Fallen Masters Read online

  In a ritual they had followed when POTUS was alive, each of them put their hands over their hearts, pointed to each other, then put their hands over their hearts again. By doing this, they were saying that no matter where the other went, their hearts would always be together.

  “Tell him you need to go now,” IRA said. IRA’s voice was completely unmoved.

  “Marcus, I need to go now,” POTUS said to his son. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Daddy. I love you, and I miss you so much.”

  In an instant, Marcus was gone. So were the flowers, the lawn, the house, and the beautiful day. POTUS and IRA were in a sort of void, which was something new for Marcus.

  “Stop thinking of him,” IRA said. “You are creating a confusing conflux of energy.”

  “IRA, how is it that you are so devoid of compassion?” Marcus asked.

  “I have work to do,” IRA said. “There is no room for what humans call sentiment. On this side, what you would call the Other Side, there is no attachment to ego.”

  Did that leave no room for individuality in the spirit realm? Or was ego a burden for human beings on Earth? POTUS had never reflected on this notion before … had never been called upon to do so or felt the need within himself. In this place, all kinds of ideas were bombarding him, like questions at a press conference. But he had fewer answers here than he ever did in the White House. In fact, he was equipped with far less knowledge for the situation in which he found himself than he had been since kindergarten. The thought amused him—but just for a brief moment.

  CHAPTER

  50

  Grenada

  Mama G brewed herself a cup of tea, sweetened it with a bit of honey, then sat in her rocking chair and picked up her remote to turn on the TV. She could see the carriage being drawn through the streets, a flag-draped coffin on the back. The crowd was absolutely quiet, the only sound being the muffled drums, the hollow clop of the horses’ hooves, and the ring of the steel-rimmed wheels rolling on the pavement. The carriage was being drawn by six white horses with three soldiers mounted on each of the three nigh horses and was flanked by marching members of the military—army, air force, marine corps, and navy. One soldier was leading a saddled but riderless horse with a pair of boots reversed in the stirrups.

  “The riderless horse you see behind the caisson is named Sergeant York for the famous hero of the First World War. The same magnificent horse was used for President Ronald Reagan’s funeral in 2004,” the announcer said in a quiet and somber voice.

  The camera moved in for a close-up of the front row of spectators, found an old man with tears sliding down his cheeks, and held that picture for a long moment before moving out to follow the caisson.

  Mama G was watching the funeral on television; then the picture, the TV, the room itself faded out, and she found herself watching the tender scene between the president and his son. She watched the entire thing knowing exactly what she was seeing, and not questioning what it was or how she got here.

  “We needed him,” a voice said. “The world needs him.”

  “Yes, he was a wonderful man and a fine president. It is a shame that he was assassinated,” Mama G answered.

  “It was necessary.”

  Now Mama G was confused.

  “What was necessary?”

  “It was necessary that he be assassinated. We needed him.”

  “Are you saying it was all part of the plan that he be assassinated? That this wasn’t just some insane act?”

  No answer.

  Mama G wondered where the universal plans ended and individual actions—good or evil—began.

  Whatever psychic, cosmic connection Mama G was enjoying was broken, and once again she found herself sitting in her rocking chair, watching the images of the President’s funeral play out on her television screen.

  Europa, Belgium

  He was proud that he was not a native Belgian, but an Austrian. It made him kind of exotic to people in the small town in the far western Flemish region where he had lived for the past ten years. His name was simple, spelled the way he preferred it: Hans Smit. He was a man without a country but with an idea. He would make them all sit up and take notice. Soon.

  The children. He would take the children. The parents were corrupt and soft. They had chosen the easy way, but Hans Smit had chosen the right way.

  On the outside, he smiled and was unfailingly polite.

  He worked at a café next door to the bus and train station that saw daily traffic to and from the city and the countryside. Hans stood behind the counter and served coffee and ran the cash register. One day he counted over five hundred transactions. Somebody was certainly making money on this deal—but not him.

  Hans heard many languages spoken in the station, including Arabic and African tongues, and he thought it might drive him insane. These strange foreigners and immigrants—so-called minorities—were responsible for the decline in the standards of living in his adopted country. The times called for a leader, a führer to lift the true people to their true position of ultimate superiority over all others.

  The true people, who had no children, lived somewhere nearby. Hans did not know where, exactly, but he did know he could hear them speaking, and they spoke to him. They told him he must take the children from their families.

  He lived on a minimum wage, occasionally supplemented by small tips. And he slept in a room behind the café and drew pictures incessantly.

  The school bus stopped at the café each afternoon, and the driver came in to go to the bathroom. Like clockwork, the driver came into the station for his “pit stop.” Hans watched him from behind the counter.

  He knew the driver left the keys in the bus because he blabbed about it one day and Hans had overheard him. Now he acted. He ran outside and hopped into the bus. The key was there, in the ignition. He turned it and the bus roared to life.

