Forever Man
Authors: Brian Matthews
Copyright © 2013 by Brian W. Matthews
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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ISBN: 978-1-936564-65-1 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-936564-66-8 (ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012953064
Printed in the United States of America
JournalStone rev. date: February 15, 2013
Cover Design: Denis Daniel
Cover Art: M. Wayne Miller
Edited By: Dr. Michael Collings
Dedication
For William S. Matthews, Jr., and Andy Matthews
The reasons are obvious,
the sentiment is real.
Endorsements
“Matthews’s debut, a supernatural thriller with a small-town ethos, drops a lot of tantalizing hints and brief scares into a story centered around family relationships. The novel wisely focuses on the human ‘distractions’ who would normally be glossed over in favor of the monster, and it presents their emotional pain and fears in a manner that maintains the suspense throughout.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“Brian Matthews has written an intriguing story enriched with unique characters intertwined within a plot full of mystery, crime and horror. Strap yourself in and hold on tight.”
— K. Trap Jones, Award winning author of
The Sinner
"With his debut novel,
Forever Man
, Brian W. Matthews has turned me into a major fan. Layering horror, mystery and an eternal battle between good and evil, Matthews tells his story with assured, luxurious prose and develops his plot with the skill of a master craftsman.
Forever Man
is a chiller of the first order. I loved it!"
— Joe McKinney, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of
Flesh Eaters
and
Inheritance
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Patrick Freivald
Jeffrey Wilson
Douglas Wynne
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Available through your local and online bookseller or at
Acknowledgements
My heartfelt thanks go out to the many wonderful people who helped in the creation of this novel. To Diane Clancy, Mark Foley, and Devon Hornberger, who read an earlier version of
Forever Man
and provided valuable feedback. To Tamra Leclaire, for handing out blunt but honest commentary, and for saving Katie Bethel from backstory limbo and bringing her to the forefront of the story. To my brother, Robert M. Matthews, Sr., for advice on police procedures, and any mistakes in the story are mine. To Christopher Payne and the crew at JournalStone, for believing in me. To Dr. Michael Collings, for his editorial acumen. To Wayne Miller, for the kick-ass cover. And to my good friend and fellow author, Jeff LaSala, who recognized something in me that I couldn’t see in myself. I know it sounds like hyperbole, but without him, you wouldn’t be reading this book.
My biggest thanks go, of course, to my wife, Jill, and my daughter, Dana. They put up with my crazy hours, my shirking of various household chores (cough, cough), and my state of perpetual distraction as I concentrated on my writing. Without them, I wouldn’t be the person I am today.
The Twilight
Of
Our Dreams
The Greyhound bus shrugged to a stop.
The old man glanced up from the paperback he’d been reading. Lifting a hand to the window beside him, he rubbed away some of the grime and gazed out at the prosaic landscape of yet another town.
Bartholomew Owens sighed. After so many cities, the stores and homes and people had run together until everything looked much the same.
Still…there were bright spots, images of people he’d met and places he’d seen that were so special—so
vivid
—that they burned like signal fires along the paths of his past, guiding him back to his younger days, days which now seemed so long ago he doubted whether he could even remember them correctly.
But that was a lie. He could remember them.
They burned the brightest.
From the front of the bus, the driver barked out, “Newberry!” and the exit door swung open with a snaky hiss.
Bart rose to his feet. Stretching, he retrieved his guitar case from the overhead bin, then his canvas duffel. With the bag slung comfortably over his shoulder, he started forward. Even after all these years, he still sat at the back of the bus, a blunt reminder to himself and others of how far the world had come. Besides, he preferred the bumpy isolation of those back seats.
Easing his way past the more congested front sections, Bart approached the exit and was surprised when the driver held up a hand, clearly trying to get his attention.
Bart had traveled from Nashville through St. Louis, Chicago and Milwaukee, with his final transfer having occurred less than an hour ago in the town of Escanaba in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. After spending the last twenty-four hours on a bus, he wanted to be on his way.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, frowning.
