WHO CAN SURPRISE GOD? - - - Lee Herald

Fate or Free Will?
I believe in a Creator—so my studies led me to determinism—for a belief in both God and free will is incompatible.

The most widely accepted definition of God is “a being who controls everything”. God is responsible for our being here, and therefore—for all that we do.

Since the two major events of our lives—birth and death—are not by choice, it is illogical to believe that everything between these two non-choices is free will.

That birth is not by choice is evident. If you are not born you are not alive. If you are not alive you cannot choose.

Fate became necessary when God planned the future. There is no freedom with a set future.

Believers in free will must be able to think about every action they take, yet some actions are faster than anyone can think: the dribbling basketball player, the boxer’s flurry of punches, and the guitarist’s fingers flying over the keyboard.

And what about the sleep walker? Who’s in charge then?







Free will is certainly not a studied opinion, for billions of people have never researched even two hours on the beliefs they hold.

Not much difference in the actions of the Free Willer and the Fatalist. Since neither knows the future, they don’t know what they can or cannot do. They try to accomplish whatever they can, and they try again, and again.

However, when finally unable to achieve something, only the fatalist has the consolation of knowing that it wasn’t his fault.

There are three fateful instances in my life that imply a lack of free will. There are many more examples, but these three stand out.

Three times a woman that I loved indicated that she wanted to hear from me, yet fate stood firmly in the way.

I was still in love with my wife long after our divorce—so how could I forget that she wanted to talk to me?

My sons told me that she wanted to talk before I moved back to Detroit. (I was living in Flint at the time)

1) Every reader will wonder—why didn’t he get to that talk?

Since I was still in love with her for years after our divorce, how could I fail to talk privately with her when she came to my place nine years after marrying Bob S—and she was still married to him.

2) Every reader will wonder why didn’t he ask—what is this about.

I was dating Sharon W. Since I loved her, how could I not go after her when she said, “Let me dress you”, and then ran into her house crying? She wanted me to dress like a writer, whatever that is.

3) Every reader will wonder why didn’t he go to Sharon’s door to see what was wrong?

There is only one entity strong enough to prevent these hopes from happening, in spite of my strong desire to make them happen.

That entity is fatalism. There is no other explanation for my not acting at these very important times.

Scientific experiments cause some researchers to question free will.

My oldest son gave me a book for Christmas, 1996. The book is The Holographic Universe, by Michael Talbot. It is not about determinism, but on pages 191—192 there is a section where scientific researchers strongly question free will.

It is as follows:

Recently a discovery made by neurophysiologists Benjamin Libet and Bertram Feinstein at Mount Zion Hospital in San Francisco has been causing a stir in the scientific community.

(They) measured the time it took for a touch stimulus on a patient’s skin to reach the brain as an electrical signal.

The patient was also asked to push a button when he . . . . . . became aware of being touched.

Libet and Feinstein found that the brain registered the stimulus in 0.0001 of a second after it occurred, and the patient pressed the button 0.1 of a second after the stimulus was applied.

But, remarkably, the patient didn’t report being consciously aware of either the stimulus or pressing the button for almost 0.5 second.

This meant that the decision to respond was being made by the patient’s unconscious mind.

The patient’s awareness of the action was the slow man in the race.

Even more disturbing, none of the patients Libet and Feinstein tested were aware that their unconscious minds had already caused them to push the button before they had consciously decided to do so.

Somehow, their brains were creating the comforting delusion that they had consciously controlled the action even though they had not.

This has caused some researchers to wonder if free will is an illusion. (Emphasis is mine – LH)

Later studies have shown that one and a half seconds before we “decide” to move one of our muscles, such as lift a finger, our brain has already started to generate the signals necessary to accomplish the movement.
End of Quote

Again, who is making the decisions, the conscious mind or the unconscious mind?
















THE ALBERT EINSTEIN DEFENSE

Einstein would’ve been a brilliant defense attorney. He believed in determinism—which would be The Albert Einstein Defense.

A breathless gallery would excitedly wait. Then the great scientist would open with this:

A God who rewards and punishes is inconceivable . . . for the simple reason that a man’s actions are determined by necessity, external and internal, so that in God’s eyes he cannot be responsible, any more than an inanimate object is responsible for the motions it undergoes. ---ALBERT EINSTEIN -- Religion and Science. N.Y. Times Magazine, November 9, 1930.
The Great Quotations, Compiled by George Seldes, Published by Pocket Books, New York, A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

What caused Einstein to say this?

The principle of cause and effect prompted him.

It is the most well-known scientific principle in the world, and it is recognized by scientists and global citizens alike.

This universal principle doesn’t just rule the birds and the bees, the mountains and the rivers, and the stars and the planets.

It is in firm control of all life, including human beings. This is why Einstein said—“he cannot be responsible.”

And what did Einstein mean by “. . . a man's actions are determined by necessity”?
The Oxford English Dictionary says that necessity is “the state or fact of being required or indispensable.” Determinism is required by the principle of cause and effect.

Attorney Einstein would’ve salivated over one article on my website. It concerns people whose “unconscious minds had already caused them to push a button before they had consciously decided to do so”.












Dig right in, Professor Einstein, help yourself.

No, Einstein did not persuade me. I came to my decision long before I learned of his belief in determinism.

Go to Google and type in—cause and effect.

You will find several websites with information on this scientific principle. If Albert lived in our time I believe he would make use of my novel, Why Does The Lion Roar?

On Thursday, July 24, 1997, the following article appeared in The Colorado Springs Gazette. In the days that followed, it appeared in many other publications.

The Colorado Springs Gazette. . B1 . . Thurs, July 24, 1997
CRIMINALS COULD SOON PLEAD ‘MY GENES MADE ME DO IT.’
(From The Toledo Blade, Bar Harbor, Maine)
Growing evidence that a person’s genes influence behavior may create serious dilemmas for law enforcement . . . a noted geneticist said . . . “Genes do appear to influence behavior,” said Dr. Leroy Hood, chairman of the department of molecular biotechnology at the University of Washington in Seattle. “Since our system of law is based on free will and individual responsibility, could a future criminal argue extenuating circumstances because his genes made him commit the criminal act?”

Yet, 10 years later it still hasn’t dawned on the criminal justice system that we are all genetically controlled products of our environment.

The judicial, the prosecution, the defense, the jury, and even the damned do not comprehend the plight of the genetically cursed.

But, astonishingly so, all this information is available in the public library. The “system” is correctly named, for it is truly criminal how it is applied, and there’s nothing infallible about it.

Fallible human beings manage it, so everything within the system is a judgment call.
A human being must confirm that the fingerprints match, or that the DNA matches, but in both cases there have been errors and misuse.

Who can surprise God?

You can, if you have free will. You could change God’s plan for you. “Hey, what’s Lee doing?” God would ask. “I didn’t plan that for him.”

LORI’S Email Sunday September 27, 2009

Lee,
I haven't forgotten about our debate on free will, honest! I've just been busy with some other things for a while.

Here are the next steps I think we should take:

1. Agree on the wording of your main arguments for fate (I listed 5 in the attachment which I got from the document you gave me and from Wikipedia). Tell me if you like them or want to change them.

2. You present me with the "evidence" for argument #1 so I can find evidence to refute it.

I think a lot of the evidence is already there from the paper you gave me, but it should be organized and more authoritative quotes added.

For instance, you have good examples of other "Godly" influences at work in your personal life (like with your wife and Sharon), but what's missing is additional quotes from "experts"--respected authorities who have studied God, or perhaps from the Bible or the K'ran or Hindu sources that God is omnipotent and God plans our individual lives.

Of course, if you disagree about where I'm going with this debate, let me know. I don't want to railroad you into anything. I'm open to alternative ways to approach this debate.

If you'd rather meet together to edit the arguments than send me written comments, I'm open to that, too.

Lori Proposed Sequence for Debate about Free Will

Hand Out Debate Outline to Audience



1. The most widely accepted definition of God is a being who controls everything (provide 2-3 definitions of God from best “expert” theists and scientists you can find, plus add a relevant personal experience if you want)

2. Birth and death are not by choice, thus it follows what’s between is not (provide evidence birth is not by choice, then death is not by choice, then explain how accepted methods of logic—say deduction--lead to the conclusion)

3. Biology and Genetics determine behavior, etc...

Lori Presents Case for Free Will

List reasons and evidence against each argument Lee made, providing alternative theories where appropriate (using quotes from experts and scientific research wherever possible)e.g.

1a. There is no definite proof God exists (provide 2-3 quotes from best atheist and agnostic and science “experts”, plus possibly add a personal experience)

1b. Even if God did exist, he can control events partially (provide 2-3 quotes from theists that God only controls certain things but not others)

1c. Lee’s “expert” source ___has been shown to lie or be wrong in past

1d. Lee’s personal experience could be explained by something other than God’s control

2a. etc.

Lee’s Rebuttal

(Refute each of Lori’s replies by attacking the credibility of her sources of evidence, or her logic, or another reason explaining her personal experience, or the inadequacy of her alternative theory, etc.)

No new arguments are allowed in this portion, only continuation of old ones.

Lori’s Rebuttal

(Refute each of Lee’s replies by attacking the credibility of his sources of evidence, or his logic, or another reason explaining his personal experience, or the inadequacy of his alternative theory, etc.)

No new arguments are allowed in this portion, only continuation of old ones

Q&A period between audience and debaters

Open discussion of individual positions

Open discussion about ramifications personal positions might have to changes in the justice system.

Fate vs. Free Will Debate

1. The very essence of God is a being that controls everything.

a. The Bible (or other source about God--Bible/K’ran/Hindu God/Buddha) says God knows everything about every person (perhaps find a few Bible quotes about God’s omnipotence, or use whatever source you find most authoritative about God).

b. Free will implies we could surprise God, but the Bible/K’ran/Hindu God/Buddha says we can’t (perhaps find a few Bible quotes about God’s plan for us) How can our actions be free if a being has determined them for us ahead of time?

Lee’s examples of knowing his strong personal motivations vs. his otherwise unexplainable memory lapses with his wife.

c. Lee’s knowing his motivation to be with Sharon vs. his otherwise unexplainable response to Sharon’s crying incident.

2. Biology and genetics (internal necessities) determine behavior.

a. Albert Einstein quote from NY Times Magazine.

b. Quote from Gazette Article on criminals pleading “My Genes Made Me Do it.”

c. Cause and effect argument (all current and future events are causally necessitated by past events combined with the laws of nature) Give example of genetic cause and effect proven by some scientist.

3. Cultural and outside nature influences (external necessities) determine behavior

a. Albert Einstein quote from NY Times Magazine.

b. Cause and effect argument (all current and future events are causally necessitated by past events combined with the laws of nature) Give example of external cause and effect.

3. If some actions are not free will, then all actions are not free will

(Actions that happen faster than one can think must have some cause other than free will)

a. neurophysiologist Mt. Zion Hospital experiment

b. quote from article on unconscious minds

5. Birth and death are not by choice, thus it follows that whatever is between them is not by choice.

a. “causal chain” argument (maybe a couple of quotes from any of the references 26-30 on Wikipedia site)






















Part One of THE GRANDMOTHER of WAR

(C) 2000 LEE HERALD

About 109,000 Words – Genre: Thriller
All Rights Reserved
















CONTENTS

PART ONE
1. THE HEAT
2. THE SEARCH
3. RELIEF
4. NEW LIFE
5. MANY WINDS

PART TWO
6. A NEW SEASON
7. APPRENTICESHIP
8. MOUNTING THE UNTAMED WHITE HORSE
9. BIBLE WAY TABERNACLE
10. LIZ AND FRANK

PART THREE
11. TERESA
12. BOBBY
13. TURNING POINT
14. A SEED OF DOUBT

PART FOUR
15. THE LAST HOPE
16. FADING FAITH
17. CRACK IN THE BIBLE
18. A NEW PERSPECTIVE
19. THE IMPOSTORS

PART FIVE
20. DISCONTENT
21. THE GRANDMOTHER OF WAR
22. UNSHACKLE THE CHILDREN
23. ONE WAS LOST

PART SIX
24. JEHOVAH, GOD OR DEVIL?
25. DANGEROUS BOOKS
26. THE RAGE OF DISSENT
27. A GATHERING OF FEAR

PART SEVEN
28. ELIJAH, THE PROPHET OF DOOM
29. THE HERETIC
30. ASSASSIN LOOSE
31. STALKING THE ENEMY
32. THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO AESOP
33. NEVER HAVE SO MANY

PART ONE

Love and religion are the two most volcanic emotions to which the human organism is liable, and it is not surprising that, when there is a disturbance in one of these spheres, the vibrations should readily extend to the other. HAVELOCK ELLIS: Studies in the Psychology of Sex, Random House. THE GREAT QUOTATIONS, Compiled by George Seldes, Published by POCKET BOOKS, New York, A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.


1. THE HEAT

August 1954.
At the lowest point of Frank Dorsen’s life it seemed unlikely that he would become the center of one of the most explosive controversies ever to shake the world, but the unpredictable hand of fate creates life’s surprising events and selects its improbable players.

Saturday afternoon in Ohio, twenty miles south of Columbus. The humidity saturated the airmen’s barracks at Lockbourne Air Force Base. In his second floor quarters Frank lay on a lower bunk in his shorts. He had taken off his T-shirt, which had stuck to him like a soggy towel. The door was open, but it was suffocating in the small two-man room.

Yet the real heat burned in Frank’s troubled mind, a volcano that erupted when his fondest dreams were shattered. For many weeks it had raged in his broken heart, threatening to consume him. He was thankful that his roommate had gone home on a weekend pass.

It’s a relief to be alone, he thought. I don’t want anyone around when I feel like this.

Frank stood five-foot-eleven, and at 160 pounds he looked slim. His dark hair framed a lean face, with high cheekbones below blue eyes. He would be twenty-four next February.

He was born in the flat countryside of Dexter, Missouri, which was bordered by wide-open cotton fields. At one time Frank’s mother had put in long hard hours picking cotton and stuffing it into burlap bags. Frank was two years old when the family left Dexter, moving to Flint, Michigan.

Mister Dorsen wanted to get work in one of the General Motors plants, but instead he became a taxi driver, and later drove a produce delivery truck. In the late thirties, during the gray days of Frank’s childhood, his father left the family and Frank’s mother had to get a job. No matter what the weather, six days a week she had walked two miles to work in downtown Flint, and wearily walked back home. They had existed in a one-room efficiency apartment in the rear of a dilapidated old house, living there until Frank’s father came back.

Frank turned on his side and faced the bleak wall, trying to think of anything but how much he loved Carol. He met Carol in Flint, four months before he enlisted in the air force. She was eighteen then, and he was twenty. She had done all the chasing because Frank was too shy.

He would never have gotten acquainted with Carol if her family had not moved next door. And once Carol made his acquaintance, she had been persistent. She would watch for him to come outside, and then follow him down the street, trying to make conversation, often beginning with the same plea. “Frank! Please slow down.”

After Frank survived Basic Training they were married in January 1952. It was a hasty marriage, induced by Frank’s loneliness away from home. He immediately felt that he had made a mistake, but he had become attached to Carol, and over time had grown to love her.

Once he was assigned to Lockbourne, Carol got a job in Columbus. They couldn’t make it on his pay alone. The money she earned helped pay the rent for their apartment off base. There had always been money problems, but Carol had never gotten discouraged.

He pictured her patient smile and her long blonde hair. I can still feel her touch, he thought, and she always used just enough perfume.

A tantalizing bouquet that he would never forget, he could smell it right now. He remembered removing her negligee, caressing her aroused body, and making love to her. He could see the shiny strands of golden hair on her pillow, and he could hear her murmurs of delight when he satisfied himself with her scented breasts.

Oh god. When she got hot she would spread her legs and pull me down.

But Carol had divorced Frank, and he couldn’t believe it. He had a temper and they often argued, but they always made up. One day he came home from work at the base, and she was gone. It had happened so quickly, without warning. She left a farewell note, but there was so much unsaid.

Frank had been shaken to the core, and his self-esteem was now at rock bottom. The divorce had left him feeling deeply insecure.

We were married only two years and two months, yet it’s hard to think of life without her. We must’ve married too soon. It would’ve been different if we’d waited a while. Fuck the excuses, Frank. Who’re you kidding? It just wasn’t meant to be.























“Hey, Smitty,” someone in the hallway yelled. “Betcha a quarter I can beat your ass in a game of eight ball.

Frank faintly heard Smitty’s reply. “See you in the rec room, Dumbo.”

As a patriotic draft-dodger Frank had joined the air force the day after he took his draft physical. He was one step ahead of becoming fodder for the army infantry.

Four years in the air force is a hell of lot better than two years in a Korean foxhole, he thought. Truman said Korea was a “police action”, but MacArthur knew better. It was war, and no amount of political bullshit can change that. For the guys who spilled their guts in Korea it was a living hell. Only generals and bomb makers like war. It’s their profession, and like doctors and lawyers they gotta practice on somebody.

He rolled over the bunk and reached down for his Bud. It was lukewarm now, but he took a long drink. Then he set the bottle on the cement floor and lay back again.
Frank had been with the 9st Air Refueling Squadron nearly three years.

He was a staff sergeant with three months in grade toward tech sergeant. The mission of the squadron’s KC-97 air-refueling tankers was to refuel B-47 reconnaissance jets in mid-flight.

As chief clerk in the Orderly Room, Frank managed the office paperwork with a sure hand. Several adjutants and first sergeants had come and gone in the squadron, but Frank and the commanding officer seemed to be permanent fixtures. Lieutenant Colonel Yancic was gung ho, but he was a good CO and an excellent pilot. Frank respected him, yet he was always ill at ease in his presence.

“Frank,” Phil yelled, “you goin’ to Columbus with us?” Phil was a radio operator on one of the “flying gas stations.” His room was across the hallway.

Phil’s always hot to trot on Saturday, Frank thought. Always gets a head start on the midnight pussy hunt. Frank turned his head and looked at Phil, who was now standing in the doorway. Phil was dressed in khakis, looking cool in spite of the heat.

“It’s too early,” Frank said. “I’m not sure what I’m gonna do yet.” Phil shrugged, and went back to his room.

Frank had known that something was bothering Carol, but he hadn’t considered it serious. Now he felt that if he could understand how their troubles started, maybe he could get her back. We didn’t have much of a social life, but I wanted to make it in country music, and that takes a lot of time.

Frank had gotten his desire to play the guitar from his mother. As a young girl she wanted to learn the guitar, but her father wouldn’t let her. When Frank turned eleven, his mother bought him a guitar. Once a week he had gone to the Hawaiian Conservatory to take music lessons, but he wasn’t interested in reading music and he soon quit.

At fourteen he took up the guitar again and learned to play it on his own, but because he was shy he would only play in his bedroom. Whenever his Uncle Ray and Aunt Stella came to visit, they would quietly stand outside his closed door trying to hear him.

Why did Carol leave me? Did she think my ambitions were too much? Maybe, but any ambition demands sacrifice. Isn’t that what life’s about, daring to dream? Yeah, but she had a different dream.

She saw a large family around a fireside, and I thought I could make it in music, but it was for her too. I want children, but not till I make it. He sighed. I read somewhere that the joy of love lasts only a moment, but the pain lasts forever. I hope that’s not true.

After Carol left, Frank moved onto the base and all the guys noticed the sag in his shoulders. Seeing the helpless look in his eyes they knew how he felt. Every morning at the sink-mirror he gazed into those hollow eyes, studying the grim face that stared back at him, groping for an answer. Yet, the solemn reflection wasn’t all bad. Some women thought him attractive.

No reason I can’t fall in love again. If I can just stand this sick feeling until I meet someone special again, someone like Carol.

For two restless months Frank had roamed the twilight streets of downtown Columbus. He had numbly walked by the restaurants and clothing shops near Broad and High, peering through the glossy windows, looking for Carol. He had seen nothing but the ghostly reflection of his own haggard face. He knew that Carol had gone back to Michigan, but still, he looked.

Jesus, it must be more than two months. Time can’t pass so damn slow. It seemed like a lifetime to Frank, searching for someone to replace Carol. How can I get her out of my mind and get rid of the memories? By making new memories. Make new ones, dammit! But I’ve tried everything, dance lessons, social clubs, and wild parties. When I can get up to it, I play country in the honky-tonks, but music doesn’t mean anything anymore. ‘Cause I’ve got no one to share it with.

“Hey, Dorsen!”

The bellow had erupted from Tech Sergeant Arkie Johnson whose enormous body was now filling Frank’s doorway. Arkie and Phil were roommates. Arkie was the best boom operator in Frank’s squadron, guiding a twenty-foot-long boom from the tail of a KC-97 tanker into the wavering nose of a B-47 jet while flying over two hundred miles an hour. “It takes some real doin’ at times,” Arkie had declared, “specially when the jerkin’ jet’s piloted by a shaky second looie.”

Arkie looked at Frank. “You gonna lay there and brood them country blues again, or are you goin’ with us?”

Frank rose up on his elbow and wiped his brow. Jesus, does it show that much?






















He had tried hard to hide his grief, to play the macho game, to say that his divorce was really nothing. He even said that Carol was “just another woman.” He cleared his throat and managed a weak smile.

“Guess I’ll make it later, Arkie,” he spiritlessly replied, hoping he sounded all right in spite of his raspy voice. “I haven’t read the paper yet.”

Arkie sadly shook his head and sauntered back across the hallway.

Wish they’d leave me alone. I don’t wanta shut the door because it’s so hot and cramped in here. Frank picked up his beer and finished it, then he lay back.
He heard Arkie playing the guitar and singing the blues.

“Trouble in mind, I’m blue -- but I won’t be blue always -- ‘cause the sun’s gonna shine -- on my back door -- someday.” Saturday night was falling hard.

A short time afterward Arkie and Phil left their room and turned to the nearby exit.
As they clattered down the iron stairway, hurrying toward the parking lot, Frank mused about how poetic Arkie was on occasion.

One time Arkie had written, “The boom operator’s rigid, yet gentle penetration of the alluring spy-jet of the heavens, tenderly inseminating its womb with the seed of life, is more than a thrilling conquest. It’s a fantastic high, an orgasmic peak known only to the boom operator.”

After the reading Arkie had taken a slug of beer and leaned back on his bunk smiling. Frank had chuckled, and shook his head.

At times Frank wished that he was as hard as Phil who seemed to have a heart of granite.

Nothing ever affects Phil, he thought. Zero. He’s only twenty-eight, but he’s already been divorced twice. Phil doesn’t give a shit. The bastard’s out fucking every night. He shook his head. Doesn’t anybody else ever get the blues and cry in the night?

Frank turned toward the nightstand. He picked up The Columbus Dispatch and held it up over his sticky body. The headlines looked familiar.

The news is the same everyday. They just change the date.

He tossed the paper and lit a cigarette, immediately thinking that he was smoking too much. His mouth felt like sandpaper, but he had to have some kind of release. A couple of puffs later, he put out the cigarette.

“Sam,” a young airman yelled in the hallway. “You goin’ for beer? Get me a six-pack. I’ll pay you later.” He ran by Frank’s door. “I will, Sam,” he pleaded. “I swear it!”

“Yeah ya will, ya little motherfucker,” Sam coldly replied. “In a pig’s eye, ya will.” His voice trailed away. “Ya ain’t got no money and ya know it.”

Melancholy mementos of yesterday brutally stormed Frank’s mind again. Vividly reflected from a mirror of the past, he saw the treasured scenes all too clearly. Fixed in his subconscious, the witnesses of love’s bygone days insisted on surfacing no matter how hard he resisted. In the diary of his tortured memories he lived his life with Carol all over again. He didn’t have the will to fight the cherished visions.

“Frank, darling,” he heard Carol’s voice anew, “I’ll love you forever.” It was the same gentle voice that had whispered in his ear countless nights before.

Carol had gotten up early on a Saturday morning, planning a happy summer weekend. “Let’s spend the day at the lake, Frank,” she had hopefully suggested, “just you and me.” Her blue eyes had turned somber at his heated reply.

“Jesus Christ, Carol,” he had yelled. “You know I don’t have time today!” He was in a hurry to call the guys for band practice. “I told you I’ve got to get this band together while I can.”

Carol’s plans were put off until tomorrow, but they would never be fulfilled.

Remembering the puzzled, hurt look in her misty eyes, Frank shook. He knew that he hadn’t had any patience with her. He lit a cigarette and the match flickered in his trembling hand.

Time and time again his lack of consideration for Carol’s needs had driven her farther away. It had made her cry in secret and question their future together. And at last it stilled the loving arms that had once held him and him alone. All Carol ever wanted was to live a happy life, but Frank didn’t know how to do that.

He hadn’t taken time for her. He had lived by the cold hands of the clock, by the seconds flitting away, paying homage to the God of time. Too late, he knew that time was his enemy, his cruel downfall. Now whenever Frank cried out Carol’s name, it was a cracked record playing over and over again.

It was always about time. Well, you got gobs of time now. More time than you ever wanted. No one’s waitin’ for you to come home now, Frank, wondering where you’re at. You got all the fucking time you can handle, but you can’t sleep with it. Time won’t reach out for you in the middle of the night, Frank. Time won’t breathe on your neck and whisper in your ear. You can’t make love to a goddamn clock.

“Last one to the car buys the first round at Tony’s,” the voice in the hallway yelled.

“Fuck that shit, Wylie,” another voice barked. “You already got a half mile head start.” Suddenly there was a mad rush as the airmen ran down the hallway.





















The sun was setting as Frank flipped his damp pillow over and groped on the floor for the newspaper. God it’s muggy. He squinted his eyes and scanned the paper.

Sports - Ohio State Predicts A Strong Run. He turned the page.
Religion - Revival Now in Progress at Champion Revival Center.

Frank weakly laughed. I sure do need a revival.

He dropped the newspaper and reached for his wallet on the nightstand. Taking out the faded note, he carefully smoothed the wrinkles. He had found it on the barren dresser top the day Carol left. How many times have I read it, he wondered, thirty times, forty, a hundred? God only knows.

The unforgettable words were branded on his brain, yet he read the note every night.

Dear Frank,
This is to say goodbye.
I’ve tried hard and I know you have too, but we just can’t stay together -- with the endless arguments.
We’re just too different, and you’re so driven.
I do love you, Frank, but I’m going by reason, not by my emotions.
I wanted to tell you in person, but I was afraid I wouldn’t go through with it.
Please, don’t hate me, Frank, please.
I’m sorry.
Carol

Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! The words mercilessly hammered in Frank’s skull, and a lump formed in his throat. Staring at the gray ceiling he tried to swallow, but couldn’t.
His mouth was dry and sweat was on his forehead.

He touched his face, and his lips began to quiver. Struggling hard, he tried to control himself.

It’s so difficult to breathe, so damn stuffy in here. Carol’s gone, and I love her, but why didn’t she understand? God, how I miss her.

He wished he could remember the last time he had looked into her eyes and really, truly, saw her. Somehow, Frank had to face his great loss, but he would never let anyone know how hurt he was.

Burning tears blurred his sleepless eyes, trickling down the sides of his face and onto his pillow. He could no longer see the ceiling.

It’s over. It’s really over. I’m glad it’s gonna be dark soon, so I can take the mask off, so I can drop the pretense and hide in the shadows.

A shuddering sob racked his body. He began to cry uncontrollably, something he hadn’t done since he was a grade-school-kid.

After a while he remembered where he was.

Stop it, Frank, you whimpering fool. You’re a big boy now. Men don’t cry. He dabbed at his bloodshot eyes, and reached for the last bottle of warm Bud.

If I could only get drunk enough, I could find the courage to do it. What the hell, it happens everyday. It’d be over in the blink of an eye.

He had thought of it before, but he always pushed it out of his mind. He took a long drink and wondered what was the best way, the easiest. He wondered what he’d look like when they found him.

Who the hell would care? Dammit, you dumb ass. Don’t be stupid.





















There were two of him fiercely arguing, and he wondered which one would win, but he didn’t care as long as the fighting ended. It had to end. He couldn’t take it anymore. He had to find peace, and he had to find it soon.

What was that saying, he mused, This too. . .

He’d read it somewhere and it had helped. This too will . . . This too will pass.

Soon, his exhausted mind gave in to a momentary truce, and a merciful slumber enveloped him.

When Frank awoke it was nighttime, and the floodlight atop the NCO Mess Hall cast a soft light through his window. Groggily sitting up he peered at his watch. He could barely make out the hands, but it was ten o’clock.

He stood up and stretched, then he put on his jeans. He went over to the wall-switch by the door and flipped on the light. Gingerly rubbing his eyes he tried to adjust to the instant glare. Hearing the distant moan of a freight train, he went over to the window and looked down at the empty parking lot.

Carol had gone back to Flint right after Frank agreed to the divorce papers in Columbus.

Funny thing, he thought, she cried then, maybe she. . . . What was she thinking?

He had only seen her once since that day in her lawyer’s office. He had gone to Flint on a ten-day-leave, and told her that things would be different, that they could make it if they really tried. It was no use. Carol didn’t believe that he could change. Thinking about it he winced, for he had broken down, begging her to come back.

Frank turned from the window, eyes searching the room, probing for anything that would take his mind off of Carol.

He thought of the New Testament, which his mother had bought for him when he was home on leave. He barely glanced at it at the time.

Opening the drawer in the nightstand, he picked up the little black book and sat down on his bunk. Then he began flipping through the book’s crisp pages.

When was the last time I was in church, and what religion am I? I can’t remember, but did I ever know? Maybe Baptist. That’s on my 201 Form. What the hell is a Baptist?

He stopped at a certain passage. It was the first Psalm, verse forty-six. Happy is he that hath the God of Jacob for his help, whose hope is in the Lord his God.

Help, that’s what I need. I don’t know much about religion, but I wish I could believe in it. I guess Mom and Dad believe in the Bible. Doesn’t everybody?

Frank hadn’t gone to church much, but when he was nine the family had visited their kinfolk in Missouri. His mother took him to an old-fashioned revival meeting in Dexter.

He wryly smiled, recalling what he had told her after the meeting. “Someday, I’m going to be a preacher.”

He recalled visiting his grandparents in 1948 when he was seventeen. There were not many traffic lights in Dexter then, but there was a movie house and a ticket was only a nickel. A hamburger cost a nickel too.

A tall stern man, Willie James was definitely the head of the house. He drove a wagon with two mules, and he always wore a wide-brimmed black hat and bib overalls. Willie and Nellie lived in a small house with a wood stove, kerosene lamps, and a water pump on the back porch. The washboard was also on the back porch, and in the backyard sat a huge black kettle, which was used to heat water by firewood. An outhouse sat about forty feet from the porch.

Frank had asked his mother why he only had one Grandpa. She told him that his Grandfather Silas Dorsen had gotten syphilis, which had driven him insane and killed him.

Penicillin wasn’t discovered until 1928, sometime after his death. Frank wondered if he had gotten his temper from his Grandpa Dorsen.

What the hell am I doing reading the Bible? For Chrissake, what would the guys think? He glanced at the door. Sergeant Dorsen, the hard-ass, reading the Bible. He’s got religion! They would spread that all over the squadron.

Frank quickly put the little book back in the drawer.

Feeling the tug of the window’s irresistible magic again, he went over and gazed into the darkness.

He saw his ‘51 Chevy sitting alone in the parking lot.

Even my car’s alone.

From another barracks across the way, the plaintive wail of the Grand Ole Opry drifted through his window.

“I Can’t Stop Loving You, Though I’ve Made Up My Mind--”

Goose bumps popped up on Frank’s arms, magnifying the mournful tone that filled the room.

He shivered and rubbed his arms. Jesus, I can’t stand that music now.

Slamming the window shut, he turned away, but it was too quiet.

He wondered which was worse, the depressing country music, or the thundering sound of silence.

Trying to resist the window’s enchantment, he began pacing the room. He couldn’t stand, sit, or lie still.

He felt claustrophobic, and he knew that if he didn’t keep moving the walls would close in on him.

There must be some way to get over the blues, but the harder I try the bluer I get. All at once he made up his mind.

There’s no future hangin’ around an empty barracks on Saturday night. I’ll go into Columbus and try to find a woman. That’ll beat the hell out of this shit.

He thought about Joan. Frank met Joan at Tony’s Lounge about a month ago. They dated once and she fell for him right away.

Joan was a young woman about five-foot-six, with silky brown hair and a pleasant smile. She was slim and had an appealing figure.

Glancing at his watch, he quickly put on his sandals. He hurried downstairs to the pay phone, then hesitated, reluctant to call Joan at this late hour.

After their first date they went to her apartment and she resisted his efforts to get her into bed.

Tonight he hoped it would be different.

He forced himself to dial. Joan was home, and after a dignified while she warmed up and invited him over.

A little later he returned from the showers and stood at the sink, quickly using his electric shaver.

After that he put on his favorite slacks and best shirt. He never wore his uniform after duty hours.

A year from October I’ll get rid of it, and I can hardly wait. Life will be a lot better once I get out of the air force.

It was after eleven when Frank went out the second floor exit next to his room.

Scrambling down the outer stairs, he hurried to the parking lot and got in his car.
Shortly after, he drove through the gates of Lockbourne Air Force Base.

Then he headed toward Columbus, in search of peace.















2. THE SEARCH

Midnight.

When Frank knocked on Joan’s door he was determined to forget his problems and have a good time.

Her place was homey and comfortable. The lights were turned down low, and this time she didn’t need any persuasion. She was lonely, despondent for love, and intensely hungry.

The hi-fi played softly while they danced close in the living room.

Later, the light was so dim that he could barely see her bedroom doorway. It didn’t matter, for she led the way. Then they lay down on her quilted bedspread. He took her in his arms and she mildly protested. She needed her time of purity, her final moment of control.

He kissed her hard on the mouth. Slipping his hand under her pleated skirt, he felt the magnetic touch of her sheer nylons. After enjoying the warmth of her smooth thighs he moved up to her panties. When she felt his hand on her crotch she squeezed with her legs.

He began to unbutton her blouse, but she whispered in his ear, and then went to the bathroom. After undressing he pulled the sheet back and lay down on the bed.

In a few minutes Joan came back wrapped in a large white towel, long hair spilling over her shoulders. Letting the towel slither to the floor, she stood naked in the doorway.

Light from the bathroom silhouetted her slinky figure and outlined strands of her pubic hair. Slowly strolling over to the bed, she stopped just inches away, delighting in the sight of Frank’s lean body.

Placing his hand between her legs he gently massaged her, feeling pubic hair on his palm.

She tilted her head back, breasts projected out, nipples hardening. “Oh, Frank,” she murmured, “Frank.”

Frank pulled her onto the bed, and she snuggled into his arms. When she pressed closer he felt the joyous sensation of her breasts on his chest. Her clinging body knew no resistance, totally reacting to the heated moment.

He kissed her and she ran her fingers through his hair. Reaching down, she cupped his testicles in her hand. Then she got on top of him. Now she was a famished tigress, prowling her domain and pouncing on her catch.

He rolled her over and began to lick her flat belly. His tongue slowly moved up her body, and then the tip of it circled her nipples. She played with his hair and he sucked her breasts until he was temporarily satisfied.















Rising up on his knees between her legs, he gazed down at her. He knew how he would feel when it was over, so he wanted the fiery sex to last as long as possible.

He massaged her again and this time she was wet. She was impatient, for it wasn’t his hand that she wanted. She jerked it away and tried to pull him down on her, wanting him now.

“Stick it in me, Frank,” she urged him. “Stick it in me now.” Her flushed body was ablaze with desire.

Frank mounted her and she reached for him, but he was inside her swollen flesh before she could guide him. Biting her lip, she grabbed his arms, furiously twisting her pelvis.

He began sucking her breasts again; then he slipped his hands under her buttocks, pulling her up and thrusting farther into her.

“Fuck me, Frank,” Joan loudly said. “Fuck me!” She was in heat, and moaning. She wrapped her legs around him and kissed his neck. “I love you, Frank!”

Frank wished that he could say the same, but he knew the awful sickness would come when it was over. For after his sexual craving had been quenched his lonely heart would still be grieving. The dreadful blue feeling would flood his soul like it always did. Joan was nice, but she wasn’t Carol. It wasn’t the same.

It wasn’t love, and Frank still loved Carol.

Leaving Joan’s apartment in the dark of Sunday morning, Frank drove toward Lockbourne, still searching for peace.

* * * *

Six o’clock, Monday morning, Frank’s room.

The little clock’s insistent clang demanded a response. Frank groaned, fumbled for the nightstand, and shut off the alarm.

He rubbed his eyes and threw off the sheet, lying in his shorts. A couple of minutes went by, but he heard no noise from above. Larry seldom heard any wake-up call.

Frank raised his feet to the bottom of the upper bunk and shoved hard three times.

“Huh—huh?” Larry mumbled from atop. “Okay, hold it, Frank. I’m awake.”




















Larry was an eighteen-year-old kid and no matter how early he hit the sack, he couldn’t get up by himself. An airman third class, he was destined to stay the same.

He worked with Frank as a clerk in the Orderly Room.

Frank glanced into the hallway. The sun was shining through the open exit door and he saw particles of dust floating in the rays of light.

I hope there isn’t a white-glove inspection today, he thought, and it’s a good thing the Orderly Room fan was finally fixed. It’s gonna be another damn scorcher.

In the forties Frank had sprouted like a wild weed. At thirteen he was a member of the neighborhood gang, which was a relief from his shyness.

There was a kid called “Bones,” and one called “Punk,” and another called “Banana Nose.” There was a kid named Dempsey, and everybody called him Jack.

The gang’s only purpose was fighting boredom and other gangs. That boredom made some of the guys pool sharks at fifteen.

They all acted tough, but none were. Their hard posture was a front, concealing a tragic lack of social skills. It was a façade put up by the frightened little guy who lived inside of them. They had seen too many black-and-white crime movies, too many Bogart films, which made them sure of one thing—”You gotta get the other guy before he gets you.”

Every night the unruly pack loitered outside three tawdry taverns at an intersection dubbed “The Missouri Corner.” The corner was near Chevrolet’s sooty Plant Four, at the dead-end of Asylum Street.

Besides playing pool they watched drunken Arkies and Okies blackjacking and stabbing each other.

Frank’s dad was often drinking in one of the bars, usually making out with a woman. Sometimes Frank’s mother would come to get her husband.

Instead of going to school dances, the gang kids were engulfed by a raunchy gutter life, the only life that most of them would ever know, and their search would end there.

How did we start drinkin’ at that age, Frank thought, shootin’ craps and boozin’ it up. Yeah, it was easy. We just gave the old winos money to buy us beer, and all they asked for was a bottle of their own.

Asylum Street? He chuckled. It was rightly named. Anyone who hung out there was really crazy.

Frank sat up on the edge of the bunk and yawned.

After making his bed he opened his closet-locker. Taking out his last pair of shorts he laid them beside his khakis on the bunk. Gotta do laundry tonight, he mused. Should’ve done it Sunday.

He glanced at Larry who was asleep again. “Larry,” he shouted, “get your ass up! What the hell would you do if you had a roommate like yourself?”

Frank knew the answer. He had seen it all before. Two lazy-assed airmen doing calisthenics at dawn, he thought. Cleaning the Operations Room till noon, and marching in the Saturday afternoon parade. After that they’d pull guard duty all night, moaning their butts off. Wishin’ they were in town drinking cold beer. Extra duty makes the deadbeats think better. It makes them get their asses up on time.

Frank’s promotions had come fast as chief clerk. It wasn’t that he hadn’t earned them, but the commanding officer and the first sergeant appreciated his natural ability.

Frank had a talent for organizing the office, and they pushed hard for his stripes. He took off his shorts and tossed them into the laundry basket.

Tying a towel around his slim waist, Frank approached the inert body lying in the top bunk. “Larry,” he firmly said, a frown on his brow, “when I get back from the showers your ass better be out of bed.”

He grabbed his soap case, left the room, and stomped down the hallway.

If that kid doesn’t wake up to some responsibility soon, he thought, he’ll never make airman second.

* * * *

When Frank returned from breakfast at the NCO Mess Hall, Larry was fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. He glanced at Frank, frustrated.

“I know, Sergeant Dorsen,” he apologized, “I’m gonna be late.” He hung his head, continuing to dress.

All at once Frank felt sorry for Larry.

“Look kid, I brought you a couple of sweet rolls.” He had gotten them for his late-morning snack, but he set the bag on the sink.

“Munch ‘em down fast, and don’t spill any crumbs. You got fifteen minutes, but make sure that bunk’s made right so we don’t get written up—and hurry up.” He paused. “See you in the orderly room.”

He went down the outer stairs to the parking lot, got in his car, and drove off.

Looking back at the gang now, Frank understood that they were all searching for something. They were trying to find some worth of their own. They were seeking an outlet for their young pent-up emotions. Searching for an identity while seeking direction for their meaningless lives.

Secretly crying inside while drifting along, they craved a love that their parents didn’t know how to give. They had wanted tender recognition from somebody, and they would’ve taken it from anybody.

At eighteen Frank continued his search. He and two buddies started a journey to Alaska to make their fortunes. Frank twisted his dad’s arm until he signed for the old ’36 Olds that they bought.

It used a quart of oil the first sixty miles, but they got a two-gallon can of oil and kept going. The old Olds finally fell stone dead in Bismarck, North Dakota.

They decided to get a job at one of the wheat farms, where many of the farmers only spoke German.

When Frank was awakened the next morning the sun was nowhere in sight. About five o’clock, after breakfast, he left with the crew to pitch bales of hay onto wagons.

By eight o’clock that morning, he was wiped out.

I never worked so hard in my life, he thought, as he headed toward the Orderly Room.

An hour later Frank had quit baling hay and had gone to the well to wash up. When he took off his shirt and pants, his body was coated with the black dust of North Dakota.

Frank and his buddies called home for money and they took a Greyhound back to Flint.

They had had no money for food, so whenever the bus stopped at a restaurant they looked for apple trees.

At nineteen Frank was still searching, but he wasn’t looking for what he got while cruising one Saturday night.

He and his buddies stopped to fight some guys in another car. Unfortunately, they had stopped next to the Flint police station. Two cops stepped out of the door and arrested all of them.

Frank spent the night in the city jail. That night he decided that he had to change his ways because he was going nowhere fast. The next year he took his search into the air force.

He had always wanted something different in life, but he didn’t know what. He believed that there was more to life than what he saw, more than most people would ever know. He had never been satisfied with anything, and he was always searching for something better.

It was an endless search.

* * * *











When Frank parked by the side of the 91st ARS Operations Room, he saw Master Sergeant Angelo’s ‘53 Cadillac sitting in its reserved spot.

The first sergeant was always the first to arrive, so he could account for the punctual arrival of the Orderly Room staff. Like the CO, Sergeant Angelo was the epitome of the career airman. He was ever primly uniformed, his pressed trousers impeccably creased even in the summer heat.

Frank briskly walked toward the one-story oblong building that housed the Orderly Room offices. Once inside he walked down a narrow hallway. Then he eased by Colonel Yancic’s open door to avoid a good morning greeting.

Anyone in high authority made Frank uncomfortable, and he never felt right until he was settled at his desk. The familiar surroundings of his own personal space, like a warm blanket, helped ward off the insecurity that often plagued him.

Entering the main office he glanced at the clock on the wall, wondering if Larry would be on time. He hung his hat on the clothes tree and sat down at his gray metal desk.

Smoothing his dark hair back, he flipped through the in-basket. After that he hastily inserted the Morning Report forms into his typewriter.

The Morning Report was the first daily priority. It listed the whereabouts of every man in the Squadron. The report was due at Wing Headquarters by ten o’clock.

Sergeant Dorsen,” the first sergeant called out from his adjoining office, “bring in those personnel folders as soon as you can. The promotion recommendations have gotta go out today.”

“Okay, Sergeant Angelo.”

Larry came in shortly. He handed Frank a cup of coffee and sat down at a nearby desk.

The first sergeant loudly cleared his throat.

Frank sipped his coffee. “Larry, if the phone rings, answer it. I won’t have time. I’ve gotta do the Morning Report and the promotions.”

“Right, Sergeant Dorsen.”

Frank was glad it was a busy Monday. It should help keep his mind off of Carol. The last few weeks he had felt like the walls were closing in on him. Sometimes he fought the urge to get up and run as fast as he could.

It reminded him of Dixie in Basic Training. Dixie was a burly black kid from the south, very quiet.

