Plot Line

Plot Line

Copyright 2012 Alton Gansky.

ISBN: 9781476131276

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
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Scripture quotations taken from the New American
Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972,
1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation Used by
permission." (
www.Lockman.org
)

Cover by Gansky.Communications

Images: © jorgophotography - Fotolia.com; ©
Stocksnapper - Fotolia.com

There are places we were never meant to go.

Ray Beeman went.

Ray Beeman is a man in pursuit of a
dream.
With two published novels under his
belt he knew he was on his way. Then his publisher went bankrupt.
His future went dark. No money, no income, no profession. Could he
start over? Yes, with the help of a stranger who offers him a dream
job that allows him to continue writing. All he has to do is make
up “PR” plot lines for a government agency. Not hard for a man with
an active imagination. Dream jobs, Ray learns, often come with
nightmares. Forced to see what no man should; forced to go where no
person was meant to step; drawn across a threshold between worlds,
Ray pays for his lucrative job with his sanity. Terrified as he is,
he fears one fact more: His actions have put his family in
peril.

There are worse things than evil men.

Part 1

Man's steps are ordained by
the LORD, how then can man understand his way?
—Proverbs 20:24

One

There was a deep ache in the
center
of Ray Beeman’s chest; an
unrelenting burning that grew hotter each passing moment. He rubbed
his sternum and stared at the envelope before him. The envelope
hadn’t changed. It was the same ivory color with his name and
address typed neatly in the center of it. In the upper left corner
was the blue and red logo of Prestige Publishing. Several lines of
black ink were etched through the return address. Ray had made the
marks himself, scoring each stripe deep enough to tear the fibers
of the paper. His hand shook with each stroke as if he had been
stricken with palsy.

“Did you write this?”

The words echoed distantly in Ray’s ears. He
didn’t look up. Instead, he gouged another line through the return
address.

The mail had come early that afternoon and
Ray met the mailman on the front porch as he left the house.
Already late, Ray did nothing more than say hello and take the
small stack of letters from the postman’s outstretched hand. The
mail remained unopened until he had arrived at the Wenham Mall in
Temecula, California. The drive from his home in Riverside to
Temecula took twenty-five minutes longer than the half-hour he had
planned, all of which he spent in stop-and-go traffic while State
road workers reduced four lanes of freeway to an inadequate two.
Outside, thick, gray January clouds blanketed the sky.

“Is this a novel?” the voice asked
again.

Ray had arrived at the book signing twenty
minutes late of the scheduled 2:00 start time. He parked his car in
one of the stalls of the expansive asphalt lot and walked as
quickly as he could through the slow moving shoppers, apologizing
each time he bumped into someone who, unlike him, had all the time
in the world. Ray nearly slipped on the highly polished floor as he
scurried into Tillman’s bookstore. His haste had been wasted.
Although the book signing had been scheduled eight weeks before (he
had scheduled it himself) no one in the shop remembered it. Still,
they set up a small card table in the front corner of the store,
just a short distance from the wide corridor where shoppers
strolled.

He had other problems. Since
no one remembered he would be in the store signing books, no books
had been ordered. The store had only a single copy of
Tender Hate
, his first
novel, and two volumes of
Love’s Labor
Lost
, his most recent publication.
Fortunately Ray had a box of each title in the trunk of his car. It
was a precaution he learned after a similar oversight during his
first book signing. After a quick trip to his vehicle and back, Ray
was ready to sign books—if anyone would stop. Few did.

With time on his hands, Ray read through the
mail he had brought with him, dropping each opened letter in one of
the boxes of books he had brought. It was the fourth letter that
caught his attention—the letter from his publisher. He read it
twice, then a third time, hoping the words would rearrange
themselves into a different announcement, but the words stayed
where they were. Unmoving, cold words that at first chilled him
then filled him with the heat of anger.

“Hello? Anybody home?”

Ray looked up and saw a
rotund woman in a bright blue dress with a large, gaudy, yellow
flower print standing before him. She held
Tender Hate
in her hand.

“I’m sorry,” Ray stuttered, not feeling
sorry at all. “I was lost in thought.”

“So I see. I’ve been talking to you for the
last five minutes.”

Ray doubted the claim but saw no benefit in
arguing. “I apologize again. You had a question?”

“Did you write this?” Her voice was sharp,
her words clipped as if she were conserving her energy for some
other cause.

“Yes. That’s my first novel.
It came out a year ago February. This one,” he picked up
Love’s Labor Lost
, “came
out three months ago.”

“Is it fiction?”

That’s what a novel is,
lady
.
How many
non-fiction novels can you name?
“Yes.” The
politeness was forced. “It’s fiction.”

She harrumphed and an expression of distaste
draped her face. “I see.” She set the book down as if it had soiled
her hands.

“Do you like to read fiction?” Ray was sure
of the answer, but perhaps he could make a convert.

“I don’t have time for such things. Life is
too short to give one’s attention over to trivial matters.”