The driver gave a curt shake of his head. “No, but do you mind if I ask you a question?” He was in his late fifties, with broad shoulders, a bull neck and close-cropped white hair. Sitting ram-rod straight in his seat, he had the familiar bearing of a military veteran. The name badge sewn onto his shirt breast pocket said “Frank.”
“If you can make it quick,” Bart replied. “I’m in kind of a hurry here.”
“That.” Frank gestured to the insignia stitched into the green canvas of Bart’s kit bag: it was the head of a panther emblazoned upon a golden shield, with the motto ‘Come Out Fighting’ embroidered below. “I noticed it when you got on, but I don’t recognize the unit.”
With the easy smile, Bart said, “That would be the 761
st
Tank Battalion—the Black Panthers. They fought with Patton’s Third Army in France.”
Frank returned the smile. “My granddad served back then. All the men in my family serve.” He glanced back. In a low voice, he added, “My first tour was ‘Nam. Guess I got lucky. All I lost were these.” He held up his other hand. Two of the digits ended in fleshy stumps.
“Let me guess,” Bart said. “Marines. Infantry?”
“Damn straight. How ’bout you?”
“We’re all soldiers in some kind of war.”
Frank’s brow drew together in a puzzled frown. Then he gave a dismissive shrug. “Anyway, sorry to have kept you. It’s just…I don’t see many people who remember what the word ‘sacrifice’ means.” Frank took a final, meaningful look at the kit bag. “The man who used that, he must’ve been pretty special.”
Bart stepped onto the sidewalk, the brassy autumn sun warming his face. He thought about the young boy who had once owned the kit bag, a boy whose life had been cut short on a rainy battlefield in France.
“Yes,” he said sadly. “He was.”
After a respectful nod, Frank closed the door and drove off. The bus diminished into the distance, fading like a neglected memory until it melted away into the shimmering heat reflected off the tarmac.
Bart turned around. On the other side of the street, a prison sprawled across several acres of land overlooking the town proper. Locked away behind twin electrified fences topped with concertina wire, young black men strolled the exercise yard, played ball, and lagged farther behind the rest of society. Most looked barely out of high school, if they’d finished school at all. The consequential by-products of a culture which had largely forgotten its roots.
Quit sermonizing, old man. You need to get moving. You’ve got a job to do.
With a heavy sigh, he turned his back on the prison and hitched the kit bag high on his shoulder. Renewing his grip on the guitar case, he started up the road.
Kinsey was still a few hours away.
Friday Night
Natalie ran faster, her long legs quivering from the surge of adrenalin.
Looming high over her shoulder, the full moon shone through a canopy of dying leaves, speckling the ground with ghostly coins of pale light. But there wasn’t enough light, not
nearly
enough. The darkness seemed to bleed into everything, making it difficult for her to find her way.
She ducked under a thick bough. Paused to catch her breath. Before her, the hiking trail from Black Pine Lake campgrounds unwound like a dark ribbon. Trees crowded the edge of the path, hemming her in, reaching for her….
Behind her, Jimmy shouted. Called her name. Pleaded with her to stop. When a cry floated up the trail, she grinned savagely. Maybe something got the bastard.
She took off again. Her white Skechers pounded hard against the ground, propelling her forward. The path stretched east for nearly fifty yards, only to veer north; beyond, the forest waited patiently, a hedge maze of oak, pine, and maple. It may as well have been a brick wall.
She’d run about half the distance when she heard Jimmy shout her name. Turning, she caught sight of him, not thirty yards back. He had stopped, his lungs heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
“I said…I was sorry,” Jimmy called out. “I’m not gonna…hurt you.”
“It’s a little late for apologies!” Natalie yelled, her voice carrying through the still night.
“Look,” he said, his breath coming in slow, shallow gulps. “Let’s stop running…and talk.
“About what? How you’re a knuckle-scraping Neanderthal?”
Jimmy nodded. “Okay, maybe I deserve that. But don’t forget, this is as much your fault as it is mine.”