He had left school after the seventh grade and had known obedience only to his mother. And the freedom of the vast cotton fields of his southland home was a world apart from the loudmouthed drill sergeant who was forever breathing down his neck.

Dixie wasn’t used to confinement and one day sitting in a classroom he couldn’t stand it anymore. He exploded out of his chair, vaulted past the instructor, and leaped through a large windowpane, shattering it to pieces.

The last that Frank had seen of Dixie, he was lumbering down the sandy path, an angry Rhino heading for the back roads of Mississippi.

That was not Frank’s first lesson about freedom.

In October 1947, at sixteen, Frank quit high school and took his search into the Merchant Marines. With an older buddy he had gone to Norfolk, Virginia, and hired on a Liberty Ship going to France. It was loaded with coal for the war-ravaged cities in Europe. Counting the alcoholic captain, there were only thirty-six men on the ship.

In the gunner's quarters a Polish stowaway had been tied to a bunk. He had sneaked onboard in Europe, and it was the duty of the captain to return a stowaway.

After the ship left the harbor, about two miles out, the Polish refugee broke loose and jumped into the ocean to swim back to America.

The captain radioed the coast guard and the stowaway was brought back.

When the captain had him chained to a bulkhead on deck, the man was only wearing tattered shorts.

Left outside for three days in the cold October winds, no one was allowed to give him food or water. He had paid a heavy price for his desperate try for freedom, but he had taught Frank how important freedom was.

Frank began to feel the same desperation that Dixie and the stowaway had felt, and he was again fighting for control.

I only get thirty leave days to get away from here, he thought. What’ll happen when I use up my days, then what? What’ll happen when I’m up against the wall, when all my time’s run out? Will I be like Dixie, and jump through the window?

He wiped his brow and looked at the fan. Yeah, it’s blowin’ hard, but it’s only movin’ hot air around.

Grief was numbing Frank’s brain and drowning his soul in a cloud of gloom.

Oh god, where’s Carol right now? He had thought that he was making a little progress, but now he had doubts.

He glanced at Larry because he felt that Larry was watching him, but Larry was filing new Air Force Regulations, and he knew nothing of Frank’s agony.

In January 1948, Frank had given the sea one more try. He and a buddy named Roy rode a Greyhound to New Orleans, hoping to catch a ship to South America. T

hey only had money for bus fare, and when they arrived they were broke. Some nights they had slept on park benches, and other times at the Catholic Maritime Home.

Sometimes a seaman would sneak them onto his docked ship and let them sleep in the mess hall.

One day they found a nickel on the sidewalk and argued over what to buy. Frank wanted a Baby Ruth candy bar and Roy wanted a Pepsi.

Jesus, that was years ago, Frank thought. Why am I thinkin’ about it now? He lit a cigarette, took one drag and butted it.

Frank and Roy couldn’t get a ship out of New Orleans, so they decided to beg for quarters on Canal Street.

Not being a successful beggar, Frank called his parents and they sent him money to come home. He had learned that rules at home are not always as bad as they seem.

Roy was a loudmouth and years later Frank learned that he had been lost at sea.

Frank remembered taking his turn as lookout on the bow of the Liberty Ship at midnight, and thinking how someone could surprise a man and shove him overboard. No one would hear the screams of the drowning seaman. Frank had always wondered if that’s what happened to Roy.

The phone rang. Frank flinched and shot out his hand, but Larry answered.

“Hullo,” Larry said.

Frank lit another cigarette and forced himself to sit still. He knew that his problems were affecting his work, and that he had to find an answer fast. He never heard Larry on the phone.

"Why, Frank, why do you always write such sad songs?"

It was the sound of Carol’s haunting voice that he heard. If she was a million miles away, he thought, I’d still hear her voice.

"Always about lost love, Frank, why don’t you write something happy? Aren’t you happy, Frank?"

Carol had asked this when Frank was playing the guitar and writing a song. His notebook and pen were on the coffee table. At the time he thought her questions were ridiculous.

Now he wondered, too late. Why do I write blues and tragedy? Are my songs prophetic? Did they tell about losing Carol?

Slowly the day dragged on, at the pace of a turtle crossing a country road. The Morning Report made it on time, and the promotion recommendations had gone to Wing Headquarters. Lunchtime came and fleetingly vanished. The day passed as Frank had wanted it to, and the summer sun continued its eternal course toward the waiting horizon.

For those who live for today, and for those who long for tomorrow, the day was gone.

At five o’clock Frank left the Orderly Room and headed for the barracks. He had lost his appetite, so he did his laundry and talked with Larry for an hour. Later, he wandered down to the rec room.

Eventually he found himself taking his evening walk around the base, thinking again. He was always analyzing.

An hour later he circled back to the lights of his barracks and went up the outer staircase to the second floor. Just inside the entrance he turned into his silent room and flipped on the light.

He sat on his bunk and lit a cigarette. Larry was napping, and nothing short of a tornado would disturb him.

In the short time that Frank had started reading the Bible, it had already become a daily ritual, but he was careful to keep it to himself.

He got out his New Testament and leafed through its pages, then he read the fourth verse of the thirty-seventh Psalm, "Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart."

From the first time that Frank stumbled across this fascinating verse, it had possessed his mind. He didn’t know why, but it was the one thing that had given him any peace.

The words are full of promise, he thought, like you could strike a bargain with God. If I please God, it says he’ll give me my desires.

Frank only had one desire.

He hastily thumbed through Saturday’s paper until he came to the religion section.

Although he didn’t realize it, he had saved the paper for this reason.

Where is it, he thought, as his eyes darted across the page. There it is!

Revival Now in Progress at Champion Revival Center. Come out Tonight. Experience Pentecostal Power! Hear the Word of God, and See and Feel the Moving of His Wondrous Spirit!

Frank dropped the paper and left the room. He stepped through the exit and stood on the small steel platform at the top of the staircase. Then he leaned on the black railing and gazed up at the distant emerging stars.

Should I go to a revival, he thought, or is that the coward’s way out? Can’t I solve my own problems?

But he knew the answers before he asked the questions. He had tried everything that he could do to mend his broken heart, and nothing had worked. He dreaded the thought of tomorrow at work, and he wondered if he could stand even one more day.

There’s a meeting tomorrow night, he thought. I’ll go and listen—just listen.

Frank didn’t understand much about church, or the Bible, but he had found some marvelous promises in the little black book. They were promises of hope and peace.

God, how I need peace. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give for it. I’ll go tomorrow night. I’ve got to find relief.






















3. RELIEF

7:30 p.m., Tuesday.

Champion Revival Center stood on Champion Street in a shabby area on the east side of Columbus.

The brightest thing about the seedy old theater building was the unlit marquee sign.

It read: CHAMPION REVIVAL CENTER, Rev. Dallas Anderson, Pastor. Rev. Billie Anderson, Asst. Pastor. Services: Tue, Thurs, Sun, 7:30 p.m. Sunday School 10:00 a.m., Sunday Morning Worship 11:00 a.m.

In front of the center a tall old gentleman in a black suit, with crew-cut hair as white as snow, was greeting the people going in.

Very few had entered the place, mostly older couples carrying big black Bibles.

Frank had been parked in his ’51 Chevy for fifteen minutes, three car lengths from the entrance. He was trying to force himself to go in.

I thought a revival was a lot of people, he mused, but I haven’t seen many go in, and if I go in, I’ll probably stand out.

He felt a sudden urge to leave, rationalizing that he could come back another time.

I’ve gone twenty-three years without religion and I can go another day.

When he reached inside his sport coat pocket for his car keys, he felt the New Testament. Again, he fought for the courage to go in.

While Frank was pondering what to do, the white-haired old man noticed him and walked over to the passenger-side of Frank’s car.

He looked in the open window, and his lined face lit up with a broad smile.

“Son,” he said, “the service starts in a few minutes.” Frank was startled. He hadn’t seen the old man approaching the car.

“Well, uh,” Frank replied, “I thought. . .” He turned and glanced out his window, feeling panicky. Then he looked at the old gentleman. “I heard there’s a revival and I. . . I thought I’d see.” He paused. “What I mean is, for one service.”

Why am I so ashamed? he thought. He took out his cigarettes and tried to light one, but the match fizzled out.

“The revival’s over, Son,” the old man replied, “but we have a Tuesday evening service. Are you comin’ in?”

Frank lit his cigarette, and then he nervously looked at the man. “The revival’s over? Well, if it’s over I. . .” He hesitated. “I guess. . . well, I’ll. . . maybe I’ll be there in a minute.”

The old man smiled and left.

As soon as the friendly doorman went inside, Frank was acutely aware of being alone.

He got out of the car and took a drag on his cigarette. Then he flipped it into the gutter and walked over to the building.

Standing at a row of glass doors, he peered through a smudgy pane, but he couldn’t see anyone inside.

Probably started by now, he thought.





















He quietly stepped into the dimly lit outer lobby, then he combed his hair. He could hear people singing in the auditorium, accompanied by a piano and a trumpet, and what sounded like a tambourine.

Quietly walking across the worn green carpet, Frank went over and examined a poster-lined wall.

There were several faded placards, and old pictures of evangelists, telling of past revival meetings.

One read, Little Ralph Bradley—Come and Hear this Astounding 12 Year Old Child Evangelist. God has Anointed this Child to bring His Last Message to a Lost and Dying World. November 1952.

A twelve-year-old boy, Frank thought, and he’s a preacher?

He went over to the other side of the lobby and looked down into a glass case that was once used for candy.

Now it contained tracts, pamphlets, a few glossy magazines, and some paperback books.

Oral Roberts’ handsome face was on the cover of one brightly colored magazine. The caption read, “GOD IS GOOD, and He wants to do something good for you!”

Another magazine’s cover declared, “A. A. ALLEN, God’s Anointed Man of Faith! SIGNS -MIRACLES - WONDERS!”

While the people were still singing, Frank went under the right archway and into the inner lobby.

As he gazed over the long balustrade, the sight of row after row of empty seats bewildered him. The onetime dazzling theater had seen its days of splendor, but they were over.

It could seat three hundred people, but there were only about thirty present and they were spread out near the front.

In the middle of the high spacious stage was an oaken pulpit.

On one side of the stage a woman was playing a grand piano.

There were two rows of empty seats near the back of the platform. They were for visiting ministry.

A sizable section nearby was set aside for the musicians, but it too was empty.

There were two people sitting in the first row on the stage. The man wore a dark blue suit, and he held a trumpet in his lap.

The woman beside him had on a black dress. She was the first one to see Frank.

Probably the pastor and his wife, Frank thought.

A balding blond man, about thirty-five, stood at the pulpit. He had on casual clothes and he had thick horn-rimmed glasses.

He was attempting to lead the song service, but his voice had a shrill pitch, and he was not good at carrying a tune.





















Frank ambled over to the left aisle and stood at the end of the balustrade that connected the two aisles.

The hymn ended and the blond man spoke into the mike.

“Turn to page one hundred and forty, brothers and sisters, and let’s all sing Near The Cross.” As he paused, he noticed Frank and he immediately hoped that he could perk up the meeting.

“There’s not many of us here tonight, so let’s all sing loud and clear to make up for those who are missing.” His thin, strident voice was a hollow noise in the empty auditorium. “Let’s sing unto Jesus who died on the old rugged cross for our sins, amen, that we might live.”

As the tiny gathering began to sing, Frank slipped into an end seat in the rear, trying to be inconspicuous.

He looked around the large theater and wondered why the people didn’t sit together. Their singing would sound better if they weren’t so scattered, he reasoned.

Near the front row, he saw the tall old man sitting beside a large lady. With open hymnbooks, they were loudly singing.

Frank glanced down his row of empty seats. Where are the songbooks? he thought.

At that minute, the old gentleman turned to see if Frank had come in. Upon seeing Frank, he smiled and came up the aisle to give him a hymnal.

Frank thanked him and the man returned to his place.

Frank flipped through the hymnal. Other than the Christmas Carols, he found very few songs that he had ever heard of.

The hymn ended. “If you have something for us to sing, call out the number,” the song leader said. “This service belongs to all of us, so let the sweet spirit of Jesus lead.”

A small elderly lady in the second row spoke up. “Page one-eighty-nine, Brother Hancock, He’s Everything To Me.”

“He certainly is, Sister Olmstead,” Brother Hancock agreed.

“Let’s all turn to page one-eighty-nine and let Jesus know he truly is everything to us.”

The group began to sing.






















Frank leafed through the hymnbook while trying to catch the melody. The man in the blue suit stood up and blended his horn in with the piano’s peal.

He’s pretty good, Frank thought. Hearing the clear tones of the horn, he tried to softly sing along.

Following several hymns the song leader concluded with the old hymn, Oh That Will Be Glory.

“O That Will Be Glory For Me, Glory For Me, Glory For Me,
When By His Grace I Shall Look On His Face, That Will Be Glory, Be Glory For Me!”

Brother Hancock turned and nodded at the man with the horn, Reverend Dallas Anderson.

Then Brother Hancock went down the platform stairs and sat with his family in the first row.

The pastor slowly went to the pulpit.

He was a stocky man of about forty-five, with a long waist and short stumpy legs. His pitch-black hair was combed back from a high forehead and parted in the middle. His pallid face, with yellow bags under cheerless eyes, seemed open and honest. Gloomily looking over the meager assembly, he began speaking. He had a slight southern accent.

“Yes, that will be glory, brothers and sisters, glory for you, and glory for me.” He appeared strangely sad. “All of our trials will be nothing then, when we see Jesus.”

“Amen, Brother Anderson!” a lone voice responded.

Reverend Anderson grasped the top of the pulpit and leaned forward.

He was broadly smiling now, free from the dark memory that had momentarily held him under its brooding spell. “Bless the Lord for the wonderful people who come out to the midweek meetings.”

He glanced at Brother Hancock. “And bless you too, Brother Hancock. We thank you.”

He glanced at his wife who was sitting behind him. “Sister Anderson was feeling poorly tonight and our dear brother volunteered to lead the song service for her.”

Sister Billie Anderson was a tall thin redhead, in her late thirties. She had a firm, supple body, which many men would desire.

Discreetly crossing her long slim legs, she feebly smiled at her husband. She applied no makeup to her plain features, but she had a distinct earthy charm.

Thanks for Brother Hancock’s help, sweet Jesus, she thought, but I wish I could’ve led this song service.

A keenly emotional woman, she led the songs with a fiery enthusiasm, letting the spirit move her at will.

Reverend Anderson glanced at Frank and continued. “As you know, we concluded our revival Sunday night, and I hoped to see some of the converts tonight, but we should still contact them.”

I hope that young man doesn’t judge us by this small gathering, he thought.

“While the revival attendance was good, the offerings were rather slim.”

He fidgeted with his tie. “I know that a few of you are shouldering most of the expense here at the center, but it’ll be worth it when we see this place filled night after night with people praising God.” He paused. “Money will be no problem then, so I ask you to give generously as we lift the offering and the Lord will bless you for it.”

He handed the offering plates to two middle-aged men who had come to the foot of the stage. As the ushers turned toward the aisles, some of the people uneasily shifted in their seats.

While the offering was being taken, the pianist softly played. During this lull, the pastor beckoned to a young blonde woman sitting near the front. She quickly came down the aisle and to the side of the rostrum where Reverend Anderson waited.

Standing with her hands clasped before her, she solemnly looked up at the preacher with wide-open blue eyes. “Yes, Brother Anderson?” She wasn’t wearing lipstick, but her lips were full and her slender face was smooth.

Reverend Anderson bent down. “Sister Rachel, would you sing for us tonight?” The offering was almost over and the pianist took her seat in the audience.

“All right, Brother Anderson, I’ll sing, for the Lord.” Rachel held onto the sides of her long skirt, gracefully walked up the platform steps, and sat down at the piano.

The preacher swung the boom around so she could use the microphone. After that, he gave the offering to his wife to count, but he could see that it wasn’t much.
Approaching the pulpit, Reverend Anderson forced a smile. “We thank you for the offering, and we thank the Lord for keeping this revival center open.” He glanced at Rachel and took a drink of water. Dear Lord, anoint her, he thought, so she can stir some life into this meeting. “And now, Sister Rachel is going to bless us with a special number. Let the spirit talk to our hearts as she sings unto the Lord.”
He sat down beside his wife, patting her leg. “I hope that young man doesn’t leave us soon, Billie.”

Sister Anderson glanced at Frank and leaned toward her husband. “Yes,” she hoarsely whispered, “and he’s never been here before.”

Rachel moved the mike closer and smoothly played across the keyboard. “Tonight I would like to sing The Love of God, and this is my testimony.” With a toss of her head, Rachel flung her long flaxen hair over her shoulders and began to sing.

“The Love Of God -- Is Great--er Fa--ar,
Than Tongue Or Pen -- Can Ev--er Tell,”

Rachel’s white satin blouse wasn’t cut too low, but it did slightly display her cleavage. Bountiful bell-sleeves tightened at her small wrists. Her black skirt fell properly over her knees, but clothes could never conceal fantasy’s erotic portrait of her figure. Rachel was an appealing picture of a blue-eyed angel, and an attractive young lady.

“It Goes Be--yond The High--est Sta--ar,
And Reaches To The Low--est Hell.”

She played beautifully and sang with professional ease, her enchanting voice crossing the auditorium in lofty soprano tones. It was obvious that she had performed for the Lord many times before, and the answer to the preacher’s prayer was beginning to manifest.

“Oh Glory to god!” one woman loudly said from the third row. She raised her hands in worship to God.

“The Guil--ty Pair, Bowed Down With Care,
God Gave His Son To Win,”

Frank sat transfixed, sentimentally trapped, absorbed in watching Rachel. The lilting sound of her mesmerizing voice somehow made him feel sad.

She has a great delivery, he thought, but it’s not just that. There’s something else. It’s the words of hope that she sings with such sincerity.

Fascinated by her style, he wondered how old she was. Maybe she’s my age.

“It Shall For - Ev - Er-more En-dure. . .
The Saints’ And An-gels’ Song.”

“Praise his wonderful name!” a brother shouted in tears.

“Yes, sweet Jesus, yes,” a sister praised God. “Oh, my Lord.”

Charged with raw emotion, Rachel’s voice vibrantly rang in the final refrain.
“Oh Love Of God -- How Rich And Pur ur!”

Frank’s eyes misted. For the first time he thought of Carol, wondering what she knew about religion and realizing that they had never discussed it.

After ending with a rousing trickle across the keyboard, Rachel quietly left the piano amidst loud praises to God.

As she walked up the aisle, she cast a fleeting glance at Frank, and he caught her curious smile.

He was glad that he was sitting in the back, because her stirring performance and the haunting melody had moved him. As he glanced around the church, he knew that it wasn’t just him, for some of the people were still worshipping God.

It was like a country ballad, he thought. Gospel music and country are so much alike. They share heartfelt emotions.

Reverend Anderson came to the pulpit and raised his hands in worship. “Thank you, Sister Rachel. Yes, Jesus saves. Praise him, saints, while he’s blessing by his spirit.” But as swiftly as it had begun, the brief moment of devotion died.

Reverend Anderson solemnly waited, uncertain of his next move. He discreetly glanced at Frank. I don’t think that young man is saved, he thought. He beckoned for the pianist. Returning to the piano, she began to play, singing low.

“Softly And Tenderly Jesus Is Calling.”

“I had a message for you,” the preacher spoke over the music, “but I want to obey the spirit of God.” He spoke deliberately. “I believe God is moving, and I feel the Lord wants me to give the altar call right now.” He paused. “Let’s softly sing and let the Lord have his way.”

“Softly And Tenderly Jesus Is Calling,
Calling For You And For Me,”

Frank was beginning to feel uncomfortable, and he looked around the quiet assembly hall. I’m the only sinner here, he thought, but I just came to hear the sermon. I’d like to talk to someone before I go. Maybe the pastor.

“If you’re without Jesus tonight,” Reverend Anderson breathed into the mike, “why linger? Jesus loves you, my friend.” Inspired by the old hymn, he continued. “Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling. Turn your life over to him now, while he’s pleading with you.”

With sorrowful eyes, he looked straight at Frank. “Perhaps you’re already a Christian, but you just need a closer walk. We all do you know. Come down to the altar and ask him for that closer walk.”

A wearisome torment crept into Frank’s mind, flooding his tortured soul with unforgettable memories.

He thought of his lonely childhood, and his mother’s backbreaking toil when the two of them lived alone. He thought of his drunken father, who had finally returned to them. He thought of the “Missouri Corner” and the gang that he had grown up with. He thought of Roy, his sea-going buddy, realizing that when he was lost at sea he probably didn’t know God.

And he thought of the disappointment of his short marriage, wondering if he would ever see Carol again.

“Come Home, Come Ho-o-ome,
Ye Who Are Weary Come Ho-o-ome”

The hypnotic hymn had engulfed Frank in a deep pit of gloom. He was beneath the glare of a giant spotlight and everything was directed toward him, had been cleverly waiting for him all along. He felt heaviness in his chest, and he resisted a pressing urge to run down to the altar.

Ye who are weary? he thought. I’m so damn tired. I don’t care whether I live or die, and unless this pain leaves me now, I can’t face another tomorrow.

“Just As I Am, Without One Plea
O Lamb Of God, I Come! I Come!”

After lingering for five minutes, Reverend Anderson ended the altar call, asking everyone to come to the front to pray. One by one all left their places except Frank. Some knelt at the altar benches at the foot of the platform, and others knelt at the first row of seats. Most were praying out loud and Frank felt very conspicuous.

It’s true, he thought. I’m the only sinner here.

As he hunched down into his seat he noticed the tall old gentleman rise from the altar. Frank closely watched him as he came up the aisle. Is he leaving? Is the meeting over? He started to ask the old man as he neared, but then the man stopped by Frank.

The old man placed his hands on the seat in front of Frank and looked at him. “Son, do you know the Lord?”

Frank was startled by his candor and he quickly looked down. His eyes misted as he fought for composure. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and looked up at the doorman. “Well, I. . . I just want to. . .” He looked down again because he couldn’t continue.

The doorman laid a strong hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Don’t fight it, Son,” he quietly said. “I know something’s troubling you, but Jesus can help you.” His touch felt warm and good to Frank. “Let the Lord have his way, Son, and he’ll take all of your troubles away.”

“I guess. . . I guess I,” Frank stammered. “I just want to talk with someone. I just. . .” He tried to control himself. “Maybe the pastor.”

The man turned and beckoned for the pastor, who was closely watching. Frank instantly regretted asking for the preacher. Now he wanted to talk with the doorman, but Reverend Anderson had moved quickly and was coming up the aisle. In a moment, he was there.

“Yes, Brother Erickson,” the pastor said, “can I be of help?”

“This young man wants to talk with you,” Brother Erickson replied. He smiled at Frank and walked away, returning to the altar.

The pastor smiled. “Hello, I’m Reverend Anderson, the pastor.” He sat on the armrest of the seat in front of Frank. “What’s your name?”

Frank looked at Reverend Anderson. “Frank, uh. . . Frank Dorsen.”

The pastor noted the look of despair on Frank’s face. “You seem troubled, Frank. Would you like to talk about it?” Dear God, he silently prayed, help me bring this young man to Jesus.

Tears welled up in Frank’s eyes. “I. . . I don’t have any more troubles than anyone else. I guess I’m making too much of it.” He paused, and then pressed on. “It’s. . . it’s my wife. What I mean is. . . I’ve been recently divorced.” Jesus, why can’t I control my mouth? Frank thought. I’m blurting out my life to anybody who’ll listen.

The pastor stood up and put his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Do you want to go to the altar and pray about it, Frank?”

Yes, a thousand times yes, Frank’s heart cried out. “Pray? I. . . I don’t know how to pray.” I wanta go to the altar, he thought, but my feet feel like lead.

Reverend Anderson gently took Frank’s arm. “Come on, Frank,” he urged, “let’s go talk to the Lord.”

Frank hesitated. Then he forced himself to stand up and step into the aisle. The pastor put his arm around Frank’s shoulders and they slowly walked toward the altars. Frank hung his head, for he was embarrassed and ashamed.

They all know I’m a sinner, he thought, but I don’t have any control, and I’ve got to have relief.

Tears welled in his eyes. He couldn’t see as he knelt at the wooden bench, but he could hear the pastor praying. And he heard the little group of people praying louder, praising God because their prayers had been answered.

Reverend Anderson knelt beside Frank. “Talk to Jesus like a good friend, Frank, he’s the best friend you’ll ever have. Others may fail you, but he’ll never leave you.”

At first, Frank was tentative. “Oh God,” he murmured. He put his elbows on the altar and covered his face with his hands. “Oh God. . . help me. Please help me.”

“That’s the way, Frank,” Reverend Anderson urged. “Tell Jesus all about it, and ask him to forgive your sins.” The pastor’s voice rose. “Ask Jesus for a new life, and tell him you’ll live for him for eternity.”

Some of the jubilant believers were standing behind the pastor and Frank. They lifted their hands and raised their voices, beseeching their God. “Save this young man from his sins, dear Jesus!”

Frank was beginning to lose all restraint, but he didn’t care. “Forgive me, Lord,” he earnestly prayed. “Oh God, forgive me of my sins.” He folded his arms on the bench and cradled his head.

“Yes!” the pastor happily said.

With one bitter swallow, Frank gulped his pride and started to pray louder. “Oh Jesus, please take away this pain and give me peace.”

“Yes, sweet Jesus,” Reverend Anderson prayed. “Let him be a servant of yours!”

Frank briefly settled down. “Give me one more chance with Carol, dear God,” he quietly pleaded, “and Lord. . . I’ll serve you forever.”

The joyous saints continued praying, and Brother Erickson was beside himself. He patted Frank on the back, but Frank no longer needed encouragement. His inhibitions were gone.

Still kneeling at the altar, Frank raised his hands above his head. “Thank you, Lord,” he cried out. “Thank you, Jesus!” His teary eyes gazed straight up. “Oh, dear Jesus, I’ll live for you for the rest of my life!”

I’m feeling better, he thought, and the pain is gone. The pain’s gone, and the peace is wonderful!

The heavy burden had somehow departed from Frank, and though he was emotionally drained, he felt free and lighthearted. He had finally found the relief that he had so urgently sought, and that was all that mattered now.

* * * *

Flint, Michigan.

Elijah Seymour was ten when his parents became Jehovah Witnesses. It happened on the same day that Frank felt spiritual relief flow into his ravished soul.

In some ways, Elijah and Frank were alike when they were young children, although Elijah was thirteen years younger. Early in their lonely lives, both had developed an inferiority complex. Frank would probably mature out of his problem, but it was doubtful that Elijah would ever overcome his severe affliction.

Elijah was thin and short, and shy. He had no close friends, not in school nor in the neighborhood. His sole relationship was with his parents, mostly with his mother. In spite of his physical shortcomings, Elijah had always dreamed of being on a little league baseball team. When he told his father, Mister Seymour had not given it much thought.

The Seymours were committed to their new life at the Kingdom Hall, and they took their young son to all of the services, and to distribute the Watchtower. The hall that they attended, in the south end of Flint, was about two miles away from a Pentecostal church called Faith Temple.

Elijah enjoyed handing out the literature after his mother knocked on the doors of the strange houses. It gave him a sense of worthiness for the first time in his solitary life, and it made him feel bigger.

He would never forget the first time that his mother had proudly shown him the clipping out of The Flint Journal. It was a report about Elijah’s Aunt Julia, his mother’s sister.

The Flint Journal . . . . Thursday, September 9, 1954 . . . . . . . . . . . . . B3
HE IS ‘A DEVIL’ OF A HUSBAND, GETS DIVORCE

A Flint man was granted a divorce Wednesday. He testified that his wife said he was “some kind of a devil,” because he would not join her religion. Judge Daniel R. Cooke, of Recorder’s Court, said his marriage fell apart after his wife, Julia, 29, joined the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

“She took the position, since I refused to become a Jehovah’s Witness, that I was a devil,” the 41-year-old judge said.

He and his wife, who because of her religion does not believe in any government authority, separated the month after his election.

Missus Seymour told Elijah that his aunt had bravely stood up for her beliefs by obeying Jehovah in a trying hour.

This incident had a profound effect on the impressionable mind of young Elijah and he had often asked his mother to tell the story again. His small blue eyes always glistened when she told the story.

By the time Elijah was eleven, the Seymours had made their beliefs very clear to Elijah. Jehovah Witnesses were not of the world and thereby not subject to its laws.
Elijah was not to salute the American flag, or any other flag. He wasn’t to pledge allegiance to his country.

As a Jehovah Witness he belonged to the kingdom of God, and his sole allegiance was to Jehovah God.

Elijah accepted these teachings, but his dedicated stand brought him into much conflict in school. While arguing the position of the Jehovah Witnesses, his determined parents won some battles against the beleaguered principal. Nevertheless, Elijah suffered more ridicule and school became a heavy cross.

Through all of this, the strong teachings of Elijah’s parents took firm hold in his fertile young mind. They would stay there for the rest of his life.

As he grew older, Elijah became immune to the cruel remarks of his classmates. Jehovah will give me strength, he thought. He’ll protect me from the evil world. I’m not part of the sinful world, and I don’t have to obey their laws. They have no power over me.

For Elijah Seymour and Frank Dorsen, it was the beginning of a new life.


4. NEW LIFE

The marquee sign told of the current revival at Champion Revival Center.

Late December snow steadily fell as Frank got out of his car and hurried toward the entrance. Large glistening crystals lazily fluttered earthward, brightly glowing beneath the streetlights. The happily dancing snowflakes had a remarkable purifying power, covering the gritty black soot on the dingy street and elegantly creating a majestic new world.

Brother Erickson was shoveling off the sidewalk for the Thursday night meeting, barely keeping ahead of the snowflakes. His boots were covered with snow and his red parka was dotted with melting flakes.

Five months had gone by since Frank’s conversion, and he had become well acquainted with the Ericksons. He had stayed overnight in their home several times since last August when he had been born again. Brother Erickson had recently turned sixty-eight and his wife was sixty-five. It was said that she sometimes gave personal prophecies to God’s people, and that intrigued Frank.

Frank walked under the marquee. “Hello, Brother Erickson.” He stamped the snow off of his black dress shoes. “I guess I should’ve worn my boots.” He had on his gray gabardine topcoat, light blue sport coat, and black slacks.

A smile creased Brother Erickson’s face. “Bless the Lord, Frank.” They shook hands. “We hadda good meeting last night and we missed you.” He brushed snow off of his crew-cut white hair.

They greeted Sister Olmstead as she arrived, and Frank opened the door for her. Then he held out a large new Bible.

“I don’t like to miss any meeting, Brother Erickson, but I bought a Thompson Chain-Reference Bible and I wanted to study it. It’s really helpful to someone new in the Lord.”

Brother Erickson chuckled at Frank’s enthusiasm. He leaned on his shovel and looked at the Bible while Frank leafed through it. “It’s real nice, Frank, a good study Bible.” He patted Frank on the back.

Frank handed his Bible to Brother Erickson. “Hold it for a minute,” he said. Brother Erickson held the Bible while Frank hastily combed snow out of his of hair.

“It’s almost seven-thirty, Brother Erickson.” Frank took his Bible back. “Are you coming in?”

“In a minute, Frank.”

Frank stepped inside the outer lobby and removed his topcoat, brushing it off. When he entered the inner lobby, he saw several people clustered in little groups. They were visiting before taking their seats. Many of the regulars greeted him, and he stopped to talk with one young couple.

Brother Erickson came in. “The service begins in five minutes, folks,” he loudly declared. “Let’s not keep the Lord waiting.”

Frank turned toward the left aisle and saw Rachel standing at the end of the balustrade. Gazing down the aisle, she appeared to be waiting for someone. She had on the white satin blouse and the black skirt. Her long blonde hair was hanging over her shoulders.

Frank’s pulse quickened. He had been attracted to her from the beginning, and he had noticed that she always stood close when she talked to him. Whenever she was near, he could smell her perfumed body and he had prayed to keep his mind on spiritual matters. As he started to walk by her, she turned and smiled, her blue eyes expressing a fresh sparkle.

“Hi, Frank.”

Frank stopped. “Hi, Rachel.” She put her hand out. He switched his Bible to his left hand and shook her hand. She delayed in letting go. People entering the aisle greeted them, and the pianist began to play Love Lifted Me.

“Are you going to sing tonight, Frank?” Rachel asked. When Reverend Anderson learned of Frank’s talent he had been delighted. The church now had two good soloists.

“If Brother Anderson asks me. How about you, Rachel?”

She looked at his dark hair and lean face. “Sometimes I think I sing too much.” I’m so attracted to you, she thought. And she looked at his blue eyes. You must know that, Frank.

“You could never sing too much, Rachel.”

“Thank you,” Rachel replied. She wanted to touch him, but instead she played with the neckline of her blouse. “It’s nice to have someone else perform, especially as good as you are, Frank.”

Frank smiled and said, “Thanks, Rachel.” There was an awkward pause and they both glanced toward the stage. “I. . . I guess I better move on, Rachel.”

Rachel was disappointed as she watched Frank walk down the aisle and drop his topcoat on an end seat. After greeting Reverend Anderson, Frank took a seat in the musicians’ section on the platform. He tuned his electric guitar and leaned it against the amplifier. After that, he looked over the congregation and waited for the service to begin.

A good crowd tonight, he thought. A hundred and fifty, maybe more.

The visiting evangelist, Reverend Jack Mansfield, was billed as “The Walking Bible,” but he didn’t use a Bible during his sermon. Six volunteers would sit behind him on the platform. While he was preaching, he would ask one of them to turn to a certain scripture and place a bookmark there. Ten minutes later they would all have their Bibles filled with bookmarks in different places. And during his message, Mansfield would turn to one of the volunteers and quote word for word one of the passages. He would do this over a dozen times between the six people, and without opening his Bible he would include every period, comma, and semicolon. He never missed.

The first time Frank had heard the evangelist, he was astonished. It must be a gift from God, he had marveled, and he had prayed that he too could have this wondrous gift.

But I’ve got to receive the baptism of the Holy Ghost first, he thought, and speak in unknown tongues. Maybe tonight will be the night.

He passionately desired this spiritual experience because it was said that you couldn’t understand God’s word without the baptism. More than anything in his newfound life, Frank wanted to be a man of God. So he pursued the greatest joy that he had found since his amazing change, learning the word of God. He had a passion for understanding the Bible. He had to know it, inside and out. He had to understand its doctrines, and live them. And he believed that he would completely understand the Bible someday. He would know the true teachings of Jesus Christ.

Since Frank had become a Christian, doing without sex was his greatest problem. According to the scriptures, sex was only for married couples. Dropping the movies and television, giving up smoking and drinking, forgetting about the bars and country music, all that hadn’t bothered Frank. But to do without the touch of hot female skin against his own burning body, to do without the pleasure of making love to a lovely woman, locked in feverish embrace, copulating with sheer abandon, to know that this was over, was a cross indeed for Frank. It was a problem and he struggled with it daily.

After the song service ended, Reverend Anderson announced that Frank would sing. As Frank approached the mike with his guitar, he saw Rachel in the audience. She touched her hair and smiled at him. Frank pretended not to notice, then he glanced at her husband sitting beside her. He remembered how disappointed he had been when he had learned that she was married. It hadn’t helped when he realized that she was attracted to him despite being married. It was both tempting and embarrassing to Frank, for she didn’t seem to care what her husband thought. Now Frank avoided Rachel as much as possible, but it was hard for him to do. It was against his natural desires.

When the meeting was over, the congregation filed out of the auditorium, but some people stood in the aisles talking. Others chatted in the lobbies. As Frank slowly walked toward the outer lobby, he shook hands with many of the people. He took some tracts from the literature rack. He kept a supply to hand out in the barracks. He realized that most of the airmen threw them away, but he was a witness for Jesus anyway.

Frank glanced around the lobby, hoping that someone other than the Ericksons would invite him home for coffee and fellowship. He appreciated the Ericksons’ hospitality, yet he longed for people his own age, but in such a small group, there were very few young people. Frank had no duties on the weekend, so he continued to delay and Brother and Sister Hancock stopped to talk. When they left, Frank talked with two young couples near the doorway.

Eventually, the Ericksons asked Frank to spend the night in their home. Frank hid his disappointment and said, “Okay, thanks.” They said good night to Reverend and Sister Anderson and stepped into the cold winter night. It was still lightly snowing when Frank got into his Chevy and followed the Ericksons, heading for their house across town.

When he had gone home in September, he had gotten the biggest surprise of his life. His parents had been converted only two weeks after his own conversion. And at the time, they knew nothing of Frank’s experience.

Frank thought of how different their lives would be now. He remembered when he was fourteen and he was going to meet the gang at “The Missouri Corner”. It was about two blocks from his house. Frank had walked through a vacant lot and around the corner of Seeley’s Drugstore on Asylum Street.

There he had seen his dad being beaten up by a man named Bill Caruthers. Drunk and bloody, Mister Dorsen was no match for the younger man. Frank had picked up a brick near the curb and rushed toward Bill. Although Bill was bigger than Frank, he had bolted. Frank had chased him all the way to a steep ravine where Bill ran down into a clump of trees by Swartz Creek.

I don’t know what I would’ve done if he had stopped and my brick had missed his head, Frank thought.

One month later, Frank and the gang had spotted Bill standing in front of a bar and started chasing him. Bill had been so scared that he had dashed through the Chevrolet Plant Four gate, running past the plant guard.

Now Frank’s mother and father were Pentecostal Christians and they attended Faith Temple in Flint. Since their conversion, they were changed people, especially Frank’s father who had so much to change. There were no more violent arguments. And Frank and his parents were closer than they had ever been. It was a miracle to Frank.

The Ericksons’ drove into their one-car garage and Frank parked in the driveway. After dropping a white blanket on the warm little bungalow, the snow had stopped falling. When Frank went inside with the Ericksons, it was beginning to look very much like Christmas.

Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and if the weather was okay Frank was going to Flint. It was about a five-hour drive. He would be there through New Year’s Eve and drive back on New Year’s Day.

Brother Erickson went to bed, but Frank and Sister Erickson sat at the kitchen dinette, drinking coffee and talking about the Bible. Frank used every opportunity to learn more about the word of God.

Sister Erickson was a short stout woman with green eyes and short grayish blonde hair. Her chubby round face was usually enhanced by a pleasant smile. She got up and poured more coffee and they sat and talked for another ten minutes.

A short time later she took off her glasses and bowed her head, eyes closed. She seemed to be praying, so Frank quietly waited. All at once she began trembling, then she got up, eyes still closed. Slowly walking over to Frank’s chair, she stood behind him. She put her pudgy hands on his head and began to loudly speak.

“Thus saith the Lord. I have called you to be a servant of the Lord, and to preach my word throughout the world.”

Though Frank had heard about Sister Erickson’s personal prophecies, he was still stunned.

“And I will return your wife to you very soon. What God hath joined together let not man put asunder. Thus saith the Lord.” Sister Erickson hastily returned to her chair and slumped down, exhausted. Then she cradled her head in her arms on the table and heavily sighed.

Frank raised his hands and praised God. “Thank you, Jesus, thank you for giving Carol back to me!” He was excited, but he was also doubtful. “Thank you, Lord!”
And please help me believe, he silently prayed, please take away my doubt.

“Oh, thank you, dear Lord, thank you.” Shortly after the prophecy, Sister Erickson went to bed, but Frank stayed up for another half hour, trying to comprehend what had happened.


5. MANY WINDS

Flint, Wednesday, December 29, 1954.

After supper Frank left his parents in the living room and went to the basement to use the phone. From the day that he had arrived home, Sister Erickson’s prophecy had been on his mind. Now he was determined to call Carol.

He wanted to call her yesterday, but he couldn’t do it.

Picking up the basement extension, he started to dial, but he stopped. He pulled a lawn chair over to the telephone table and sat down.

Dear God, he silently prayed, help me believe. While trying to steady his nerves, he made himself dial the number. With each ring he became more anxious.

Then a woman answered. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Frank’s voice rasped. “Is this Margaret?” He had hoped Carol would answer.

“Yes,” Carol’s mother replied.

“Hi, Margaret,” Frank said, his voice cracking.

“Who is this?”

Frank swallowed a lump. “It’s me, Margaret, Frank.”

“Frank?” She grew cool. “Oh, I didn’t recognize your voice.” There was a brief silence.

“Uh, how’ve you been, Margaret?”

“We’re all fine, Frank.” Margaret sounded annoyed.

Frank stood up and took a deep breath. “Can I speak to Carol?” He held his breath.

There was another brief silence, then Margaret said, “Carol’s not here.”

“Oh, well, a. . . what time will she be back, Margaret?”

Margaret hesitated, then she said, “She’s gone to Florida, Frank, for the holidays.”

Frank’s heart sank. “Well, I. . . I wanted to talk to her.” He glanced around the basement and tried to think. “Will she be back before New Year’s Day?”

Margaret was impatient. “No, she won’t, Frank. Carol’s on her. . .” She paused. “Carol’s on her honeymoon, with Bill, her high school sweetheart. The boy she was dating before she met you.”

Frank caught his breath, staggered by the words ringing in his brain. He sat down, almost falling into the chair. Oh God, no, he thought. It can’t be! He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t think.

Then he forced the words out. “Bye, Margaret,” he weakly said.

Stifling a sob, he hung up and held his bloody head in his hands. He tried hard not to cry, but when he looked around the gray basement, his eyes filled with tears.

Carol can’t be married, he thought. The Lord said she would return to me. Oh, God, what’s wrong? What happened? Is Sister Erickson a false prophet?

Frank sat still for a while, trying to compose himself before he went upstairs. How could this happen? he thought. I don’t know, but I can’t let it happen again. I’ll find my own way in the Lord and not put trust in other people. He sighed. No, she’s not a false prophet. She’s just an old lady with a big heart, and her desire to help me blinded her judgment.

* * * *

Columbus, Ohio, January 2, 1955, Sunday morning.

Frank had returned from the holidays in Flint. When he stepped into the lobby of Champion Revival Center, Sister Macon walked over.

“Brother Frank, you should’ve been here last week.” She was a tall thin woman, about fifty with black hair fixed in a bun. She had on a long black coat with a silver fur collar, and she was carrying her Bible and notebook. “We had some good services.”
Frank smiled at Sister Macon, but he was depressed. He had been thinking about his brief conversation with Carol’s mother.

Oh, God, he thought, why? He knew now why he hadn’t told his parents about the prophecy. It was too difficult even for me to believe, he thought. So how could I expect them to believe?

“Happy New Year, Sister Macon,” Frank said, glad that he had been missed. “I went home for Christmas last week. I hope you had a merry Christmas.” He also wondered about the rest of the prophecy, about preaching the gospel. Is that wrong too? he mused.

“I don’t believe in the devil’s custom of Christmas,” Sister Macon dourly said. Her heavily powdered face took on a frozen look of granite. “It’s the work of Satan”—she shook her finger at Frank—“to take the glory away from God.” She quickly opened her Bible to a bookmark in the tenth chapter of Jeremiah and read a passage, “For the customs of the people are vain: for one cutteth a tree out of the forest, . . . They deck it with silver and with gold; they fasten it with nails and with hammers, that it move not.” She paused. “Now what does that sound like to you, Brother Frank?”

Frank was surprised. “May I see that, Sister Macon?” She held her open Bible up and he read the verses. “Well, it could be a. . . a Christmas tree, but I don’t think that this is really about . . . .

“That’s the trouble, brother, so many don’t think.” Sister Macon started to leave. “But pray about it. You’ll see the truth, if the spirit leads.”

Frank felt flustered as he watched her walk away. He had learned that Christians interpreted the Bible in many different ways and this was puzzling to him. Every interpretation can’t be right, he thought, so how do I know which one is right?

* * * *

March, Champion Revival Center, Tuesday Night Bible Study.

Frank walked down the aisle to the third row from the platform, then he draped his topcoat over an empty seat. He greeted the few brothers and sisters who were there and sat down to wait.

After Frank’s conversion, Reverend Anderson had informed him that Champion Revival Center was an independent Pentecostal church. But when Frank learned that the Christian church was split into two hundred denominations, and that there were several divisions among the Pentecostals, he could hardly believe it.

There were branches of Methodists, feuding Baptists, differing Lutherans, casual Episcopalians, fervid Christian Scientists, stubborn Calvinists and the Disciples of Christ. There was the Christian and Missionary Alliance, the Church of the Nazarene, adamant Jehovah Witnesses, and modern Presbyterians, all of the Churches of Christ, and Seventh Day Adventists and their separatists. There were independent and organized Pentecostals, bickering branches of Mormons, and quarreling offshoots of all these denominations.