  Hans Smit looked into the mirror to see all the kids in their seats, paying no attention to him. He counted them once, then recounted. There were forty-seven kids on the bus. Hans smiled silently. This was perfect.

  He drove toward the river, less than one kilometer outside the town’s border. The children began to notice something amiss. They were being driven somewhere they had never been before. They shouted at the new bus driver.

  Hans drove on for another few minutes. As he approached the river, he slowed and then shifted the vehicle into neutral. It kept moving. He opened the door and rose from the driver’s seat. Timing it to the best of his ability, he steered the bus directly at the river.

  With one fluid motion, he jumped out the open door.

  He had accomplished his mission: He had delivered the children. Now they would never return to their parents. Hans stood aside and watched the bus and its human contents slowly move closer, then over the edge of the bank.

  The yellow and blue school bus bounced once. A second later it had disappeared from view, and a loud splash, followed by a low rumbling sound, indicated that the vehicle had crashed into the river.

  Hans Smit walked away. He wouldn’t be gone from his workplace for more than a half hour. He would finish up there and close up the café, and then he would return to his small apartment room for the rest of the evening. He had some interesting pictures to draw.

  He heard the voice of his master and guide congratulating him on a successful execution of their plan. Whose plan? “Our plan,” the now-familiar voice in his head chided him. He felt the presence beside him as well as within him as he walked.

  Soon, many others around the world would join Hans and his guide in taking action to fulfill the promise of a new life beyond moral constraints and mere laws. This was but a first step—an important one, yes—by one man to lead the way for others. For millions of others who would hear their own call to action and respond as he had.

  A whole new world awaited Hans Smit, promised to him by his guide if he would follow the instructions laid down at the appointed time. That time had come.
Hans smiled. He was ready to answer the call.

  CHAPTER

  51

  Marcus Jackson Jr. was sad when his father left him, but he was happy, too—happy that he had been able to see him. He wondered if he should tell his mother about it. His father had told him to tell—to tell her that he was fine. But he hadn’t appeared to her, and Marcus didn’t know if she would believe it. And if she did believe it, would she be hurt that he came to Marcus, and not to her?

  No. He knew she wouldn’t feel that. He knew about good and evil, and he had never met anyone with more good in her heart than his mother. He would tell her.

  Marcus took one more shot, this time on the real basketball court on the presidential grounds. He came out here after the strange dream he had, partly in an effort to feel closer to his father. He felt a sense of satisfaction as the ball whisked through the net, then started toward the house. Marcus knew that he wouldn’t have too many additional chances to play on this court, as he and his mother would soon be moving out in order for the new sitting president and his family to take up residence.

  He felt he was being watched, but shook off the paranoia. Soon he would return to school and try to carry on with the rest of his life. He wasn’t certain that he wanted to.

  He went inside and told his mother he was going out to meet a friend for a cup of hot chocolate at his favorite Starbucks in Georgetown. The Secret Service was notified and, with the First Lady’s permission, several agents accompanied the teenager to the coffee shop.

  None of them could adequately explain what happened next. They could not know that the Army of Darkness that planned this excursion had forces in place, standing by to create a chaos of dark energy, a negative miasma that covered up a shocking crime perpetrated on their watch. All they knew was that the President’s son was suddenly gone, and it was their fault.…

  * * *

  He awoke in total darkness. His senses had been shut down for twelve hours and now were revived as he emerged from a drug-induced coma. He knew immediately that he had been kidnapped and drugged—and he knew without any doubts that he had been abducted by enemies of his late father. Beyond that, he had no clue as to where he was or when and how he had gotten there.

  It had happened with a swiftness that nearly scared the life out of him …

  The men—he assumed they were men, though there had been something not quite human about them—had taken him when he was out of sight of the Secret Service detachment assigned to guard him. After telling his mom he was going to meet a friend, he had gone into a Starbucks coffee shop in Georgetown to grab a hot chocolate. The agent who came inside with him had to go to the bathroom and didn’t signal for backup. A big mistake. Or was it?

  The moment he had been touched by his kidnappers, he had gone limp and fallen asleep. How that happened, he was never to know. Nor could he figure out how he could have been carried past the Secret Service, either via the front door or back door of the Starbucks.

  Within minutes the rest of the world learned that the late President’s son had been abducted; meanwhile Marcus himself was in a half-coma, half-dreaming state during which he was convinced he had been put on an airplane for several hours. But where was he now? Who were these people? Why was this happening?

  Inside his head, and in his heart, he clearly heard his father’s familiar voice. Strange. His father, the President of the United States, had been assassinated less than a week ago … Marcus and his mother, the grieving First Lady, had walked through the ceremonies and tributes, the seemingly endless hours of a state funeral being played out before the entire world, when all he and his mother wanted to do was go home and cry. Never had he known the true meaning of loss—not before now. So, as he sat upright and held his throbbing head in his hands, he felt only numbness—and an empty void within.

  Yet the voice was with him.