Trivial matters?
The burning in Ray’s chest grew hotter and his
already churning stomach flipped again. “Novels are hardly trivial
ma’am. The novel has changed lives. Many attribute the English laws
ending child abuse to the works of Dickens and . . .”

“I didn’t come here to be argued with,” the
woman snapped.

The muscles in the back of Ray’s neck
tightened like compressed steel springs. His head was pounding with
pain. “Then why don’t you hop back on your broom and fly home.”

Ray regretted the words. By nature he was
quiet and introspective, avoiding confrontation whenever possible.
Today, however, he was not himself. It was the letter’s fault. That
blasted letter had ruined everything.

“You can’t talk to me that way.” The woman
snorted. “You might sell more books if you learned to keep a civil
tongue.”

Ray lowered his head and rubbed his temples.
He felt ill. Already he had been at the bookstore for two hours and
only five people had stopped to look at his books, six counting the
woman who was too busy to read novels, but had plenty of time to
insult the work of his life. None had bought books. He had been
tempted to pay people to take them, but that would have required
money in the bank, something he didn’t have.

“What? Nothing to say now?” the woman
prodded. “I don’t imagine your books have much to say either. Maybe
I should have a conversation with the store manager.”

“I don’t work for the bookstore, lady, I’m a
writer.”

“I don’t care. They shouldn’t allow rude
people like you to sit in their storefront.”

Ray closed his eyes and wished he were
somewhere else.

“A conversation,” said a new voice, “would
require you listen—a skill I’m sure you lack.”

Ray snapped his eyes open and saw a trim man
in a black, collarless tee shirt and beige sport coat. His hair was
black with touches of gray at the temple. The man glanced at Ray
through steel blue eyes. His posture was erect, but relaxed, his
expression unperturbed yet commanding. Pulling a silver object from
his pocket, he began to make a clicking sound. Ray saw a square,
shiny cigarette lighter, the kind his father had used to light his
Meerschaum pipe many years before.

Click, click,
click
.

“Wha . . . what?” the woman stammered.

“Listen lady, this man has written more
books than you’ve read, and he’s only written two. Two excellent
books I might add.”

The red of anger crept up the woman’s face.
“You . . . you wouldn’t talk to me like that if my husband were
here.”

“If your husband were here, I’d fold him
into a tiny wad and swallow him whole,” the man said. His voice was
clear, strong but free of any anger. He spoke like a professor
reciting facts.

“I should call security on you.”

“What makes you think I’m not with
security?”

The woman stuttered, sputtered and grasped
for words as a drowning man would grasp for a life preserver.
Finally she spun on her heels and walked away in a huff.

“I appreciate the help,” Ray said, “but I
hope she doesn’t get you in trouble with your superiors.”

The man laughed easily, smoothly. “I don’t
work for security. I was just trying to keep her off guard.”

“I’d say you did that.”

“She had it coming. Some people can’t be
happy unless they’re making someone else miserable.”

“True. I’m Ray Beeman.” He stood and offered
his hand, which the stranger took immediately. His grip was strong,
his handshake confident.

“My name is Devlin Chambers and I know who
you are. I’ve read your books. I’m a fan.” Devlin put the lighter
back in his pocket.

“Really? So you’re the one.”

Devlin laughed again. “I’m
sure I’m not the
only
one. You have many fans and will have many more.”

Ray sighed and sat. “I’m not sure about
that.” He looked at the envelope again and the cold fog of despair
surrounded him.

“Bad news?” Devlin nodded at the
envelope.

Ray hesitated. This wasn’t something he
wanted to talk about, especially to a stranger. “I’ve had better
letters.”

“Judging by what you’ve done to the logo, it
must have struck you pretty hard.”

Ray studied the defaced corner of the
envelope. “I guess that was pretty childish.”

“Nonsense,” Devlin retorted. “I’ve burned
letters before. That’s your publisher, isn’t it? Prestige
Publishing?”

Ray nodded.

“Listen, I know we’ve only just met, but I
may be able to help. How much longer are you on duty here?”

“I can leave anytime I want. Truth is, not
much is happening. I think they would be happier if I were
gone.”

“Great. There’s a little restaurant not far
from the mall. It will be busy in about an hour, but we should be
able to have a conversation before the crowd arrives. How about
letting me buy you a taco or something.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Okay,” Devlin said. “The place is called
Rosa’s. It’s near—”

“I know where it is,” Ray interjected. “I
passed it on the way in. Give me a few minutes to pack things up
and take my books back to the car. I’ll meet you there.”

“Need help?” Devlin offered.

“No, I can handle it.”

“Well, all right, Mr. Beeman. I look forward
to this.”

“Ray. Please call me Ray.”

The portly woman marched from the
Mall
, throwing the glass entrance/exit
doors wide. Like a charging rhino she plowed forward to the parking
lot where a silver Lincoln Continental waited at the curb. She
plunged through the passenger door, dropping her bulk on the front
seat.

“Let’s go.”

“I take it your mission went well.” The
driver was a young man of twenty-five with bleached hair cut close
to the scalp.

“Just like the plan called for. Now all I
want to do is get out of this ugly dress. Do you realize someone
got paid to make this?”