And all of them were further classified as Protestant to distinguish them from the Catholic Church, which had also reinvented itself many times through the centuries. It was confounding to Frank. It seemed that whenever the wind blew another denomination sprung up.

How can anyone know which church is right? he wondered. They all claim that. And if they all serve the same God, why are they so divided? He couldn’t understand this and it bothered him.

“If there’s only one God,” he had asked Brother Hancock, “why are there hundreds of faiths?” He had also asked Reverend Anderson, but he wouldn’t ask again. He had heard too many conflicting answers. But he was determined to know the truth, because all of this was too confusing. He hoped to solve the problem himself someday.

Once I have the baptism, he mused, I’ll know the scriptures, and I won’t have to ask.

Frank remembered something that W. E. H. Lecky had written: “There is no wild beast so ferocious as Christians who differ concerning their faith.” Frank was beginning to understand what Lecky meant.

Few people attended the Tuesday night Bible studies, but Frank enjoyed them. Tonight there were twelve people present including the teacher. The pastor usually taught the study, but when he wasn’t there, another elder took over. Tonight the teacher was Brother Hancock. Frank was glad because Brother Hancock was easy going and allowed more discussion. The small assembly always sat close together, in the first two rows of seats. The teacher stood near the people.

Frank was sitting in the second row beside the pastor’s wife, Sister Billie Anderson. She had taken an interest in helping him. The Ericksons were sitting in front of them. Frank hadn’t told Sister Erickson about the failed prophecy because he thought it would embarrass her.

Rachel was sitting with the Ericksons. Her husband seldom came to church with her.
It had been almost seven months since Frank’s conversion and he still didn’t have the baptism of the Holy Spirit. This was bothering him. He knew that he couldn’t fully understand the scriptures until he had the Holy Spirit. He had talked with Brother Anderson about this and the pastor tried to reassure him.

Sister Anderson and Frank were discussing it again. She put her hand to the hollow of her neck and leaned toward Frank. She had on a form-fitting black knit dress. Frank had never seen her dressed that way.

“Don’t worry, Frank,” she huskily said. She brushed back her long red hair. “The Lord’s going to bless you with the baptism soon.” Because she led the song services so exuberantly, her voice was always throaty.

The Bible Study lasted for about thirty minutes, and Brother Hancock fielded many questions. After that most of the people left. When Rachel left, Frank was relieved. Only the Ericksons, Sister Olmstead, and Sister Anderson and Frank decided to stay and pray. Frank knelt at the far end of the first row of seats, where there wasn’t much light. Several times, he had been near to the baptism and now he was desperate.

It’s the unknown tongues that holds me back, he thought, and speaking in tongues is the proof that you received the baptism.

While the others prayed out loud, Frank tried to lose himself in quiet prayer. Just forget everything, he’d been told, and think only of Jesus. He tried to get into the spirit by recalling previous times of prayer for the baptism. As he continued to pray he felt someone brush by, then stop. He glanced up and saw Sister Anderson. Her black knit dress was clinging to her slim figure. She smiled.

I guess she wants to help me, he thought. They say she’s good at praying through. He went back to prayer.

Tugging her dress above her knees, Sister Anderson knelt on the carpet beside Frank, placing her hand on his back.

“Sweet Jesus,” she softly began, “please help this young man. He loves you, Lord, but he needs the baptism of power.” She paused. “He needs you, sweet Jesus.”

Frank was instantly aware of her touch, and her perfume, which seemed stronger tonight. As her fingernails grazed between his shoulders, he was troubled at how quickly she had aroused him.

Sister Anderson sensed Frank’s body tensing. “Just pray to Jesus, Frank.” If he’ll just relax, she thought, I can help him.

She patted his shoulder and gently massaged his neck. “I’m right here, Frank, right by your side.”

Continuing to pray, she edged closer and put her arm around him. Her slim leg was resting against Frank’s, and he felt her soft breast touch his arm.

Frank found it hard to ignore the tantalizing nearness of her body, and erotic fantasies began to trouble him. He rebuked the devil because of evil thoughts that were creeping into his mind.

I’ve got to do something, he thought.

In one flowing action he leaned back, subtly moving away. He raised his hands over his head and looked straight up. “Oh God,” he desperately prayed, “fill me tonight. Fill me with the Holy Spirit. Now Lord, now!” As he praised God, his lips began to tremble.

When Sister Anderson saw this, she placed her hand under his chin to jiggle it. “That’s it, Frank. Tell Jesus you love him!” She raised her hands and praised God, then she turned back to Frank. “Lay down on your back, Frank. It’ll help you relax.”

Frank reluctantly lay down on the floor and raised his hands, trying to forget Sister Anderson and the others looking on.

Sister Anderson reached across his upper body and placed a hand on either side of his head, then she straddled him. This caused her tight dress to creep farther above her knees.

As Frank continued to praise God, he felt strands of her long hair stroking his face.

“Make love to the Lord, Frank,” she whispered, her moist lips touching his ear. She was almost lying on him, and her breast brushed him again. When she leaned back, Frank was grateful, but then she took his chin in hand, jiggling it more.

“Speak in tongues,” she demanded. “You can do it, Frank. Speak—speak in the tongue of the living God!”

In spite of Sister Anderson’s provocative presence, Frank was determined to attain his supreme goal. He desired the power of God with all of his soul, and he vowed that nothing would stand in his way. He wouldn’t let Sister Anderson’s seductive fragrance, nor the touch of her bewitching body, keep him from the baptism of the Holy Spirit.

I gotta have the baptism, he thought. I gotta have it tonight!

As he continued his praises, his consciousness began to fade. Now he lost sight of everything but God. Everything seemed unreal, and nothing on earth mattered. He was in another world, in a semiconscious state. Flat on his back he was mumbling unintelligibly, absorbed in the presence of the Eternal One.

Frank began quietly. “Shondo makai, reondo messiah.” Then with great confidence. “Shondo makai, reondo messiah!”

“Praise the Lord!” Sister Anderson hoarsely yelled. She jumped to her feet and clapped her hands. “That’s it, Frank, that’s it. You’ve got the baptism of the Holy Ghost!” The others quickly stood up and raised their hands to the heavens.

I’m doing it, Frank thought. I’m speaking in tongues, and it’s so easy! Why did I wait so long? I’m speaking in tongues, and I’ve got the power of God! He was spiritually intoxicated and overwhelmed with joy.

“Shondo makai, reondo messiah!”

Little did Frank know that he would need to store all of the joy that he could, for a perilous journey lay ahead of him. It would include a mission that would test the limits of his courage, and at the end, threaten his life.

But on this night of ecstatic fulfillment, that hazardous charge could wait for another time.








I was dating Sharon W. Since I loved her, how could I not go after her when she said, “Let me dress you”, and then ran into her house crying? She wanted me to dress like a writer, whatever that is.

3) Every reader will wonder why didn’t he go to Sharon’s door to see what was wrong?

There is only one entity strong enough to prevent these hopes from happening, in spite of my strong desire to make them happen.

That entity is fatalism. There is no other explanation for my not acting at these very important times.

Scientific experiments cause some researchers to question free will.

My oldest son gave me a book for Christmas, 1996. The book is The Holographic Universe, by Michael Talbot. It is not about determinism, but on pages 191—192 there is a section where scientific researchers strongly question free will.

It is as follows:

Recently a discovery made by neurophysiologists Benjamin Libet and Bertram Feinstein at Mount Zion Hospital in San Francisco has been causing a stir in the scientific community.

(They) measured the time it took for a touch stimulus on a patient’s skin to reach the brain as an electrical signal.

The patient was also asked to push a button when he . . . . . . became aware of being touched.

Libet and Feinstein found that the brain registered the stimulus in 0.0001 of a second after it occurred, and the patient pressed the button 0.1 of a second after the stimulus was applied.

But, remarkably, the patient didn’t report being consciously aware of either the stimulus or pressing the button for almost 0.5 second.

This meant that the decision to respond was being made by the patient’s unconscious mind.

The patient’s awareness of the action was the slow man in the race.

Even more disturbing, none of the patients Libet and Feinstein tested were aware that their unconscious minds had already caused them to push the button before they had consciously decided to do so.

Somehow, their brains were creating the comforting delusion that they had consciously controlled the action even though they had not.

This has caused some researchers to wonder if free will is an illusion. (Emphasis is mine – LH)

Later studies have shown that one and a half seconds before we “decide” to move one of our muscles, such as lift a finger, our brain has already started to generate the signals necessary to accomplish the movement.
End of Quote

Again, who is making the decisions, the conscious mind or the unconscious mind?
















THE ALBERT EINSTEIN DEFENSE

Einstein would’ve been a brilliant defense attorney. He believed in determinism—which would be The Albert Einstein Defense.

A breathless gallery would excitedly wait. Then the great scientist would open with this:

A God who rewards and punishes is inconceivable . . . for the simple reason that a man’s actions are determined by necessity, external and internal, so that in God’s eyes he cannot be responsible, any more than an inanimate object is responsible for the motions it undergoes. ---ALBERT EINSTEIN -- Religion and Science. N.Y. Times Magazine, November 9, 1930.
The Great Quotations, Compiled by George Seldes, Published by Pocket Books, New York, A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

What caused Einstein to say this?

The principle of cause and effect prompted him.

It is the most well-known scientific principle in the world, and it is recognized by scientists and global citizens alike.

This universal principle doesn’t just rule the birds and the bees, the mountains and the rivers, and the stars and the planets.

It is in firm control of all life, including human beings. This is why Einstein said—“he cannot be responsible.”

And what did Einstein mean by “. . . a man's actions are determined by necessity”?
The Oxford English Dictionary says that necessity is “the state or fact of being required or indispensable.” Determinism is required by the principle of cause and effect.

Attorney Einstein would’ve salivated over one article on my website. It concerns people whose “unconscious minds had already caused them to push a button before they had consciously decided to do so”.












Dig right in, Professor Einstein, help yourself.

No, Einstein did not persuade me. I came to my decision long before I learned of his belief in determinism.

Go to Google and type in—cause and effect.

You will find several websites with information on this scientific principle. If Albert lived in our time I believe he would make use of my novel, Why Does The Lion Roar?

On Thursday, July 24, 1997, the following article appeared in The Colorado Springs Gazette. In the days that followed, it appeared in many other publications.

The Colorado Springs Gazette. . B1 . . Thurs, July 24, 1997
CRIMINALS COULD SOON PLEAD ‘MY GENES MADE ME DO IT.’
(From The Toledo Blade, Bar Harbor, Maine)
Growing evidence that a person’s genes influence behavior may create serious dilemmas for law enforcement . . . a noted geneticist said . . . “Genes do appear to influence behavior,” said Dr. Leroy Hood, chairman of the department of molecular biotechnology at the University of Washington in Seattle. “Since our system of law is based on free will and individual responsibility, could a future criminal argue extenuating circumstances because his genes made him commit the criminal act?”

Yet, 10 years later it still hasn’t dawned on the criminal justice system that we are all genetically controlled products of our environment.

The judicial, the prosecution, the defense, the jury, and even the damned do not comprehend the plight of the genetically cursed.

But, astonishingly so, all this information is available in the public library. The “system” is correctly named, for it is truly criminal how it is applied, and there’s nothing infallible about it.

Fallible human beings manage it, so everything within the system is a judgment call.
A human being must confirm that the fingerprints match, or that the DNA matches, but in both cases there have been errors and misuse.

Who can surprise God?

You can, if you have free will. You could change God’s plan for you. “Hey, what’s Lee doing?” God would ask. “I didn’t plan that for him.”

LORI’S Email Sunday September 27, 2009

Lee,
I haven't forgotten about our debate on free will, honest! I've just been busy with some other things for a while.

Here are the next steps I think we should take:

1. Agree on the wording of your main arguments for fate (I listed 5 in the attachment which I got from the document you gave me and from Wikipedia). Tell me if you like them or want to change them.

2. You present me with the "evidence" for argument #1 so I can find evidence to refute it.

I think a lot of the evidence is already there from the paper you gave me, but it should be organized and more authoritative quotes added.

For instance, you have good examples of other "Godly" influences at work in your personal life (like with your wife and Sharon), but what's missing is additional quotes from "experts"--respected authorities who have studied God, or perhaps from the Bible or the K'ran or Hindu sources that God is omnipotent and God plans our individual lives.

Of course, if you disagree about where I'm going with this debate, let me know. I don't want to railroad you into anything. I'm open to alternative ways to approach this debate.

If you'd rather meet together to edit the arguments than send me written comments, I'm open to that, too.

Lori Proposed Sequence for Debate about Free Will

Hand Out Debate Outline to Audience

Review Key Definitions
Free Will
Determinism

Review score cards or note-taking sheets for audience to use to determine their own positions as debate progresses

Lee Presents Case for No Free Will.

List numbered reasons and evidence for arguments showing no free will exists (using quotes from experts and scientific research wherever possible) e.g., from your notes:

1. The most widely accepted definition of God is a being who controls everything (provide 2-3 definitions of God from best “expert” theists and scientists you can find, plus add a relevant personal experience if you want)

2. Birth and death are not by choice, thus it follows what’s between is not (provide evidence birth is not by choice, then death is not by choice, then explain how accepted methods of logic—say deduction--lead to the conclusion)

3. Biology and Genetics determine behavior, etc...

Lori Presents Case for Free Will

List reasons and evidence against each argument Lee made, providing alternative theories where appropriate (using quotes from experts and scientific research wherever possible)e.g.

1a. There is no definite proof God exists (provide 2-3 quotes from best atheist and agnostic and science “experts”, plus possibly add a personal experience)

1b. Even if God did exist, he can control events partially (provide 2-3 quotes from theists that God only controls certain things but not others)

1c. Lee’s “expert” source ___has been shown to lie or be wrong in past

1d. Lee’s personal experience could be explained by something other than God’s control

2a. etc.

Lee’s Rebuttal

(Refute each of Lori’s replies by attacking the credibility of her sources of evidence, or her logic, or another reason explaining her personal experience, or the inadequacy of her alternative theory, etc.)

No new arguments are allowed in this portion, only continuation of old ones.

Lori’s Rebuttal

(Refute each of Lee’s replies by attacking the credibility of his sources of evidence, or his logic, or another reason explaining his personal experience, or the inadequacy of his alternative theory, etc.)

No new arguments are allowed in this portion, only continuation of old ones

Q&A period between audience and debaters

Open discussion of individual positions

Open discussion about ramifications personal positions might have to changes in the justice system.

Fate vs. Free Will Debate

1. The very essence of God is a being that controls everything.

a. The Bible (or other source about God--Bible/K’ran/Hindu God/Buddha) says God knows everything about every person (perhaps find a few Bible quotes about God’s omnipotence, or use whatever source you find most authoritative about God).

b. Free will implies we could surprise God, but the Bible/K’ran/Hindu God/Buddha says we can’t (perhaps find a few Bible quotes about God’s plan for us) How can our actions be free if a being has determined them for us ahead of time?

Lee’s examples of knowing his strong personal motivations vs. his otherwise unexplainable memory lapses with his wife.

c. Lee’s knowing his motivation to be with Sharon vs. his otherwise unexplainable response to Sharon’s crying incident.

2. Biology and genetics (internal necessities) determine behavior.

a. Albert Einstein quote from NY Times Magazine.

b. Quote from Gazette Article on criminals pleading “My Genes Made Me Do it.”

c. Cause and effect argument (all current and future events are causally necessitated by past events combined with the laws of nature) Give example of genetic cause and effect proven by some scientist.

3. Cultural and outside nature influences (external necessities) determine behavior

a. Albert Einstein quote from NY Times Magazine.

b. Cause and effect argument (all current and future events are causally necessitated by past events combined with the laws of nature) Give example of external cause and effect.

3. If some actions are not free will, then all actions are not free will

(Actions that happen faster than one can think must have some cause other than free will)

a. neurophysiologist Mt. Zion Hospital experiment

b. quote from article on unconscious minds

5. Birth and death are not by choice, thus it follows that whatever is between them is not by choice.

a. “causal chain” argument (maybe a couple of quotes from any of the references 26-30 on Wikipedia site)






















Part One of THE GRANDMOTHER of WAR

(C) 2000 LEE HERALD

About 109,000 Words – Genre: Thriller
All Rights Reserved
















CONTENTS

PART ONE
1. THE HEAT
2. THE SEARCH
3. RELIEF
4. NEW LIFE
5. MANY WINDS

PART TWO
6. A NEW SEASON
7. APPRENTICESHIP
8. MOUNTING THE UNTAMED WHITE HORSE
9. BIBLE WAY TABERNACLE
10. LIZ AND FRANK

PART THREE
11. TERESA
12. BOBBY
13. TURNING POINT
14. A SEED OF DOUBT

PART FOUR
15. THE LAST HOPE
16. FADING FAITH
17. CRACK IN THE BIBLE
18. A NEW PERSPECTIVE
19. THE IMPOSTORS

PART FIVE
20. DISCONTENT
21. THE GRANDMOTHER OF WAR
22. UNSHACKLE THE CHILDREN
23. ONE WAS LOST

PART SIX
24. JEHOVAH, GOD OR DEVIL?
25. DANGEROUS BOOKS
26. THE RAGE OF DISSENT
27. A GATHERING OF FEAR

PART SEVEN
28. ELIJAH, THE PROPHET OF DOOM
29. THE HERETIC
30. ASSASSIN LOOSE
31. STALKING THE ENEMY
32. THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO AESOP
33. NEVER HAVE SO MANY

PART ONE

Love and religion are the two most volcanic emotions to which the human organism is liable, and it is not surprising that, when there is a disturbance in one of these spheres, the vibrations should readily extend to the other. HAVELOCK ELLIS: Studies in the Psychology of Sex, Random House. THE GREAT QUOTATIONS, Compiled by George Seldes, Published by POCKET BOOKS, New York, A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.


1. THE HEAT

August 1954.
At the lowest point of Frank Dorsen’s life it seemed unlikely that he would become the center of one of the most explosive controversies ever to shake the world, but the unpredictable hand of fate creates life’s surprising events and selects its improbable players.

Saturday afternoon in Ohio, twenty miles south of Columbus. The humidity saturated the airmen’s barracks at Lockbourne Air Force Base. In his second floor quarters Frank lay on a lower bunk in his shorts. He had taken off his T-shirt, which had stuck to him like a soggy towel. The door was open, but it was suffocating in the small two-man room.

Yet the real heat burned in Frank’s troubled mind, a volcano that erupted when his fondest dreams were shattered. For many weeks it had raged in his broken heart, threatening to consume him. He was thankful that his roommate had gone home on a weekend pass.

It’s a relief to be alone, he thought. I don’t want anyone around when I feel like this.

Frank stood five-foot-eleven, and at 160 pounds he looked slim. His dark hair framed a lean face, with high cheekbones below blue eyes. He would be twenty-four next February.

He was born in the flat countryside of Dexter, Missouri, which was bordered by wide-open cotton fields. At one time Frank’s mother had put in long hard hours picking cotton and stuffing it into burlap bags. Frank was two years old when the family left Dexter, moving to Flint, Michigan.

Mister Dorsen wanted to get work in one of the General Motors plants, but instead he became a taxi driver, and later drove a produce delivery truck. In the late thirties, during the gray days of Frank’s childhood, his father left the family and Frank’s mother had to get a job. No matter what the weather, six days a week she had walked two miles to work in downtown Flint, and wearily walked back home. They had existed in a one-room efficiency apartment in the rear of a dilapidated old house, living there until Frank’s father came back.

Frank turned on his side and faced the bleak wall, trying to think of anything but how much he loved Carol. He met Carol in Flint, four months before he enlisted in the air force. She was eighteen then, and he was twenty. She had done all the chasing because Frank was too shy.

He would never have gotten acquainted with Carol if her family had not moved next door. And once Carol made his acquaintance, she had been persistent. She would watch for him to come outside, and then follow him down the street, trying to make conversation, often beginning with the same plea. “Frank! Please slow down.”

After Frank survived Basic Training they were married in January 1952. It was a hasty marriage, induced by Frank’s loneliness away from home. He immediately felt that he had made a mistake, but he had become attached to Carol, and over time had grown to love her.

Once he was assigned to Lockbourne, Carol got a job in Columbus. They couldn’t make it on his pay alone. The money she earned helped pay the rent for their apartment off base. There had always been money problems, but Carol had never gotten discouraged.

He pictured her patient smile and her long blonde hair. I can still feel her touch, he thought, and she always used just enough perfume.

A tantalizing bouquet that he would never forget, he could smell it right now. He remembered removing her negligee, caressing her aroused body, and making love to her. He could see the shiny strands of golden hair on her pillow, and he could hear her murmurs of delight when he satisfied himself with her scented breasts.

Oh god. When she got hot she would spread her legs and pull me down.

But Carol had divorced Frank, and he couldn’t believe it. He had a temper and they often argued, but they always made up. One day he came home from work at the base, and she was gone. It had happened so quickly, without warning. She left a farewell note, but there was so much unsaid.

Frank had been shaken to the core, and his self-esteem was now at rock bottom. The divorce had left him feeling deeply insecure.

We were married only two years and two months, yet it’s hard to think of life without her. We must’ve married too soon. It would’ve been different if we’d waited a while. Fuck the excuses, Frank. Who’re you kidding? It just wasn’t meant to be.























“Hey, Smitty,” someone in the hallway yelled. “Betcha a quarter I can beat your ass in a game of eight ball.

Frank faintly heard Smitty’s reply. “See you in the rec room, Dumbo.”

As a patriotic draft-dodger Frank had joined the air force the day after he took his draft physical. He was one step ahead of becoming fodder for the army infantry.

Four years in the air force is a hell of lot better than two years in a Korean foxhole, he thought. Truman said Korea was a “police action”, but MacArthur knew better. It was war, and no amount of political bullshit can change that. For the guys who spilled their guts in Korea it was a living hell. Only generals and bomb makers like war. It’s their profession, and like doctors and lawyers they gotta practice on somebody.

He rolled over the bunk and reached down for his Bud. It was lukewarm now, but he took a long drink. Then he set the bottle on the cement floor and lay back again.
Frank had been with the 9st Air Refueling Squadron nearly three years.

He was a staff sergeant with three months in grade toward tech sergeant. The mission of the squadron’s KC-97 air-refueling tankers was to refuel B-47 reconnaissance jets in mid-flight.

As chief clerk in the Orderly Room, Frank managed the office paperwork with a sure hand. Several adjutants and first sergeants had come and gone in the squadron, but Frank and the commanding officer seemed to be permanent fixtures. Lieutenant Colonel Yancic was gung ho, but he was a good CO and an excellent pilot. Frank respected him, yet he was always ill at ease in his presence.

“Frank,” Phil yelled, “you goin’ to Columbus with us?” Phil was a radio operator on one of the “flying gas stations.” His room was across the hallway.

Phil’s always hot to trot on Saturday, Frank thought. Always gets a head start on the midnight pussy hunt. Frank turned his head and looked at Phil, who was now standing in the doorway. Phil was dressed in khakis, looking cool in spite of the heat.

“It’s too early,” Frank said. “I’m not sure what I’m gonna do yet.” Phil shrugged, and went back to his room.

Frank had known that something was bothering Carol, but he hadn’t considered it serious. Now he felt that if he could understand how their troubles started, maybe he could get her back. We didn’t have much of a social life, but I wanted to make it in country music, and that takes a lot of time.

Frank had gotten his desire to play the guitar from his mother. As a young girl she wanted to learn the guitar, but her father wouldn’t let her. When Frank turned eleven, his mother bought him a guitar. Once a week he had gone to the Hawaiian Conservatory to take music lessons, but he wasn’t interested in reading music and he soon quit.

At fourteen he took up the guitar again and learned to play it on his own, but because he was shy he would only play in his bedroom. Whenever his Uncle Ray and Aunt Stella came to visit, they would quietly stand outside his closed door trying to hear him.

Why did Carol leave me? Did she think my ambitions were too much? Maybe, but any ambition demands sacrifice. Isn’t that what life’s about, daring to dream? Yeah, but she had a different dream.

She saw a large family around a fireside, and I thought I could make it in music, but it was for her too. I want children, but not till I make it. He sighed. I read somewhere that the joy of love lasts only a moment, but the pain lasts forever. I hope that’s not true.

After Carol left, Frank moved onto the base and all the guys noticed the sag in his shoulders. Seeing the helpless look in his eyes they knew how he felt. Every morning at the sink-mirror he gazed into those hollow eyes, studying the grim face that stared back at him, groping for an answer. Yet, the solemn reflection wasn’t all bad. Some women thought him attractive.

No reason I can’t fall in love again. If I can just stand this sick feeling until I meet someone special again, someone like Carol.

For two restless months Frank had roamed the twilight streets of downtown Columbus. He had numbly walked by the restaurants and clothing shops near Broad and High, peering through the glossy windows, looking for Carol. He had seen nothing but the ghostly reflection of his own haggard face. He knew that Carol had gone back to Michigan, but still, he looked.

Jesus, it must be more than two months. Time can’t pass so damn slow. It seemed like a lifetime to Frank, searching for someone to replace Carol. How can I get her out of my mind and get rid of the memories? By making new memories. Make new ones, dammit! But I’ve tried everything, dance lessons, social clubs, and wild parties. When I can get up to it, I play country in the honky-tonks, but music doesn’t mean anything anymore. ‘Cause I’ve got no one to share it with.

“Hey, Dorsen!”

The bellow had erupted from Tech Sergeant Arkie Johnson whose enormous body was now filling Frank’s doorway. Arkie and Phil were roommates. Arkie was the best boom operator in Frank’s squadron, guiding a twenty-foot-long boom from the tail of a KC-97 tanker into the wavering nose of a B-47 jet while flying over two hundred miles an hour. “It takes some real doin’ at times,” Arkie had declared, “specially when the jerkin’ jet’s piloted by a shaky second looie.”

Arkie looked at Frank. “You gonna lay there and brood them country blues again, or are you goin’ with us?”

Frank rose up on his elbow and wiped his brow. Jesus, does it show that much?






















He had tried hard to hide his grief, to play the macho game, to say that his divorce was really nothing. He even said that Carol was “just another woman.” He cleared his throat and managed a weak smile.

“Guess I’ll make it later, Arkie,” he spiritlessly replied, hoping he sounded all right in spite of his raspy voice. “I haven’t read the paper yet.”

Arkie sadly shook his head and sauntered back across the hallway.

Wish they’d leave me alone. I don’t wanta shut the door because it’s so hot and cramped in here. Frank picked up his beer and finished it, then he lay back.
He heard Arkie playing the guitar and singing the blues.

“Trouble in mind, I’m blue -- but I won’t be blue always -- ‘cause the sun’s gonna shine -- on my back door -- someday.” Saturday night was falling hard.

A short time afterward Arkie and Phil left their room and turned to the nearby exit.
As they clattered down the iron stairway, hurrying toward the parking lot, Frank mused about how poetic Arkie was on occasion.

One time Arkie had written, “The boom operator’s rigid, yet gentle penetration of the alluring spy-jet of the heavens, tenderly inseminating its womb with the seed of life, is more than a thrilling conquest. It’s a fantastic high, an orgasmic peak known only to the boom operator.”

After the reading Arkie had taken a slug of beer and leaned back on his bunk smiling. Frank had chuckled, and shook his head.

At times Frank wished that he was as hard as Phil who seemed to have a heart of granite.

Nothing ever affects Phil, he thought. Zero. He’s only twenty-eight, but he’s already been divorced twice. Phil doesn’t give a shit. The bastard’s out fucking every night. He shook his head. Doesn’t anybody else ever get the blues and cry in the night?

Frank turned toward the nightstand. He picked up The Columbus Dispatch and held it up over his sticky body. The headlines looked familiar.

The news is the same everyday. They just change the date.

He tossed the paper and lit a cigarette, immediately thinking that he was smoking too much. His mouth felt like sandpaper, but he had to have some kind of release. A couple of puffs later, he put out the cigarette.

“Sam,” a young airman yelled in the hallway. “You goin’ for beer? Get me a six-pack. I’ll pay you later.” He ran by Frank’s door. “I will, Sam,” he pleaded. “I swear it!”

“Yeah ya will, ya little motherfucker,” Sam coldly replied. “In a pig’s eye, ya will.” His voice trailed away. “Ya ain’t got no money and ya know it.”

Melancholy mementos of yesterday brutally stormed Frank’s mind again. Vividly reflected from a mirror of the past, he saw the treasured scenes all too clearly. Fixed in his subconscious, the witnesses of love’s bygone days insisted on surfacing no matter how hard he resisted. In the diary of his tortured memories he lived his life with Carol all over again. He didn’t have the will to fight the cherished visions.

“Frank, darling,” he heard Carol’s voice anew, “I’ll love you forever.” It was the same gentle voice that had whispered in his ear countless nights before.

Carol had gotten up early on a Saturday morning, planning a happy summer weekend. “Let’s spend the day at the lake, Frank,” she had hopefully suggested, “just you and me.” Her blue eyes had turned somber at his heated reply.

“Jesus Christ, Carol,” he had yelled. “You know I don’t have time today!” He was in a hurry to call the guys for band practice. “I told you I’ve got to get this band together while I can.”

Carol’s plans were put off until tomorrow, but they would never be fulfilled.

Remembering the puzzled, hurt look in her misty eyes, Frank shook. He knew that he hadn’t had any patience with her. He lit a cigarette and the match flickered in his trembling hand.

Time and time again his lack of consideration for Carol’s needs had driven her farther away. It had made her cry in secret and question their future together. And at last it stilled the loving arms that had once held him and him alone. All Carol ever wanted was to live a happy life, but Frank didn’t know how to do that.

He hadn’t taken time for her. He had lived by the cold hands of the clock, by the seconds flitting away, paying homage to the God of time. Too late, he knew that time was his enemy, his cruel downfall. Now whenever Frank cried out Carol’s name, it was a cracked record playing over and over again.

It was always about time. Well, you got gobs of time now. More time than you ever wanted. No one’s waitin’ for you to come home now, Frank, wondering where you’re at. You got all the fucking time you can handle, but you can’t sleep with it. Time won’t reach out for you in the middle of the night, Frank. Time won’t breathe on your neck and whisper in your ear. You can’t make love to a goddamn clock.

“Last one to the car buys the first round at Tony’s,” the voice in the hallway yelled.

“Fuck that shit, Wylie,” another voice barked. “You already got a half mile head start.” Suddenly there was a mad rush as the airmen ran down the hallway.





















The sun was setting as Frank flipped his damp pillow over and groped on the floor for the newspaper. God it’s muggy. He squinted his eyes and scanned the paper.

Sports - Ohio State Predicts A Strong Run. He turned the page.
Religion - Revival Now in Progress at Champion Revival Center.

Frank weakly laughed. I sure do need a revival.

He dropped the newspaper and reached for his wallet on the nightstand. Taking out the faded note, he carefully smoothed the wrinkles. He had found it on the barren dresser top the day Carol left. How many times have I read it, he wondered, thirty times, forty, a hundred? God only knows.

The unforgettable words were branded on his brain, yet he read the note every night.

Dear Frank,
This is to say goodbye.
I’ve tried hard and I know you have too, but we just can’t stay together -- with the endless arguments.
We’re just too different, and you’re so driven.
I do love you, Frank, but I’m going by reason, not by my emotions.
I wanted to tell you in person, but I was afraid I wouldn’t go through with it.
Please, don’t hate me, Frank, please.
I’m sorry.
Carol

Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! The words mercilessly hammered in Frank’s skull, and a lump formed in his throat. Staring at the gray ceiling he tried to swallow, but couldn’t.
His mouth was dry and sweat was on his forehead.

He touched his face, and his lips began to quiver. Struggling hard, he tried to control himself.

It’s so difficult to breathe, so damn stuffy in here. Carol’s gone, and I love her, but why didn’t she understand? God, how I miss her.

He wished he could remember the last time he had looked into her eyes and really, truly, saw her. Somehow, Frank had to face his great loss, but he would never let anyone know how hurt he was.

Burning tears blurred his sleepless eyes, trickling down the sides of his face and onto his pillow. He could no longer see the ceiling.

It’s over. It’s really over. I’m glad it’s gonna be dark soon, so I can take the mask off, so I can drop the pretense and hide in the shadows.

A shuddering sob racked his body. He began to cry uncontrollably, something he hadn’t done since he was a grade-school-kid.

After a while he remembered where he was.

Stop it, Frank, you whimpering fool. You’re a big boy now. Men don’t cry. He dabbed at his bloodshot eyes, and reached for the last bottle of warm Bud.

If I could only get drunk enough, I could find the courage to do it. What the hell, it happens everyday. It’d be over in the blink of an eye.

He had thought of it before, but he always pushed it out of his mind. He took a long drink and wondered what was the best way, the easiest. He wondered what he’d look like when they found him.

Who the hell would care? Dammit, you dumb ass. Don’t be stupid.





















There were two of him fiercely arguing, and he wondered which one would win, but he didn’t care as long as the fighting ended. It had to end. He couldn’t take it anymore. He had to find peace, and he had to find it soon.

What was that saying, he mused, This too. . .

He’d read it somewhere and it had helped. This too will . . . This too will pass.

Soon, his exhausted mind gave in to a momentary truce, and a merciful slumber enveloped him.

When Frank awoke it was nighttime, and the floodlight atop the NCO Mess Hall cast a soft light through his window. Groggily sitting up he peered at his watch. He could barely make out the hands, but it was ten o’clock.

He stood up and stretched, then he put on his jeans. He went over to the wall-switch by the door and flipped on the light. Gingerly rubbing his eyes he tried to adjust to the instant glare. Hearing the distant moan of a freight train, he went over to the window and looked down at the empty parking lot.

Carol had gone back to Flint right after Frank agreed to the divorce papers in Columbus.

Funny thing, he thought, she cried then, maybe she. . . . What was she thinking?

He had only seen her once since that day in her lawyer’s office. He had gone to Flint on a ten-day-leave, and told her that things would be different, that they could make it if they really tried. It was no use. Carol didn’t believe that he could change. Thinking about it he winced, for he had broken down, begging her to come back.

Frank turned from the window, eyes searching the room, probing for anything that would take his mind off of Carol.

He thought of the New Testament, which his mother had bought for him when he was home on leave. He barely glanced at it at the time.

Opening the drawer in the nightstand, he picked up the little black book and sat down on his bunk. Then he began flipping through the book’s crisp pages.

When was the last time I was in church, and what religion am I? I can’t remember, but did I ever know? Maybe Baptist. That’s on my 201 Form. What the hell is a Baptist?

He stopped at a certain passage. It was the first Psalm, verse forty-six. Happy is he that hath the God of Jacob for his help, whose hope is in the Lord his God.

Help, that’s what I need. I don’t know much about religion, but I wish I could believe in it. I guess Mom and Dad believe in the Bible. Doesn’t everybody?

Frank hadn’t gone to church much, but when he was nine the family had visited their kinfolk in Missouri. His mother took him to an old-fashioned revival meeting in Dexter.

He wryly smiled, recalling what he had told her after the meeting. “Someday, I’m going to be a preacher.”

He recalled visiting his grandparents in 1948 when he was seventeen. There were not many traffic lights in Dexter then, but there was a movie house and a ticket was only a nickel. A hamburger cost a nickel too.

A tall stern man, Willie James was definitely the head of the house. He drove a wagon with two mules, and he always wore a wide-brimmed black hat and bib overalls. Willie and Nellie lived in a small house with a wood stove, kerosene lamps, and a water pump on the back porch. The washboard was also on the back porch, and in the backyard sat a huge black kettle, which was used to heat water by firewood. An outhouse sat about forty feet from the porch.

Frank had asked his mother why he only had one Grandpa. She told him that his Grandfather Silas Dorsen had gotten syphilis, which had driven him insane and killed him.

Penicillin wasn’t discovered until 1928, sometime after his death. Frank wondered if he had gotten his temper from his Grandpa Dorsen.

What the hell am I doing reading the Bible? For Chrissake, what would the guys think? He glanced at the door. Sergeant Dorsen, the hard-ass, reading the Bible. He’s got religion! They would spread that all over the squadron.

Frank quickly put the little book back in the drawer.

Feeling the tug of the window’s irresistible magic again, he went over and gazed into the darkness.

He saw his ‘51 Chevy sitting alone in the parking lot.

Even my car’s alone.

From another barracks across the way, the plaintive wail of the Grand Ole Opry drifted through his window.

“I Can’t Stop Loving You, Though I’ve Made Up My Mind--”

Goose bumps popped up on Frank’s arms, magnifying the mournful tone that filled the room.

He shivered and rubbed his arms. Jesus, I can’t stand that music now.

Slamming the window shut, he turned away, but it was too quiet.

He wondered which was worse, the depressing country music, or the thundering sound of silence.

Trying to resist the window’s enchantment, he began pacing the room. He couldn’t stand, sit, or lie still.

He felt claustrophobic, and he knew that if he didn’t keep moving the walls would close in on him.

There must be some way to get over the blues, but the harder I try the bluer I get. All at once he made up his mind.

There’s no future hangin’ around an empty barracks on Saturday night. I’ll go into Columbus and try to find a woman. That’ll beat the hell out of this shit.

He thought about Joan. Frank met Joan at Tony’s Lounge about a month ago. They dated once and she fell for him right away.

Joan was a young woman about five-foot-six, with silky brown hair and a pleasant smile. She was slim and had an appealing figure.

Glancing at his watch, he quickly put on his sandals. He hurried downstairs to the pay phone, then hesitated, reluctant to call Joan at this late hour.

After their first date they went to her apartment and she resisted his efforts to get her into bed.

Tonight he hoped it would be different.

He forced himself to dial. Joan was home, and after a dignified while she warmed up and invited him over.

A little later he returned from the showers and stood at the sink, quickly using his electric shaver.

After that he put on his favorite slacks and best shirt. He never wore his uniform after duty hours.

A year from October I’ll get rid of it, and I can hardly wait. Life will be a lot better once I get out of the air force.

It was after eleven when Frank went out the second floor exit next to his room.

Scrambling down the outer stairs, he hurried to the parking lot and got in his car.
Shortly after, he drove through the gates of Lockbourne Air Force Base.

Then he headed toward Columbus, in search of peace.















2. THE SEARCH

Midnight.

When Frank knocked on Joan’s door he was determined to forget his problems and have a good time.

Her place was homey and comfortable. The lights were turned down low, and this time she didn’t need any persuasion. She was lonely, despondent for love, and intensely hungry.

The hi-fi played softly while they danced close in the living room.

Later, the light was so dim that he could barely see her bedroom doorway. It didn’t matter, for she led the way. Then they lay down on her quilted bedspread. He took her in his arms and she mildly protested. She needed her time of purity, her final moment of control.

He kissed her hard on the mouth. Slipping his hand under her pleated skirt, he felt the magnetic touch of her sheer nylons. After enjoying the warmth of her smooth thighs he moved up to her panties. When she felt his hand on her crotch she squeezed with her legs.

He began to unbutton her blouse, but she whispered in his ear, and then went to the bathroom. After undressing he pulled the sheet back and lay down on the bed.

In a few minutes Joan came back wrapped in a large white towel, long hair spilling over her shoulders. Letting the towel slither to the floor, she stood naked in the doorway.

Light from the bathroom silhouetted her slinky figure and outlined strands of her pubic hair. Slowly strolling over to the bed, she stopped just inches away, delighting in the sight of Frank’s lean body.

Placing his hand between her legs he gently massaged her, feeling pubic hair on his palm.

She tilted her head back, breasts projected out, nipples hardening. “Oh, Frank,” she murmured, “Frank.”

Frank pulled her onto the bed, and she snuggled into his arms. When she pressed closer he felt the joyous sensation of her breasts on his chest. Her clinging body knew no resistance, totally reacting to the heated moment.

He kissed her and she ran her fingers through his hair. Reaching down, she cupped his testicles in her hand. Then she got on top of him. Now she was a famished tigress, prowling her domain and pouncing on her catch.

He rolled her over and began to lick her flat belly. His tongue slowly moved up her body, and then the tip of it circled her nipples. She played with his hair and he sucked her breasts until he was temporarily satisfied.















Rising up on his knees between her legs, he gazed down at her. He knew how he would feel when it was over, so he wanted the fiery sex to last as long as possible.

He massaged her again and this time she was wet. She was impatient, for it wasn’t his hand that she wanted. She jerked it away and tried to pull him down on her, wanting him now.

“Stick it in me, Frank,” she urged him. “Stick it in me now.” Her flushed body was ablaze with desire.

Frank mounted her and she reached for him, but he was inside her swollen flesh before she could guide him. Biting her lip, she grabbed his arms, furiously twisting her pelvis.

He began sucking her breasts again; then he slipped his hands under her buttocks, pulling her up and thrusting farther into her.

“Fuck me, Frank,” Joan loudly said. “Fuck me!” She was in heat, and moaning. She wrapped her legs around him and kissed his neck. “I love you, Frank!”

Frank wished that he could say the same, but he knew the awful sickness would come when it was over. For after his sexual craving had been quenched his lonely heart would still be grieving. The dreadful blue feeling would flood his soul like it always did. Joan was nice, but she wasn’t Carol. It wasn’t the same.

It wasn’t love, and Frank still loved Carol.

Leaving Joan’s apartment in the dark of Sunday morning, Frank drove toward Lockbourne, still searching for peace.

* * * *

Six o’clock, Monday morning, Frank’s room.

The little clock’s insistent clang demanded a response. Frank groaned, fumbled for the nightstand, and shut off the alarm.

He rubbed his eyes and threw off the sheet, lying in his shorts. A couple of minutes went by, but he heard no noise from above. Larry seldom heard any wake-up call.

Frank raised his feet to the bottom of the upper bunk and shoved hard three times.

“Huh—huh?” Larry mumbled from atop. “Okay, hold it, Frank. I’m awake.”




















Larry was an eighteen-year-old kid and no matter how early he hit the sack, he couldn’t get up by himself. An airman third class, he was destined to stay the same.

He worked with Frank as a clerk in the Orderly Room.

Frank glanced into the hallway. The sun was shining through the open exit door and he saw particles of dust floating in the rays of light.

I hope there isn’t a white-glove inspection today, he thought, and it’s a good thing the Orderly Room fan was finally fixed. It’s gonna be another damn scorcher.

In the forties Frank had sprouted like a wild weed. At thirteen he was a member of the neighborhood gang, which was a relief from his shyness.

There was a kid called “Bones,” and one called “Punk,” and another called “Banana Nose.” There was a kid named Dempsey, and everybody called him Jack.

The gang’s only purpose was fighting boredom and other gangs. That boredom made some of the guys pool sharks at fifteen.

They all acted tough, but none were. Their hard posture was a front, concealing a tragic lack of social skills. It was a façade put up by the frightened little guy who lived inside of them. They had seen too many black-and-white crime movies, too many Bogart films, which made them sure of one thing—”You gotta get the other guy before he gets you.”

Every night the unruly pack loitered outside three tawdry taverns at an intersection dubbed “The Missouri Corner.” The corner was near Chevrolet’s sooty Plant Four, at the dead-end of Asylum Street.

Besides playing pool they watched drunken Arkies and Okies blackjacking and stabbing each other.

Frank’s dad was often drinking in one of the bars, usually making out with a woman. Sometimes Frank’s mother would come to get her husband.

Instead of going to school dances, the gang kids were engulfed by a raunchy gutter life, the only life that most of them would ever know, and their search would end there.

How did we start drinkin’ at that age, Frank thought, shootin’ craps and boozin’ it up. Yeah, it was easy. We just gave the old winos money to buy us beer, and all they asked for was a bottle of their own.

Asylum Street? He chuckled. It was rightly named. Anyone who hung out there was really crazy.

Frank sat up on the edge of the bunk and yawned.

After making his bed he opened his closet-locker. Taking out his last pair of shorts he laid them beside his khakis on the bunk. Gotta do laundry tonight, he mused. Should’ve done it Sunday.

He glanced at Larry who was asleep again. “Larry,” he shouted, “get your ass up! What the hell would you do if you had a roommate like yourself?”

Frank knew the answer. He had seen it all before. Two lazy-assed airmen doing calisthenics at dawn, he thought. Cleaning the Operations Room till noon, and marching in the Saturday afternoon parade. After that they’d pull guard duty all night, moaning their butts off. Wishin’ they were in town drinking cold beer. Extra duty makes the deadbeats think better. It makes them get their asses up on time.