  And more than that—he felt his dead father’s presence in the black room, or wherever he was. Indistinct … he could not make out individual words or thoughts, but his heart was full of his father. How can this be? He asked the universe in silence.

  Marcus had grown up in a supercharged atmosphere of politics and publicity. His parents, however, had protected him to the best of their abilities from the egregious intrusions of the press. They were not perfect parents, but there was a strong bond among the three—a bond of love and trust that had survived two long years of a presidential campaign and three years under the media microscope in the White House. He had not been a perfect kid, but through it all, despite some teenage rebelliousness, he had remained a “good kid.” He was proud of his mother and father. Proud to be their son.

  A chill descended on Marcus. He opened his eyes as widely as he could—but still he saw nothing. He listened intently, but there was nothing to hear. He realized that he was in a soundproofed room.

  At least I’m not handcuffed or tied down, he thought.

  His head ached, and he felt tired from the aftereffects of whatever drug he had been given. He was confused; his mind raced. Listen, listen … Nothing. The son of the President was alone in total darkness, and he could not know what his fate would be—or if he would live another day.

  CHAPTER

  52

  In the hall, the Governor was speaking to the Council of Elders: “Ladies and gentlemen of the Council, we are gathered here today to discuss the gravity of the decline of the territories for which we are responsible. The Dark Forces are gathering in their uniformity and purpose, and they are orchestrating the behavior of the masses to unite against the Light Energies.” The Governor paused as echoes of frustration were heard among the elders who stood or sat before him.

  “We are bound by the rules of our divine Creator and Source and cannot interfere and do things for mankind, only inspire them to make more positive choices. How many times must I repeat that cardinal principle.”

  Another voice spoke up: “Brothers and sisters, I know that we are all terribly concerned with the planetary shifts that are coming—that will befall humankind. But must I agree with the Governor of our Council as he reiterates the rules that we cannot interfere with their destinies like the negative tides can?”

  The Governor replied, “It is true that, as energies fallen from the Light, our enemies are no longer bound to our treaties and covenants. Yet we are bound and must remain so for all of eternity. To abandon the rules, as you call them, denies our very purpose and reason for existence. Even in times of emergency, such as this.”

  The Governor paused. “We must discuss the new soul that is among us, a soul that could greatly impact all the souls both here and on the Earthly plane.”

  “What must we do, Governor? Would you suggest that we stop the evolutionary process of his soul?” the Ambassador, one of the most senior and most trusted elders, asked.

  “The longer we allow him to evolve, more the chance that he will choose the dark side.”

  “What is driving him in this direction?”

  “That is an easy enough question to answer,” the Governor responded. “He is used to power. He has wielded so much power in ‘his’ world that he feels a sense of entitlement, and being here, he is being presented with temptations that might undermine the process and progress we are attempting to achieve on the Earth level.”

  “I fear you are right, Governor,” the Ambassador said. “We must monitor him closely and hope for the best. His negative spiral has begun and the evolution away from the Light is growing. We can but put the good in front of him and hope he realizes it in time. But our task will not be easy, not when they have spent so much time together.”

  “The manipulations and trickery that have been born here should not be tolerated,” a female member of the Council said. “I say it should be banished now.”

  “My fellow members of the Council, the situation is becoming critical. We must all keep our eyes and souls open to learning from this. We can no longer deny the fact that evil has found its way here, here in this place that, for
eons, we have considered our sanctuary. And, sad to say, it is spreading like a virus within the very hearts of those here we are choosing to assist and protect.”

  CHAPTER

  53

  As IRA and POTUS moved toward the realm of the Spirit World, the sensation of motion, of moving away from one place and to another, was suddenly interrupted.

  “Why have we stopped?” POTUS asked.

  “I want you to observe this place,” IRA said. “Really observe. Take a moment and look at the beauty of all that you can see, hear, and feel.”

  “Yes, I have seen it,” POTUS said. “IRA, you have not told me what this place is. Or where it is. Is this Heaven? Because if it is, I have to tell you that it doesn’t quite fit the pattern I had pictured for it.”

  “Forget all your worldly notions of what or where this place is. Your reason for being here is so I can assist you to once again see that there is a plan and order. And if you attempt to label it anyway, you will hinder your ability to see it.

  “Now, turn around, sir.”

  POTUS turned around as directed, and found himself standing on the marble steps of a huge columned building. It could have been a building in Ancient Greece or modern Washington, D.C. There was a familiarity to it, yet he was certain he had never seen it, or even a picture of it.

  “This is the Great Hall of Memory,” IRA said. “But before you go inside, I want you to take a long look around and tell me what you see.”

  POTUS looked around as directed, and saw only the greenest grass and rolling hills, with trees and flowers that vibrated and hummed with color. POTUS was a man of words, noted for the expressiveness of his public speeches, even before he got into politics. He had a knack for choosing powerful words and colorful phrases to elevate his speeches to heights of eloquence that, according to one review, had his words “soaring with the eagles.”