, despite the cheesy, religious, “I love you, Jesus” lyrics projected on the screen.
But in order to blend in, Pete had to sing the words, clap his hands, and lift them up to the Lord when the band leader prompted. Then the entire congregation vamped on one phrase. Over and over.
“I surrender all to you, Jesus.”
Hating every moment cuz he felt like a hypocrite, Pete put his hands up and shut his eyes just like everyone around him and sang:
I surrender all to you, Jesus
I surrender all
I surrender all to you, Jesus
I surrender all to you
Where was that damned Pastor? They’d been singing and carrying on for at least half an hour.
“All right,” said the worship leader (the lead singer with the Taylor guitar), “I want you to put your hands on your heart and repeat after me.”
Everyone did so.
When Big Pete did, he felt the Glock, cold and hard, pressing against his chest. Everyone repeated after the worship leader: “Thank you, Lord. You’re the God of second chances. Thank you that no matter how far I’ve strayed, no matter what I’ve done in my past, you accept me. You forgive me. You make all things new!”
Even as Big Pete said the words, which he refused to allow through the concrete around his heart, something was happening. He didn’t know what it was exactly, but it was a mixture of sadness, anger, relief, worry.
The worship leader started to vamp on that phrase.
You make all things new, Jesus.
You make all things new.
The faces of the many people he’d killed came to his mind, the lives of people he’d snuffed out—innocent or not. Never before had he realized the gnawing feeling in his gut. But it was there. Oh man, was it there. For the first time in his life, he admitted to himself that he’d been wrong.
Where was that pastor?
The congregation started to sing, “What can wash away my sins? Nothing but the blood of Jesus…”
That was the song Mama used to sing to him during those awful nights after Daddy passed and little Petey was too scared to sleep alone. Daddy had always put him to bed, read him stories, and often fell asleep clear till the morning next to him.
Daddy was Superman, Spiderman, Ironman. Daddy was the kind of man Petey always dreamed of becoming. But that dream died when Daddy died.
And only now did he understand.
He’d been blaming God for that his whole life. He’d made all these terrible choices just to show God that if He was going to take Daddy away, then Pete didn’t want anything to do with a lousy god like that.
The entire congregation entered a time of silent prayer. The keyboard played lush, sustained chords that floated like white silk over a flowing river of peace. The worship leader started to improvise, making up a song on the spot with the words from the old hymn, “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.