Frank’s promotions had come fast as chief clerk. It wasn’t that he hadn’t earned them, but the commanding officer and the first sergeant appreciated his natural ability.

Frank had a talent for organizing the office, and they pushed hard for his stripes. He took off his shorts and tossed them into the laundry basket.

Tying a towel around his slim waist, Frank approached the inert body lying in the top bunk. “Larry,” he firmly said, a frown on his brow, “when I get back from the showers your ass better be out of bed.”

He grabbed his soap case, left the room, and stomped down the hallway.

If that kid doesn’t wake up to some responsibility soon, he thought, he’ll never make airman second.

* * * *

When Frank returned from breakfast at the NCO Mess Hall, Larry was fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. He glanced at Frank, frustrated.

“I know, Sergeant Dorsen,” he apologized, “I’m gonna be late.” He hung his head, continuing to dress.

All at once Frank felt sorry for Larry.

“Look kid, I brought you a couple of sweet rolls.” He had gotten them for his late-morning snack, but he set the bag on the sink.

“Munch ‘em down fast, and don’t spill any crumbs. You got fifteen minutes, but make sure that bunk’s made right so we don’t get written up—and hurry up.” He paused. “See you in the orderly room.”

He went down the outer stairs to the parking lot, got in his car, and drove off.

Looking back at the gang now, Frank understood that they were all searching for something. They were trying to find some worth of their own. They were seeking an outlet for their young pent-up emotions. Searching for an identity while seeking direction for their meaningless lives.

Secretly crying inside while drifting along, they craved a love that their parents didn’t know how to give. They had wanted tender recognition from somebody, and they would’ve taken it from anybody.

At eighteen Frank continued his search. He and two buddies started a journey to Alaska to make their fortunes. Frank twisted his dad’s arm until he signed for the old ’36 Olds that they bought.

It used a quart of oil the first sixty miles, but they got a two-gallon can of oil and kept going. The old Olds finally fell stone dead in Bismarck, North Dakota.

They decided to get a job at one of the wheat farms, where many of the farmers only spoke German.

When Frank was awakened the next morning the sun was nowhere in sight. About five o’clock, after breakfast, he left with the crew to pitch bales of hay onto wagons.

By eight o’clock that morning, he was wiped out.

I never worked so hard in my life, he thought, as he headed toward the Orderly Room.

An hour later Frank had quit baling hay and had gone to the well to wash up. When he took off his shirt and pants, his body was coated with the black dust of North Dakota.

Frank and his buddies called home for money and they took a Greyhound back to Flint.

They had had no money for food, so whenever the bus stopped at a restaurant they looked for apple trees.

At nineteen Frank was still searching, but he wasn’t looking for what he got while cruising one Saturday night.

He and his buddies stopped to fight some guys in another car. Unfortunately, they had stopped next to the Flint police station. Two cops stepped out of the door and arrested all of them.

Frank spent the night in the city jail. That night he decided that he had to change his ways because he was going nowhere fast. The next year he took his search into the air force.

He had always wanted something different in life, but he didn’t know what. He believed that there was more to life than what he saw, more than most people would ever know. He had never been satisfied with anything, and he was always searching for something better.

It was an endless search.

* * * *











When Frank parked by the side of the 91st ARS Operations Room, he saw Master Sergeant Angelo’s ‘53 Cadillac sitting in its reserved spot.

The first sergeant was always the first to arrive, so he could account for the punctual arrival of the Orderly Room staff. Like the CO, Sergeant Angelo was the epitome of the career airman. He was ever primly uniformed, his pressed trousers impeccably creased even in the summer heat.

Frank briskly walked toward the one-story oblong building that housed the Orderly Room offices. Once inside he walked down a narrow hallway. Then he eased by Colonel Yancic’s open door to avoid a good morning greeting.

Anyone in high authority made Frank uncomfortable, and he never felt right until he was settled at his desk. The familiar surroundings of his own personal space, like a warm blanket, helped ward off the insecurity that often plagued him.

Entering the main office he glanced at the clock on the wall, wondering if Larry would be on time. He hung his hat on the clothes tree and sat down at his gray metal desk.

Smoothing his dark hair back, he flipped through the in-basket. After that he hastily inserted the Morning Report forms into his typewriter.

The Morning Report was the first daily priority. It listed the whereabouts of every man in the Squadron. The report was due at Wing Headquarters by ten o’clock.

Sergeant Dorsen,” the first sergeant called out from his adjoining office, “bring in those personnel folders as soon as you can. The promotion recommendations have gotta go out today.”

“Okay, Sergeant Angelo.”

Larry came in shortly. He handed Frank a cup of coffee and sat down at a nearby desk.

The first sergeant loudly cleared his throat.

Frank sipped his coffee. “Larry, if the phone rings, answer it. I won’t have time. I’ve gotta do the Morning Report and the promotions.”

“Right, Sergeant Dorsen.”

Frank was glad it was a busy Monday. It should help keep his mind off of Carol. The last few weeks he had felt like the walls were closing in on him. Sometimes he fought the urge to get up and run as fast as he could.

It reminded him of Dixie in Basic Training. Dixie was a burly black kid from the south, very quiet.

He had left school after the seventh grade and had known obedience only to his mother. And the freedom of the vast cotton fields of his southland home was a world apart from the loudmouthed drill sergeant who was forever breathing down his neck.

Dixie wasn’t used to confinement and one day sitting in a classroom he couldn’t stand it anymore. He exploded out of his chair, vaulted past the instructor, and leaped through a large windowpane, shattering it to pieces.

The last that Frank had seen of Dixie, he was lumbering down the sandy path, an angry Rhino heading for the back roads of Mississippi.

That was not Frank’s first lesson about freedom.

In October 1947, at sixteen, Frank quit high school and took his search into the Merchant Marines. With an older buddy he had gone to Norfolk, Virginia, and hired on a Liberty Ship going to France. It was loaded with coal for the war-ravaged cities in Europe. Counting the alcoholic captain, there were only thirty-six men on the ship.

In the gunner's quarters a Polish stowaway had been tied to a bunk. He had sneaked onboard in Europe, and it was the duty of the captain to return a stowaway.

After the ship left the harbor, about two miles out, the Polish refugee broke loose and jumped into the ocean to swim back to America.

The captain radioed the coast guard and the stowaway was brought back.

When the captain had him chained to a bulkhead on deck, the man was only wearing tattered shorts.

Left outside for three days in the cold October winds, no one was allowed to give him food or water. He had paid a heavy price for his desperate try for freedom, but he had taught Frank how important freedom was.

Frank began to feel the same desperation that Dixie and the stowaway had felt, and he was again fighting for control.

I only get thirty leave days to get away from here, he thought. What’ll happen when I use up my days, then what? What’ll happen when I’m up against the wall, when all my time’s run out? Will I be like Dixie, and jump through the window?

He wiped his brow and looked at the fan. Yeah, it’s blowin’ hard, but it’s only movin’ hot air around.

Grief was numbing Frank’s brain and drowning his soul in a cloud of gloom.

Oh god, where’s Carol right now? He had thought that he was making a little progress, but now he had doubts.

He glanced at Larry because he felt that Larry was watching him, but Larry was filing new Air Force Regulations, and he knew nothing of Frank’s agony.

In January 1948, Frank had given the sea one more try. He and a buddy named Roy rode a Greyhound to New Orleans, hoping to catch a ship to South America. T

hey only had money for bus fare, and when they arrived they were broke. Some nights they had slept on park benches, and other times at the Catholic Maritime Home.

Sometimes a seaman would sneak them onto his docked ship and let them sleep in the mess hall.

One day they found a nickel on the sidewalk and argued over what to buy. Frank wanted a Baby Ruth candy bar and Roy wanted a Pepsi.

Jesus, that was years ago, Frank thought. Why am I thinkin’ about it now? He lit a cigarette, took one drag and butted it.

Frank and Roy couldn’t get a ship out of New Orleans, so they decided to beg for quarters on Canal Street.

Not being a successful beggar, Frank called his parents and they sent him money to come home. He had learned that rules at home are not always as bad as they seem.

Roy was a loudmouth and years later Frank learned that he had been lost at sea.

Frank remembered taking his turn as lookout on the bow of the Liberty Ship at midnight, and thinking how someone could surprise a man and shove him overboard. No one would hear the screams of the drowning seaman. Frank had always wondered if that’s what happened to Roy.

The phone rang. Frank flinched and shot out his hand, but Larry answered.

“Hullo,” Larry said.

Frank lit another cigarette and forced himself to sit still. He knew that his problems were affecting his work, and that he had to find an answer fast. He never heard Larry on the phone.

"Why, Frank, why do you always write such sad songs?"

It was the sound of Carol’s haunting voice that he heard. If she was a million miles away, he thought, I’d still hear her voice.

"Always about lost love, Frank, why don’t you write something happy? Aren’t you happy, Frank?"

Carol had asked this when Frank was playing the guitar and writing a song. His notebook and pen were on the coffee table. At the time he thought her questions were ridiculous.

Now he wondered, too late. Why do I write blues and tragedy? Are my songs prophetic? Did they tell about losing Carol?

Slowly the day dragged on, at the pace of a turtle crossing a country road. The Morning Report made it on time, and the promotion recommendations had gone to Wing Headquarters. Lunchtime came and fleetingly vanished. The day passed as Frank had wanted it to, and the summer sun continued its eternal course toward the waiting horizon.

For those who live for today, and for those who long for tomorrow, the day was gone.

At five o’clock Frank left the Orderly Room and headed for the barracks. He had lost his appetite, so he did his laundry and talked with Larry for an hour. Later, he wandered down to the rec room.

Eventually he found himself taking his evening walk around the base, thinking again. He was always analyzing.

An hour later he circled back to the lights of his barracks and went up the outer staircase to the second floor. Just inside the entrance he turned into his silent room and flipped on the light.

He sat on his bunk and lit a cigarette. Larry was napping, and nothing short of a tornado would disturb him.

In the short time that Frank had started reading the Bible, it had already become a daily ritual, but he was careful to keep it to himself.

He got out his New Testament and leafed through its pages, then he read the fourth verse of the thirty-seventh Psalm, "Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart."

From the first time that Frank stumbled across this fascinating verse, it had possessed his mind. He didn’t know why, but it was the one thing that had given him any peace.

The words are full of promise, he thought, like you could strike a bargain with God. If I please God, it says he’ll give me my desires.

Frank only had one desire.

He hastily thumbed through Saturday’s paper until he came to the religion section.

Although he didn’t realize it, he had saved the paper for this reason.

Where is it, he thought, as his eyes darted across the page. There it is!

Revival Now in Progress at Champion Revival Center. Come out Tonight. Experience Pentecostal Power! Hear the Word of God, and See and Feel the Moving of His Wondrous Spirit!

Frank dropped the paper and left the room. He stepped through the exit and stood on the small steel platform at the top of the staircase. Then he leaned on the black railing and gazed up at the distant emerging stars.

Should I go to a revival, he thought, or is that the coward’s way out? Can’t I solve my own problems?

But he knew the answers before he asked the questions. He had tried everything that he could do to mend his broken heart, and nothing had worked. He dreaded the thought of tomorrow at work, and he wondered if he could stand even one more day.

There’s a meeting tomorrow night, he thought. I’ll go and listen—just listen.

Frank didn’t understand much about church, or the Bible, but he had found some marvelous promises in the little black book. They were promises of hope and peace.

God, how I need peace. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give for it. I’ll go tomorrow night. I’ve got to find relief.






















3. RELIEF

7:30 p.m., Tuesday.

Champion Revival Center stood on Champion Street in a shabby area on the east side of Columbus.

The brightest thing about the seedy old theater building was the unlit marquee sign.

It read: CHAMPION REVIVAL CENTER, Rev. Dallas Anderson, Pastor. Rev. Billie Anderson, Asst. Pastor. Services: Tue, Thurs, Sun, 7:30 p.m. Sunday School 10:00 a.m., Sunday Morning Worship 11:00 a.m.

In front of the center a tall old gentleman in a black suit, with crew-cut hair as white as snow, was greeting the people going in.

Very few had entered the place, mostly older couples carrying big black Bibles.

Frank had been parked in his ’51 Chevy for fifteen minutes, three car lengths from the entrance. He was trying to force himself to go in.

I thought a revival was a lot of people, he mused, but I haven’t seen many go in, and if I go in, I’ll probably stand out.

He felt a sudden urge to leave, rationalizing that he could come back another time.

I’ve gone twenty-three years without religion and I can go another day.

When he reached inside his sport coat pocket for his car keys, he felt the New Testament. Again, he fought for the courage to go in.

While Frank was pondering what to do, the white-haired old man noticed him and walked over to the passenger-side of Frank’s car.

He looked in the open window, and his lined face lit up with a broad smile.

“Son,” he said, “the service starts in a few minutes.” Frank was startled. He hadn’t seen the old man approaching the car.

“Well, uh,” Frank replied, “I thought. . .” He turned and glanced out his window, feeling panicky. Then he looked at the old gentleman. “I heard there’s a revival and I. . . I thought I’d see.” He paused. “What I mean is, for one service.”

Why am I so ashamed? he thought. He took out his cigarettes and tried to light one, but the match fizzled out.

“The revival’s over, Son,” the old man replied, “but we have a Tuesday evening service. Are you comin’ in?”

Frank lit his cigarette, and then he nervously looked at the man. “The revival’s over? Well, if it’s over I. . .” He hesitated. “I guess. . . well, I’ll. . . maybe I’ll be there in a minute.”

The old man smiled and left.

As soon as the friendly doorman went inside, Frank was acutely aware of being alone.

He got out of the car and took a drag on his cigarette. Then he flipped it into the gutter and walked over to the building.

Standing at a row of glass doors, he peered through a smudgy pane, but he couldn’t see anyone inside.

Probably started by now, he thought.





















He quietly stepped into the dimly lit outer lobby, then he combed his hair. He could hear people singing in the auditorium, accompanied by a piano and a trumpet, and what sounded like a tambourine.

Quietly walking across the worn green carpet, Frank went over and examined a poster-lined wall.

There were several faded placards, and old pictures of evangelists, telling of past revival meetings.

One read, Little Ralph Bradley—Come and Hear this Astounding 12 Year Old Child Evangelist. God has Anointed this Child to bring His Last Message to a Lost and Dying World. November 1952.

A twelve-year-old boy, Frank thought, and he’s a preacher?

He went over to the other side of the lobby and looked down into a glass case that was once used for candy.

Now it contained tracts, pamphlets, a few glossy magazines, and some paperback books.

Oral Roberts’ handsome face was on the cover of one brightly colored magazine. The caption read, “GOD IS GOOD, and He wants to do something good for you!”

Another magazine’s cover declared, “A. A. ALLEN, God’s Anointed Man of Faith! SIGNS -MIRACLES - WONDERS!”

While the people were still singing, Frank went under the right archway and into the inner lobby.

As he gazed over the long balustrade, the sight of row after row of empty seats bewildered him. The onetime dazzling theater had seen its days of splendor, but they were over.

It could seat three hundred people, but there were only about thirty present and they were spread out near the front.

In the middle of the high spacious stage was an oaken pulpit.

On one side of the stage a woman was playing a grand piano.

There were two rows of empty seats near the back of the platform. They were for visiting ministry.

A sizable section nearby was set aside for the musicians, but it too was empty.

There were two people sitting in the first row on the stage. The man wore a dark blue suit, and he held a trumpet in his lap.

The woman beside him had on a black dress. She was the first one to see Frank.

Probably the pastor and his wife, Frank thought.

A balding blond man, about thirty-five, stood at the pulpit. He had on casual clothes and he had thick horn-rimmed glasses.

He was attempting to lead the song service, but his voice had a shrill pitch, and he was not good at carrying a tune.





















Frank ambled over to the left aisle and stood at the end of the balustrade that connected the two aisles.

The hymn ended and the blond man spoke into the mike.

“Turn to page one hundred and forty, brothers and sisters, and let’s all sing Near The Cross.” As he paused, he noticed Frank and he immediately hoped that he could perk up the meeting.

“There’s not many of us here tonight, so let’s all sing loud and clear to make up for those who are missing.” His thin, strident voice was a hollow noise in the empty auditorium. “Let’s sing unto Jesus who died on the old rugged cross for our sins, amen, that we might live.”

As the tiny gathering began to sing, Frank slipped into an end seat in the rear, trying to be inconspicuous.

He looked around the large theater and wondered why the people didn’t sit together. Their singing would sound better if they weren’t so scattered, he reasoned.

Near the front row, he saw the tall old man sitting beside a large lady. With open hymnbooks, they were loudly singing.

Frank glanced down his row of empty seats. Where are the songbooks? he thought.

At that minute, the old gentleman turned to see if Frank had come in. Upon seeing Frank, he smiled and came up the aisle to give him a hymnal.

Frank thanked him and the man returned to his place.

Frank flipped through the hymnal. Other than the Christmas Carols, he found very few songs that he had ever heard of.

The hymn ended. “If you have something for us to sing, call out the number,” the song leader said. “This service belongs to all of us, so let the sweet spirit of Jesus lead.”

A small elderly lady in the second row spoke up. “Page one-eighty-nine, Brother Hancock, He’s Everything To Me.”

“He certainly is, Sister Olmstead,” Brother Hancock agreed.

“Let’s all turn to page one-eighty-nine and let Jesus know he truly is everything to us.”

The group began to sing.






















Frank leafed through the hymnbook while trying to catch the melody. The man in the blue suit stood up and blended his horn in with the piano’s peal.

He’s pretty good, Frank thought. Hearing the clear tones of the horn, he tried to softly sing along.

Following several hymns the song leader concluded with the old hymn, Oh That Will Be Glory.

“O That Will Be Glory For Me, Glory For Me, Glory For Me,
When By His Grace I Shall Look On His Face, That Will Be Glory, Be Glory For Me!”

Brother Hancock turned and nodded at the man with the horn, Reverend Dallas Anderson.

Then Brother Hancock went down the platform stairs and sat with his family in the first row.

The pastor slowly went to the pulpit.

He was a stocky man of about forty-five, with a long waist and short stumpy legs. His pitch-black hair was combed back from a high forehead and parted in the middle. His pallid face, with yellow bags under cheerless eyes, seemed open and honest. Gloomily looking over the meager assembly, he began speaking. He had a slight southern accent.

“Yes, that will be glory, brothers and sisters, glory for you, and glory for me.” He appeared strangely sad. “All of our trials will be nothing then, when we see Jesus.”

“Amen, Brother Anderson!” a lone voice responded.

Reverend Anderson grasped the top of the pulpit and leaned forward.

He was broadly smiling now, free from the dark memory that had momentarily held him under its brooding spell. “Bless the Lord for the wonderful people who come out to the midweek meetings.”

He glanced at Brother Hancock. “And bless you too, Brother Hancock. We thank you.”

He glanced at his wife who was sitting behind him. “Sister Anderson was feeling poorly tonight and our dear brother volunteered to lead the song service for her.”

Sister Billie Anderson was a tall thin redhead, in her late thirties. She had a firm, supple body, which many men would desire.

Discreetly crossing her long slim legs, she feebly smiled at her husband. She applied no makeup to her plain features, but she had a distinct earthy charm.

Thanks for Brother Hancock’s help, sweet Jesus, she thought, but I wish I could’ve led this song service.

A keenly emotional woman, she led the songs with a fiery enthusiasm, letting the spirit move her at will.

Reverend Anderson glanced at Frank and continued. “As you know, we concluded our revival Sunday night, and I hoped to see some of the converts tonight, but we should still contact them.”

I hope that young man doesn’t judge us by this small gathering, he thought.

“While the revival attendance was good, the offerings were rather slim.”

He fidgeted with his tie. “I know that a few of you are shouldering most of the expense here at the center, but it’ll be worth it when we see this place filled night after night with people praising God.” He paused. “Money will be no problem then, so I ask you to give generously as we lift the offering and the Lord will bless you for it.”

He handed the offering plates to two middle-aged men who had come to the foot of the stage. As the ushers turned toward the aisles, some of the people uneasily shifted in their seats.














While the offering was being taken, the pianist softly played.

During this lull, the pastor beckoned to a young blonde woman sitting near the front. She quickly came down the aisle and to the side of the rostrum where Reverend Anderson waited.

Standing with her hands clasped before her, she solemnly looked up at the preacher with wide-open blue eyes. “Yes, Brother Anderson?” She wasn’t wearing lipstick, but her lips were full and her slender face was smooth.

Reverend Anderson bent down. “Sister Rachel, would you sing for us tonight?” The offering was almost over and the pianist took her seat in the audience.

“All right, Brother Anderson, I’ll sing, for the Lord.” Rachel held onto the sides of her long skirt, gracefully walked up the platform steps, and sat down at the piano.

The preacher swung the boom around so she could use the microphone. After that, he gave the offering to his wife to count, but he could see that it wasn’t much.

Approaching the pulpit, Reverend Anderson forced a smile. “We thank you for the offering, and we thank the Lord for keeping this revival center open.”

He glanced at Rachel and took a drink of water. Dear Lord, anoint her, he thought, so she can stir some life into this meeting.

“And now, Sister Rachel is going to bless us with a special number. Let the spirit talk to our hearts as she sings unto the Lord.”

He sat down beside his wife, patting her leg. “I hope that young man doesn’t leave us soon, Billie.”

Sister Anderson glanced at Frank and leaned toward her husband. “Yes,” she hoarsely whispered, “and he’s never been here before.”

Rachel moved the mike closer and smoothly played across the keyboard.

“Tonight I would like to sing The Love of God, and this is my testimony.” With a toss of her head, Rachel flung her long flaxen hair over her shoulders and began to sing.

“The Love Of God -- Is Great--er Fa--ar,

Than Tongue Or Pen -- Can Ev--er Tell,”

Rachel’s white satin blouse wasn’t cut too low, but it did slightly display her cleavage. Bountiful bell-sleeves tightened at her small wrists. Her black skirt fell properly over her knees, but clothes could never conceal fantasy’s erotic portrait of her figure.

Rachel was an appealing picture of a blue-eyed angel, and an attractive young lady.

“It Goes Be--yond The High--est Sta--ar,

And Reaches To The Low--est Hell.”

She played beautifully and sang with professional ease, her enchanting voice crossing the auditorium in lofty soprano tones.

It was obvious that she had performed for the Lord many times before, and the answer to the preacher’s prayer was beginning to manifest.

“Oh Glory to god!” one woman loudly said from the third row. She raised her hands in worship to God.

“The Guil--ty Pair, Bowed Down With Care,

God Gave His Son To Win"





















Frank sat transfixed, sentimentally trapped, absorbed in watching Rachel.

The lilting sound of her mesmerizing voice somehow made him feel sad.

She has a great delivery, he thought, but it’s not just that. There’s something else. It’s the words of hope that she sings with such sincerity.

Fascinated by her style, he wondered how old she was. Maybe she’s my age.

“It Shall For - Ev - Er-more En-dure. . .

The Saints’ And An-gels’ Song.”

“Praise his wonderful name!” a brother shouted in tears.

“Yes, sweet Jesus, yes,” a sister praised God. “Oh, my Lord.”

Charged with raw emotion, Rachel’s voice vibrantly rang in the final refrain.

“Oh Love Of God -- How Rich And Pur ur!”

Frank’s eyes misted. For the first time he thought of Carol, wondering what she knew about religion and realizing that they had never discussed it.

After ending with a rousing trickle across the keyboard, Rachel quietly left the piano amidst loud praises to God.

As she walked up the aisle, she cast a fleeting glance at Frank, and he caught her curious smile.

He was glad that he was sitting in the back, because her stirring performance and the haunting melody had moved him.

As he glanced around the church, he knew that it wasn’t just him, for some of the people were still worshipping God.

It was like a country ballad, he thought. Gospel music and country are so much alike. They share heartfelt emotions.

Reverend Anderson came to the pulpit and raised his hands in worship. “Thank you, Sister Rachel. Yes, Jesus saves. Praise him, saints, while he’s blessing by his spirit.”

But as swiftly as it had begun, the brief moment of devotion died.

Reverend Anderson solemnly waited, uncertain of his next move.

He discreetly glanced at Frank. I don’t think that young man is saved, he thought.

He beckoned for the pianist. Returning to the piano, she began to play, singing low.

“Softly And Tenderly Jesus Is Calling.”

“I had a message for you,” the preacher spoke over the music, “but I want to obey the spirit of God.” He spoke deliberately. “I believe God is moving, and I feel the Lord wants me to give the altar call right now.” He paused. “Let’s softly sing and let the Lord have his way.”

“Softly And Tenderly Jesus Is Calling, Calling For You And For Me,”

Frank was beginning to feel uncomfortable, and he looked around the quiet assembly hall.

I’m the only sinner here, he thought, but I just came to hear the sermon. I’d like to talk to someone before I go. Maybe the pastor.

“If you’re without Jesus tonight,” Reverend Anderson breathed into the mike, “why linger? Jesus loves you, my friend.”

Inspired by the old hymn, he continued. “Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling. Turn your life over to him now, while he’s pleading with you.”

With sorrowful eyes, he looked straight at Frank. “Perhaps you’re already a Christian, but you just need a closer walk. We all do you know. Come down to the altar and ask him for that closer walk.”

A wearisome torment crept into Frank’s mind, flooding his tortured soul with unforgettable memories.

He thought of his lonely childhood, and his mother’s backbreaking toil when the two of them lived alone. He thought of his drunken father, who had finally returned to them. He thought of the “Missouri Corner” and the gang that he had grown up with. He thought of Roy, his sea-going buddy, realizing that when he was lost at sea he probably didn’t know God.

And he thought of the disappointment of his short marriage, wondering if he would ever see Carol again.

“Come Home, Come Ho-o-ome,

Ye Who Are Weary Come Ho-o-ome”

The hypnotic hymn had engulfed Frank in a deep pit of gloom. He was beneath the glare of a giant spotlight and everything was directed toward him, had been cleverly waiting for him all along. He felt heaviness in his chest, and he resisted a pressing urge to run down to the altar.

Ye who are weary? he thought. I’m so damn tired. I don’t care whether I live or die, and unless this pain leaves me now, I can’t face another tomorrow.

“Just As I Am, Without One Plea

O Lamb Of God, I Come! I Come!”

After lingering for five minutes, Reverend Anderson ended the altar call, asking everyone to come to the front to pray.





















One by one all left their places except Frank. Some knelt at the altar benches at the foot of the platform, and others knelt at the first row of seats. Most were praying out loud and Frank felt very conspicuous.

It’s true, he thought. I’m the only sinner here.

As he hunched down into his seat he noticed the tall old gentleman rise from the altar. Frank closely watched him as he came up the aisle.

Is he leaving? Is the meeting over? He started to ask the old man as he neared, but then the man stopped by Frank.

The old man placed his hands on the seat in front of Frank and looked at him. “Son, do you know the Lord?”

Frank was startled by his candor and he quickly looked down. His eyes misted as he fought for composure. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and looked up at the doorman.

“Well, I. . . I just want to. . .” He looked down again because he couldn’t continue.

The doorman laid a strong hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Don’t fight it, Son,” he quietly said. “I know something’s troubling you, but Jesus can help you.”

His touch felt warm and good to Frank.

“Let the Lord have his way, Son, and he’ll take all of your troubles away.”

“I guess. . . I guess I,” Frank stammered. “I just want to talk with someone. I just. . .” He tried to control himself. “Maybe the pastor.”

The man turned and beckoned for the pastor, who was closely watching.

Frank instantly regretted asking for the preacher. Now he wanted to talk with the doorman, but Reverend Anderson had moved quickly and was coming up the aisle. In a moment, he was there.

“Yes, Brother Erickson,” the pastor said, “can I be of help?”

“This young man wants to talk with you,” Brother Erickson replied. He smiled at Frank and walked away, returning to the altar.

The pastor smiled. “Hello, I’m Reverend Anderson, the pastor.” He sat on the armrest of the seat in front of Frank. “What’s your name?”

Frank looked at Reverend Anderson. “Frank, uh. . . Frank Dorsen.”

The pastor noted the look of despair on Frank’s face. “You seem troubled, Frank. Would you like to talk about it?” Dear God, he silently prayed, help me bring this young man to Jesus.

Tears welled up in Frank’s eyes. “I. . . I don’t have any more troubles than anyone else. I guess I’m making too much of it.” He paused, and then pressed on. “It’s. . . it’s my wife. What I mean is. . . I’ve been recently divorced.”

Jesus, why can’t I control my mouth? Frank thought. I’m blurting out my life to anybody who’ll listen.

The pastor stood up and put his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Do you want to go to the altar and pray about it, Frank?”

Yes, a thousand times yes, Frank’s heart cried out. “Pray? I. . . I don’t know how to pray.” I wanta go to the altar, he thought, but my feet feel like lead.

Reverend Anderson gently took Frank’s arm. “Come on, Frank,” he urged, “let’s go talk to the Lord.”

Frank hesitated. Then he forced himself to stand up and step into the aisle. The pastor put his arm around Frank’s shoulders and they slowly walked toward the altars.

Frank hung his head, for he was embarrassed and ashamed.

They all know I’m a sinner, he thought, but I don’t have any control, and I’ve got to have relief.

Tears welled in his eyes. He couldn’t see as he knelt at the wooden bench, but he could hear the pastor praying. And he heard the little group of people praying louder, praising God because their prayers had been answered.

Reverend Anderson knelt beside Frank. “Talk to Jesus like a good friend, Frank, he’s the best friend you’ll ever have. Others may fail you, but he’ll never leave you.”

At first, Frank was tentative. “Oh God,” he murmured. He put his elbows on the altar and covered his face with his hands. “Oh God. . . help me. Please help me.”

“That’s the way, Frank,” Reverend Anderson urged. “Tell Jesus all about it, and ask him to forgive your sins.”

The pastor’s voice rose. “Ask Jesus for a new life, and tell him you’ll live for him for eternity.”

Some of the jubilant believers were standing behind the pastor and Frank. They lifted their hands and raised their voices, beseeching their God. “Save this young man from his sins, dear Jesus!”

Frank was beginning to lose all restraint, but he didn’t care. “Forgive me, Lord,” he earnestly prayed. “Oh God, forgive me of my sins.” He folded his arms on the bench and cradled his head.

“Yes!” the pastor happily said.

With one bitter swallow, Frank gulped his pride and started to pray louder. “Oh Jesus, please take away this pain and give me peace.”

“Yes, sweet Jesus,” Reverend Anderson prayed. “Let him be a servant of yours!”

Frank briefly settled down. “Give me one more chance with Carol, dear God,” he quietly pleaded, “and Lord. . . I’ll serve you forever.”

The joyous saints continued praying, and Brother Erickson was beside himself. He patted Frank on the back, but Frank no longer needed encouragement. His inhibitions were gone.

Still kneeling at the altar, Frank raised his hands above his head. “Thank you, Lord,” he cried out. “Thank you, Jesus!” His teary eyes gazed straight up. “Oh, dear Jesus, I’ll live for you for the rest of my life!”

I’m feeling better, he thought, and the pain is gone. The pain’s gone, and the peace is wonderful!

The heavy burden had somehow departed from Frank, and though he was emotionally drained, he felt free and lighthearted.

He had finally found the relief that he had so urgently sought, and that was all that mattered now.

* * * *

Flint, Michigan.

Elijah Seymour was ten when his parents became Jehovah Witnesses. It happened on the same day that Frank felt spiritual relief flow into his ravished soul.

In some ways, Elijah and Frank were alike when they were young children, although Elijah was thirteen years younger. Early in their lonely lives, both had developed an inferiority complex.

Frank would probably mature out of his problem, but it was doubtful that Elijah would ever overcome his severe affliction.

Elijah was thin and short, and shy. He had no close friends, not in school nor in the neighborhood. His sole relationship was with his parents, mostly with his mother.

In spite of his physical shortcomings, Elijah had always dreamed of being on a little league baseball team. When he told his father, Mister Seymour had not given it much thought.

The Seymours were committed to their changed life at the Kingdom Hall, and they took their young son to all of the services, and to distribute the Watchtower.

The hall that they attended, in the south end of Flint, was about two miles away from a Pentecostal church called Faith Temple.

Elijah enjoyed handing out the literature after his mother knocked on the doors of the strange houses. It gave him a sense of worthiness for the first time in his solitary life, and it made him feel bigger.

He would never forget the first time that his mother had proudly shown him the clipping out of The Flint Journal. It was a report about Elijah’s Aunt Julia, his mother’s sister.

The Flint Journal . . . . Thursday, September 9, 1954 . . . B3
HE IS ‘A DEVIL’ OF A HUSBAND, GETS DIVORCE

A Flint man was granted a divorce Wednesday. He testified that his wife said he was “some kind of a devil,” because he would not join her religion.

Judge Daniel R. Cooke, of Recorder’s Court, said his marriage fell apart after his wife, Julia, 29, joined the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

“She took the position, since I refused to become a Jehovah’s Witness, that I was a devil,” the 41-year-old judge said.

He and his wife, who because of her religion does not believe in any government authority, separated the month after his election.

Missus Seymour told Elijah that his aunt had bravely stood up for her beliefs by obeying Jehovah in a trying hour.

This incident had a profound effect on the impressionable mind of young Elijah and he had often asked his mother to tell the story again. His small blue eyes always glistened when she told the story.

By the time Elijah was eleven, the Seymours had made their beliefs very clear to Elijah.

Jehovah Witnesses were not of the world and thereby not subject to its laws.
Elijah was not to salute the American flag, or any other flag. He wasn’t to pledge allegiance to his country.

As a Jehovah Witness he belonged to the kingdom of God, and his sole allegiance was to Jehovah God.

Elijah accepted these teachings, but his dedicated stand brought him into much conflict in school.

While arguing the position of the Jehovah Witnesses, his determined parents won some battles against the beleaguered principal. Nevertheless, Elijah suffered more ridicule and school became a heavy cross.

Through all of this, the strong teachings of Elijah’s parents took firm hold in his fertile young mind. They would stay there for the rest of his life.

As he grew older, Elijah became immune to the cruel remarks of his classmates.

Jehovah will give me strength, he thought. He’ll protect me from the evil world. I’m not part of the sinful world, and I don’t have to obey their laws. They have no power over me.

For Elijah Seymour and Frank Dorsen, it was a new start in life.

















4. NEW LIFE

The marquee sign told of the current revival at Champion Revival Center.

Late December snow steadily fell as Frank got out of his car and hurried toward the entrance. Large glistening crystals lazily fluttered earthward, brightly glowing beneath the streetlights. The happily dancing snowflakes had a remarkable purifying power, covering the gritty black soot on the dingy street and elegantly creating a majestic new world.

Brother Erickson was shoveling off the sidewalk for the Thursday night meeting, barely keeping ahead of the snowflakes. His boots were covered with snow and his red parka was dotted with melting flakes.

Five months had gone by since Frank’s conversion, and he had become well acquainted with the Ericksons. He had stayed overnight in their home several times since last August when he had been born again. Brother Erickson had recently turned sixty-eight and his wife was sixty-five. It was said that she sometimes gave personal prophecies to God’s people, and that intrigued Frank.

Frank walked under the marquee. “Hello, Brother Erickson.” He stamped the snow off of his black dress shoes. “I guess I should’ve worn my boots.” He had on his gray gabardine topcoat, light blue sport coat, and black slacks.

A smile creased Brother Erickson’s face. “Bless the Lord, Frank.” They shook hands. “We hadda good meeting last night and we missed you.” He brushed snow off of his crew-cut white hair.

They greeted Sister Olmstead as she arrived, and Frank opened the door for her. Then he held out a large new Bible.

“I don’t like to miss any meeting, Brother Erickson, but I bought a Thompson Chain-Reference Bible and I wanted to study it. It’s really helpful to someone new in the Lord.”

Brother Erickson chuckled at Frank’s enthusiasm. He leaned on his shovel and looked at the Bible while Frank leafed through it. “It’s real nice, Frank, a good study Bible.” He patted Frank on the back.

Frank handed his Bible to Brother Erickson. “Hold it for a minute,” he said. Brother Erickson held the Bible while Frank hastily combed snow out of his of hair.

“It’s almost seven-thirty, Brother Erickson.” Frank took his Bible back. “Are you coming in?”

“In a minute, Frank.”

Frank stepped inside the outer lobby and removed his topcoat, brushing it off. When he entered the inner lobby, he saw several people clustered in little groups. They were visiting before taking their seats. Many of the regulars greeted him, and he stopped to talk with one young couple.

Brother Erickson came in. “The service begins in five minutes, folks,” he loudly declared. “Let’s not keep the Lord waiting.”

Frank turned toward the left aisle and saw Rachel standing at the end of the balustrade. Gazing down the aisle, she appeared to be waiting for someone. She had on the white satin blouse and the black skirt. Her long blonde hair was hanging over her shoulders.

Frank’s pulse quickened. He had been attracted to her from the beginning, and he had noticed that she always stood close when she talked to him. Whenever she was near, he could smell her perfumed body and he had prayed to keep his mind on spiritual matters.

As he started to walk by her, she turned and smiled, her blue eyes expressing a fresh sparkle.

“Hi, Frank.”

Frank stopped. “Hi, Rachel.” She put her hand out. He switched his Bible to his left hand and shook her hand.

She delayed in letting go. People entering the aisle greeted them, and the pianist began to play Love Lifted Me.

“Are you going to sing tonight, Frank?” Rachel asked.

When Reverend Anderson learned of Frank’s talent he had been delighted. The church now had two good soloists.

“If Brother Anderson asks me. How about you, Rachel?”

She looked at his dark hair and lean face. “Sometimes I think I sing too much.” I’m so attracted to you, she thought. And she looked at his blue eyes. You must know that, Frank.“

You could never sing too much, Rachel.”

“Thank you,” Rachel replied. She wanted to touch him, but instead she played with the neckline of her blouse. “It’s nice to have someone else perform, especially as good as you are, Frank.”

Frank smiled and said, “Thanks, Rachel.” There was an awkward pause and they both glanced toward the stage. “I. . . I guess I better move on, Rachel.”

Rachel was disappointed as she watched Frank walk down the aisle and drop his topcoat on an end seat.

After greeting Reverend Anderson, Frank took a seat in the musicians’ section on the platform. He tuned his electric guitar and leaned it against the amplifier. After that, he looked over the congregation and waited for the service to begin.

A good crowd tonight, he thought. A hundred and fifty, maybe more.

The visiting evangelist, Reverend Jack Mansfield, was billed as “The Walking Bible,” but he didn’t use a Bible during his sermon.

Six volunteers would sit behind him on the platform. While he was preaching, he would ask one of them to turn to a certain scripture and place a bookmark there.

Ten minutes later they would all have their Bibles filled with bookmarks in different places. And during his message, Mansfield would turn to one of the volunteers and quote word for word one of the passages.

He would do this over a dozen times between the six people, and without opening his Bible he would include every period, comma, and semicolon. He never missed.

The first time Frank had heard the evangelist, he was astonished. It must be a gift from God, he had marveled, and he had prayed that he too could have this wondrous gift.

But I’ve got to receive the baptism of the Holy Ghost first, he thought, and speak in unknown tongues. Maybe tonight will be the night.

He passionately desired this spiritual experience because it was said that you couldn’t understand God’s word without the baptism.





















More than anything in his newfound life, Frank wanted to be a man of God. So he pursued the greatest joy that he had found since his amazing change, learning the word of God.

He had a passion for understanding the Bible. He had to know it, inside and out. He had to understand its doctrines, and live them. And he believed that he would completely understand the Bible someday. He would know the true teachings of Jesus Christ.

Since Frank had become a Christian, doing without sex was his greatest problem.
According to the scriptures, sex was only for married couples.

Dropping the movies and television, giving up smoking and drinking, forgetting about the bars and country music, all that hadn’t bothered Frank. But to do without the touch of hot female skin against his own burning body, to do without the pleasure of making love to a lovely woman, locked in feverish embrace, copulating with sheer abandon, to know that this was over, was a cross indeed for Frank.

It was a problem and he struggled with it daily.

After the song service ended, Reverend Anderson announced that Frank would sing.

As Frank approached the mike with his guitar, he saw Rachel in the audience.

She touched her hair and smiled at him.

Frank pretended not to notice, then he glanced at her husband sitting beside her. He remembered how disappointed he had been when he had learned that she was married.

It hadn’t helped when he realized that she was attracted to him despite being married. It was both tempting and embarrassing to Frank, for she didn’t seem to care what her husband thought.

Now Frank avoided Rachel as much as possible, but it was hard for him to do. It was against his natural desires.

When the meeting was over, the congregation filed out of the auditorium, but some people stood in the aisles talking. Others chatted in the lobbies.

As Frank slowly walked toward the outer lobby, he shook hands with many of the people. He took some tracts from the literature rack. He kept a supply to hand out in the barracks. He realized that most of the airmen threw them away, but he was a witness for Jesus anyway.

Frank glanced around the lobby, hoping that someone other than the Ericksons would invite him home for coffee and fellowship.

He appreciated the Ericksons’ hospitality, yet he longed for people his own age, but in such a small group, there were very few young people.

Frank had no duties on the weekend, so he continued to delay and Brother and Sister Hancock stopped to talk.

When they left, Frank talked with two young couples near the doorway.

Eventually, the Ericksons asked Frank to spend the night in their home.

Frank hid his disappointment and said, “Okay, thanks.” They said good night to Reverend and Sister Anderson and stepped into the cold winter night.

It was still lightly snowing when Frank got into his Chevy and followed the Ericksons, heading for their house across town.















When he had gone home in September, he had gotten the biggest surprise of his life. His parents had been converted only two weeks after his own conversion. And at the time, they knew nothing of Frank’s experience.

Frank thought of how different their lives would be now. He remembered when he was fourteen and he was going to meet the gang at “The Missouri Corner”. It was about two blocks from his house.

Frank had walked through a vacant lot and around the corner of Seeley’s Drugstore on Asylum Street.

There he had seen his dad being beaten up by a man named Bill Caruthers. Drunk and bloody, Mister Dorsen was no match for the younger man.

Frank had picked up a brick near the curb and rushed toward Bill. Although Bill was bigger than Frank, he had bolted. Frank had chased him all the way to a steep ravine where Bill ran down into a clump of trees by Swartz Creek.

I don’t know what I would’ve done if he had stopped and my brick had missed his head, Frank thought.

One month later, Frank and the gang had spotted Bill standing in front of a bar and started chasing him. Bill had been so scared that he had dashed through the Chevrolet Plant Four gate, running past the plant guard.

Now Frank’s mother and father were Pentecostal Christians and they attended Faith Temple in Flint. Since their conversion, they were changed people, especially Frank’s father who had so much to change. There were no more violent arguments. And Frank and his parents were closer than they had ever been. It was a miracle to Frank.

The Ericksons’ drove into their one-car garage and Frank parked in the driveway.

After dropping a white blanket on the warm little bungalow, the snow had stopped falling. When Frank went inside with the Ericksons, it was beginning to look very much like Christmas.

Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and if the weather was okay Frank was going to Flint. It was about a five-hour drive. He would be there through New Year’s Eve and drive back on New Year’s Day.

Brother Erickson went to bed, but Frank and Sister Erickson sat at the kitchen dinette, drinking coffee and talking about the Bible. Frank used every opportunity to learn more about the word of God.

Sister Erickson was a short stout woman with green eyes and short grayish blonde hair. Her chubby round face was usually enhanced by a pleasant smile.

She got up and poured more coffee and they sat and talked for another ten minutes.

A short time later she took off her glasses and bowed her head, eyes closed. She seemed to be praying, so Frank quietly waited.

All at once she began trembling, then she got up, eyes still closed. Slowly walking over to Frank’s chair, she stood behind him. She put her pudgy hands on his head and began to loudly speak.

“Thus saith the Lord. I have called you to be a servant of the Lord, and to preach my word throughout the world.”

Though Frank had heard about Sister Erickson’s personal prophecies, he was still stunned.

“And I will return your wife to you very soon. What God hath joined together let not man put asunder. Thus saith the Lord.” Sister Erickson hastily returned to her chair and slumped down, exhausted.

Then she cradled her head in her arms on the table and heavily sighed.

Frank raised his hands and praised God. “Thank you, Jesus, thank you for giving Carol back to me!” He was excited, but he was also doubtful. “Thank you, Lord!”

And please help me believe, he silently prayed, please take away my doubt.

“Oh, thank you, dear Lord, thank you.”

