Page 212 of Devil’s Disciples

Ghost

Devil’s Disciples Book 3

To the late Jerry Hicks.

Thanks for the rock. It helped me until I could find a way to come to believe.

Prologue

In the grand scheme of things, the loss of human life goes unnoticed. Not surprising, as one hundred and five people die with each revolution of the clock’s second hand. Loss after regretful loss, the world, however, continues to turn.

Nonetheless, on that day the planet’s balance was askew.

The straps from the lowering device steadied the casket over the grave, giving it an appearance as if it were hovering over the darkened opening that lied beneath it. The beautiful Rosetan velvet interior was concealed from view, as was the body that had encapsulated the gracious soul for more than three decades.

A man and a woman stood hand in hand beside the casket. The man’s jaw was clenched tight, a product of his inability to accept the untimely death of the deceased. I would have given my own life to spare this one, he thought.

The woman, wearing a black dress and matching coat, rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. Beneath San Diego’s midday sun, she filled with regret for her choice in attire. She nonchalantly raised her left hand to her cheek and wiped a tear, hoping the action would go unnoticed. Nothing made sense to her. How much grief, she thought, should one person endure in a lifetime?

The grieving added to the profound pain that whittled away at her heart.

In the distance, the drone of five approaching motorcycles gave hint that the deceased’s parents would not lament alone. As the men grew closer, startled birds flew from a row of Weeping Acacias that decorated the roadside.

The motorcycles parked side by side beneath the blanket of shade the trees provided. One by one, the men, clad in jeans, black tee shirts, and black leather boots, dismounted their motorized steeds and turned toward the gravesite.

After glancing at the flock of birds, one of the men reached into his right pants pocket, feigned surprise, and paused. “I need to grab something,” he said, directing his remark toward no one. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

He turned toward his motorcycle and lowered his head slightly. A tear rolled along the bridge of his nose, and then lingered at the edge of his nostril before it trickled onto his upper lip. Unlike the mother, he didn’t brush it away.

He’d promised not to.

As he prayed for a breeze that never came, he peered toward the distant horizon. Their last days together came to mind, and with them came slivers of peace. With some hesitation, he turned around and swallowed the lump of compassion that had risen in his throat.

He then took the first step of many that he knew he’d be taking without the deceased at his side.

81

Abby

I threw the brick at the window as hard as I could. Much to my surprise, it bounced off the glass and shot at me like a rectangular brown rocket. Before I could dodge the projectile, it slammed into my knee so violently I feared I may be crippled for life.

In the brick-filled bed of an unknown man’s pickup truck, I stumbled to keep my footing. I glanced at my throbbing knee. Blood trickled down my leg. Fueled by equal parts anger and compassion, I grabbed another brick from the selection piled at my feet.

I had to act quickly. At least one life was at stake. I raised my hand and took aim at the truck’s back window.

“Abby!” a familiar voice shouted from behind me. “What in the hell are you doing?”

Brick in hand, I glanced over my right shoulder. “Saving a life,” I declared.

George was the owner of the Devil Dog Diner, a restaurant I ate in no less than ten times a week. He was looking at me the same way he did the first time I ordered a cheese sandwich with apple slices on it.

He’d retired from the Marines after serving thirty years. Even though he was in his mid-fifties, he still resembled his barrel-chested brethren that spent their current days traipsing through battlefields in distant countries. His massive biceps and permanent scowl made him an intimidating figure to those who didn’t know him. To me, he was nothing but a big teddy bear.

Unless he was angry. And, from what I could see, he was angry.

“Get down from there before someone starts filming this,” he said, glancing over each shoulder as he spoke. “The last thing you need is to be on the six o’ clock news with a brick in your hand and blood gushing out of your leg.”

I acted as though I didn’t hear him. Using the brick, I gestured toward the sidewalk. “Watch out,” I warned. “Glass is going to go everywhere.”