Shortly after the prophecy, Sister Erickson went to bed, but Frank stayed up for another half hour, trying to comprehend what had happened.























5. MANY WINDS

Flint, Wednesday, December 29, 1954.

After supper Frank left his parents in the living room and went to the basement to use the phone.

From the day that he had arrived home, Sister Erickson’s prophecy had been on his mind. Now he was determined to call Carol.

He wanted to call her yesterday, but he couldn’t do it.

Picking up the basement extension, he started to dial, but he stopped. He pulled a lawn chair over to the telephone table and sat down.

Dear God, he silently prayed, help me believe. While trying to steady his nerves, he made himself dial the number. With each ring he became more anxious.

Then a woman answered. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Frank’s voice rasped. “Is this Margaret?” He had hoped Carol would answer.

“Yes,” Carol’s mother replied.

“Hi, Margaret,” Frank said, his voice cracking.

“Who is this?”

Frank swallowed a lump. “It’s me, Margaret, Frank.”

“Frank?” She grew cool. “Oh, I didn’t recognize your voice.” There was a brief silence.

“Uh, how’ve you been, Margaret?”

“We’re all fine, Frank.” Margaret sounded annoyed.

Frank stood up and took a deep breath. “Can I speak to Carol?” He held his breath.

There was another brief silence, then Margaret said, “Carol’s not here.”

“Oh, well, a. . . what time will she be back, Margaret?”

Margaret hesitated, then she said, “She’s gone to Florida, Frank, for the holidays.”

Frank’s heart sank. “Well, I. . . I wanted to talk to her.” He glanced around the basement and tried to think. “Will she be back before New Year’s Day?”

Margaret was impatient. “No, she won’t, Frank. Carol’s on her. . .”

She paused. “Carol’s on her honeymoon, with Bill, her high school sweetheart. The boy she was dating before she met you.”

Frank caught his breath, staggered by the words ringing in his brain.

He sat down, almost falling into the chair. Oh God, no, he thought. It can’t be! He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t think.

Then he forced the words out. “Bye, Margaret,” he weakly said.

Stifling a sob, he hung up and held his bloody head in his hands. He tried hard not to cry, but when he looked around the gray basement, his eyes filled with tears.

Carol can’t be married, he thought. The Lord said she would return to me. Oh, God, what’s wrong? What happened? Is Sister Erickson a false prophet?

Frank sat still for a while, trying to compose himself before he went upstairs.

How could this happen? he thought. I don’t know, but I can’t let it happen again. I’ll find my own way in the Lord and not put trust in other people.

He sighed. No, she’s not a false prophet. She’s just an old lady with a big heart, and her desire to help me blinded her judgment.

* * * *
















Columbus, Ohio, January 2, 1955, Sunday morning.

Frank had returned from the holidays in Flint. When he stepped into the lobby of Champion Revival Center, Sister Macon walked over.

“Brother Frank, you should’ve been here last week.” She was a tall thin woman, about fifty with black hair fixed in a bun.

She had on a long black coat with a silver fur collar, and she was carrying her Bible and notebook. “We had some good services.”

Frank smiled at Sister Macon, but he was depressed. He had been thinking about his brief conversation with Carol’s mother.

Oh, God, he thought, why? He knew now why he hadn’t told his parents about the prophecy.

It was too difficult even for me to believe, he thought. So how could I expect them to believe?

“Happy New Year, Sister Macon,” Frank said, glad that he had been missed.

“I went home for Christmas last week. I hope you had a merry Christmas.” He also wondered about the rest of the prophecy, about preaching the gospel. Is that wrong too? he mused.

“I don’t believe in the devil’s custom of Christmas,” Sister Macon dourly said. Her heavily powdered face took on a frozen look of granite. “It’s the work of Satan”—she shook her finger at Frank—“to take the glory away from God.”

She quickly opened her Bible to a bookmark in the tenth chapter of Jeremiah and read a passage, “For the customs of the people are vain: for one cutteth a tree out of the forest, . . . They deck it with silver and with gold; they fasten it with nails and with hammers, that it move not.”

She paused. “Now what does that sound like to you, Brother Frank?”

Frank was surprised. “May I see that, Sister Macon?” She held her open Bible up and he read the verses.

“Well, it could be a. . . a Christmas tree, but I don’t think that this is really about.

“That’s the trouble, brother, so many don’t think.” Sister Macon started to leave. “But pray about it. You’ll see the truth, if the spirit leads.”

Frank felt flustered as he watched her walk away. He had learned that Christians interpreted the Bible in many different ways and this was puzzling to him.

Every interpretation can’t be right, he thought, so how do I know which one is right?
* * * *

March, Champion Revival Center, Tuesday Night Bible Study.

Frank walked down the aisle to the third row from the platform, then he draped his topcoat over an empty seat. He greeted the few brothers and sisters who were there and sat down to wait.

After Frank’s conversion, Reverend Anderson had informed him that Champion Revival Center was an independent Pentecostal church.

But when Frank learned that the Christian church was split into two hundred denominations, and that there were several divisions among the Pentecostals, he could hardly believe it.

There were branches of Methodists, feuding Baptists, differing Lutherans, casual Episcopalians, fervid Christian Scientists, stubborn Calvinists and the Disciples of Christ. There was the Christian and Missionary Alliance, the Church of the Nazarene, adamant Jehovah Witnesses, and modern Presbyterians, all of the Churches of Christ, and Seventh Day Adventists and their separatists. There were independent and organized Pentecostals, bickering branches of Mormons, and quarreling offshoots of all these denominations.

And all of them were further classified as Protestant to distinguish them from the Catholic Church, which had also reinvented itself many times through the centuries. It was confounding to Frank. It seemed that whenever the wind blew another denomination sprung up.

How can anyone know which church is right? he wondered. They all claim that. And if they all serve the same God, why are they so divided? He couldn’t understand this and it bothered him.

“If there’s only one God,” he had asked Brother Hancock, “why are there hundreds of faiths?”

He had also asked Reverend Anderson, but he wouldn’t ask again. He had heard too many conflicting answers.

But he was determined to know the truth, because all of this was too confusing. He hoped to solve the problem himself someday.

Once I have the baptism, he mused, I’ll know the scriptures, and I won’t have to ask.

Frank remembered something that W. E. H. Lecky had written: “There is no wild beast so ferocious as Christians who differ concerning their faith.”

Frank was beginning to understand what Lecky meant.

Few people attended the Tuesday night Bible studies, but Frank enjoyed them. Tonight there were twelve people present including the teacher.

The pastor usually taught the study, but when he wasn’t there, another elder took over. Tonight the teacher was Brother Hancock.

Frank was glad because Brother Hancock was easy going and allowed more discussion.
The small assembly always sat close together, in the first two rows of seats. The teacher stood near the people.

Frank was sitting in the second row beside the pastor’s wife, Sister Billie Anderson. She had taken an interest in helping him.

The Ericksons were sitting in front of them. Frank hadn’t told Sister Erickson about the failed prophecy because he thought it would embarrass her.

Rachel was sitting with the Ericksons. Her husband seldom came to church with her.

It had been almost seven months since Frank’s conversion and he still didn’t have the baptism of the Holy Spirit. This was bothering him.

He knew that he couldn’t fully understand the scriptures until he had the Holy Spirit.

He had talked with Brother Anderson about this and the pastor tried to reassure him.
















Sister Anderson and Frank were discussing it again. She put her hand to the hollow of her neck and leaned toward Frank. She had on a form-fitting black knit dress. Frank had never seen her dressed that way.

“Don’t worry, Frank,” she huskily said. She brushed back her long red hair. “The Lord’s going to bless you with the baptism soon.”

Because she led the song services so exuberantly, her voice was always throaty.

The Bible Study lasted for about thirty minutes, and Brother Hancock fielded many questions. After that most of the people left.

When Rachel left, Frank was relieved. Only the Ericksons, Sister Olmstead, and Sister Anderson and Frank decided to stay and pray.

Frank knelt at the far end of the first row of seats, where there wasn’t much light.
Several times, he had been near to the baptism and now he was desperate.

It’s the unknown tongues that holds me back, he thought, and speaking in tongues is the proof that you received the baptism.

While the others prayed out loud, Frank tried to lose himself in quiet prayer. Just forget everything, he’d been told, and think only of Jesus. He tried to get into the spirit by recalling previous times of prayer for the baptism.

As he continued to pray he felt someone brush by, then stop. He glanced up and saw Sister Anderson. Her black knit dress was clinging to her slim figure. She smiled.

I guess she wants to help me, he thought. They say she’s good at praying through. He went back to prayer.

Tugging her dress above her knees, Sister Anderson knelt on the carpet beside Frank, placing her hand on his back.

“Sweet Jesus,” she softly began, “please help this young man. He loves you, Lord, but he needs the baptism of power.” She paused. “He needs you, sweet Jesus.”

Frank was instantly aware of her touch, and her perfume, which seemed stronger tonight. As her fingernails grazed between his shoulders, he was troubled at how quickly she had aroused him.

Sister Anderson sensed Frank’s body tensing. “Just pray to Jesus, Frank.” If he’ll just relax, she thought, I can help him.

She patted his shoulder and gently massaged his neck. “I’m right here, Frank, right by your side.”

Continuing to pray, she edged closer and put her arm around him. Her slim leg was resting against Frank’s, and he felt her soft breast touch his arm.

Frank found it hard to ignore the tantalizing nearness of her body, and erotic fantasies began to trouble him. He rebuked the devil because of evil thoughts that were creeping into his mind.

I’ve got to do something, he thought.

In one flowing action he leaned back, subtly moving away. He raised his hands over his head and looked straight up.

“Oh God,” he desperately prayed, “fill me tonight. Fill me with the Holy Spirit. Now Lord, now!”

As he praised God, his lips began to tremble.

When Sister Anderson saw this, she placed her hand under his chin to jiggle it.

“That’s it, Frank. Tell Jesus you love him!” She raised her hands and praised God, then she turned back to Frank. “Lay down on your back, Frank. It’ll help you relax.”

Frank reluctantly lay down on the floor and raised his hands, trying to forget Sister Anderson and the others looking on.

Sister Anderson reached across his upper body and placed a hand on either side of him, then she straddled him. This caused her tight dress to creep farther above her knees.

As Frank continued to praise God, he felt strands of her long hair stroking his face.

“Make love to the Lord, Frank,” she whispered, her moist lips touching his ear. She was almost lying on him, and her breast brushed him again.

When she leaned back, Frank was grateful, but then she took his chin in hand, jiggling it more.

“Speak in tongues,” she demanded. “You can do it, Frank. Speak—speak in the tongue of the living God!”

In spite of Sister Anderson’s provocative presence, Frank was determined to attain his supreme goal. He desired the power of God with all of his soul, and he vowed that nothing would stand in his way.

He wouldn’t let Sister Anderson’s seductive fragrance, nor the touch of her bewitching body, keep him from the baptism of the Holy Spirit.

I gotta have the baptism, he thought. I gotta have it tonight!

As he continued his praises, his consciousness began to fade. Now he lost sight of everything but God. Everything seemed unreal, and nothing on earth mattered. He was in another world, in a semiconscious state.

Flat on his back he was mumbling unintelligibly, absorbed in the presence of the Eternal One.

Frank began quietly. “Shondo makai, reondo messiah.” Then with great confidence. “Shondo makai, reondo messiah!”

“Praise the Lord!” Sister Anderson hoarsely yelled.

She jumped to her feet and clapped her hands. “That’s it, Frank, that’s it. You’ve got the baptism of the Holy Ghost!”

The others quickly stood up and raised their hands to the heavens.

I’m doing it, Frank thought. I’m speaking in tongues, and it’s so easy! Why did I wait so long? I’m speaking in tongues, and I’ve got the power of God!

He was spiritually intoxicated and overwhelmed with joy. “Shondo makai, reondo messiah!”

Little did Frank know that he would need to store all of the joy that he could, for a perilous journey lay ahead of him.

It would include a mission that would test the limits of his courage, and at the end, threaten his life.

But on this night of ecstatic fulfillment, that hazardous charge could wait for another time.






















CITIZEN of THE UNIVERSE / Copyright 2004 Lee Herald

Published in New Thought magazine, Autumn 1994






Photo By
NASA via Getty Images







SURELY THERE IS GRANDEUR IN KNOWING THAT IN THE REALM OF THOUGHT, AT LEAST, YOU ARE WITHOUT CHAIN;
THAT YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO EXPLORE ALL HEIGHTS AND ALL DEPTHS;
THAT THERE ARE NO WALLS NOR FENCES, NOR PROHIBITED PLACES, NOR SACRED CORNERS IN ALL THE VAST EXPANSE OF THOUGHT; THAT YOUR INTELLECT OWES NO ALLEGIANCE TO ANY BEING, HUMAN OR DIVINE.
SURELY IT IS WORTH SOMETHING TO FEEL THAT THERE ARE NO PRIESTS, NO POPES, NO PARTIES, NO GOVERNMENTS, NO KINGS, NO GODS, TO WHOM YOUR INTELLECT CAN BE COMPELLED TO PAY A RELUCTANT HOMAGE. --ROBERT G. INGERSOLL, THE GREAT QUOTATIONS, Compiled by George Seldes, Published by POCKET BOOKS, New York, A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.


AN OPEN MIND
One of the greatest riches of life is an open mind in all discussion. Like a golden magnet gleaming in the sun this priceless mental attitude continually attracts knowledge and wisdom.

“The free man is he who does not fear to go to the end of his thought,” said Leon Blum.

Yet, due to the mind-blinding influence of tradition, free thought is an attribute that most people never possess.

The liberated thinker and the hidebound traditionalist were both provided with a virgin mind, but that beginning was their only similarity.

The eclectic thinker knows no intellectual boundaries, but the myopic conventionalist is limited by his dogmatic beliefs.

Early on the highway of life they came to evolution’s fork in the road. One went down a wide freeway that led to mental lethargy, and the other took a narrow pathway that led to invaluable knowledge.

THE DOGMATIST

Unrelenting stubbornness is the calcifying characteristic of the dogmatist. This preachy puritan can’t bear to consider anything contrary to his entrenched creeds from the cradle.

He is a direct descendant of the Christian witch-hunters of the seventeenth century who put their neighbors to death at the burning stake.

Why did they commit murder in the name of God? Because someone dared to differ; because someone dared to think new ideas.

Book-burners and people-burners are one and the same, but in a civilized society they can only burn books.

Moved to hysterics upon hearing a differing viewpoint, they flee from the circle of illumination and hide in the shadows of superstition.

Then, like the proverbial ostrich, they stick their heads in the sand and ignore any opinions that differ from their own.

The narrow-minded fundamentalist is easily identified, for he refuses to read anything not approved by his intellectually inhibiting institution, nor will he tolerate free speech within its walls.

An ever-obedient sheep, he is so steeped in his emotion-encrusted doctrines that he never considers the possibility that he might be wrong.

However, the shifting sands of his foundation are swiftly revealed when he loses his cool at the slightest questioning of his Babylonian beliefs.

Whenever challenged by someone who might upset his applecart, his crafty dodge rarely changes—“I don’t want to argue.”

This proud believer doesn’t realize that his philosophical persuasions are the product of his environment, his personal circumstances.

He doesn’t realize that his parents and his cultural surroundings influenced his “choice” of religion.

He never perceives that his religious tenets are but hasty assumptions, second-hand biases, derived from a geographical accident of birth.

He never understands that if he had been born in India he would most likely be a Hindu.

He never discovers that it is his learned deceptions that forever prevent him from having an original thought.

CITIZEN OF THE UNIVERSE

In stark contrast to the simplistic sectarian, calmness of spirit and patient grace are the refreshing marks of the citizen of the universe.

A man for all seasons, he has learned to control his emotions in a debate. The only lesson needed to gain this control was to be willing to change.

He will listen to any mind-boggling proposal, even if it conflicts with his present opinions.

He will ponder any proposition, though not necessarily subscribe to it. He does not first consider how a new theory would affect his life, a fact that might color his thinking.

He uses the scientific approach to truth. He determines the probability of a concept being true and then ponders its effects on his life.

Standing atop a lofty plateau this unique pioneer surveys the world with panoramic vision.

He is a rarity—a spearhead of evolution—and because of this, the unchanging majority often brands him weird.

Unlike his tunnel-visioned contemporary the book lover knows that change is the only constant, the single eternal event.

Upon hearing a radical hypothesis his unfettered mind coolly stills itself instead of scampering to darkness.

A truly free man, he gladly welcomes anyone presenting a dissenting viewpoint.
He will not always agree, but he will listen. He may not accept, but he will consider. He will not change completely, but he will grow somewhat.

Such a person has severed his ties to all of the embalmed establishments that fearfully forbid open discussion. Since he is ever prepared to change his mind he fields dozens of questions about his philosophy.

He is willing to examine every new theory, and he will cast aside beliefs of a lifetime when found in error.

Having no dogma to defend, he does not worry about saving face.

This exceptional explorer understands that error is error regardless of how charming the elder is who teaches it.

He understands that the veracity of a statement has nothing to do with the character of the speaker.

He knows that two plus two is four, computed by Hitler or Gandhi.

A freethinker, he is spiritually related to all of the sages of the past and, like a swelling sponge, he eagerly absorbs knowledge at every opportunity.

Keenly aware of the “use or lose” principle, he continues to exercise his emancipated imagination throughout his lifetime.

The citizen of the universe has spent much of his life in daily contemplation while developing the courage to break away from erroneous convention.

Now he has a reward for this mental discipline, a compensation for his hours of serious study in solitude.

Now his logic and intuition are so sharp that he can recognize fallacy even if from the lips of an eminent scholar.

He will not always know what is true, but more importantly—he will know what is false.



















FEAR of DEATH? / Copyright 2004 Lee Herald

Fear of what?
If we have a massive stroke, or linger on with a painful disease, it is understandable to dread that.
However, that is not fear of death, it is fear of the kind of death.
There is no reason to fear death itself.

Death is a can’t lose situation.
If there is no life after this, we won’t know the difference.
If there is another life we will greatly rejoice, for the theme of this life is making things better, so a second life would be a marvelous advance.

Life after death?
If there is no life after death, God would be the only universal permanence.
That would be a desolate existence, for God would have no connection with similar beings.

I have secondhand proof of life after death.
As my mother was dying, my cousin heard Mom talking with loved ones
who had gone on before.
There is something more extraordinary.

I have firsthand proof of life after death, experiential
evidence of a spirit world.

A spirit visited my bedroom at 3:00 a.m., Sunday, November 30, 1980.

I awoke from a bad dream, yelling, “DAD!”

I seldom have a bad dream, and my father was deceased. I looked at the red numbers on my digital alarm clock.

Then I saw a transparent figure standing by the side of my bed.




















The milk-white specter was about two and a half feet away. He, or She, was tall and slender and had no discernible features.

With outstretched open arms, the spirit peacefully reassured me.
After that, the ghostly figure rose to the ceiling, and glided through the wall.

This was about 60 seconds.

I couldn’t sleep, so I got up to weigh the breathtaking visitation.
“What is this about, God?” I prayed. “Where are you going in my life?”
At the time, I didn’t consider the implications of this visit.

The implication now?

Since I saw a spirit, there must be a spirit world.
Death, then, is a universal “wormhole” to a more wondrous and audacious life.


OFFEND GOD? / Copyright 2006 Lee Herald















The Fundamentalists, and many others, often speak of the peril of offending God. For decades they have discussed this, built sermons around it, and tried to scare people with it.

Now imagine a supreme being that fills the entire universe, had no beginning, has no ending, and is creator of all.

Can we really believe that an all-powerful, incredible, supernatural, mind-boggling being could be offended by a mere mortal?

Psalm 119:165 - Great peace have they which love thy law: and nothing shall offend them.

If nothing can offend the followers of God, then how can God be offended?

Is She weaker than Her followers?

















OUR LAST CHANCE / Copyright 2006 Lee Herald

We are deceptively lulled, by less important matters, into ignoring the whispering winds of war. It is a whirring whisper that will grow and grow, burning beyond belief, into a roaring, white-hot, thermonuclear inferno. . . . . . . . A raging fire of ten thousand hells, it will be the last war, the holocaust that will never be seen on television, a war so dreadful that survival will be worse than death. . . . . . . . . Lee Herald

THE DISCOVERY OF NUCLEAR CHAIN REACTIONS NEED NOT BRING ABOUT THE DESTRUCTION OF MANKIND . . . A SUPRANATIONAL ORGANIZATION, EQUIPPED WITH A SUFFICIENTLY STRONG EXECUTIVE POWER, CAN PROTECT US. ONCE WE HAVE UNDERSTOOD THAT, WE SHALL FIND THE STRENGTH FOR THE SACRIFICES NECESSARY TO ENSURE THE FUTURE OF MANKIND. ---ALBERT EINSTEIN. THE GREAT QUOTATIONS, Compiled by George Seldes, Published by POCKET BOOKS, New York, A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

IF THE HIGHWAY OF HISTORY REVEALS NOTHING ELSE it does display an invariant vein of violence—the rich against the poor, the strong versus the weak, war after war. Throughout human existence man has waged a perennial power play to be king of the hill. Today, Apocalypse is at our door and knocking loudly. Planet Earth is hurtling toward nuclear destruction.

Why have we never had lasting peace? Many of the ruling men have been warriors, barely out of the cave, and the warlike cannot sustain peace. It is against their hostile nature. Peace would put them out of the ruling business and self-preservation is the first principle of evolution. World peace has failed because of the aggressive nature of many world leaders. Expecting them to make peace is like expecting wolves to protect sheep. The cause of the cancer cannot cure it.

We need more women in government; we need the tender, feminine touch. Yet being female does not automatically qualify a woman as empathetic, and it would be of no value to replace a macho-man with a macho-woman.

OUR SURVIVAL IS NOT A TECHNOLOGICAL PROBLEM. It is a spiritual problem, a problem of values. What do we place a greater value on, people or possessions, life or things?

Our hope does not reside in an unfeeling technology, but in the changing of man’s nature. This transformation is neither a swift operation nor a symptomatic face-lift. It is a structural process—slow and painful—a growing experience that engages three components: suffering, earnest reflection, and time. The unreflective soul experiences very little change and remains the same throughout his life.

People do not change for others. They change for themselves, and they do not change until the pain of continuing their behavior outweighs the pleasure of continuing it. Attitude is the key. Slogans are nothing. Attitude is everything because correct thinking causes correct action.

Our salvation lies in the speed of the adaptability of our species. Do peaceful people—evolution’s marvelous pioneers—live in sufficient numbers now? Will they be in positions of power when needed?

WE LIVE IN THE DAY OF THE SHRINKING GLOBE. For the first time in history what affects one affects all. Because of an ever-globalizing world there is no longer a place called “over there.” Due to instant communication and jet transportation the Earth is now one global megalopolis spinning in space. For better or worse everyone is a neighbor.

Therefore, nationalism is obsolete. Much to the dismay of ambitious world chiefs we now need only one “governor”. There isn’t room for two radically opposed ideologies—democracy and autocracy. Both cannot remain on a planet that is rapidly becoming a single community. Nationalism must cease to be or the human race will cease to be.

We must have one governing body. It is the process of evolution. We will be one world government, a single planetary parliament, or we will become extinct. Never mind now the enormous difficulty of such a task. First see this as the only hope, and then seek answers.

We must mature to unity. Since we are unable to prevent individual rulers from starting wars, we must remove the reason for war. If there is no territory to fight over, there will be no wars.

FREEDOM OF RELIGION must be in the same manner as freedom of speech. We cannot tolerate ignorant incendiaries in either case. No one is free to yell “fire” in a crowded theater, and no bigoted religionist is free to light a match on a powder keg Earth. This planet must not allow inciting to kill in the name of a ruthless, local god.

Strait-laced sectarians have juggled their mental toys for centuries, and have miserably failed to solve social issues. They have had their day. Now they stand in the way, impotently issuing pallid proclamations to bring about peace, thinking that prayer alone will suffice to solve human problems.

We cannot continue to let the appearance of peace pass for peace. Church steeples, synagogues, mosques, turned collars, and friendly smiles can be treacherously deceptive, as students of Fundamental religion’s bloody history know. Those who would be diplomatic concerning this fact fail to realize how late the hour is. Fanatical religions that inspire war are obscene. It is far past time for the world to expose evil, intellectual baubles.

We must now be pragmatic. The health of the earth demands it. Whatever separates caring human beings from one another is evil. No matter how supposedly sacred the creed, whatever divides mankind from communal caring is evil. If a thing works and produces good, then we must make use of it. If it does not sustain well-being, and instead incites division, we must completely expose it before it destroys our fragile world.





















PEOPLE IN THE MEDIA have an obligation, and the self-preservation instinct of the human species has cleverly utilized at least one evolutionary survival tactic. It has maneuvered some of the media into the hands of creative and sensitive persons.

Responsible communicators have a duty to single out and identify the divisive sects and forces of the world. We must condemn dogmatism and intolerance. We are obligated to expose religious zealots for what they are and to clearly reveal the disunity they inspire. Let us look, see, and scrutinize everything, without exception.

There are many ancient institutions, long-standing traditions, cherished religious creeds, and impractical doctrines that have seldom been questioned. Let us boldly question their value now. Let everyone examine them. Turn them over. Think about them. How did we become what we are? How did we come to our beliefs? Can we trust them? Did we diligently search them out with all of the resources available, or were we born into their culture? Most people have adopted the religion of the society in which they were raised.

Are lifeless creeds worth the death of our children, or their survival on a planet saturated with deadly radiation? Are superstitions worth the searing of their eyeballs, the mutilation of their arms, the crushing of their legs? When all of their hair falls out and puss-filled sores cover their wretched little bodies will it matter then whether we are conservative or liberal? Will it matter then whether we are Protestant or Catholic, Jewish or Moslem, Hindu or Sikh, theist or atheist? Are the coldhearted dogmas of division worth the destruction of all we hold dear?

BILLIONS OF LIVES ARE DISRUPTED DAILY by the ongoing struggle between freedom and slavery. Yet only a comparative handful causes this constant harassment of happiness. Who are the people that make up the “handful”? They are the insensitive politicians, the plundering industrialists, the fanatical religious leaders, and the dictators of the world. This destructive minority, perhaps less than twenty thousand, is the source of the suffering of the distressed majority. It is unjust indeed that less than one-tenth of one percent of the Earth’s inhabitants should decide the fate of the rest.

THE CHOICES ARE NOW CLEAR. It is time to choose—nationalism and annihilation, or world commonwealth and life. Yet we are deceptively lulled, by less important matters, into ignoring the whispering winds of war. It is a whirring whisper that will grow and grow, burning beyond belief, into a roaring, white-hot, thermonuclear inferno.

A raging fire of ten thousand hells, it will be the last war, the holocaust that will never be seen on television, a war so dreadful that survival will be worse than death.

Margaret Mead said, “We need to devise a system within which peace will be more rewarding than war.”

This is the system—-one world government.

THE SECRET OF THE BOMB SHOULD BE COMMITTED TO A WORLD GOVERNMENT . . . . . DO I FEAR THE TYRANNY OF A WORLD GOVERNMENT? OF COURSE I DO. BUT I FEAR STILL MORE THE COMING OF ANOTHER WAR OR WARS. ANY GOVERNMENT IS CERTAIN TO BE EVIL TO SOME EXTENT. BUT A WORLD GOVERNMENT IS PREFERABLE TO THE FAR GREATER EVIL OF WARS. ---ALBERT EINSTEIN. THE GREAT QUOTATIONS, Compiled by George Seldes, Published by POCKET BOOKS, New York, A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

THE FOLLOWING ALARMING HEADLINES ARE BUT A FEW CULLED FROM YEARS PAST.

The Arizona Republic . . . Thurs, May 26, 1994
RUSSIAN MOB MAY SOON BE ATOMIC PERIL, FBI WARNS, By Steve Goldstein, Knight-Ridder Tribune

Parade Magazine . . Sunday, Nov 2, 1997
Parade’s Special Intelligence Report, NUCLEAR TERRORISM HIGH ON WORRY LIST, By Jane Ciabattari

Saturday, May 2, 1998 . . The Denver Post
CHINESE MISSILES TARGETED AT U.S., CIA REPORTS By John Diamond,
The Associated Press

The Gazette . . Saturday, August 1, 1998
NUCLEAR MISTAKE POSSIBLE IN INDIA, PAKISTAN CONFLICT, The Associated Press

The Arizona Republic Friday, Sept, 10, 1999
U.S. FEARS OF MISSILE STRIKE RISE, Report names China, Russia and North Korea --Republic News Services

The New York Times . . . Thurs, June 20, 2002
INDIA-PAKISTANI TENSIONS SUBSIDE, BUT NUCLEAR FEAR IS FAR FROM OVER, By Celia W. Dugger

CAPE TIMES . . . . . . .September 8, 2002
'NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST' WAS PLANNED FOR SEPT 11

October 13, 2002, Sun . . . The New York Times
THE WORLD: AT THE BRINK, THEN AND NOW; The Missiles of 1962 Haunt Iraq Debate, By Todd S. Purdum, Week in Review Desk

January 4, 2006, Wed . . . . The New York Times
IRAN TO RESUME ITS NUCLEAR WORK; U.S. Warns of Seeking Restraints,
By Elaine Sciolino, Foreign Desk

February 5, 2006, Sun . . . . . . . . The New York Times
IRAN'S NUCLEAR CHALLENGE: THE WEST; Germany's Chancellor Emphasizes
Urgent Need for Action to Quash Nuclear Program in Iran, By Judy Dempsey (International Herald Tribune); Foreign Desk

CNN . . . Sunday . . . . . . . . February 19, 2006
STUDY: BRAIN FINDS A WAY TO DENY NEGATIVE FACTS

KNOWLEDGE OF HOW TO BUILD NUCLEAR WEAPONS MAKES DISARMAMENT RELATIVELY USELESS. . . . THE REAL QUESTION IS NOT WHETHER NUCLEAR WEAPONS HAVE POSTPONED WORLD WAR THREE; THE REAL QUESTION IS WHETHER THEY HAVE ELIMINATED ITS POSSIBILITY FOREVER. ---MARTIN HELLMAN





















PART ONE of AN INDICTMENT of WORLD LEADERS
(C) 2000 LEE HERALD

About 94,000 Words – Genre: Thriller
All Rights Reserved
















CONTENTS
PART ONE
1. FIRST CONTACT
2. ROBYN JARVIS
3. A CRY FOR JUSTICE
4. AN INDICTMENT OF WORLD LEADERS

PART TWO
5. THE CALL
6. JUSTICE DRAWS NEAR
7. THE CALLING CARD
8. A WORLD OF LOST CHILDREN
9. WHO IS THE JUDGE?

PART THREE
10. THE PRIME SUSPECT
11. TERROR IN THE DARK
12. CONGRESSIONAL LUST
13. THE SMELL OF DEATH
14. WORLD IN A HURRY
15. WHAT IS THE MAJOR STEP?

PART FOUR
16. THE LAST DEADLINE
17. THE ONLY WITNESS
18. THE GATES OF HELL
19. A CORRUPT GOVERNMENT AND THE GREAT WHORE
20. POLITICAL FEAR
21. FORMULA FOR EQUALITY

PART FIVE
22. PRESIDENTIAL CONSPIRACY
23. PRELUDE TO A MUSHROOM CLOUD
24. WORLD TOWN HALL
25. QUIET PANIC
26. ONE LAST ANSWER
27. APOCALYPTIC HORROR
28. WHAT WAS THE MAJOR STEP?


PART ONE

1. FIRST CONTACT

Chicago. December 23, 1965, Thursday night.

Burt Stephens was ten years old on the night that he first felt the impact of psychic experience, and he would probably be haunted by the encounter for the rest of his life. He had gone to bed at eight-thirty because he wanted to get up early to wrap Christmas presents. He made the presents for his parents yesterday and hid them under his bed.

At 9:00 p.m., a faint reflection from the backyard light filtered into the small, dark bedroom. Sitting in front of a tall window, a high-backed wooden chair created shadowy twin peaks on the opposite wall. In one corner a family picture sat on a little desk, but a shadow hid the mother and father and only Burt’s face could be seen.

In his sleep a black omen enveloped him and he began to softly moan. Soon he awoke in a sweat and threw his blanket back. He felt a powerful premonition, so unsettling that he didn’t want to go back to sleep. Wondering if he had been crying in his sleep, he sat up from his damp pillow.

Burt sadly thought, Where’s Mom and Dad? Did they come home yet? As he turned on his bedside lamp, tears welled up in his hazel eyes. Oh, this is awful. He wiped his eyes. What is it? Did something hurt them?

He brushed over his blond hair with his hand, got out of bed, and buttoned his pajama top. After putting on his robe, he went to the closed door and stood there. Then he opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit hallway. Seeing light coming from the living room he was relieved, but remembering that it was the baby-sitter watching television, his relief vanished.

Unwilling to know more about the terrible impression gripping his heart, he stood in the hallway for a moment. Then he went into the living room and looked at the baby-sitter. “Hi, Mary.”

“Oh, Burt,” Mary said, surprised, “did I wake you?” Mary Evans was the family’s seventeen-year-old sitter. She wore blue jeans and a checkered red sweater, and her brown eyes displayed friendliness.

“No, you didn’t wake me, Mary. I had a bad feeling and it woke me up.”

“You look pale, Burt. Was it a dream?” Mary was five-foot-five and slightly chubby.

“I don’t know,” he replied, “but it scared me.” He looked at Mary. “Mom and Dad should be here by now. Did they call?”

“No, they haven’t called.” Mary got up from the sofa and turned down the television. “But they’ve been late before.” She picked up her brush from the coffee table, and as she brushed her long black hair, she sensed Burt’s distress.

Burt glanced at the glistening Christmas tree standing in front of the wide picture window. Sprinkled with silver and decorated with a rainbow of sparkling bulbs, it reigned over the room.

Going over to the window, he looked outside, and heard the howl of the winter wind. Then he recalled a movie and a distant wolf calling to the pack. Beneath the streetlights large snowflakes hovered in the air, as if trying to avoid landing on the frozen ground.

He remembered hearing earlier that it was supposed to drop to ten above by early morning. He shivered and tugged the top of his robe closer to his neck.

Mary sat down. “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, Burt.” She stared at his back, wondering why he was an only child. She had three brothers, and she thought that it must be lonely for Burt.

Burt turned away from the window, oddly looking at the telephone on the end table.

Mary said, “They’ll probably be here any moment and . . .” The telephone rang. “Hello,” she answered, then smiled at Burt. “Yes, he’s standing by the Christmas tree.” She listened. “Okay, Mister Stephens, we’ll see you then.” She hung up.

Burt smiled, and hurried over to the sofa. “That was my Dad?”

“Yes, they’re leaving for home now.” Mary too had a smile on her pleasant, round face. “He said they’d be here in about a half hour.”

“Oh, good,” Burt said, feeling relief, “that’s good.” He sat down to watch television with Mary. “I guess I’m gonna wait for them now.”

Mary glanced at her watch. It was 9:15 p.m. “Okay, it’s not ten yet. Do you wanta catch the rest of Gilligan’s Island?”

“Yeah, sure.” He put his feet up on the sofa and clasped his hands around his bent knees.

Mary got up and switched channels. “Want some hot chocolate, Burt?”

“Okay, Mary.”

She went into the kitchen. When she came back, she handed Burt a steaming cup. “Be careful, it’s really hot.”

“Thanks.”

She set her cup on the coffee table and sat down. They watched television, and lost track of time. When the program ended at ten o’clock, Mary glanced at the door, wondering why the Stephens hadn’t arrived.

Burt got up and went to the window, gazing into the night. “I wonder what’s takin’ them so long, Mary?” The driveway was covered with snow.

“I don’t know, but they’ll probably be here any minute now.”

Burt came back to the sofa and sat down. An anxious half hour later, the phone rang.

Mary answered it. “Turn down the TV, Burt.” He quickly got up and turned down the television, then he sat on the sofa to listen.

But the short conversation was ending. “Okay, Mister Stephens,” Mary said, and hung up.

Burt earnestly looked at Mary. “What’d my dad say, Mary? When are they gonna get here?”

Mary looked worried as she glanced at the clock. “That wasn’t your dad, Burt, it was your . . . .”

“It wasn’t them?”





















“No, it was your grandfather.” Mary turned off the television.

Burt was puzzled. “Grampa?”

Mary sat down and looked at him. “Yes, he said to tell you that he was coming over to see you.”

Burt stood up from the sofa. “Now?” he asked. He felt the dread coming back.

“Yes, he said the roads were bad, but he’d be here in about a half hour.” She looked troubled. She too wondered why the elder Stephens was coming over.

Burt glanced at the clock. “Did Grampa say why?”

“No, he didn’t say.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Thirty years later.

November 6, 1995.

On Monday afternoon the staff at The Phoenix Times was busy preparing Tuesday morning’s newspaper. A low hum of computers, printers and copiers rolled across a sea of gray desks in the large news office and blended in with a buzzing of conversations, creating a hypnotic tone.

Burt Stephens sat at his desk. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, trying to understand the exotic scene that had just popped into his mind. What was it? he thought. What’s happening to me? He grasped for something to hold on to. These thoughts of peculiar places, what the hell are they?

Opening his eyes, he glanced around the office, but no one had noticed him. He tried to shrug off a nagging feeling of remembrance, an eerie impression that he should know what the scenes were about. He started to get up, but he was still gripping the arms of his chair. Relaxing his hands, he waited a moment, then he got up and went for coffee.

Burt was forty, and by working out he consistently maintained 200 pounds on his six-foot-two frame. His straight blond hair touched his collar in the back, and partly covered his ears. He had a face that might have gotten him in the movies, high cheekbones, a Roman nose, and a square jaw. His inquisitive hazel eyes were usually asking questions and expecting answers. He wore a brown sport coat, a green dress shirt without a tie, and tan slacks. He preferred casual clothes.

When he saw Larry at the coffee machine he was thankful. “How’s it going, Larry?” Conversation would give him the opportunity to shake off the weird vision.

“Okay, Burt.”

“How’s the wife and kids?” Burt dropped some coins into the machine.

“Sue has a cold, but the girls haven’t caught anything lately.” Larry was thirty and about five-eleven. He had the body of a runner, lithe and slim. “Are you still working on that political corruption article?”

“Yeah, but I think I’ll finish it today,” Burt replied. “What are you writing?”

“I’m on nuclear thefts.” Larry sipped his coffee.

“Has there been another one?”

“Not recently, but I’m writing a follow-up on a European theft in June ninety-four.”

“Let’ see, wasn’t that . . . was it the one in Germany?” Burt got his coffee from the machine.

“Well, there have been several in Germany. This one was in Landshut, northeast of Munich.”

Burt waved at a passing colleague, then he looked at Larry. “Did they catch the guys?”

“Yeah, the police arrested a Czech, four Slovaks, and one German.”

“What did they steal?” Burt sipped his coffee.

“They had nine grams of highly enriched plutonium, two-thirty-five.”

“Getting ready to make a nuclear bomb,” Burt said.

“Yeah.” Larry took a drink of coffee.
















“Nuclear material was better protected during the Cold War,” Burt said, “but now too many people have access to it.”

I found that out since I’ve been covering this.”

Burt shook his head. “And these damned thefts seemed to be multiplying.”

“Like you said, Burt, too many cooks in the kitchen.”

“Yeah.” Burt glanced at his watch. “I got a deadline, Larry. Say hello to Sue and the girls.”

“Will do, Burt.”

Feeling better, Burt went back to his desk with his coffee. Before the troubling image interrupted him, he had been looking at an intriguing note that he had propped against his computer to study.

He sat down. Damn, I can’t leave this on my desk again, he thought. He slid the note in front of him, flat on the desk, so he could conceal it better.

A nine-by-twelve envelope addressed to him had come in the day’s mail. After opening the clasp envelope, he knew for sure that this Monday would not be a routine day. The strange note had been clipped to the first page of a lengthy article. Glancing around the noisy office, he wondered if the note was a practical joke.

It seems too serious to be a joke, he thought.

Across the room, a brunette coworker waved and smiled at him.

Burt smiled and waved back. But if it is a joke, he thought, maybe that’s what she’s grinnin’ about. The brunette turned away to answer her phone. Then he held the note with both hands and examined it.

Burt was a contradiction of terms; he was an objective investigative reporter, an opinionated columnist, and a reluctant psychic. The phone rang. “Burt Stephens,” he answered. Then he listened. “Okay. I’ll have it done this afternoon.”

As soon as he hung up, he picked up the note, contemplating its incredible message. He shook his head in amazement. Whoever sent this has one hell of an imagination. I’ve never read anything like it. He sipped his coffee and glanced at the article, then he continued to examine the note.

He heard a spirited discussion going on and looked across the office. The editors were leaving the conference room, ready to put in motion the day’s decisions, which would affect tomorrow’s newspaper. One of them mentioned O. J., and Burt wondered if there would be another story about his acquittal of the brutal murders of Nicole Simpson and Ron Goldman. But whatever the lead story, the Times’ giant presses would soon be printing the next morning’s edition, unfolding the bizarre and the ordinary in a world at war with itself.

A fresh newspaper still aroused Burt’s curiosity, and stirred him to write his eclectic opinions in his columns. He looked at the bottom of the note, enthralled by the mystical signature, but trying hard to resist that sentiment. In spite of the fact that he’d had some startling psychic experiences, he was a natural skeptic, and he wouldn’t spend time with most sensationalistic mail.

But there’s something different about this package, he thought.

“Larry,” an editor yelled from across the aisle, “meet me in the conference room, and bring your write-up.”

When Burt saw Larry hurrying down the aisle, he waved at him.

Hearing the wailing siren of an ambulance racing by, Burt put down the note and looked at the window. A large crow landed on the windowsill. Burt stared at the glossy black bird, amused by the notion that it was staring back at him. I wonder what he’s got on his mind, probably food and trouble.

The sound of a siren often made Burt feel sad, beginning when he was ten. Two days before Christmas 1965, Burt’s heartbroken grandfather had to tell young Burt that his mother and father had been killed in an accident. It was the hardest thing the elder Stephens had ever done.

Burt’s parents had been on an assignment for the Chicago Tribune. They were returning home late at night when their car slid head-on into the icy path of an eighteen-wheeler.

At the funeral, Burt had wiped his eyes and asked, “Why are the caskets closed, Grampa? Aren’t they supposed to be open so we can see Mom and Dad?”

Mr. Stephens had swallowed a lump. “Well, sometimes the funeral director thinks its best that way, Burt.” He had taken Burt into his home and raised him. As the years went by, Burt learned how supportive a loving grandfather could be, but Christmas had never been the same.

I’ll call Grampa tonight, he thought.

He gazed at the forceful words in the note, lightly brushed his fingers over the extraordinary print, and wondered what typeface it was. The feel of the paper was also impressive, smooth and rich. He was irked by his attraction to the package, yet it continued to invite him.

The phone rang. “Burt Stephens,” he gruffly answered. His frown melted into a smile. “Grampa--I was just thinking about you.” He listened. “Tomorrow night?” He looked at his calendar. “Sure, I’ll be over about seven-thirty.”

After they chatted for a while, Burt hung up and glanced at his watch. He had a meeting with his editor shortly, but he wanted to read the curious note once more. He looked down and began to read.

Mister Stephens, you will know when the time has come to publish this indictment that I . . .

The executive editor walked by. “How’re you doing, Burt?” Phil Gaines had been the exec ed for ten years.

Burt quickly covered the note and article, then looked up. “Good, Phil.”

“Let’s review your political corruption piece. My office in ten minutes.”

“Okay.”

As Phil walked on, he glanced back. “I assume it includes something on President Archer.”

Burt grinned. “You know it does.” He uncovered the note. Maybe I should tell Phil about this now, but how do I know there’s anything to it?

After struggling with the idea, Burt’s compelling psychic history overrode his journalistic sensibilities, and he decided not to say anything yet. He quickly read the note again.

Indictment, he thought, what kind of indictment? That must be in the article, but I don’t have time now. He put the article and the note back in the large envelope. When he started to put the envelope away, he glanced at the address. The typeface is the same as the note, but I’ve never seen anything that resembles it. He put the envelope in his bottom desk drawer and locked it, thinking that he would look at the package again before he went home.

In 1990, when Burt was thirty-five, he reluctantly started recording his psychic experiences. He had been reluctant because he didn’t like things that he didn’t understand. The remarkable adventures had begun when he was a young boy. At that time, he was wide-eyed and perplexed. Later, after he learned of the scientific community’s attitude toward the paranormal, he became skeptical. Now, he couldn’t understand why anyone would want to have such experiences.

They always leave so damn much unanswered.

But in spite of his skepticism, his pragmatic side had realized that he shouldn’t ignore this part of himself. So, he tried to understand each abnormal happening and consider if it had a purpose. This was often frustrating, because if there was a purpose, it wasn’t always apparent.

After Burt went over his assignment with Phil, he went to a staff conference. After that, he worked on his next column until he decided to stop for the day. Turning his computer off, he prepared to leave.

When he went down the steps to the parking garage it was getting late. He saw the sports editor across the lane.

“Hey, Burt, leaving early?”

Burt stopped at his car and smiled. “Early? Can’t you see it’s almost dark?”

“Yeah, but you’re usually still at it when I leave.”

“I got to take a break sometime, Mark.”

Mark smiled. “Did you go easy on President Archer?”

Burt opened his car door. “About as easy as he goes on the homeless.”

“So, you clobbered him.”

“You can read it tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to that.” Mark opened his car door. “See you tomorrow, Burt.”

“Right, Mark.”

Mark got in and backed out of his slot, then he drove off.

Before Burt got in his car, he cautiously looked back at the murky stairwell. He couldn’t see any movement in the shadows, but he sensed that something was there. He tugged at the collar of his sport coat, mesmerized by the stairwell.

Shortly after Burt started recording his dreams, a mysterious presence began appearing in some of them, not as a participant, but as an observer. Whenever the observer was in a dream, he always stood to the side, watching. This had gone on for five years, and from time to time Burt uneasily thought that he could feel this presence nearby, watching him. But he couldn’t explain this; it was just a feeling. Exasperated, he glanced at the dark stairwell again, then he got in and drove away, heading for home.

Psychic happenings no longer astonished Burt, though many were baffling and some downright annoying. One month ago, he’d had another one.
* * * * * * * *
October, early morning.

Stepping out of the kitchen and into the carport, Burt locked the door. He rolled the trashcan out to the curb, then he went back to his car and started to get in.

Dammit, I left the news file on the kitchen counter. Going to the door, he tried to push his key in the lock, but it wouldn’t go in. Then he saw that the tip of it was bent beyond use.

“Oh no, it’s happening again,” he mumbled. Troubled, but not surprised, he wondered when the key had bent itself. Well, it had to be in the last two minutes. I just locked the door with it.

Irked by the experience, he wondered if the bent key meant that he was going to move. Oh hell, it probably doesn’t mean anything, he thought, but he didn’t feel sure about that.

He got his spare house key from the glove box in the car and unlocked the door. Later that evening, he took a large hammer and flattened the curved key back into shape.
* * * * * * * *

Driving along, he thought of another occasion. He had turned off his bedside lamp at ten o’clock and had fallen asleep, only to awake at two in the morning to find the lamp on. The first time the lamp turned itself on, he turned it off and fell asleep again. The next time, about a week later, he got up and looked around the house. He wondered if the light might be a warning, or if it meant that he should be up doing something important. Yeah, he had thought, like sleep’s not important.

Irritated, he had turned the lamp off and gone to sleep again. He knew how the lamp had come on. His uninhibited, nocturnal mind had been playing psychokinetic tricks again, mind affecting matter.

Sometimes he was reluctant to write down his psychic experiences. But when the key had instantly bent itself, and the lamp had turned on three nights in one week--and twice in one night--he knew that he should record these queer happenings. Because of his slumbering psychokinetic ability, he thought that he might be unconsciously disturbed about something. That troubled him.

He had quit surmising why these things happened, they just did. But they were hard for him to accept, and he had wished for several years that they would stop. After many odd looks from his friends, he had learned not to talk about them. Now, except for confiding with his grandfather, he buried them deep within, hoping that he could live an ordinary life.

But no matter what Burt might hope, his life would never be ordinary, and in fact would become more incredible. He turned onto his street, and then into his driveway.

Recently, Burt had read a statement by a leading war researcher that bothered him. The historian said, “After the end of the cold war, some world leaders agreed that the possibility of nuclear war was over.”

This report nagged him until he decided to search for more information. What he had found confirmed his own belief—-that preventing nuclear holocaust was nearly impossible. He would later learn of a terrifying calculation by a respected mathematician. The conclusion of this probability thinker would shock the world, and perhaps lead to the final global conflict.

* * * * * * * *

Downtown Phoenix, Tuesday, November 7.

The young man walked up to the sidewall of an empty commercial building, glanced down the alleyway, and carefully looked up the street. Temporarily satisfied with his situation, the graffiti artist began his mission to the world. He painted his first word—-BEWARE.
While the desert sun beamed down on his back, he spray-painted more words on the beige wall. Standing back, the artist ran his fingers through his long, stringy black hair, then he shaded his dark eyes and surveyed his work. In large black letters the words now formed a phrase, BEWARE ALL YE.

With skilled swirls of his hand, the man continued his artistry. Soon the somber admonition identified the group of people who should be concerned. BEWARE ALL YE HEADS OF EARTH.

The young man enthusiastically shook his paint can and went on, unveiling more to the world. A terse new sentence revealed the reason for the warning—-THE JUDGE IS COMING!

When the man completed the ominous message, he walked five yards away. Then he turned around for a better view of his prophetic creation. His eyes reflected his satisfaction.

BEWARE ALL YE HEADS OF EARTH
THE JUDGE IS COMING!
BEWARE!
FOR HE WILL INDICT THE LEADERS OF THE WORLD!


2. ROBYN JARVIS

Wednesday morning, November 8, 1995, The Phoenix Times.

It had been two days since Burt Stephens received the strange package. Sitting at his desk, he scrolled down the monitor and searched the Internet. He needed information for an investigative report.

Larry stopped by. “How’s it going, Burt?”

Burt looked up. “Keeping busy.”

Larry glanced at Burt’s screen. “What are you working on?”

“Gathering material for an article on Newton Mercer.”

“Newton Mercer?” Larry chuckled. “If I know you, that’ll be a hair-raiser.”

Burt smiled. “You got the wrong idea, Larry. I’m not writing a thriller.” He nodded at a friend passing by.

Larry grinned. “We all know that your—-ex po zays—are not too thrilling for your victims.”

Burt laughed. “Victims?” He always stood up for the little guy, but because of his robust appearance and persistence for the facts he was sometimes mistaken for a hard-ass. “What about Mercer’s victims?”

“Yeah, that’s true, Burt. He put a lot of people in desperate situations with those junk bonds in the late eighties.”

Burt said, “And Mercer’s the only big fish that the justice department failed to get for securities fraud.”

“Not enough evidence, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Burt replied, “and if I can, I’m going to kick his two--billion-dollar ass.” He took a file out of his desk drawer. “Did you finish your follow-up on the nuclear thefts, Larry?”

“Should be done tomorrow.”

Burt turned his swivel chair away from the desk and looked at Larry. “That’s exciting work. Is Hank going to keep you on that?”

“Maybe, as long as the nuclear thefts continue.”

“That could be a long time.”

“I’m scheduled to do another report on a European sting operation,” Larry said.

Burt briefly reflected. “Wasn’t there an arrest in Germany?”

“Yeah. They caught the guys at the Munich airport.”

“How many did they nail?”

“They arrested three men on a flight from Moscow, a Columbian and two Spaniards.”

Burt shook his head. “These damned terrorists are persistent.”

“And these guys had fourteen ounces of plutonium two-thirty-nine,” Larry said.

“I guess all the stuff is coming out of Russia.”

“Yeah,” Larry replied. “The Russian authorities have promised to track down the sources, but I’d like to see our own government get serious about this.”

“Our leaders are dragging their heels again,” Burt agreed. “They need someone to hit them in the head before they react.”

“Yeah.”

“But there’s another problem,” Burt said. “Too many governments on planet Earth.”

“Too many chiefs, and not enough Indians,” Larry said.

“Right, and there isn’t a flow of information from one country to another.” Burt reflected. “I’m trying to remember what Einstein said about controlling the nuclear genie.” He paused. “But I can’t get it right now.”

Larry glanced across the newsroom, then looked at Burt. “You ought to do an in-depth investigative report about this, Burt. You could scare up some red faces in Washington.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Good.” Larry saw his editor approaching. “See you later, Burt. Gotta see what Hank wants.”

* * * * * * * *

Later that day a story began to develop in Phoenix that Burt might be assigned to cover.

A dusky evening was coming on, unusual for the valley of the sun. In the gray sky the sun sat on the horizon, faint rays casting a dim shadow of a saguaro cactus on an elementary schoolyard. Clothed in contrasting colors, like the hues of a kaleidoscope, several young children were noisily playing in the sandy yard.

The children lived in the neighborhood, many of them across the street. Although most had been warned about strangers, they were all unaware of a man standing thirty yards away, who had watched them for ten minutes.

The man was white, five-foot-ten, forty-five and stockily built, with dark wavy hair and long thick sideburns. He had on baggy black slacks, a tan shirt, faded tennis shoes, and a jean jacket. As he considered which little girl to choose, his pulse quickened and his dark eyes shimmered.

The sun had set.

In the twilight Darwin’s eyes narrowed to slits as he made his choice, a seven-year-old girl in a yellow dress. Blue-eyed and slim as a reed, freckles dotted her happy face, and her long blonde hair fell below her delicate shoulders. Darwin’s heart beat faster as he thought of grabbing her. He was pleased that the girl’s mother had helped him make his selection.

She dressed her little precious in bright yellow, he thought, so she’d stand out for me.

But things didn’t always work out for Darwin. At a school in Albuquerque, a father had come for his child only moments before Darwin was about to snatch her. And Darwin had been arrested in Las Vegas on a molestation charge, but he was released because of tainted evidence. Then he had grown bolder, realizing how hamstrung the police were.

When the rabid slaughter first began, Darwin was upset with himself. He had repeatedly gagged whenever he was done with a child, finally throwing up. There were several days when he avoided looking in a mirror. One time he had broken the bathroom mirror, splattering it with blood from his fist.

Darwin had come to the need for little girls because he couldn’t get what he wanted from women. His rage had begun when he got tired of being turned away. He had heard some men meekly say, “If women could just say no politely.” Other men were furious and said, “I could kill that fucking bitch!”

Others only think about killing, Darwin thought, but I do the job. The Bible says thinking about it is as bad as doin’ it, so the thinkers will all burn in hell with me. Darwin was hardened by his evil edge now.

The streetlights came on. A mother stepped out of her adobe house across the street from the school. She glanced at the darkening sky, then she yelled for her son. He didn’t answer, but when she started across the street, he popped out of the crowd. After that, two more mothers came out and called for their children. Then all of the kids began to run toward their homes.

One ten-year-old boy challenged his little sister to a race, the girl Darwin had chosen. “Robyn,” Jimmy yelled, “betcha I beat you home!” He turned and ran toward the street.

Robyn laughed and ran after Jimmy. She was the last one to leave the schoolyard.

Darwin cased the street and quickly came down the sidewalk. He knew it was risky, but that was an exhilarating part of it. Seeing that Jimmy wasn’t looking back, he seized his chance. Just as Robyn crossed his path, he clamped a thick hand over her mouth and picked her up. Robyn wildly kicked and tried to scream, and Darwin ran around the corner of the school. No one was in sight, so he headed for a deserted park about 150 yards from her house.

He set Robyn on the ground, but she got up and ran, frantically looking toward home. “Daddy, help me--DADDY!” When she stumbled over a park bench, Darwin easily caught her. As he put his hand over her mouth, Robyn glimpsed a sliver of light.

A tall young man stepped out of his house onto the front porch. Robyn’s father came down the steps and stopped at the bottom, looking toward the school.

* * * * * * * *

At that same time, Burt was driving home. He lived seven miles northeast of the Times office. He was thinking about the dark stairwell in the parking garage, and the weird sensation that he’d had Monday, that something was lurking there. He wondered why he’d thought that the “something” might be the mysterious presence that had been appearing in his dreams.

He tried to remember exactly when the strange observer first appeared. He knew that it started right after he began recording his dreams. He hadn’t given the appearance much thought at first, but when the observer continued his nightly invasion, it began to weigh on Burt’s mind. Again, he wished that he wouldn’t have any psychic experiences.

This is all so crazy, he thought. I think I’m going to quit recording my dreams. I’ve got to shake these things once and for all. They’ve gone on way too long. I’ll talk it over with Grampa.

* * * * * * * *

Behind a row of thick bushes, Darwin tore off Robyn’s dress, but she wrestled out of his arms and started to run. Nearly naked, she stumbled into a shallow pond.

“Daddy!”

Darwin grabbed her arm and slapped her face. “Oh . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you, but you . . . you got to quit fighting.”

Through strands of flaxen hair, Robyn’s blue eyes brimmed with fear. She stared at Darwin’s hard eyes and lined face. “I want my Mommy!”

Darwin threw her to the ground and straddled her, slamming his hand over her mouth. Sweat appeared on his face.

Robyn’s Chihuahua dog ran up, barking at Darwin, then he came closer. When Darwin jerked Rusty over by the collar, the little dog whimpered. Darwin broke his neck and flung him away.

“Oh, Rusty,” Robyn cried. Darwin muffled her mouth again.

* * * * * * * *

Jimmy ran up to the porch where his father was standing.

Ed Jarvis had on tan slacks and a white dress shirt without a tie. He glanced at the shadowy schoolyard.

“Where’s Robyn, Jimmy?” I’ve told him so many times to stay with her, Ed thought.

Jimmy looked back at the empty street. “I don’t know, Dad. She started to race me home.” The porch light revealed Jimmy’s perplexed look. He just remembered that he had forgotten to stay with Robyn. “I bet she hid on the other side of the school, Dad.”

“Rusty must be with her,” Ed mumbled. He brushed back his brown hair with his hand.

Jimmy looked down at his shoes. “Sometimes she hides, Dad.” He scratched his freckled nose.

“I know, Son, go get her. Hurry now.”

Jimmy ran across the street and headed for the other side of the school. Ed went into the house.

* * * * * * * *

As Robyn struggled with Darwin, she ripped a button off of his shirt and bit his hand.

“Ow . . . you little bitch . . . you’ll pay for that!” Darwin slapped her face again. “I’m sorry . . . but it’s . . . it’s your fault.”

Wild-eyed, she grabbed a large rock and slammed it against the side of his head.

“Goddamn!” Darwin said, groggily clutching his head.

Robyn slipped from his grasp and tried to run again. “DADDY!”

Blood matted Darwin’s hair and he angrily grabbed her ankle. “I tried to be nice to you, but if I . . . if I have to . . . I’ll kill you and . . . and then fuck you.”

He slammed her head against the ground and straddled her again. “The Lord’ll punish you . . . because he’s given you to me!” Spittle dribbled from his open mouth and fell on Robyn’s face.

Robyn beat at him with tiny fists, but he clasped his hand over her bleeding mouth and gazed at her body.

In the leaden night sky, the moon came out from behind the clouds. Unwilling to provide light for the horror below, it solemnly slipped back into the haze.

* * * * * * * *

While Burt drove along a residential street, he thought about the mystifying note and its powerful accusations, wondering what he would do with it. He smiled when he saw a little girl playing in front of her house, but unexpectedly he felt sad, an overwhelming sense of sorrow.

These damn premonitions. God I hate them, and they’re always so surprising.

He looked in his rearview mirror, and then turned around at the next block. Slowly driving by the house again, he rolled down his window and peered at the little girl.

She seems to be all right, he mused, but the porch light isn’t on, and there isn’t anyone watching her. Dammit, she shouldn’t be out in the dark alone.

The girl’s father stepped out of the front door and called her in, then he suspiciously watched Burt speed away. As Burt drove on, he wondered why the awful premonition was still heavy in his heart.

* * * * * * * *

Jimmy ran toward home, breathing hard.

Ed opened the front door and saw Jimmy running across the street. “Where’s Robyn?” Ed yelled.

Jimmy came up to the porch. “I didn’t see her, Dad. I don’t know”—-he tried to catch his breath—-”where she’s hiding.” Jimmy wished that he had stayed with his little sister.

Ed came down the porch steps, his blue eyes troubled. He remembered when his neighbor’s little boy was briefly missing. Tom had anxiously asked, “Have you seen Bucky, Ed?” At that moment, Bucky had come down the sidewalk pedaling his new tricycle. Ed had elatedly yelled, “There he is, Tom!”

“Did you look in the park?” Ed asked Jimmy.

“I ran back to . . . to tell you, Dad.”

With Jimmy following, Ed hurried across the street, fighting a growing fear.

* * * * * * * *

After Darwin raped Robyn, he kept one hand over her mouth, still straddling her. As he clicked open his knife, he heard noises near the school.

Robyn was barely conscious, but her eyes widened when she saw the steel blade.

He put the point to her slender neck, feeling her tremble beneath him. His dark eyes turned to ice as he moved the knife below her left ear. Hearing sounds again, he put his knife away and grabbed a large rock. He held the rock up high and glared down at Robyn, fascinated by the fright in her eyes.

Robyn feebly struggled, and her heart beat wildly.

“I’m just a kid,” she softly said.

When he bashed the side of her head, her legs kicked once and she softly moaned. Obsessed by a lust for blood, he hit her again and again, mashing her hair into her cracked skull.

Darwin stood up, zipped up his fly, and wiped his bloody hand with his handkerchief. He heard the voices getting closer, but he looked down at Robyn’s lifeless body. “You made me do this . . . You, you should be nice to me.” Then he made the sign of the cross and left.

Only seconds later in the park, Ed saw a clump on the grass ahead. Running toward the small dark mound, he prayed that it wasn’t Robyn. A lump formed in his throat when he looked back at Jimmy. “Get back, Jimmy, stay back!”

Jimmy waited by a tree, but he knew that something was wrong.

Ed saw Rusty’s limp body. “Oh God, where’s Robyn?” A short distance away, he saw Robyn’s yellow dress. “Oh, dear God,” he prayed, “please let her be all right. Please!”

Jimmy craned his neck to see. “Is Robyn okay, Dad?”

Then Ed saw his little girl. “ROBYN!” He glanced back at Jimmy. “Run home, Jimmy. Call nine-one-one! Hurry!” Ed knelt beside Robyn. Seeing her tangled bloody hair and her fractured skull, he was sick with despair. “Oh God, no, no!”

Jimmy stood by the tree, crying. “What’s wrong, Dad?”

“Jimmy--call nine-one-one. Hurry. Oh God!”

As he ran home, Jimmy fervently prayed that Robyn would be all right.

“Oh God,” Ed prayed, desperately trying to revive Robyn. “God, no, please God, please!”

Twenty yards away Darwin stood behind a large tree, glad that it was dark. I should’ve left sooner, he thought, but I . . . I wanted to look at it. He could see Ed kneeling beside Robyn’s body, but he thought that he would be seen if he tried to run. I’ll hafta kill . . . kill the prick to get outta here.

When Ed realized that he could do nothing for Robyn, he wiped his tears and looked up at the dark sky, shaking his fist in the air. “Oh my God, no, no!” He stood up and glanced around the area, listening, but he could only hear the throbbing of his broken heart. In unbearable pain, he draped Robyn’s dress over her body.

Which way did he go? he thought. He looked around the park. Oh God, if I can just catch him! Eyes full of tears, he looked down at Robyn again. Then he started running toward the large tree.

Breathing heavily, Darwin hugged the back of the tree. I gotta kill him, he thought, opening his knife.

Fifteen feet from the tree, Ed stopped and looked around the park, but his sight was blurred. “God help me,” he prayed.

Darwin gripped the knife, ready to grab Ed from behind when he came by. Ed continued on, walking by the tree. Darwin circled the tree and watched Ed’s back, but Ed turned around. Darwin hastily backpedaled around the tree, breathing fast.

Ed started toward Robyn but stopped with his back to the tree, only four feet from Darwin.

Darwin held his breath, afraid that he might be heard. I can’t hold long. I gotta kill him. He moved to the side of the tree to reach out for Ed. He started to grab him from behind, but Ed stepped away and bent over to pick up a scrap of paper.

Only a piece of a newspaper, Ed thought. He stood up and moved farther from Darwin, then he started running back to Robyn.

Darwin took a deep breath.

Ed knelt beside Robyn, tears falling on her bloody head. He caressed her face and gently picked her up. Brushing her hair back, he kissed her bruised cheek. He tried to hum a line of her favorite lullaby, but instead he sobbed deeply.

Some neighbors were standing outside when Ed came back with Robyn in his arms. The streetlight cast a heavy gloom over the night.

Robyn’s mother saw Ed and she ran into the middle of the street screaming. “Oh, my God,” she wailed, “not my baby!” Seeing Robyn’s face she fainted, but two mothers grabbed her arms. Hearing the sorrowful noise, more neighbors came to their doors.

Fifteen minutes later, the first patrol car had radioed for help and several policemen were scouring the area. Many outside lights were on. The neighbors sat on their small porches and in their carports, quietly talking. Some were praying that the police would soon hunt down the bloodthirsty animal that lusted for their children. They longed for judgment to come as swiftly as suffering had.

Flashing squad car lights pierced the night as the police checked the school grounds and the park. A helicopter, equipped with an infrared tracking system, circled the neighborhood. Its enhanced night vision spotted nothing. The ambulance arrived to take Robyn’s body to the morgue.

* * * * * * * *

I’ll be glad when they get the freeway done, Burt thought, continuing toward home. This traffic is getting worse everyday. He saw a squad car ahead, and watched it turned off the boulevard into the Jarvis neighborhood.

I thought so; that chopper overhead is searching for someone. He turned and followed the cruiser. In the middle of the block, the officer pulled over, parking in front of Robyn’s school.

Burt saw a crowd of neighbors standing by the curbs, quietly talking. Something bad has happened, he thought. He eased up behind the squad car. When Burt got out of the car a detective saw him.

“Hey, Burt,” the detective yelled. “How’d you get here so damn fast?” He was about thirty-five, five-foot-nine and slim.

“Just lucky,” Burt answered. He walked over to the detective. “I was on my way home and I saw one of your guys turn down this way.” He looked around the area. “What happened, Alvarez?”

“A little girl was murdered, and we think she was raped too.” Detective Alvarez’s brown face was grim.

Burt shook his head in dismay. “God, I’ll never understand how anyone can do that. How old was she?”

“She was only seven.” Alvarez smoothed back his black hair with his hand.

“Seven years old,” Burt repeated. Children are so helpless, he thought. Sometimes I wonder if you should ever leave them alone, even for two
minutes. This was not Burt’s first child murder report, but it always affected him the same way.

Alvarez glanced at the school across the street, dark eyes blazing. “We’ve been looking for the son of a bitch, but we probably won’t find him.” He looked at Burt. “Now, don’t print that, Burt.

Usually everything would’ve been on record, but Burt had a good relationship with Alvarez. “Don’t worry, Alvarez, I won’t. What’d the guy look like?”

Alvarez gave Burt a description that he had gotten from a neighbor. The neighbor had seen Darwin earlier. “But the guy’s only a suspect at this time,” Alvarez hastily said. “By the way, Burt, your new police beat reporter is getting along fine in his office at the station.”

“Good. He said he’d like to work at the ‘cop shop,’ so the editor gave him a chance.”

After getting as much as he could out of Alvarez, Burt thanked him and headed for home. He had gotten a new house recently, and he was still getting familiar with the route. He liked his neighborhood and new home.

And so far the key hasn’t bent out of shape, he thought, so I guess I’m going to live here for a while.

* * * * * * * *

Three days after Robyn’s funeral, Ed Jarvis remembered seeing an unfamiliar man near the park. Tears welled in his eyes as he drove downtown to the Phoenix Police Station. His appetite was gone and his tall body was leaner.

Ed sat beside the detective’s desk, describing the man. “He was stocky, about five eleven, with dark hair and long sideburns. He had on a jean jacket; it was blue.” His bloodshot eyes pleaded with the detective. “You can find him, can’t you?” He brushed back his hair with his hand.

Detective Alvarez said, “When we do get a suspect, Mister Jarvis, we’ll be able to identify the killer by the blood samples we got.” He glanced at the case folder. “Your description fits a man one of your neighbors saw, but we can’t make any promises that he’s the killer.”

He answered the phone. “Okay, Dick, I’ll get back in ten minutes.” He hung up and handed Ed a mug shot book. “Would you please look through these photos, Mister Jarvis?”

Ed nodded and began leafing through the book. “Beth and I never wanted to leave the kids alone,” he mumbled, “but we checked on them every half hour.” He turned a page. “I was just”—-his voice cracked—-”a few minutes late.” His grim face was etched with sorrow. “Oh God, I hope there really is a Judgment Day.” Unable to see the mug shots, he held his head in his hands.

Alvarez put his hand on Ed’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself, Mister Jarvis.” He glanced at a nearby officer and sympathetically shook his head. “Maybe you can come back tomorrow.”

Ed tried to compose himself. “No, I’ll check them now.” In a moment, he continued looking through the book, hoping he would see the cruel face that tormented his mind. After he finished, he was disappointed, then he stood up. “I’ve got to get back to my wife.”

Driving home, he was overcome with grief. He desperately hoped that he could find the man that he had only seen once but would never forget.

I’d give anything to see him again, he thought. Ed believed that the unknown man was the killer, and he prayed that he could get to him before the police. I may lose my soul, but I’ll slaughter him like the butcher he is. God, forgive me. When I find him—-I’ll kill him!
* * * * * * * *

December.

Burt sat at his desk in the Times offices. Rummaging through his In Basket, he came across a memo about Robyn Jarvis. He briefly scanned it, and then leaned back in his chair. Thinking of the little girl saddened him.

He remembered his grandfather consoling him when his parents were killed in 1965. In spite of piercing heartache over the death of his son, and daughter-in-law, the elder Stephens had spent every waking moment with young Burt. There were times when they cried together.

But Grampa wouldn’t let it get out of control, Burt thought. He would change the subject, and divert my attention. I remember he started a program for us, watching comedies together, making sure that I felt comfortable. Burt thought of Robyn again. He wondered how the family was making it through the holidays.

Jesus, that was so horrible, he mused. She was in her schoolyard across the street from home, and she still wasn’t safe. I’d like to strangle the bastard that killed her.


3. A CRY FOR JUSTICE

January 1996.

At the office Burt sat at his desk, working on a human-interest assignment. He had just finished reading an article about the O. J. Simpson trial, which had begun one year ago. The nation was bitterly divided by the verdict last October, and the news media was still printing the people’s opinions. He read some Letters to the Editor. Most people seem to think Simpson got away with murder, he mused.

With the encouragement of his grandfather, Burt’s career had begun in the mailroom of the Chicago Tribune, during summer vacations from high school. After returning from college, he had been hired again by the Tribune. He had been promoted twice, but when he turned thirty, he had gotten a strong urge to venture west.

He never regretted his decision to move to Phoenix because he liked the people at The Phoenix Times, and he loved his work.

His assignment was about the Jarvis family. Robyn’s case was still unsolved. He remembered stopping at the crime scene while driving home, and deciding that was what his premonition was about.

Since then, he had reviewed the police report and various articles. He had also talked with the neighbor who first described Darwin, “white, about five-foot-ten, maybe forty-five, and built stocky, with dark wavy hair and long sideburns.”

He had to coax the memory out of the man, but he had finally gotten the same description found on the police report.

Burt wasn’t looking forward to talking to Robyn’s parents. As if to get away from the tragic scene, he recalled a troubling statement that he had read in November, that “the possibility of nuclear war was over.”

How wrong can experts be, he thought, to accept such a pipe dream? Sure, the holocaust might be prevented, but not by sweeping the unpleasant thought under the rug.

He resisted taking out the large clasp envelope locked in his bottom desk drawer, but he still brooded about it. He remembered a sentence in the third paragraph of the note that puzzled him.

What does this guy mean, he thought, when the Angel of Death delivers my calling card? Suppose there was such a messenger. Who is he delivering the card to, and where? But maybe the article is just another “end of the world” scare.

The phone rang. “Burt Stephens,” he said, and then listened. “No sir, that wasn’t our paper. You want the Mesa Tribune.” He gave the caller the number, and then hung up.

He recalled some end of the world reports by the Times. One had been his assignment. He had interviewed a minister who was predicting global doom. The preacher said that whoever was baptized by him would be immortal, here and now, on Earth.

Remembering the reverend’s words, Burt chuckled.

“You’ll never die,” the preacher said. Burt had declined the preacher’s offer to be baptized. When the reverend asked why, Burt couldn’t resist. “Well, hell, preacher-—it’s not worth it.”

His thoughts returned to the unusual package. No one knows about this but me, and there isn’t any harm in keeping it in the drawer.

* * * * * * * *

Sunday night, 8:30 p.m.

In the Jarvis home Jimmy was in bed, and Ed and Beth were sitting on the sofa. They were trying to talk without mentioning Robyn. They tried to watch television sitcoms, but they couldn’t watch Robyn’s favorite comedies. Whenever they laughed, they felt guilty and started crying.

They had finally taken down the Christmas tree, but putting away the decorations had been wrenching. It was a family tradition that had delighted Robyn. Her unopened Christmas gifts were still lying in the corner of the living room.

Jimmy wouldn’t play in the schoolyard anymore, and he never went near the park. He spent much time alone in his bedroom. Ed was considering taking him to a psychiatrist.

Ed looked at his wife. “It’s been over four months, Beth, and they still haven’t caught him. Whenever I go to the police station they always say they’re working on the case.” He sighed.

Beth listlessly nodded, smoothed back her long blonde hair, and put her hand to the hollow of her neck. She had lost weight since Robyn’s murder. Set back in her gaunt face, her green eyes were vacant. The floodwater of tears was dammed up for the moment, but the night wasn’t over.

Ed stood up and stretched his tall slim body. “I’m going for a walk, Honey.”

He had been a track star in high school, and he was in good shape. Now, instead of running, he used walking to relieve stress. He took a light jacket out of the coat closet. Going over to Beth, he caressed her face.

She took hold of his hand. “Don’t be gone long, Ed.” She looked at Robyn’s picture on the mantel, remembering countless times when she had combed her hair. “I feel so alone when you’re not here.” The pain in her voice was wretched and it touched everything near her.

Ed was reluctant to leave her alone, but he had to clear his mind. “I’ll be back soon,” he said. Beth let go of his hand.

Whenever he stepped outside the door, Robyn’s school was painfully in sight, and the tormenting vision always came. He would see Robyn in her yellow dress running toward home, waving at him. ‘Hi, Daddy!’

He recalled his last words to her. “Stay with Jimmy, Robyn. Don’t leave the schoolyard without him.” He had put the burden for his little girl’s safety on her own frail shoulders, and now he felt that he had failed to protect her. The streetlight revealed the anguish on his face.

He crossed the street and walked by the school. He had looked for Robyn’s killer on long walks before, and he intended to broaden his search. He knew that it was a long shot, but he had to look. His soul would never rest until Robyn’s murderer was in his grave.

Twenty minutes later, he found himself in a decaying neighborhood, looking for the man he had only seen once but would never forget. He had done this before, but not in such a bleak area. Maybe this is where I’ll find the cowardly bastard, he thought.

Many houses were empty and some commercial buildings were boarded up. Tattered pieces of yellowed newspapers, telling of yesterday’s tragedies, lay scattered along the sidewalk. The gutter was overflowing with broken bottles, crushed tin cans, and shattered dreams. Tall palm trees elegantly lined both sides of the street, now out of place, mementos of better days.

Ed wouldn’t have been there even in the daytime normally, but he had no control. He was obsessed with finding Robyn’s killer.

“Tell me another story, Daddy, please?” He could hear Robyn giggling when she pulled her bedspread up to her chin. “You’re getting too big for stories,” he would say. He remembered tucking her in, and looking back from her bedroom doorway. He saw her scrubbed clean face, the freckles around her blue eyes, and her innocent smile.

I can’t stand the pain, he thought. He leaned against a light pole and sobbed. “Robyn, please forgive me.” He tried to compose himself, then he continued walking along the dingy street.

Coming to a place where some streetlights were out, he stopped, wondering if he dared go any farther. The lights had been victims of flying rocks, or maybe bullets. At the bottom of the poles, jagged pieces of glass littered the sidewalk. Small piles of trash were scattered nearby.

The wasted street was dark and there was no traffic, only an eerie quietness. Ed was concerned, and he decided that he would only go another block. Hearing a shrill cry, he flinched.

Two alley cats ran screeching across the street, gone as quickly as their quarrel had begun.

I guess the son of bitch wouldn’t still be in the area, he thought, but there’s always a chance.

Ed’s heart overflowed with hatred as he thought of getting his hands on the killer. He had a thirty-eight handgun that had been put away for years, but he had cleaned it yesterday. He put his hand in his jacket pocket.

“Oh, God,” he mumbled, “I forgot to bring it.” He was too deep in thought when he left the house. Without the gun, he began to feel uneasy. Turning around, he hurried toward home, glancing back from time to time.

Entering the house, he saw Beth in the kitchen. He went into the bedroom and felt behind a box on the top shelf of the closet. After he brought out the gun, he checked it over. I’ll find him, and I’ll kill him. I swear it! He put the gun back.

Across the street from the Jarvis home a broken tree branch lay in the shadows near the school sidewalk. A dust devil swirled around the schoolyard, and sand and debris blew into the air. But the little branch remained in place, as if hiding something. A strong gust of wind blew low to the ground and blasted the stubborn branch aside.

Now, the streetlight revealed a message scrawled in the dirt--THE JUDGE IS COMING!

* * * * * * * *

Late in the afternoon Burt was sitting at his desk in the Times building. Several times he had determined to read the article in the enigmatic envelope, but there was a mystical aura about it. Every time he took the article out, he felt uneasy. It was a feeling he didn’t want to acknowledge because it seemed foolish.

He thought of the statement in the note that made him feel like an intruder. "You will not read it until it is to be published." He was bothered by the article’s control over him, but he knew it had captivated him because of his strong psychic experience. Burt couldn’t make himself read the article, nor throw it away.

Maybe I’ll just shred the damn thing. It’s probably from a religious nut. The phone rang. “Burt Stephens.” He briefly listened. “Okay, I’ll get back to you.”

Unable to resist, Burt unlocked the drawer and took out the package. He removed the article, and then looked at the colorful imprint at the top of the attached note.

“Burt,” a man loudly said.

Burt flinched at the sound of his name, then he covered the note.

A reporter walked over. “I need some coffee,” he said. “You want to go?”

“No thanks, Dave,” Burt replied.

When Dave went on, Burt uncovered the note. How many times have I looked at this thing. I don’t know, but there can’t be anything to it. Yet there’s that damn familiar feeling.

He thought about the distressful premonition he’d had when he was a child. It had come upon him only an hour before his parents were killed. He had sadly felt that something was about to harm his mother and father. As a ten-year-old boy, all he could do was cry. That sensation of dread and certainty was the same emotion that he felt now, but he didn’t care how accurate the premonitions were. He just wished they’d go away.

He gazed at the imprint of the dark angel, and then looked at the top of the note. The calling card never quits impressing, he grudgingly admitted. I wonder when it’ll be delivered. He caught himself. No, I’m not believing it, but it doesn’t matter because no one knows about this but me. He glanced at his watch. Better get a few things done and then go home.

There wouldn’t be anybody waiting at home because Burt was single. In his last romance he had come close to getting married, but he had backed out at the last moment. It was not her fault; she was intelligent, attractive, and a good lover. But two months after he “postponed” the marriage, she had ended the relationship.

Burt liked children, but he wasn’t sure that marriage was for him.

* * * * * * * *

February, Monday, 8:00 a.m.

Phil Gaines was in his office. “Okay, we’ll talk later,” he said. He hung up the phone. The top part of his front wall was all windows, so he stood up to look over the office.

Burt’s desk sat apart from the others, and was across the room from Phil. When Phil saw Burt standing at his desk, he sat down and called him.

Burt answered his phone. “Burt here.”

“Burt, come over as soon as you can.”

“Okay, Phil.” Burt picked up his coffee cup and dropped a file folder on the desk. Must be important, he thought, he usually yells from the door.

Making his way through the desks, he greeted some coworkers. He glanced at the window of Phil’s open door, Executive Editor. He went into the office and started to sit down.

“Shut the door first, Burt.”

Phil was sixty-four, five-eleven and 180 pounds, with thinning brown hair. He was nurturing a bushy mustache. His round face had friendly brown eyes, and whenever he smiled, dimples formed in his cheeks.

Burt shut the door and sat down. “What’s up, Phil?”

Phil spoke into his intercom, telling his secretary to hold his calls. Leaning back in his chair, he clasped his hands behind his head.

“The Times is going to start an investigation of congress and the administration,” he said. “At Friday’s editorial meeting we agreed that Washington had to make a much better effort to stop worldwide nuclear thefts.”

“Isn’t that what Larry’s working on?” Burt sipped his coffee.

“At a lesser level, yes, but I don’t think he’s got the balls to turn the screws when the going gets tough.”

“I don’t know about that, Phil. I talked with him recently and he seemed to be doing fine.”

Phil sat up. “Burt, I know how it is. He’s a colleague, and a friend, but business is business, and you know that.”

Burt didn’t reply.

“You’re a hard-hitting investigative reporter, Burt, yet you’ve never crossed the line. And you’re my guy. I need you on this. So clear your desk.”

Burt smiled. “I’ll get ready, Phil, but I’ve got some things to put away, and a column to finish.”

The phone rang and Phil answered. “Okay, just a minute.” He looked at Burt. “That’s all right. Finish whatever you have, Burt, and we’ll wrap this up when you’re ready.”

“Okay, Phil.” Burt left and went back to his desk, pondering the coming investigation.


4. AN INDICTMENT OF WORLD LEADERS

March 1996.

In the Times offices, Burt hung up the phone and continued working on a column entitled, “Unconscionable Commerce.” The article was a follow-up about junk bond schemes that had decimated the savings of hundreds of investors and led some to suicide. The report centered on Newton Mercer, the “king of takeovers.” It was rumored that Mercer referred to those who had lost their jobs as “necessary sacrifices.”

How would he feel if somebody thought it was necessary to sacrifice him, Burt thought.

“Burt,” Phil yelled. He was standing in the doorway of his office. “If you can get that second junk bonds article shaped up by two o’clock, I can take a look at it for tomorrow.”

Burt glanced at his watch. “I think I can do that, Phil.” He grinned. “I’ve just got a few more items about Newton Mercer to plant in the piece.”

Phil chuckled. “And I’m sure you’ll plant Mister Mercer with great care.” He stepped into his office.

Burt worked for another half hour and finished the article. He thought about the package again. He’d had a talk with his grandfather about it, and asked his advice.

“Meditate about it, Burt, and listen to your inner voice,” the elder Stephens had counseled, “but use reason too. After that, go by your gut feeling.” Burt always felt better after he discussed a problem with his grandfather.

Does the article mention the millennium, he wondered. Again, he resolved to leave the perplexing package lying in his drawer. I should throw it away, but I’ll wait a little longer, then I’ll read it.* * * * * * * *

Monday morning.

Burt was sitting in Phil’s office, and the door was closed. They were going over ideas concerning Washington’s apathetic attitude toward nuclear thefts. They had been talking for about a half hour.

“You’ll still be writing your column, Burt, and handling other issues, but your main investigative thrust will concern what congress and the administration are doing to stop nuclear thefts.”

“I’ve been turning over some ideas since you told me about this last month.” Burt sipped his coffee.

“That’s good, and after you get some information, you can start prodding the administration and congress in your columns.” Phil paused. “I know they’re concerned, but I just don’t think they’re doing enough.”

“Yeah, and that theft arrest in April gives me something to start off with.”

“Right, seven guys arrested in Slovakia and charged with illegal possession of radioactive material.” Phil took a bite from a chocolate donut.

“They were transporting uranium from Ukraine to some unknown place in Hungary.”

Phil smiled. “You’ve done your homework, Burt.” He glanced at the clock. “We’ll confer on this on a weekly basis, and any time you have something. Any more questions?”

“Not now, Phil.” Burt stood up, and started to leave.

“Oh, one more thing. Don’t be bothered because of Larry. I think he’d like to get back to domestic reports. He won’t miss the nuclear bit.”

“Okay, Phil.”

“Go do it, Burt.”

“Will do.”

Later that day Burt brought out the package from his desk drawer. He put the article aside and flattened the note on his desktop.

If this isn’t a prank, he thought, it could be from a radical religious group. He tried to think of some cults who might have mailed the package, but he dismissed most of them as not being that inventive.

The phone rang. He briefly talked and hung up. When he reached for a pen, he accidentally brushed the note off of his desk. It glided to the floor. Oh hell, he thought, as he got up.

A Metro Desk reporter was walking by and stepped over to pick up the note.

Burt moved quickly. “That’s okay, Greg, I got it.” He reached down for the note. “Thanks anyway, Greg.”

Greg smiled and walked on, then oddly glanced back.

Jesus, I’ve got to be careful, Burt thought. I don’t want anyone to know I’m interested in this thing. He briefly reflected. Grampa’s been a big help whenever we discuss this, but maybe I should talk to someone here too. Maybe Larry. The problem is, what if it got back to the editors?

“Hi Burt, how’s it going?”

Burt hadn’t seen Larry approaching, and in view of recent changes in assignments, he immediately felt uneasy. “Good, Larry, how about you?”

“I’m glad to be back at my old job.” Larry paused. “And I think you’ll do great with the nuclear thefts investigation.” He was married, and he had two little girls who called Burt “Uncle”. They had blue eyes like their father.

Burt felt relieved. “It wasn’t my idea, Larry.”

“I know you, Burt, and that’s why I knew it wasn’t your idea.”

As Burt listened to Larry talking about an upcoming article, he considered confiding in him about the bothersome package. I know I can trust him. But he kept delaying, and then Larry had to leave.

* * * * * * * *

Friday morning.

In the office Burt was sitting at his desk, musing about the puzzling package that he had received in November. No one had followed up on it, yet he still wondered if it was a prank. He hadn’t told anyone in the office about it, but he had come close to telling Larry. He didn’t like the fact that the package was locked in his bottom desk drawer.

He unlocked the drawer and picked up the large envelope. Pulling out the article, he unclipped the note from the first page. He had read the bewitching note more than once, but he wanted to go over it again, one paragraph at a time. Clearing a spot, he flattened the note on his desktop. Still annoyed by his continuing interest, he began to read the first paragraph.

"Judgment for all the heads of Earth will come soon, Mister Stephens, for I have charged . . ."

The phone rang. The caller was an upset reader who disagreed with one of Burt’s columns.

“Okay,” Burt replied, “I’m listening.” He listened for a moment, and then told the caller that he was glad that he had read the column. “I understand what you’re saying, and I appreciate your call.”

The caller calmed down, and at last thanked Burt for listening. After the caller hung up, Burt immediately focused on the note.

"Judgment for all the heads of Earth will come soon, Mister Stephens, for I have charged responsibility for the ravaging of Earth to the selfish ambitions of world leaders."

I have charged, Burt thought. Whoever he is, he sounds like he means business. But is he talking about political leaders or all leaders, social, industrial, religious? The selfish ambitions of the people in charge? Yeah, that certainly explains Earth’s sorry condition. He began reading the second paragraph.

"From your devastated environment to your depleted ozone, from your rampant drug addiction to your lost youth, from your violent crimes to your endless wars, your leaders are making a dreadful wasteland of what was once a beautiful and bountiful world."

He hit the nail on the head, Burt thought, in one short paragraph. Whoever this guy is he’s right about leaders. Who else could be responsible? Wonder what he thinks about President Archer chasing interns in the White House.

“Linda,” Burt heard an editor yell. “We gotta Political Insider meeting in ten minutes. Bring your item on Senator McCain.”

Burt looked at the next paragraph.

"You will know when the time has come to publish the indictment that I have sent to you. When the Angel of Death delivers my calling card, you will take to your editor my proclamation to the world—and not before."

And this is the part that gets me. This is really rich. So, I just sit here and wait till I hear from the Angel of Death, huh? Now suppose that really happened. Then I’m going to march up to the editor’s door—he looked at the article—and give him this proclamation with a straight face? He chuckled, sipped his coffee, and glanced at the last sentence.

"You will not read it until it is to be published."

Burt saw Phil approaching his desk. He slid a folder over the note.

“Burt, you’re still getting mail on the ‘Unconscionable Commerce’ articles. I think it was a half dozen letters. You should have them in a half hour. Keep up the good work.”

“Did the king write one?”

“The king?” Phil said.

Burt grinned. “Newton Mercer, the king of takeovers.”

Phil chuckled. “I don’t think so, Burt, but if you keep at it, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear from Mister Mercer.” He patted Burt on the shoulder, and left.

Burt looked at the note, then he focused on the signature.

"I am the Judge."

I have to admit that the signature’s intriguing, but why do I get the feeling that I’ve seen it before? Dammit, there isn’t anything to this. It’ll never be published. And how many people have claimed to have a message from The Judge, hundreds, maybe thousands?

He shook his head in wonder and glanced around the busy office. In the ten years that Burt had been with the paper, he had received many crazy leads for stories, which had enhanced his sense of humor.

Yeah, there’ve been some crazy stories all right—he tapped the note with his finger—but this is the craziest of all.

Burt attached the note to the first page of the article and started to put the article in the envelope. But he stopped when the colorful imprint of the calling card caught his eye once more. It was at the top of the note.

Man, is that ever stunning, he thought, and once you’ve seen it, it’s in your mind for good.

The brilliant card had a glowing blue border and was twice the size of a playing card. In the center of the pristine white card an intricately drawn image of a powerful dark angel radiated a gray mist. The angel had piercing eyes, and across his wide chest, he held a broad sword, slightly pointing up and dripping with blood. A logo was in each corner of the card, in lustrous scarlet letters—THE JUDGE.

That’s one scary angel. You definitely wouldn’t want to provoke him. No wings on this big guy, and I’ll bet that calling card gets full attention when he delivers it. The note has the ring of authority too. He briefly reflected. Naw, no way. It’s just a prank. Glancing across the aisle, he scratched his head.

His eyes wandered back to the imprint of the dazzling calling card. Yet, it seems too solemn to be a joke. He set his coffee down, unclipped the note again, and began flipping through the article. It had the same remarkable typeface as the note.

It could be about the millennium, he thought, that’d be interesting. He turned to the first page, but he was reminded of the admonition. "You will not read it until it is to be published."

Well, I don’t know about that. Maybe, and maybe not. He began to read the indictment, TO A WORLD OF . . .

“Burt,” a reporter yelled, “I need to talk to you for a minute.” He headed for Burt’s desk.

Burt hastily slipped the article into the large envelope. Then he dropped the envelope in his bottom desk drawer and locked it.

But little did he know that the extraordinary message in his desk drawer would soon start the world on the most perilous journey in Earth’s history.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

HOLOCAUST HEADLINES

The following alarming headlines are but a few culled from years past.

The Arizona Republic . .Thursday, May 26, 1994
RUSSIAN MOB MAY SOON BE ATOMIC PERIL, FBI WARNS
By Steve Goldstein, Knight-Ridder Tribune

Parade Magazine . . . Sunday, November 2, 1997
Parade’s Special Intelligence Report: NUCLEAR TERRORISM
HIGH ON WORRY LIST, By Jane Ciabattari

Saturday, May 2, 1998 . . .The Denver Post . . 13A
CHINESE MISSILES TARGETED AT U.S., CIA REPORTS
By John Diamond, The Associated Press

The Gazette . . Saturday, August 1, 1998 . . D1
NUCLEAR MISTAKE POSSIBLE IN INDIA, PAKISTAN CONFLICT, The Associated Press

The Arizona Republic . . .Friday, Sept, 10, 1999
U.S. FEARS OF MISSILE STRIKE RISE, Report names China,
Russia and North Korea, Republic News Services

The New York Times . . . . Thursday, June 20, 2002
INDIA-PAKISTANI TENSIONS SUBSIDE, BUT NUCLEAR FEAR
IS FAR FROM OVER, By Celia W. Dugger

CAPE TIMES . . . . . . September 8, 2002
'NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST' WAS PLANNED FOR SEPT 11

October 13, 2002, Sunday . . . .The New York Times . . . . . .
THE WORLD: AT THE BRINK, THEN AND NOW; The Missiles
of 1962 Haunt Iraq Debate, By Todd S. Purdum, Week in Review Desk

Jan 4, 2006, Wednesday. . . .The New York Times . . . . .
IRAN TO RESUME ITS NUCLEAR WORK; U.S. Warns of
Seeking Restraints, By Elaine Sciolino, Foreign Desk

Feb 5, 2006, Sunday . . . . The New York Times . . . . . .
IRAN'S NUCLEAR CHALLENGE: THE WEST; Germany's
Chancellor Emphasizes Urgent Need for Action to Quash Nuclear Program in Iran,
By Judy Dempsey (International Herald Tribune); Foreign Desk

CNN . . . . . . . . . . .Sunday, February 19, 2006 . . . . . . . . . . . .
STUDY: BRAIN FINDS A WAY TO DENY NEGATIVE FACTS

* * * * * * * * * * * *

KNOWLEDGE OF HOW TO BUILD NUCLEAR WEAPONS MAKES DISARMAMENT RELATIVELY USELESS. . . . THE REAL QUESTION IS NOT WHETHER NUCLEAR WEAPONS HAVE POSTPONED WORLD WAR THREE; THE REAL QUESTION IS WHETHER THEY HAVE ELIMINATED ITS POSSIBILITY FOREVER. ---MARTIN HELLMAN


PART ONE of WHY DOES THE LION ROAR?

Copyright 2000 Lee Herald
















CONTENTS

PART ONE
PROLOGUE: 13,000,000,000 B.C.
1. FATE CHOOSES AN EMISSARY
2. LOOKING FOR MS. GOODBAR
3. NOT YET AWARE
4. THE MARGOT KIDDER DREAM

PART TWO
5. DEATH ROW’S HEIR
6. IT MUST BE FATE
7. CALLING DAVID MALCOM
8. THE DREAM GAME

PART THREE
9. THE DAMNED
10. THE BLACK HOLE
11. OUT OF CONTROL
12. THE BAD SEED
13. THE GREAT PRACTITIONER
14. THE MAZE OF LIFE
15. BAD TIMING
16. THE INHERITANCE

PART FOUR
17. PHOENIX CALLS
18. THE ILLUSION
19. LOVE CHOOSES
20. MURDER BY THE STATE
21. THE BRIDGE TO SAN QUENTIN

PART FIVE
22. THE DOMINO DREAM
23. THE DEPTHS OF DETERMINISM
24. A NEW PARADIGM
25. THE PREDISPOSED FOUNDATION
26. THE LAST APPEAL
27. THE GHOSTS OF DEATH ROW
28. THE LAST HOPE PART ONE

MEN ARE LIKE TREES: EACH ONE MUST PUT FORTH THE LEAF THAT IS CREATED IN HIM . . . HENRY WARD BEECHER, Proverbs from Plymouth Pulpit (1887)


PROLOGUE: 13,000,000,000 B.C.

There was no light, and no wind to blow and swirl, nor were there any mortal beings, but in a state of tremendously high temperature and density, the greatest mind ever to exist visualized everlasting principles.

Then an explosion beyond all explosions occurred. Moving in all directions this big bang caused something to rapidly materialize, an entity that billions of years afterward would be called “the universe”.

As infinitely envisioned, the gravitational interaction of all matter began in less than a nanosecond. Energies required to crush particles came forth in a time equivalent to the Planck length divided by the speed of light. The ascendancy of matter over antimatter occurred, and elementary particles were established.

















There would be no human beings to discover quasars, brown dwarfs, and quantum black holes until an epoch far in the future. Many eras, ages, and periods would pass before a small planet called Earth would form from the dust of the cosmic explosion, and then orbit around a minor star in the Milky Way.

Yet, by a gradual process, evolution would bring to this budding planet a staggering variety of species. Animals and plants numbering in the millions would evolve, and every form, type, and manner of life would develop.





















The first scientific principle that man would experience—one of few known in everyday life—would be hearing a loud noise and wondering what caused it. After that first time, everyone in the world would always recognize such an occurrence as an example of cause and effect.

The big bang began the endless chain of cause and effect. However, nothing was left to chance, for planted in that creative explosion were the seeds of all the events that would ever occur.

Beginning at creation the unbroken thread of causes was the work of an ageless mind, and man cannot alter this fascinating causal string. Every effect has a cause, and every cause is an effect of a previous cause.

There has never been a human action in the history of the universe. God initiated the big bang, and all events thereafter were reactions, divine effects of of divine causes.

Thus, the scientific community recognized that first cause was responsible for everything.

* * * *

January 1973 A.D.
David Malcom’s breakup with his wife had been painful, and he would’ve been astonished to know that their divorce would forever be a link in evolution’s chain of causes, and that the effect thereof would be a valiant struggle to save an innocent man from the gas chamber.


1. FATE CHOOSES AN EMISSARY

June 1973.
On Sunday afternoon David stepped into his new apartment in Westland, a suburb of Detroit. He left the door open, and looked at a white business envelope lying on the green carpet. A copy of the divorce decree from Cathy’s attorney, it had fallen off the glass-topped coffee table.

That piece of paper ended fifteen years of marriage, he thought. No, the paper didn’t do it.

Growth in conflicting paths had caused their parting, but David and Cathy still had feelings for each other, and he hadn’t gotten over the numbing heartache. He struggled daily to survive the emotional fallout from losing Cathy, a lovely woman inside and out.

Steve came in carrying a small stereo. “Where do you want this, Dad?” He would be fourteen in August.

David glanced at the wall unit. “Set it on the middle shelf, Son.”

Steve set the stereo on the shelf, and began hooking up two black, tall speakers.

“Can I turn it on, Dad?”

David hesitated. “Yeah, but don’t play it too loud.” Steve started searching FM stations.

“Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head . . .”

Originally from Flint, David and his family had lived in Detroit because of his job at Benchmark Steel Tube, but one year ago David and Cathy had split up. Cathy had taken Steve and Robby and moved back to Flint, seventy miles north.

After Cathy left, David rented an apartment in Flint to be near his sons, but he had tired of the long commute to work.

Today, Steve and Robby helped him move back to Detroit. Benchmark was on the north side of Plymouth Road, west of Telegraph Road, and David wouldn’t have far to drive to the office.

David had been a family man. Then he had suddenly found himself in a silent new world, enclosed by four bleak walls, hearing nothing but the accusation of his anguished thoughts. His self–esteem had suffered a severe onslaught and the strength of his heart had been tested.

This had caused his first bout with chronic depression since David, Jr.

“There’s Pepsi in the fridge, Steve,” David said.

Because of his desk and files, David had leased a two-bedroom apartment. He took a box into his bedroom, and then he began emptying his briefcase. When he took out a five-by-seven picture of Cathy, a lump filled his throat.

He started to stand her picture on the dresser, but he hesitated, and stood there deciding. He swallowed the lump, went over to the closet, and placed the picture face down on the shelf.

David went back into the living room. Robby came in with a box and set it in a
corner. He picked up the envelope.

“Dad, is this important?” He looked at David. “It was on the floor.”

David smiled at Robby. “Yeah, it is important, Son. Put it on the coffee table.” He patted Robby on the shoulder. “Thanks.” Robby turned twelve three months ago.

Maybe our divorce was just fate, David thought. Maybe, but I don’t believe in that. No, we were too different, but I didn’t realize that until everything fell apart. Cathy is an outgoing person, and I’m too reticent. Then too, there were some heated arguments about not socializing enough.

“Was that the last box?” David asked Robby.

Robby smiled with relief. “Yeah, that’s it, Dad.”

“There’s Pepsi in the fridge,” David shut the door.

Robby went into the kitchen and came back with his soda. He sat down on the black leather sofa with Steve.

“Go Away Little Girl . . .”

“Can’t you get a better station?” Robby asked Steve. He took a swig of his Pepsi.

Steve said, “I don’t wanta listen to The Jackson Five all the time, Robby.”

“Well, I don’t wanta listen to Donny Osmond either. There must be something . . .”

“Don’t argue about it,” David said. “Robby, you can switch to something else for a while.” Robby got up and switched stations.

In addition to the pain of his lingering love for Cathy, it cut David deeply that he would no longer be around for his sons on a daily basis. They needed a father’s influence at their age, but their mother had gotten custody.

David was so distressed during the divorce proceedings that he hadn’t considered custody. He wouldn’t have gotten the boys anyway. Cathy was a good mother.

“The First Time . . . Ever I Saw . . . Your Face”

David winced, looked at the stereo, and said, “Could we turn it off for now, you guys?”

Steve started to protest, but he got up and turned off the stereo.

David sighed, and took another box into his bedroom. He came back and put on a smile for Steve and Robby.

“I’m really glad you guys helped me move.” He gave them each a ten-dollar bill.

Their smiles christened the apartment.

* * * *

That evening David returned from taking the boys back to Flint. Standing in the living room, he lit a cigarette. He sat on the sofa, turned on the television, and heard a journalist say, “According to The Washington Post, John Dean discussed the Watergate cover-up with Nixon about thirty-five times.” David turned off the television.

A picture of his three sons sat on the end table.

David, Jr., had come into the world with tuberous sclerosis, a genetic condition that caused tumors to grow on his vital organs. The insidious disease also caused seizures. It had disabled Davey physically, mentally, and emotionally. As his self-destructive behavior increased, David and Cathy had been forced to put Davey in an institution.

David’s mind wandered to fate. Going over to the coffee table he picked up a book, Metaphysics. Then he thought, What was it that Richard Taylor said?

He flipped through the pages and stopped at chapter six, reading a
sentence. “Determinism, it will be recalled, is the theory that all events are rendered unavoidable by their causes.”

He read another description. “Fatalism is the belief that whatever happens is unavoidable.” He kept reading, looking for something.

No examples. Why didn’t Taylor give some examples? David thought. I don’t see one illustration. Couldn’t he have taken something out of history? David tried to think of an event that clearly demonstrated cause and effect in history, and also revealed that the individual was not free to make any other choice.

He began searching through his books and files. Then he found an account of a phone call to Franklin D. Roosevelt from Harold Stark, The Secretary of the Navy.

* * * *
December 7, 1941, about 2:00 p.m.

President Roosevelt was in the Oval Office with his aide, Harry Hopkins.

The phone rang.

“Mister President, the Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor,” Stark said.

Roosevelt’s face turned grim. “General Tojo, he’s joined Hitler’s mission for world conquest. Do you have a report on the casualties yet?” The attack was not unexpected, but no one knew where it would happen.

“No, sir. There are only skimpy reports at this time, but it will be bad.”

“I’m going to set up a briefing as soon as possible,” Roosevelt said, “but my decision is already clear.”

“What are you going to do, sir?”

“Well, it’s unavoidable, Harold. I don’t have a choice. The Japanese have left me no alternative.”

“I know,” the Secretary said.

“Because of Pearl Harbor,” Roosevelt said, “I must ask congress for a declaration of war.”
* * * *

This is a good example of cause and effect in human affairs, David thought. The bombing of Pearl Harbor was the cause, and the effect was Roosevelt declaring war. And it doesn’t look like he could do anything other than what he did.

It seems that fate decided for him, and if so, there wasn’t any free will here. And since cause and effect is an endless chain from the time of the big bang, does that mean that everything happens like this? Maybe, but I don’t know.

David had left the kitchen light on. He stepped around the shadowy boxes on the living room floor and went into the bathroom. After turning on the light, he took off his shirt and dropped it in a small wicker clothes hamper. He didn’t care for undershirts.

He mused about Davey, and some dreadful Christmas Eves visiting him at the children’s hospital. Davey was the only child in the room on one visit. The interns had put him in a straitjacket, and locked him in a padded cell.

Tired from trying to hurt himself, he had fallen into a fitful slumber. Stirring out of his sleep, he dazedly looked up at David and Cathy, and tried to move his arms.

“Daddy,” he said, “I want to go home, with you and Mommy.”

David and Cathy wept, then David knelt beside Davey and held him close for over an hour. Leaving him that day was unbearable.

All men are created equal? David had thought. No, that’s a damn myth.

As he looked in the mirror, he fingered the gold Aquarian pendant that hung from his neck. He was a reserved, sensitive man, but he made a striking appearance.

At five-foot-ten and 155 pounds, he looked slim. His face was tanned, and sculpted with high cheekbones that enhanced a distinctive look. Below arching eyebrows, his blue eyes were usually intense, but not now.

A male model would envy his dark luxuriant hair. It hung over his forehead, touched his collar in the back, and partly covered his ears. David looked younger than his age, but tonight he felt older than forty-two.

He flushed his cigarette down the toilet, and then brushed his teeth. His dinner had been a lukewarm cheeseburger during the drive back.

My first night here, he thought, and I’m only five miles from work. I can stay up late. I can get up later, and I can . . .

Sure, I can, but I’d trade all of that and the whole damned world for Cathy. Funny, you don’t know how much you really care until you lose the woman you love, but then it’s too late. I’ve got to put her out of my mind. It’s final and that’s that.

Generally up until midnight, David went to bed. He wanted to stop thinking.

Sunday night had fallen hard.

* * * *

Tuesday night, April 1974.

Sitting on the sofa, David picked up The Detroit News and flipped through the front section, then he looked at the sports section. Hank Aaron had hit his 715th home run in Atlanta, breaking Babe Ruth's record, a record that had stood since 1935. David put the paper on the coffee table.

Going over to the end table, he turned on the yellow globe at the bottom of the lamp. It created a dim light, which was what he needed whenever he meditated.

In the kitchen he poured a shot of bourbon, on the rocks, then he returned to the sofa. A television news report continued the talk of impeaching President Nixon, but the President seemed to be standing firm.

David turned off the television and leaned back, sipping his drink. In the year since he moved back to Detroit, his social life had been a disaster. His sex life was worse. In spite of his good looks, he was not a lady’s man. As a young boy, he had been too shy to talk to a pretty girl.

When he was ten he had met Jim at Oak Street School. Jim was a popular school kid. Jim’s dad was the Malcoms’ landlord. The Malcoms had lived in a small house behind Jim’s large house. Jim was attracted to a twelve-year-old girl named Shirley who lived next door to the school. David liked her too, but he hadn’t told Jim.

One time Jim said, “David, would you ride my bike to Shirley’s house and give this note to her?”

Shirley asked David, “Why do you bring a note from Jim and not from you, David?” David’s tongue hadn’t found words to answer, and he rode away on Jim’s bike.

This shyness never fully went away, and later it became a quiet reserve. Now, David did not approach people easily. A would-be friend would have to approach him in the beginning. In unfamiliar surroundings, it would be a lengthy time before David made new friends.

As a result, he often drove to Flint for the weekend and stayed with his widowed mother. And driving through the dark streets of his hometown late on Saturday night, he would wonder where Cathy was.

He went over to the picture window and gazed at the beige apartment buildings. Neatly clipped green lawns lazily stretched throughout the darkened complex. Tall lampposts stood watch—guiding sentinels—their luminous globes dotting the night like miniature full moons.

Far across the way he saw a man and a woman strolling on the meandering sidewalk while holding hands. Watching them grow smaller, he wondered what the future held for them. Then their dim figures merged into one. Given his barren love life, a romantic scene made him feel lonelier. A tear trickled down his face as he thought of never holding Cathy’s hand again.

He would give anything to go back five years and see as clearly as he did now. Nineteen sixty-nine. Steve was ten, Robby was eight, and Davey. Oh, God! Steve was in little league baseball, but I didn’t spend enough time with him.

And Robby, I can’t remember sitting him on my knee and gently talking to him. Jesus, I can’t live with these memories tearing my heart out. I had so much back then, a wonderful woman and wonderful sons, and I let it all slip away.

He sipped his drink.

David was too distant to make the acquaintance of a lovely woman without a fortunate circumstance. Public speaking was an outlet for expression, a way to try to overcome his reticence. He had met Cathy at a fund-raiser, but only because he had been up front as the speaker and she later spoke to him at the refreshments table.

* * * *
1957.
David poured a cup of coffee after the speech, and Cathy came over. He had seen her in the audience when he was speaking and had admired her pale blonde hair.

She poured her coffee, and looked at David. “Hi, I’m Cathy.” When she stood before him, he saw that there was much more to her physical beauty. “I enjoyed your speech.” She was about five-foot-seven and pleasingly slender.

David thought, Hi, I’m lucky. But he said, “Thanks, Cathy, nice to meet you.” It was difficult to resist staring at her sensuous mouth, which he immediately wanted to taste.

“You have a gift for making your points clear,” Cathy said. Her gorgeous green eyes glistened with anticipation, reflecting a love of life.

“Thanks again, Cathy, but if you can point out any goofs, feel free to do so.” He sensed an inner beauty of kindness that matched her attractiveness.

“Well, I didn’t notice any.” She smiled. “You were good.” She had on a green velvet dress and she looked very good, but it was her eyes that held David’s attention.

Later, she said, “Would you like to meet for coffee sometime, David?”

They fell in love soon after, and she became the mother of his children.
* * * *

A few months before David returned to Detroit, the boys told their mother of his plans to move.

Cathy had said, “Tell your dad maybe we should talk before he moves.”

David had counted on Steve and Robby telling her, thinking that it might cause some positive reaction.

I remember how good I felt about that, hoping Cathy might stop the divorce. But I still can’t understand why we never had that talk.

That caused David to think about fate again. He wondered how a hope so strongly desired could be so easily overlooked, unless some unknown force worked against it.

No, I don’t believe that. But I read somewhere that just as there is a history of the past, so there is a history of the future. I don’t know, but wouldn’t that indicate that the future was already decided?

He lit a cigarette and turned away from the window. Sitting down on the sofa, he tried to relax, but he wasn’t interested in television. That would interfere with his inquisitive mind, which was forever searching for answers in the stillness of the nighttime.

Too much a metaphysician to concentrate on money, he would never go anywhere in the business world.

And I guess I’ll always be a loner. Cathy’s doubts about us probably grew stronger because of my ambitions about writing, and the solitude it calls for.

* * * *
1971, Friday night, 7:45 p.m.

David was in the den and the door was closed. He spent a lot time in there, reading books and trying his hand at writing.

Cathy opened the door. “Honey, are you going to watch TV with me and the boys? I made some cookies.”

David looked up from his desk. “That sounds nice, Cathy, but I’ve got something I need to finish here.”

“Well, can’t it wait, David? You’re in here all the time.”

“If I don’t finish it now, I might not get it right later.”

Cathy was disappointed and it showed. “I wish you would divide your time a little better with me and the boys.”

“I’m sorry, Honey. I’ll try to be done in about a half hour.”

Cathy bit her lip, but said nothing, then she left.

He got up and shut the door.
* * * *

David went to the window again, as though some soothing magic reigned there, a mysterious power that would make everything right if only he looked through the enchanting pane long enough. Drawing on his cigarette, he was momentarily mesmerized by the reflection of the red ash. Enjoying the comforting silence at day’s end, he began to feel a little better. That healing retreat usually brought a temporary purge of his hidden fears.

He remembered how his sons liked his new apartment, and how they enjoyed the pool last summer. The boys are seventy miles north, he thought, and there’s sadness about that. If I lived in Flint, whether I saw them often or not, there would be the comfort of being just a few minutes away. But here in Detroit they seem so far away.

A painful memory of Davey flashed through his mind. He had seen him lying in the hospital bed with his hands tied down. Davey had an IV in each arm. Too sick to speak, his eyes had pleaded with David. Take me home, Daddy.

During those heart-storming days, David had never felt more helpless.

Recalling an inspirational passage, he went over to the coffee table and butted his cigarette. He picked up a book, The Magic in Your Mind. Turning through the pages, he found the highlighted verses.

“We obey our own destiny best when we listen to our heart. No amount of conscious reasoning can prevail against this intuition, and only by following its dictates can we discover our true selves.”

He put the book down. Destiny, is there really such a thing? And if fate does rule, what does that do to free will?

All at once, memories flooded his mind. . . . ‘C’mon, Dad, throw us the ball!’ Robby yelled. A wave of nostalgia saturated David’s soul. . . . ‘Look at them, David,’ Cathy said, ‘they’re our boys, part of you and part of me, and they’re beautiful.’

He again thought of Davey, remembering one agonizing visit when Davey said, “I just want to be good, Dad, and I want to”—Davey had looked at the straps on his wrists—“I want to hug you.”

David finished his drink and set the glass on the coffee table. Remembering the times that he had broken down, he tried to push the distressing scenes out of his mind. He walked to the window once more, gripped by the night. Arms folded across his chest, he gazed into the unknown.

Where is my heart? Isn’t it in Flint with Steve and Robby? God, how I miss those guys, and the family life I had. I had good reason to move here, but my heart is still in Flint, no matter how far the drive to work. But why should I move back?

The riveting words came alive—”No amount of conscious reasoning can prevail against this intuition.” Shivering from a powerful swell of melancholy, David made his decision.

I know it’s not logical, but I’m going to obey my heart. I’m moving back to Flint as soon as I can. Contemplating the move began to take over his mind, and he felt momentary relief as he started planning.

He flinched as the ring of the telephone jarred him back to reality.

Wonder who that is? At the end table, he picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hi, Dad. I know it’s late, but Mom said I could call you. Did I wake you?”

“No, it’s not late, Steve.” It’s so good to hear his voice, David thought. He pictured Steve’s slender face and blue eyes, his generous smile and long brown hair. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, Dad, nothin’s wrong,” Steve replied. He was slim and growing taller every day. “Uh, Dad, Robby and me have been talkin’, I mean serious. Robby’s on the extension.”

“Hi, Dad,” Robby said, “I love you.” Robby was slender and a little shorter than Steve, but he had the same brown hair and blue eyes.

“I love you too, Robby, very much.” David could see Robby, with a shy smile like his own.

“Mom’s getting married, Dad,” Steve said, “and we, uh, we thought that if you . . .” Steve hesitated. “You knew about Mom, didn’t you, Dad?”

David swallowed hard. “No, I didn’t, Steve, but tell her . . .” Stand up man, he scolded himself. You brought it on yourself. He glanced out the window, and sat down at the dinette. His sons would never know the awful loss he felt in his leaden heart.

Now I know Cathy’s destiny, even if I don’t know my own. “Tell her I wish her the best,” he said.

He recalled Davey’s patient acceptance, while tuberous sclerosis mercilessly wrecked his body and mind. David and Cathy had drawn strength from Davey’s loving attitude. Now, David tried to do that all on his own.

“Well, Mom will be livin’ on the other side of town,” Steve said, “and Robby and me don’t wanta leave our friends in Carman School District.” He paused. “Uh, we thought that . . . that if you’d come back to Flint . . .”

“And live in the Carman district,” Robby cut in.

“We’d live with you,” Steve finished. The boys anxiously waited.

David was pleasantly surprised. “Well I . . . that sounds very . . .”

“Mom don’t like the idea and she cried,” Steve said, “but . . .”

“And so did we,” Robby said.

“But Mom said she understood,” Steve continued, “and she said she’d leave it up to us.”

This is great, David thankfully thought. Tears formed in his eyes.

“Just a minute, guys”—his voice cracked—“hang on.” Putting the phone down, he reached for a Kleenex. Wiping his eyes, he fleetingly thought about fate. I’ve got to get deeper into that. I’ve got to study it more.

He remembered when Davey was nine, and he had improved enough to move into a group home. Davey looked forward to Sundays because David brought him home for dinner. Davey had enjoyed his newfound freedom on Sunday, and he spent much time with Steve and Robby.

On more than one visit, he had said, “I love my family.” He found great pleasure in watching a football game, and he loved to sit on the sofa and laugh with his younger brothers.

It had been sheer joy to David and Cathy to hear Davey laugh. They tried to believe that this change would last, and that someday Davey would live at home again.

David picked up the phone. “Okay, I’m back.” He was happy about the boys call. “Yeah, I think it’s a great idea, and it really makes me feel good. It’s a done deal for sure.”

Steve and Robby exploded with enthusiastic shouts. David could see Steve giving Robby a high sign.

“Great, Dad,” Robby said.

“That’s cool, Dad,” Steve said. “When can we do it?”

Robby said, “Yeah, Dad?”

“Well, my lease is up this month,” David replied, “and you guys have a couple more weeks of school. The timing couldn’t be better, so we’ll do it right after school’s out.”

“Great,” Robby said. He paused. “And, Dad, can you take us to the cemetery to see Davey’s grave this weekend?”

The tumors inside Davey’s body had multiplied. David remembered the last day of Davey’s life, when he told the doctor—“I’m having a good day.” But during a violent and painful seizure, he died in David’s arms when he was only eleven.

“Yes, we’ll do that for sure, Robby, on Sunday.”

After David hung up, he marveled at the coincidence of the boys’ call, right after he made a decision to return to Flint. He had experience in psychic happenings and prophetic dreams, and he kept a dream diary.

Almost eleven years ago, David dreamed not of John F. Kennedy’s murder but of Lyndon Johnson’s rise to the presidency. The Johnson dream was five days before President Kennedy’s assassination, and it was in color.

That early Monday morning, November 18, 1963, David stirred in his sleep and mumbled, “Where am I?”

A voice said, “Dallas!”
Thousands of animated people lined both sides of the street, expectantly waiting.
It’s a parade, David thought. No, I think it’s a motorcade.
Then a name appeared in huge, blood red letters, exalting itself high above the entire scene.

JOHNSON!

In the dream, David felt that this name was the most important name in the world, but he hadn’t understood the nocturnal vision until President Kennedy was assassinated.

* * * *

As David continued to ponder the boys’ call, he was unaware that the solitary journey he was destined to undertake had now begun.


2. LOOKING FOR MS. GOODBAR

May 1974, Sunday.

Three weeks before Cathy was to get married, David went by to see the boys about the move.

Cathy opened the door, and smiled. “Hi, David.” Then she let him in.

She had on white shorts and a red halter, and she seemed friendlier than usual.

David glanced at her full lips, and then asked, “Are the boys here?” He looked toward the hallway.

“No, they’re visiting their friends,” she said. “Did you call them yesterday?”

“I thought they’d be here, but I can come back in a couple of hours.”

They briefly talked about the boys moving in with David. Cathy was hurt, but she agreed to the move.

She smiled again, and toyed with her hair. “I just made coffee, if you want some.” Her eyes glistened.

Her friendly attitude surprised David, but he quickly recovered. “Sure, that sounds good.”

He headed for the coffee pot and she followed, but he wasn’t interested in coffee. He turned and took her in his arms, and when she didn’t resist, he kissed her long and hard.

Then, without any words, she took his hand and led him into her bedroom.

Once there, he looked at her and frowned. “What’s this about, Cathy?”

She put her hands on his shoulders. “Do you need an explanation, David?”

“It’s not that, Cathy. I just can’t figure you out.”

“You’re always analyzing things,” she said. She untied her halter and let it drop to the floor.

He didn’t respond, so she began unbuttoning his shirt. After that, she slipped off her shorts, and he saw that she wasn’t wearing panties. She unzipped his jeans.

She needed one last hour with him, and he decided to give her what she wanted. Massaging between her legs, he got her thoroughly wet, then he reclined on the bed and let her get on top. After her first orgasm, he rolled her over, and continued to renew her remembrance of the fiery nights of yesteryear.

It had been over two years since they made love. When David left, he was confused and beginning to hurt.

She’s getting married in less than a month, and yet she needed this? Something to remember, I guess—and for me too. Driving away, he recalled that Cathy cried at the signing of the divorce papers.

I guess she really meant it when she told me she was going to go by reason, and not by her heart.

Today’s memory of making love with Cathy would not be a good one for David. It would only increase his heartache, and it would make him wonder how she could forsake the fire that once fused them together, and made them passionate lovers.

I don’t know why, but fate keeps popping into my mind. I wonder if Cathy and I were not only destined to meet, but also, destined to part.

* * * *

June.

David searched for a place in Flint and found a two-bedroom apartment in River Valley Apartments. Off Beecher Road, it was four blocks back from the busy thoroughfare. The lane leading from River Valley snaked up a grassy knoll to Beecher Road.

Utley Junior High was two miles away for Robby, and Carman High almost the same for Steve.

They shared the second bedroom, and the room was large enough with bunk beds. They were happy, and excited about the large blue pool behind the clubhouse. David set a curfew for them, weeknights and weekends. He put an extension phone in their bedroom and made a list of their household chores.

That reminded him of how Davey had wished that he knew how to do chores. He remembered the first time Davey cried because he wasn’t able to help Steve and Robby. “I’m the ‘big brother’,” he had said, “and I can’t help my little brothers.”

At forty-three, David needed his sons as much as they needed him. He bought a new compact car to economize his drive to work in Detroit.

It would be a 140-mile round trip five days a week, but mostly on the expressway. He was happy for now, and the return of a family life had rejuvenated him—but his life would never again be ordinary.

* * * *

September.

David awoke from a dream and rolled over to the side of the bed. He looked at his digital alarm clock. The red numbers peered back at him, 3:01 a.m. He groped for the lamp on the nightstand, and blinked at the sudden light. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes.

Oh God, do I want to do this?

He picked up his dream diary from the nightstand and scribbled down the dream. He also noted how he felt when he awoke, good, bad, or nothing.

Not much to the dream; only an odd question.

TO WHAT DEGREE? 3:01 a.m., Thursday, September 12, 1974
To what degree is a man responsible for his actions?

David tried to recall more of the short dream, but he didn’t realize the magnitude of the question, so powerful that it stood alone.

Well, this couldn’t be prophetic. There’s nothing predicted. He would go over the question that night after work. He put down the diary and fell asleep.

* * * *

Friday night, November.

The boys were staying with their mother for the weekend. David sat on the sofa relaxing in the quietness.

Funny, he thought, I just realized that Cathy never needed quiet moments. He glanced at his watch. I wish I could make myself go out and improve my social life, but I don’t know if I feel like it tonight. Besides, I rarely see a woman who attracts me like Cathy does.

As he wondered what else he never knew about her, he decided that he should get out of the apartment and go somewhere.

* * * *

While waiting in line in the Embers’ lobby for ten minutes, David heard the cocktail lounge rocking with dance music.

He had on black dress jeans and a blue shirt, open at the collar to display his gold Aquarian pendant. He wore a light gray, medium-length leather coat, unbuttoned. He had a gold ring with an amethyst birthstone on his ring finger. David sometimes felt out of place in the bar scene.

He didn’t like single life, but he had accepted it.

Once he got inside, he saw scores of people claiming every square foot of the classy lounge.

“I Can See Clearly Now -- The Rain is Gone”

The loud music made it hard to hear anything else, and it seemed impossible to move.

David shouldered his way into the main aisle, which separated the bar from the tables. He merged with the singles, who were bumping into each other while looking for someone else.

As he slowly walked on the plush carpet, some of the people sitting at the bar took notice of him. He often received compliments on his “beautiful” hair.

It was too difficult to get a seat at the bar, but David would rather stand anyway. It wasn’t easy for him to approach an attractive woman, but he still liked to walk around.

When he first became single he had gone out night after night, trying to mend his broken heart. He learned to cope with his life eventually, and settled into a stable routine. He felt better now that the boys lived with him.

The Embers was not overly dark like some bars, and it had sufficient light to scout around. There was an age range from about twenty-five to sixty-five.

Passing by the large dance floor, David gradually moved deeper into the spacious room. Cathy had begged him to learn to dance, but he hadn’t given it much thought. Now, as a single man, necessity urged him to become a good dancer.

David and Cathy had seldom gone out to the bars. They had never been in a rock bar and rarely gone to a country bar. As he thought of that, he realized that she liked partying but he didn’t.

Since he had become single, he avoided country bars. The whining music depressed him, and he had enough problems with depression. Rock music was upbeat, and it never made him feel blue.

“JOY --- To The World! JOY --- To The World!”

A cute young woman made her way through an open spot in the crowded aisle before it closed.

“Hey, Baby,” a chubby young man said to her. “I just gotta be the guy you’re lookin’ for.”

David watched with amusement as the guy stood in her way, hands out with palms up, lustfully grinning at the prey of his roving eyes.

She slinkily brushed by, totally ignoring him.

Undaunted, he poked his buddy and said, “She likes me.” As they watched her hurry on, he said, “Do you smell cunt hair burning, man?”

They snickered like two kids raiding an Oreo cookie jar. After that, they continued on their never-ending search.

David grinned and moved on, heading to the rear to complete his first survey. While passing the accessory bar, someone slapped his arm. He turned and saw Jack Rankin, smiling broadly and leaning against the bar. He had a bottle of Bud in hand.

“David, my man,” he said, “as usual, you do look sharp.” A stocky guy about five-ten, he was David’s height but bigger, ruggedly appealing and in his late thirties. Jack’s bushy mustache enhanced a pleasant smile. He had brown eyes, and curly brown hair set over a broad forehead.

David smiled and said, “How you doin’, Jack?”

“Doin’ good, David.”

They had become single at the same time and had met at the Embers. Now they were good friends.

Unlike David, Jack had accepted his divorce with a carefree attitude. He had made many single friends, mostly female.

Lighting a cigarette, David stepped closer to Jack so people could slide by. He tried to catch the barmaid’s eye. In her scanty black-lace outfit, she had already caught his eye.

“Yeah, David, you’re lookin’ cool.” Jack took a swig of his beer and carefully watched where the leggy redhead was going.

David’s teenage shyness was now cloaked in a reserve that came off as “cool.” He looked self-assured, confident and in control, even while fighting depression.

Cool, he thought, if that mistaken tag didn’t hurt so much it would be funny. There are times when I’m so damned depressed I don’t think I’m going to make it, but nobody knows but me.

“And you could make out more, David,” Jack said, “but you hang back.” He glanced at the site where the redhead had vanished. “You gotta be more aggressive, man.”

David uneasily laughed and drew on his cigarette, looking around the bar. Given his detachment, it would be difficult for him to meet someone new.

“Let ‘em see that pussy look in your eye,” Jack said. A couple of his friends walked by and waved.

David knew that Jack was right. Because of his appearance, no one considered David an introvert, but it was hard for him to make a romantic beginning.

He regretted his youthful shyness, yet his inability to take advantage of a romantic situation had in some measure continued into adult life.

Still, when a woman attracted him, he sometimes overcame his restrained manner. The initial contact usually held him back, but a lucky situation would prevail over that. And once a friendly atmosphere developed, he felt free to converse.

The barmaid glanced David’s way. “A perfect manhattan,” he yelled. He looked at Jack. “Want anything, Jack?”

Jack held out his half-full beer bottle. “I’m okay, David.”

I’m glad he doesn’t know how long it’s been since I’ve had a woman in my bed, David thought. In the two and a half years since David became single, he’d only had one relationship, and it hadn’t been with a woman that he was strongly attracted to.

On account of his sexual needs, he dated her for a couple of months. The rest of his dating had been hit and miss, waiting for a woman to fall into his lap.

The barmaid brought David’s drink, and he took a sip. A few minutes later he said, “I’m gonna look around, Jack. See you later?”

“Sure thing. If we don’t make out, how about pizza at Trevi’s?”

“If we don’t make, out,” David replied, “sure, right.” He patted Jack’s shoulder. “I’ll be there by myself.” He moved into the clogged aisle. “Later, Jack.”

Jack’s always happy-go-lucky, David thought. I wish I could be like that. The only time I’ve ever seen him real serious was when he told me that a car killed his dog when he was a kid.

On the bandstand the lead singer came up to the mike and softly said, “It’s belly rubbin’ time.” The lights dimmed. Several couples left their tables and hurried toward the dance floor.

David approached the edge of the floor and watched the shadowy people. The dancers drew closer to each other, and some hoped to find love, at least for the night.

“How Can You Mend . . . A Broken Heart”

“Hey, David!” someone yelled, from the other side of the dance floor.

David had barely heard the call over the sound of the band, but now he saw a hand waving. The bobbing heads of the dancers cut off his view.

“Over here, David!”

Looking for a way to get over there, David wondered who it was. To avoid the choked aisle, he made his way around the border of the dance floor. He held his glass high, and was careful not to burn the swaying dancers with his cigarette.

After he got to the other side and saw Eddy standing by a table, he was disappointed. But when he got to the table, he changed his mind.

“How’s it going, Eddy,” David said. He discreetly checked out the two women sitting at the table, especially the brunette with shoulder-length hair. She’s looking fine.

Eddy sat down. A tall, slim guy and near forty, he had curly permed hair. He and David ordinarily just greeted each other and passed on.

“Girls,” Eddy said, “this is David, a . . .a . . .”

“Malcom,” David said.

The brunette was about thirty, and she had smooth unblemished skin with a touch of rouge on her cheeks. Her lips were glazed with burgundy lipstick and matched her glossy nails. Gray eye shadow veiled her hazel eyes. She had on a white blouse and a blue denim skirt.

Eddy nodded at the empty chair next to her. “Sit down, David.”

“Thanks,” David said. He sat down in the upholstered chair and set his drink on the table.

Eddy glanced at the bubbly woman sitting close beside him. “This is Brenda.” She amply filled her sweater and slacks. Eddy patted her on the leg and she giggled. He looked at the other woman. “And this is my sister, Janine. They’re both from Lansing.”

Janine smiled. “Hi, David.” She sipped her martini.

“Hi, Janine,” David said.

Eddy eyed David and grinned. “You can dance with her”—he chuckled—”but that’s all.”

“Eddy!” Janine protested. She stirred her drink with a swizzle stick.

David smiled.

“Her husband’s a homicide detective,” Eddy continued, “one of Lansing’s finest, only fifty miles away.”

Janine frowned, and looked at David, shaking her head.

David was reminded why he and Eddy hadn’t become fast friends. He probably wants me to keep his sister busy so he can romance Brenda. He glanced at Janine. And that’s all right with me.

He glanced at the congested dance floor. “Would you like to dance, Janine?” Eddy had made it easy for him.

“I’d love to.”

Janine finished her drink. David put out his cigarette and followed her to the dance floor. About five-foot-six, she had a tantalizing figure that her clothes couldn’t disguise.

Eddy and Brenda remained at the table, talking and smooching.

Janine enjoyed the fast dance, which helped David feel at ease. As they continued dancing, she reached out and held his pendant. “What is it?”

“My zodiac sign,” he answered, “Aquarius.”

The band began a slow set.

“Me and --- Missis -- Jones --- We Got a Thinggg--- Goin’ On-----”

David drew Janine into his arms, careful not to hold her too close, but her tempting scent floated into his erotic thoughts. For a while, they quietly danced on the packed floor.

Without moving her head from his shoulder, Janine said, “How long have you known Eddy?”

“What did you say?”

She repeated the question in his ear.

He smiled. “We just say hello here at the Embers. What’s your last name, Janine?”

“Me and --- Missis -- Jones-------”

Janine laughed, and leaned back to look at him.

David looked puzzled.

“Oh, it’s not you, David, but it’s so funny.”

“What’s so funny?”

She smiled. “Jones, my last name is Jones.”

David grinned, and shook his head in disbelief.

“It is,” she said, “really.”

David grinned. “Hello, Missis Jones.” She smiled again. “How often do you come to Flint, Janine?” He felt more relaxed.

“My mother lives here, and I get over here three or four times a year with my sons. Brenda’s wild about Eddy, so she comes with me.” She glanced across the lounge and looked at David. “Is this your hangout, David?” Strobe lights flashed a spectrum of color across her satiny cheeks. “You are single, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m divorced. I get out here once or twice a week.”

The band began another slow number and they continued quietly dancing. Janine didn’t resist when David held her closer, enjoying her perfume and feeling her warm body against his.

“Why didn’t your husband come with you, Janine?” He was feeling more attracted to her.

Janine hesitated. “We don’t do much together anymore.”

“Oh, how long have you been married?”

“It’s been fourteen years,” she said. “I got married when I was eighteen, starry-eyed and full of dreams.”

David fleetingly thought of his dream diary.

Janine leaned back and looked at him. “How about you, David? How long were you married?”

“Sixteen years, and I have two sons who live with me.”

He could never mention the boys without thinking of Davey—"Don’t leave me here, Daddy!”—but he forced the padded cell out of his mind.

“They live with you, that’s nice.”

David realized that the only way to cure a broken heart was to fall in love again, and on that rare occasion when a woman as attractive as Janine came his way, his heart felt at ease. They danced until the band took a break. After that, they pushed their way back to the table and sat down.

“David,” Eddy said, “we’re goin’ to Trevi’s when we leave. Ya wanta come with us?”

“Sure, I can do with some pizza.” David lit Janine’s cigarette, and she finished her drink.

The waitress approached their table. Eddy said no, and so did David, but Janine ordered another martini.

“Haven’t you had enough?” Eddy said. Janine didn’t reply.

After chatting for ten minutes, David and Janine danced again.

* * * *

Midnight. David and Eddy took the women to Trevi’s Pizzeria, next door to the Embers. An hour passed while they all ate pizza and continued drinking coffee. Eddy and Brenda cozied up, which left David and Janine to themselves.

Jack came in with the pretty redhead, and they sat on the other side of the crowded restaurant. Some of Jack’s friends stopped by his table. Jack waved when he saw David. David waved, and continued talking to Janine, feeling renewed in her closeness.

Our life is so dull, and I can’t get him to go anywhere,” Janine said.

The martinis had gotten her high, but David was glad that it made her talk freely about her unhappy marriage.

“He says he doesn’t have time,” she said, “and I think he’s more attached to his buddies at the station than to me.” She looked around the restaurant and sighed. “Our sex . . . a, I mean love life, is non-existent, and I no longer care.”

“How long have you felt like this?”

“Too long. My mother and Eddy don’t know how serious it is, and I don’t know where it’s going.” She paused. “I talk with Brenda, but it doesn’t help much.”

David had grown more attracted to her, and he believed that she was feeling the same. “How long will you be in Flint, Janine?” Maybe I can see her tomorrow, without Eddy.

“I usually stay the weekend, but I can’t this time, we’re going back in the morning.”

Hiding his disappointment, David set his coffee down. He looked into her eyes, searching for a place in her heart, longing to find a haven for his lonely soul.

“When will you be back, Janine?”

She felt the hunger in his eyes, and she blushed. “I don't know, David, maybe soon.”

David glanced at Eddy and Brenda, and leaned toward Janine.

“I want you to take my number, Janine, and when you come back, call me. Okay?”

Janine folded her arms on the table. She looked at David, and glanced at his dark hair. Attracted to him, she sighed and looked away. She looked at him again, her eyes playing around his face.

“I don’t know, David, I . . . I really shouldn’t.”

David placed a small card in front of her. “Take it, Janine, and make up your mind later.” He glanced at the card, and looked at her. “Go ahead, take it.” She hesitated, and he wistfully smiled at her. “I want to see you again, Janine.”

Janine was touched by his sincerity. She glanced at Eddy, then she quickly put the card in her purse.

“I can’t make any promises, David.” She pensively smiled. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do about my marriage.” She hesitated. “I do like you.”

2:00 a.m. They all decided to leave. Eddy and Brenda went out to the car first.

David helped Janine put on her fur coat, and they stepped into the cold November night. He quickly walked her to the car.

“Call me when you come back to Flint, Janine.”

He opened the door and she and got in. After he shut the door, she intently watched him as he walked away.

At his car, David turned and waved. Then he got in and drove off.

With all the single women around, why am I so attracted to a married woman? I said I’d never do that, but there’s something about her. And it’s been too damn long since I’ve had this kind of feeling. But anyway, it’s out of my hands.


3. NOT YET AWARE

Saturday night, December 1974.

Steve and Robby were at their mother’s home for the night. Sitting in the living room in jeans and shirt, David watched the evening news.

After that, he turned off the television. He used television for escapism, but whenever he finished a stirring documentary, or an insightful drama, he would turn it off. He wouldn’t let an obnoxious commercial about hemorrhoids destroy the quality of the moment.

He had realized, too late, that in his wife and children, he had a beautiful rose garden, but he didn’t cultivate it. He wished that someone had told him how much he was neglecting his wife, and as all men do, he wished for a second chance.

The pain had gotten worse when he at last admitted that it was over. When he had to look for someone else, he realized that Cathy’s radiant charm and beauty had spoiled him.

David tried to conceal it, but two months after their separation, depression had a death grip on him, and the grip had tightened.

* * * *
April 1972.

Deep in thought, David approached the green traffic light at Hill Road and South Saginaw. His driver-side window was down. Though familiar with the crossing, his mind was engrossed with his pending divorce.

The light changed, but David was oblivious to the red light and kept going straight into the intersection.

“Hey, you idiot!” He faintly heard the cry from a pedestrian that he almost hit. “The light’s red!” The second cry jarred him out of his trance.

Glancing at the passenger-side window, David saw a Kenworth eighteen-wheeler bearing down on him.

The horrified truck driver saw David directly in his path, and he couldn’t believe his eyes. He fleetingly thought that it was he that had run the red light.

Before David could feel fear, the huge truck slammed into the side of his car and shoved it all the way across the road. David’s seat belt had prevented serious injury, but it didn’t do anything for his shaky nerves.

“Oh, my God,” he said. He got out and leaned against the car. “What have I done?”

The trucker jumped out of his cab and ran around to David. “Jesus, I stood straight up on my brake pedal.” He shook his head. “What the hell were you doing?”
* * * *

Some time after that, David read an article that said people in the midst of a divorce were more inclined to accidents. Now they tell me, he had thought.

He stood up and stretched. I was too obsessed with wanting to write, instead of enjoying life with Cathy. Why do we learn too late? Never mind the we shit. Everybody doesn’t screw up.

He glanced around the room. Jesus, I’ve got to get out of here. I need to go somewhere, and get rid of these heavy thoughts. He went into the bedroom to get dressed.

* * * *

Sunday afternoon, January 12, 1975.

Sitting in the living room, David contemplated single life. There must be tens of thousands of singles in any large city, going out every week in search of love. But most aren’t attracted to each other, and spend years looking for someone else, never connecting with that special someone. Then one day a lonely divorced man meets an unsatisfied married woman. She doesn’t go out of her way to find him, and he doesn’t barhop the night away seeking her. They’re just there, at the appointed time, perhaps fated lovers in the night. It seems that nature doesn’t heed the mores of society, and ignores pretensions of morality.

Nietzsche said, ‘Our destiny rules over us, even when we are not yet aware of it.’ But I don’t know about that, and I’ll probably never see Janine again.

Steve and Robby came into the living room.

Steve’s slender face broke into a smile. “Dad, isn’t it about time to order the pizza?” He brushed his long hair with his hand, and his eyes glistened. He was still slim, like David. In August, he would be sixteen, and in a few years, he would be taller than David.

“It’s been a long time since we had pizza,” Robby said. “I can’t even remember.”

David yawned, acting unconcerned. He put on a sober face. “Aw, c`mon, Robby. You’re not trying to con me, are you?”

Robby stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and revealed a shy smile. His long hair was slightly curly like his mother’s, but he wasn’t as tall as Steve. Robby would be fourteen in two months.

“Robby’s right, Dad,” Steve said. “I’ll bet you can’t even remember.”

Robby glanced at Steve, and looked at David. “And we want it in time for the Super Bowl, don’t we, Dad?”

“We sure do, Robby,” David said. He slipped on his shoes and stood up. “I’ll call Little Caesar’s.” He went into the kitchen and returned shortly.

“Dad,” Steve said, “is it okay if Johnny Stone comes over to watch the Super Bowl with us?”

“Sure.” David reflected. “Isn’t he the kid that comes home from school with you sometimes?”

“Yeah,” Robby replied. “He’s in Steve’s grade.”

David put on his coat and turned toward the door. “You said his dad was dead, didn’t you, Steve?”

“Yeah, he was, a . . . he was executed in California.”

David immediately turned around. “Executed?”

“Johnny don’t talk about it much,” Robby said, “but his dad killed a man in a convenience store, like a Seven-Eleven.”

“Jesus,” David said, “what a hell of a thing.” He stood by the door. “When did it happen, I mean the execution?”

“I think it was in nineteen sixty-nine,” Steve said.

Robby said, “They let Johnny and Missis Stone see him before the execution.”

“Poor kid,” David said. “Isn’t he your age, Steve?”

“Yeah. Johnny was just ten years old then.”

“That’s an awful experience for anyone, much less a child that age. What kind of a kid is Johnny?”

“He’s okay,” Steve replied.

“Sometimes he gets a little too excited,” Robby added.

“What’s his mother like?” David asked. A ten-year-old kid. What a fate, and he had no choice.

“Missis Stone’s real nice,” Robby answered.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “She had a drinking problem when Johnny was a baby, but now she’s an AA member.” He paused. “I think she goes once a week.”

“Well, be a friend to Johnny,” David said, “and call him and tell him to get over here right away.”

Steve smiled. “Okay, Dad.”

David looked at Robby. “Clear the coffee table, Robby, and get the napkins. I’ll be back in a jiffy, and then it’s the . . . Super Bowl!”

“Yeah,” Steve said.

“YEAH,” Robby shouted.

David opened the door, recalling the last time Davey was home, shortly before he died. Davey had been totally thrilled that he could watch a football game with his brothers.

Many parents don’t know how fortunate they are, David thought. A healthy kid is a sacred stroke of luck.

He went to get pizza.

* * * *

March, Friday night coming fast.

David was sitting on the sofa. He sometimes sat for hours in a philosophical mood, soaring higher than the solar system. He had usually been into creativity rather than his family. Instead of going to bed with Cathy, in the final years of their marriage he was up late, ruminating about life.

I wonder if the anxiety I often feel is an evolutionary hangover, from the time when the first cave-guy peered outside his hole in the rock, wondering if he would be clobbered. And why am I always restless, with a feeling that I’m missing something? Maybe some people are born with a powerful sense of destiny, and in their endless wanderings, maybe they seek a way to the top of the mountain. Maybe they believe that if they follow their yearning, they’ll do whatever’s destined for them. And maybe the hunger they were born with will be satisfied then.

He shook his head. Hell, I don’t know.

But so many have longed to paint, to act, to dance, or write, and they didn’t follow up on it. And they all wound up with the same dismal feeling—a lost enthusiasm for life, a dull emptiness. They wished that they had followed their star while they could still see it shimmering.

Now, they’re like withered flowers and dead dreams, because they existed without knowing life’s fullness. They probably all wish they could have one last shot, one more chance to be what they were born to be, instead of settling for second best.

I pray to God I’ll never wind up a bitter ghost of the man I was meant to be, but it does make me wonder if following the star was what destroyed my life with Cathy.

Steve answered the telephone in his bedroom. “Dad,” he yelled, “it’s for you.” He waited for David to get the phone. “Robby,” Steve said, “get ready, Mom’ll be here soon.”

David picked up the phone and glanced out the kitchen window. He wondered if Cathy would come to the door.

“Hello,” he said as he glanced out the window again. “Janine? Oh, Janine. Are you in town?” He smiled and listened. “Tonight, at the Embers?”

They talked for a few minutes.

“Okay, Janine, I’ll be there.”

After the boys left with their mother, David got ready to leave.

* * * *

When David arrived at the Embers, he didn’t check his topcoat. The doorman now knew him, and let him in ahead of the line.

David immediately saw Janine with Eddy and Brenda because their table sat just inside the door. He walked over.

“Hello,” he said, looking at Janine. She was just as appealing as he remembered.

Janine acted surprised to see him. “Hi David.”

She still had her fur coat on. Her smooth cheeks had a touch of rouge, and pink lipstick adorned her lips. She had on a white blouse, a dark blue skirt, light blue meshed hose, and blue, patent leather high-heels.

“Hey, David,” Eddy said, “fancy meetin’ you here.” Brenda giggled. Eddy gestured at an empty chair. “We just got here.”

David sat down and looked directly into Janine’s hazel eyes. “It’s been three months, hasn’t it?”

“I think it has,” she replied.

Eddy laughed. “I betcha didn’t think you’d run into the three of us again.” After some idle chatter, he and Brenda began talking with each other.

David wanted to get Janine out of the Embers as soon as he could. “Are you hungry, Janine?” he softly asked.

“Not really, why?”

David glanced at the lovebirds, and leaned toward Janine. “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered, emboldened by her phone call.

Before she could say anything, he took her hand and she instinctively grabbed her purse. He had towed her to the lobby entrance when a surprised Eddy looked up.

“Hey,” Eddy yelled, “where you guys goin’?”

“We’ll see you later,” David shouted. He rushed Janine into the lobby. As they hurried by the line of people, they were laughing.

They stepped into the winter night. “Be careful,” he said, the vapor of his breath floating away. “There’s a patch of ice just ahead.” He put his arm around her waist and they walked toward the car.

She feels so good, he thought.

When they got in the car, she said, “Where are we going?”

He drove out of the parking lot. “It’s a surprise,” he replied. Then he headed for home.

* * * *

The only lights on were the bottom globe of the lamp on the marble-topped end table, the light on the kitchen range, and a night-light in the bathroom.

David said, “Let me have your coat, Janine.” He helped her take it off, and then she glanced around the apartment.

“Sit down,” he said. As he put her coat in the coat closet, he could smell her perfume. Her coat looks good in my closet.

Janine sat down at the end of the sofa, and with a toss of her head, flung back her dark brown hair.

“Hungry?” she said, smiling. “I didn’t know you meant home cooking.”

He laughed.

She put her purse on the coffee table and placed her cigarettes beside it.

David took off his sport jacket and draped it on a nearby chair. As he loosened another button at the top of his shirt, Janine watched him

“Do you always keep the lights so low?” she asked.

He grinned. “No, not when I’m reading.”

Janine nervously smiled. “I can’t believe that I came here.” She carefully crossed her legs, tugged at her skirt, and placed her arm on the armrest.

“I’m glad you came,” David said. He turned the stereo on low and stood by the coffee table.

“Everything is Beau - ti - Ful --- In its Own Waa - aay-------”

“You look lovely, Janine.” It had been some time since a woman was in his apartment, and never one like Janine.

She lightly blushed. “Thank you.” She glanced at his ring. “Is that your birthstone, David?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Amethyst, isn’t that February?”

“Yeah. Can I fix you a drink?”

“Yes, I think I need a drink.” She took a cigarette from the pack.

He walked over and lit it for her.

She blew a cloud of smoke away from David. “Can you make me a martini?”

“Sure thing, only be a minute.” He went into the kitchen.

Janine glanced around the living room. Her eyes fell upon a woodcut picture on the wall. It depicted two lovers walking in the park. She smiled.

“I like your place, David.” She looked down the dark hallway toward the bedrooms. “Where are your boys?”

“They’re gone for the weekend, at their mother’s.”

David returned with two drinks, handing her one.

“Thank you,” Janine said and sipped her drink. “Ummm, it’s very good.”

David lit a cigarette and stood there, sipping his drink. He sat down on the sofa, a prudent distance from her.

“It was a pleasant surprise when you called, Janine.” He wondered how he could be so patient when he was so hungry for her.

Janine nervously laughed. “It was a surprise for me too.” She took a drag from her cigarette and uneasily smiled. Sipping her drink, she looked at him over the rim. “So, how do you and the boys get along in this arrangement? I mean without a wom . . . a mother, that is.” She played with strands of her long hair.

“We get along fine. Not that there’s never an argument, but we’re making it work.” He drew on his cigarette, and sipped his drink.

“That’s great, David. Some fathers would never do this for their kids.” She took a drink. “And your drive to work, oh God, I don’t know any man who would do that.”

“I don’t like it, but right now I’m putting up with it.” He brushed his hair back. “I’ve got to make a job change soon, back here in Flint.”

They continued talking, and he told her about Steve and Robby and their call about living with him. She told him how well her boys were doing in school. They chatted for an hour and Janine grew more at ease.

Later, David set his drink down, and gently took her glass from her hand, setting it beside his.

“Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You”

Suddenly quiet, she put her hand to the hollow of her neck and gazed at him.

He eased next to her and began to caress the side of her face.

“David, I . . . I don’t know about this . . . I do like you, but I . . .” He took her in his arms, and she closed her eyes.

* * * *
About an hour later.

After their second round of lovemaking, they lay naked on the bed, flushed but beginning to breath easier. There had been no struggling, no protesting, only an overpowering desire that had surged from both of them.

When their aroused bodies had come together, they instantly ignited, erupting hundreds of fleeting sparks and lighting up a moment of heaven, two flames blazing as one. Now they were cooling off, their intense craving momentarily satisfied.

Janine stared at the ceiling. “I have a girlfriend who’s married,” she said, “and she’s been having an affair for a year. And I judged her, asking how she could do it and . . .” She sighed and looked at David. “And now look at me.”

David laughed. “I am looking at you, and I love it.” He rubbed her firm belly. “Do you regret tonight?”

Janine snuggled into his arms, and he pulled the burgundy satin sheet over her. “You know the answer to that,” she whispered in his ear. She kissed his neck.

He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. “It’s been a wonderful night, Janine.”

“Yes, David, it has.” She hesitated. “And I hate to bring it up, but I do have to go.”

“Now?”

“It’s late, and Eddy and my mother will be wondering.” She caressed his face. “I really should, David.”

“I know, I’ll take you to your mother’s house.” He sat up on the side of the bed. “What’re you going to tell her?”

Janine crawled over, and sat beside him. “I’ll tell her we were having coffee in some all night place.”

David put his arm around her and squeezed her. Then he cupped her breasts in his hands and leaned over, gently sucking them. Her nipples hardened.

“Oh, God,” she said. She ran her fingers through his hair. “You’re going to get me started, and it’ll be hard to leave.”

He let go of her breasts and grinned. “If it gets hard, I won’t let you leave.”

She laughed and playfully slapped his face.

“Are you sure you’ve got to leave?”

“I’m sorry, David.” She rubbed his chest. “Are we going to see each other again?”

“I want to, Janine.”

“Can you come to Lansing? I can call and let you know when I can get free.”

“Good, and don’t make it too long.”

* * * *

One week later Janine called David. They met at a motel in Lansing, and they were happy to be together. Her husband was working late hours on a murder case, and the oldest boy watched his younger brother. She stayed as long as she could, and they made love until the last minute.

They were feeling more comfortable together. During the rest of March, and in April, they saw each other over a half dozen times. They began to talk of the future. Once when Janine was at David’s place, Robby met her.

He said to Steve later, “She’s a fox, Steve.”

Janine wanted David’s advice before asking her husband for a divorce. “It won’t hurt him,” she said, “in view of our dreary marriage. But if he does make a fuss, he may try to get custody of the boys.” She hesitated. “And if he found out about us, he’d try to use it against me in court.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” David said, trying to reassure her.

Determined to make this a new start in life, David had a talk with Steve and Robby. They were happy for him, but he wasn’t sure they understood the part about Janine being a married woman.

* * * *

May.

David and Janine met at their motel. Then they went to lunch at a restaurant that Janine thought was safe. They enjoyed being out in the open, but they were uneasy. It wasn’t like being free to be seen. Returning to the motel, they lay in bed and talked about their future.

“David, you’ve made me so happy. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this wonderful.” She wiped away a tear and kissed him on the cheek.

He sat up and caressed the side of her face. “Janine, I’ve been thinking about your boys. I don’t think we should go out in public again, not until you’re separated.”

“I don’t think he’d ever see us where we went today.”

“Maybe, but it’s taking a big chance on you losing custody of your boys.”

“It could be joint custody,” she said, “because at their age the boys need to be with their father.”

“But if your husband knew about us, you might not even get that.” He smiled. “I love you, Janine, and I want you to be happy. So let’s be careful.” He reclined on the bed and she slid into his arms. He kissed her hard on the mouth, and they made love again.

When he had to leave, she clung to him until he reluctantly opened the motel door. He got in his car and rolled down the window.

Janine leaned in and they kissed. “I’ll call you tomorrow, David.” He waited until she got in her car, then he waved goodbye and drove away.

On the hour’s ride home, David mulled over the night, thinking through every wonderful moment.

I haven’t felt this way since Cathy. And I had almost forgotten how incredible it is to be loved by the one you love. I want to take Janine out when she gets free. I want to be with her in the open. I didn’t think I’d ever get involved with a married woman, but life’s so short. Three years have gone by without any relationship, and I’m going to make this happen.


4. THE MARGOT KIDDER DREAM

Late May.

David sat up in bed. He turned on the lamp and rubbed his eyes. Margot Kidder, he thought, who’s Margot Kidder? Damn, I’ve got to be up at five. Is this dream important?

Rubbing his eyes again, he wondered how many zillions of dreams were forgotten. I’ll bet very few are recalled, and even fewer recorded. He reached for his diary on the nightstand and wrote down the dream.

A TELEGRAM FROM MARGOT KIDDER, 3:34 a.m., Thursday, May 22, 1975.
I see a sheet of paper, like a telegram, but I can’t read the words of the message because they’re blurred. Yet, I clearly see a name at the bottom, in big block letters . . . MARGOT KIDDER.

Doesn’t seem like much, David thought. He turned out the light and went back to sleep.

* * * *

The next day. During the lengthy drive to Detroit, David mulled over the name Margot Kidder. I never heard of her, and what good is a dream with a message that you can’t read?

David mentioned the name to a couple of salesmen in the office, one at a time. Neither man had heard of her. He didn’t press it further because he didn’t want anyone to question him about it. Though everyone at Benchmark respected his work, they had labeled him an eccentric.

The telegram might be a symbol for emergency, he thought, driving home. And a telegram’s often about death. So, is this an emergency message from Margot Kidder? But I don’t even know if she exists.
Not knowing the identity of Margot Kidder vexed David.

He told Steve and Robby about the dream over the weekend, but they never heard of Margot Kidder. As the days went by, David tried to comprehend the dream. Finally, he let it rest.

If it’s important, I’ll get it eventually.
* * * *

David and Janine met several times in May.

Sunday, June 8.

David drove to Lansing to see Janine. They spent an hour at a park, and a couple of hours in their motel. It was mostly a joyous time, except for one incident. After they made love, they were lying on the bed and David mentioned to Janine that she drank too much. This aggravated Janine.

“Damn you, David,” she said. Excessive drinking had addicted Janine during the continual stress of her lonely marriage.

“Honey, I don’t mean to hurt you,” David said as he stroked her hair. “I’m just saying that maybe you should cut down on drinking.”

They made up, and made plans to be together again. It would be next Saturday in Flint.

* * * *

Janine called on Thursday. “I’m sorry, David, but I can’t get away. Some people are visiting.” They were both disappointed.

“God, I miss you,” David said.

“I miss you too. I was looking forward to this weekend so much.”

“It’s okay, Janine. We’ll make up for it.”

* * * *

Sunday morning, June 15.

David got up early, but the boys were still asleep. He sat down at the dinette with a cup of coffee, and began reading The Flint Journal.

A short time later he came upon a review of a new movie, The Reincarnation of Peter Proud. He hadn’t heard of the film, so he began to browse through the article. Not long after, he abruptly stopped, eyes riveted to the paper. He was stunned.

I’ll be damned. She’s an actress!

For the first time, David saw the name Margot Kidder. He read the whole column, but he saw nothing unusual. Reading the review once more, he slowly studied it, then lit a cigarette.

My dream might mean that there’s a message to me from Margot Kidder, he reasoned, but there’s nothing here. Damn, an actress I never heard of, a dream with a blurred message from her, and a movie about reincarnation. What the hell’s going on?

Not only was it still unsolved; the exotic enigma was even more mysterious. Confused, David took a drag on his cigarette. He wished he could quit smoking, a tenacious addiction that first captured his father and later snared him.

When Steve and Robby got up, David said, “Now I know who Margot Kidder is, boys. She’s an actress.” He told them about the movie.

Steve said, “Well, I never heard of her, Dad. What’d you say the movie was?”

“The Reincarnation of Peter Proud.”

“Me neither,” Robby said. “I don’t know, maybe she just started.”

After thinking about the dream all day, David decided that he would see the film the next night.

Maybe there’s something in the movie for me. Something in the movie for me? Jesus, that’s fantastic, but what else can I do?

* * * *

Right after David got home from Detroit on Monday evening, Jack Rankin called. “Wanta get some pizza, David?”

Though eager to see the movie, David didn’t want to turn down Jack. He decided that he would see the film the next night.

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “Meet you at Trevi’s in about a half hour.”

* * * *

Tuesday evening.

David left for the theater early so he could stop by the Flint Public Library. He was studying the theory of fatalism, and speculating about President Kennedy’s assassination. He wanted to read the news articles about that dark day, November 22, 1963.

A woman directed him to the microfilm section where he could search for reports on the murder. She instructed David how to use the equipment because he had never scanned microfilm. After looking at many of the articles on the assassination, he left for the theater. He didn’t want to miss the beginning of The Reincarnation of Peter Proud.

The picture was playing at The Flint Cinema, across the street from the Embers. It starred Jennifer O’Neill, Michael Sarrazin, and Margot Kidder.

David took a seat in the back of the theater. Shortly afterward, the film began. At that moment, David realized that this eerie adventure might be the wildest psychic encounter that he had ever experienced. He took a deep breath.

Here I am sitting in the dark alone, David thought, to see a movie for the strangest of reasons—an incredible dream has sent for me. And through the newspaper, the dream told me where to go to receive a message from someone, or something. And if there is a message for me, does that mean that the film was made for that purpose? If so, it must’ve been made maybe a year ago. What does that say about time and free will, and about fatalism? Fatalism says that “whatever happens is unavoidable,” and determinism adds to that by saying, “all events are made unavoidable by their causes.”

Michael Sarrazin played the role of a man in California having alarming dreams about his unsolved murder in another life. The first clue that the movie might have a message for David came in a scene where Sarrazin awoke from a dream.

He reached for his diary on the nightstand and wrote down the dream.

David caught his breath. This is spooky, like right from my own bedroom. And that could be a connection, but it’s probably not strong enough by itself.

The dream was in New England, but Sarrazin’s character couldn’t identify the town. He began trying to find the place. At last, he located the town and decided to go there at once. After he arrived, he went to the local newspaper office to read about his mysterious murder in the past.

A woman directed him to the microfilm section where he could search for reports on the murder.

Goose bumps rose on David’s arms. Jesus, this is a second clue, and what an astounding confirmation. I did the same thing only a half hour before I got here. What’s going on? Sarrazin’s character must represent me. And man, how this mocks free will.

But David had no time now to marvel at the power of a predestined event, and the breathtaking implications of determinism and fatalism. That would come later.

Breathing fast, he paid even more attention to the story. Since Margot Kidder was the mainstay of his dream, he watched her closely.

She was Sarrazin’s wife in his previous life, he thought, and she murdered him in that life. And there’s something about her that bothers me.

In one flashback, Kidder and her doomed husband were lying on the bed. She said to him, “Damn you, Jeff!”

Oh God! David thought. Janine’s exact words to me on the bed in the motel. “Damn you, David!” He took a deep breath, because he now realized why Kidder’s character bothered him so.

Janine! She reminds me of Janine. Not that they look alike; it’s their mannerisms and problems. In later years, Kidder’s character is without sex, and she becomes an alcoholic. And Janine has no sex life in her marriage, and she drinks too much. But most of the movie’s unimportant to me. The important point is that Kidder and Sarrazin represent Janine and me.

In the course of the movie, Sarrazin’s character realized who Margot Kidder was.

The story ended on a moonless night in a lake with Kidder waiting in a rowboat. She too had realized something, that Sarrazin was her reincarnated husband, and as he swam up to her boat she prepared to murder him again. He tried to climb in, but she shot him, and he sank to the bottom of the lake. Dead again.

This astonished David. She killed him, and maybe my dream is an emergency death message. That brought a sinking feeling in his gut.

David left the theater and drove home in a trance. When he got there, he was thankful that the boys were visiting their neighborhood buddies. He had to be alone. It was 9:15 p.m. and they would be home in about fifteen minutes. They left the lights on, but for soft illumination, David turned off all except one.

“Hello Darkness - My Old Friend, I’ve Come to Talk with You Again
Because A Vision Softly Creeping, Left its Seeds While I Was Sleeping”

He lit a cigarette and began pacing in the shadows, going over the revelations of the evening. Though hurting from a growing awareness of what he might be losing, his latest psychic experience still amazed him.

What is this awesome power? he silently prayed. Is it God, or is it the power of the subconscious? What the hell is it?

The “awesome power” had designed a clever path to an ingeniously planned goal, involving a dream, a newspaper review, a movie, and human deliberation.

Now I know why the message in the telegram was blurred. The dream was meant to lead me to the movie for the message, and the message is clear. My relationship with Janine will destroy me if I go on with it, just as Kidder destroyed Sarrazin. But why? Dammit, the message doesn’t say why. It’s weird; I never connected my prophetic dreams with fatalism until now.

Coupled with the power of the present event, and his practical experience with precognitive dreams, David couldn’t cast the dream away. It seemed clear what he must do, but he didn’t want to admit it. Yet, he couldn’t ignore an obvious psychic warning. Still, he turned the message over and over, seeking a way out.

What should I do? The dream is less than four weeks old, yet it’s ripping my world apart. I wish I’d never heard of Margot Kidder. I wish I hadn’t remembered the dream. God, I can’t do this! Don’t ask this, God, please! I love Janine.

“And The Vision -- That was Planted in My Brain, Still Remains
Within the Sound -- of Silence”

* * * *

The next morning David called in sick. After a sleepless night, he couldn’t face a day at the office.

Steve and Robby got ready to leave for school. David sat at the dinette, shirtless, with a cup of coffee. He hadn’t told them about last night. He still had to deal with it himself.

“Dad,” Steve said, “are you gonna be okay?”

“Oh sure, Son. It’s nothing.” David sipped his coffee. “I just don’t feel up to par. Don’t worry, guys, I’ll be okay.”

As soon as the boys were gone, David knelt at the sofa to pray. Soon, pangs of sorrow from the depths of his soul caused heavy groans to rack his body. After a while, he stifled the groans, but he continued praying.

Later, he put on a shirt and poured more coffee. He went outside and walked around the complex for over an hour, until he began to feel temporary relief from his agony.

* * * *

One day later.

David called Janine and arranged to see her. He didn’t want to tell her on the phone about his psychic experience. He hadn’t eaten all day. Under great stress, he drove to Lansing and met her at their motel.

They had barely entered the room. David said, “Janine, we . . . we can’t see each other again.” Three was no pleasant way to tell her.

A shocked Janine said, “What do you mean, David, I don’t understand?”

“I know,” he weakly said. “It’s hard for me to grasp too.”

Janine tossed her purse on the bed and took hold of his hands. “What do you mean?”

She had on the same clothes that she had taken off the night they first made love, a white, long-sleeved blouse; a dark blue skirt; light blue meshed hose; and blue, patent leather high-heels.

“What’s happened to you, David?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve been trying to answer that myself.”

Janine looked into his eyes. “But what’s changed so suddenly?” She had a touch of rouge on her cheeks. Her lips were covered with burgundy lipstick that matched her glossy nails. Gray eye shadow veiled her eyes. “I just don’t understand you, David.”

“I know, and it’s difficult for me too.”

“Honey . . . please, I’m hurting . . . oh God!”

“I’m hurting too, Janine, and I’ve been trying hard to figure out what’s happened to me.”

“We can’t stop now, David.” She covered her face with her hands and started to cry. “Oh God!”

He took his handkerchief and tried to dab at her eyes, then he gave it to her. “Don’t cry, Honey.” But his eyes were moist too.

She sat down on the side of the bed. “I thought you . . . you loved me. How . . . how can things change so”—she sobbed—”so quickly?”

David couldn’t stand to see her in such pain. “I do love you, Janine.” Swallowing hard, he sat down and put his arm around her. “This is killing me too.” He glanced at the wall, and turned to her. “It’s not something I want, Janine. I’m just as hurt as you are.”

“Oh, David, I love you so much, but what’s happened to you?”

He shook his head, at a loss. “Something did happen, but I don’t think you’ll appreciate it.” He paused. “And I didn’t want to get it either.”

Janine took his hands once more. “But please tell me, David?” She tried to stop crying, and rested her head on his shoulder. “You’ve got to . . . tell me why this is happening.”

I hate to tell her, David thought, but I’ve got to. “Janine, I know this sounds crazy, but I had a . . . a psychic experience, ah . . . involving a dream . . . and a movie.”

Janine sat up and looked at him. “But what’s that got to do with us, David?”

He glanced away, then looked at her. “It was about us, and it was too much to be a coincidence.” Then he gently relayed the winding mystical incident, getting it out as quickly as possible. He was even gentler about the excessive drinking part.

After he finished, Janine was stunned. She had listened quietly, and a brief silence followed.

Then she said, “Are you sure about this, David?” She wrung her hands. “Why would God do such a cruel thing?”

“Honey, it’s not anything against you,” he softly said. “It must be a flaw in my own character, or something in the two of us that won’t mix in the future.”

She just stared at him.

“It’s probably something that only God knows,” he said. He wondered how he could be so philosophical when his heart was broken.

“I can’t believe this is happening, David.” She started to cry again. “But it can’t be right. It just can’t be!”

“I know, Janine, I feel like that too, but I . . .”

“Kiss me, David.” Janine’s eyes pleaded with him. “Please kiss me, Darling.” It was her last hope.

“Janine, please . . . please don’t make it worse.” How the hell could it be any worse?

He kissed her on the cheek. He wanted to hold her in his arms, but he knew that it would only prolong the agony. Afraid that he couldn’t control himself, he stood up and took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, Janine, I’m so sorry. I never dreamed that this would happen to us.”

Janine looked up with reddened eyes. “You’re breaking my heart, David, and I hope you really can’t do this.”

“My heart is already broken, and I don’t want to quit seeing you.” Oh God, I want to hold her forever, but I’ve got to be strong.

Janine felt a tinge of hope, and she dabbed her eyes with David’s handkerchief, then she put it in her purse. But when she saw him glance at the door, her heart raced.

David went to the door and turned around, then he braced himself. “Goodbye, Janine.”

“NO!” Janine screamed. She got up and ran to David, almost falling, but he caught her. Then she took hold of his hands. “No, David, please don’t do this to us!”

“I can’t help it, Janine.”

“Oh, my God,! Please don’t go!” She shook with despair. “Please love me, David.”

David freed his hands and opened the door. I need to get out of here. I’m afraid I’m going to give in.

“Just another five minutes,” Janine begged. Her legs were weak and she could barely stand up. “Please don’t leave me. Let’s . . . let’s talk more.”

Tears welled up in David’s eyes, but he didn’t try to stop them. He couldn’t speak, then he got it out. “It won’t get . . . it won’t get any better, Janine. And this is hurting me too, but I’ve . . . got to go through with it.”

Janine said, “We can . . . we can talk, and . . . and . . .” She was flustered, and couldn’t finish.

He started to leave, but she grabbed his arm with both hands. “David, wait, just wait another minute and . . .”

“I hate to leave you like this,” he said, “but I can’t fight fate.” He pulled his arm from her hands, and caressed her face. “I wish you good luck, Janine.” Then he forced his body out the door, and didn’t look back.

He shut the door, and Janine fell across the bed. She sobbed deeply, and said, “Oh God . . . why . . . why?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A GOD WHO REWARDS AND PUNISHES IS INCONCEIVABLE . . . FOR THE SIMPLE REASON THAT A MAN’S ACTIONS ARE DETERMINED BY NECESSITY, EXTERNAL AND INTERNAL, SO THAT IN GOD’S EYES HE CANNOT BE RESPONSIBLE, ANY MORE THAN AN INANIMATE OBJECT IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE MOTIONS IT UNDERGOES. ---ALBERT EINSTEIN -- Religion and Science. N.Y. Times Magazine, November 9, 1930. The Great Quotations, Compiled by George Seldes, Published by Pocket Books, New York, A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
RELATED NEWS REPORTS

The following excerpts are from related news reports. I believe they presage the coming global “free will debate”, which will divide our world as never before. --Lee Herald

WASHINGTON, April 23 (UPI) --- The director of the National Institute of Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism (Dr. Ernest P. Noble said) pregnant women . . . more than two drinks a day . . . of whisky, may harm their unborn children . . . lead to . . . behavioral abnormalities in offspring, . . . caused by heavy alcohol drinking . . . lower than average intelligence . . . Advice On Alcohol In Pregnancy, The New York Times, April 24, 1976.

A team of psychologists--Harold Grotevant, Sandra Scarr and Richard Weinberg . . . children are born with predispositions . . . certain interests . . . what parents do . . . makes relatively little difference. . . “Some kids will never be forest rangers and some will never be doctors,” Dr. Weinberg said, “no matter what you do.” Parents/Children, Likes and Dislikes: A Genetic Explanation, By Richard Plaste, The New York Times, October 7, 1977

CAUSE OF MENTAL DISORDERS
Many . . . scientists believed that such legal and social problems could be eliminated if the biochemical basis of mental disorders could be discovered, and if drugs could . . . correct the molecular disturbances that result in disordered thought. Britannica Yearbook 1978, page 418 in the Health and Disease section, under “Mental Health.”

WARSAW, Poland -- AP -- Recent studies indicate inborn traits of body chemistry . . . make some people more prone . . . to alcoholism, an American scientist said here Tuesday . Dr. John A. Ewing . . . director of the University of North Carolina’s Center for Alcohol Studies. Experiments . . . Ewing said, point to a correlation between the effects of alcohol and the level of the enzyme dopamine beta-dydroxylase . . . people with hiher DBH levels tend to drink more. Studies Indicate Alcoholism An Inborn Trait, The New York Times, September 6, 1978

A long-term study of nearly 15,000 adopted children in Denmark strongly suggests that a predisposition to chronic criminal behavior may be inherited, a California researcher reported today. . . (Dr. Sarnoff A. Mednick of the University of Southern California) . . . he cited nervous system characteristics, low intelligence and predisposition to alcoholism. . . Dr. Mednick studied the life histories of 14,427 (adopted) Danish children . . . mostly middle-class, law-abiding families soon after birth . . . Among those whose biological fathers had criminal backgrounds, he found a “greatly increased likelihood” of . . . crimes. . . Study Says Criminal Tendencies May Be Inherited, By Robert Reinhold, The New York Times, January 8, 1982

Researchers have found the strongest evidence to date that a genetically transmitted abnormality of body chemistry predisposes people to suffer from mania or depression . . . The finding . . . is described in today’s issue of The New England Journal of Medicine. Genetic Marker May Reveal Manic-Depressive Disorder, By Walter Sullivan, The New York Times, July 26, 1984

The genetic makeup of a child is a stronger influence on personality than child rearing, according to the first study to examine identical twins reared in different families. . . more than half (of the traits measured) . . . due to heredity, . . . according to Dr. Lykken. Major Personality Study Finds That Traits Are Mostly Inherited, By Daniel Goleman, The New York Times, December 2, 1986

FETAL ALCOHOL SYNDROME (FAS) The American Medical Association’s Family Medical Guide, page 310, Random House, 1987.
A pregnant woman who is an alcoholic or a heavy drinker subjects her unborn baby to the risk of being physically or mentally retarded if she continues to drink alcohol throughout pregnancy. The association between maternal intake of alcohol and a variety of developmental abnormalities in the newborn has been firmly established and is termed “fetal alcohol syndrome” (FAS).

BALTIMORE – A man walking on a bridge sights another who is fly fishing. The first man goes into a rage and within moments the fisherman is murdered. Moments later, the killer is horrified and remorseful.
A woman talking in public about her husband and son being military officers is suddenly attacked and fatally stabbed. The killer immediately is distraught and shocked at his act . . .
examples given by Anneliese Pontius (forensic psychiatrist) of Harvard Medical School . . . sudden brain seizures triggered by some innocuous sight or sound (having no) meaning to (anyone else) . . . The men made no plans to escape . . . victims were strangers. . . the acts were all triggered by . . . scenes that reopened deeply suppressed . . . memories. . .(Killer of the fisherman) had argued . . . with his father just before the older man died. The father was an avid fly fisherman. . . The woman who talked about (family) military officers was killed by a man who . . . failed to become a military officer. Sudden Brain Seizures Tied To Some Murders, The Arizona Republic, Associated Press

Imagine a world in which expectant parents know not only a fetus’ sex, but his . . . predisposition to be a poet or murderer . . . Dennis Karjala can imagine this world and much more . . . Karjala, a law professor at Arizona State University, said these scenarios and more are envisioned in research conducted during the Human Genome Project. Study Probes Impact of Genetic Science, By Susan Keaton, the Mesa Tribune, March 1, 1993

The human genome is about to become the most incendiary scientific frontier since Charles Darwin’s heretical insights burst upon Victorian England . . . (it will unleash) a torrent of information for which this society is almost completely unprepared. The challenges it will pose to personal values, religious beliefs and public policy will make the current to-do over genetics, race and intelligence seem mild . . . Scary Frontier of Human Genome, By Jessica Matthews, The Arizona Republic, November 13, 1994 (Written for The Washington Post. Jessica Matthews is a senior fellow at the Council on Foreign Relations.)

Growing evidence that a person’s genes influence behavior may create serious dilemmas for law enforcement . . . a noted geneticist said . . . “Genes do appear to influence behavior,” said Dr. Leroy Hood, chairman of the department of molecular biotechnology at the University of Washington in Seattle. “Since our system of law is based on free will and individual responsibility, could a future criminal argue extenuating circumstances because his genes made him commit the criminal act?” . . . Criminals could soon plead ‘my genes made me do it’, The Gazette (Colorado Springs), July 24, 1997 (from the Toledo Blade, Bar Harbor, Maine)

The scientists at the National Institute of Mental Health believe that environmental factors combined with genetic predisposition lead to the development of schizophrenia. From NIMH, December 16, 2004

According to one analysis, there are 221 known human genetic defects that can cause mental impairment, some 10% of which reside on the X chromosome . . . From Nature.com, May 13, 2006

ULTIMATE RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANYTHING THAT EXISTS, AND HENCE FOR ANY MAN AND HIS DEEDS, CAN THUS ONLY REST WITH THE FIRST CAUSE OF ALL THINGS. ---RICHARD TAYLOR, Metaphysics, second edition (1963) Prentice-Hall Foundations of Philosophy Series, Elizabeth and Monroe Beardsley, editors
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Today’s astonishing genetic discoveries have revived an age-old mystery: Is man free, or does the principle of “cause and effect” rule his life, determining his fate? Why Does The Lion Roar offers an answer to this fascinating question. ---Lee Herald



REVIEWS of AN INDICTMENT of WORLD LEADERS

(C) 2004 Lee Herald
















Previously titled, PRELUDE TO A MUSHROOM CLOUD

In 2001, Time Warner developed iPublish, an eBook website for unpublished writers.
Ten writers of that site wrote the following reviews of Prelude To A Mushroom Cloud --Part One. (Now titled An Indictment of World Leaders) Some went by their user names.

Dana Joan, 5-14-01 I would definitely keep reading. The character of Burt is well introduced. The general impression of Burt is that he is an “ordinary” person with extraordinary abilities and a lot of personal confusion. He is very realistic.The introduction of the mysterious character in the alley is also well done, leading me to wonder if he is the messenger or the catalyst of the holocaust Burt must stop.

Lorren, 5-15-01 Wow. This is very good. Not only is the story compelling and interesting, but you write it in a professional manner that is better than some published books that I’ve seen. I was very impressed by the pacing, and the writing style is excellent.And who is the spray painter at the end of the first chapter?I am left wondering. From what I have seen so far, I can tell that the plot to this book will be exciting.I have got to say that I am impressed. If you are not published yet, I am sure you soon will be.

Murzban F. Shroff, 5-15-01 Lh1984, bless his numerical i.d., is deeply and offensively talented. A plot which virtually explodes onto your senses and invites you to read through with maniacal greed.I loved the setting, the pace and the concept. We must ask this shy genius to disclose himself and unveil his talent and more of his book pronto.I strongly feel that iPublish should take this up not only as an ebook, but also a potential film idea, and engage this guy/gal to become a regular columnist on the site.Bravo, friend, your breed is rare. Go right ahead and let your talents roar – resoundingly!

Child Angyl, 5-15-01 This story is good. VERY good.My attention was captured quickly and held all the way through.

Hemedinger, 5-15-01 You have a good command of the English language and displayed the ability to express yourself accordingly.I liked the descriptive nature of this writing.I can relate to the actions because they are believable.

Hanawriter, 5-16-01 This is my kind of story! You do a great job of getting the reader involved and feed just enough suspense to keep the pages turning.I got caught up in the young boy’s trauma early on, liked the way you jumped to the present, and felt you did a credible job of keeping the pace exciting.

G. B. Pool, 5-24-01 This story has a lot of trepidation in it. From the title to the psychic readings to the mysterious note and the graffiti on the wall. Scary.The pacing is taut just because the set-up is so good. You know somewhere something big might go BANG.

John Luton, 6-3-01 This extremely well-written piece engages the reader from the very first! I especially liked the descriptions of the setting on the night Burt’s parents didn’t come home.You maintained the tension in several skillful ways. I liked the way you left the outcome unstated and then referred back to it later.The idea of Burt’s mind acting on unconscious dilemmas while he is sleeping is absolutely fascinating and thoroughly original! This is a gr