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  REVENANT RISING

  THE SECOND CHANCES TRILOGY

  BOOK ONE

  A NOVEL BY

  M. M. MAYLE

  —INDIAN RIVER INK—

  REVENANT RISING

  Copyright © 2011 by M. M. Mayle.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the written permission of the author.

  Published in the United States of America.

  This book is a work of fiction. The literary insights and perceptions contained herein are based on experience; all names, characters, places, organizations, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  ISBN-13: 978-1463557331

  ISBN: 1463557337

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-61914-255-8

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011909455

  CreateSpace, North Charleston, SC

  It is never too late to be what you might have been.

  —Often attributed to George Eliot

  Contents

  PREFACE

  ONE: November 1984

  TWO: November 1984

  THREE: November 1984

  FOUR: November 1984

  FIVE: Afternoon, March 25, 1987

  SIX: Morning, March 30, 1987

  SEVEN: Early morning, March 30, 1987

  EIGHT: Early afternoon, March 30, 1987

  NINE: Evening, March 30, 1987

  TEN: Early morning, March 31, 1987

  ELEVEN: Morning, March 31, 1987

  TWELVE: Morning, April 1, 1987

  THIRTEEN: Noon, April 1, 1987

  FOURTEEN: Afternoon, April 1, 1987

  FIFTEEN: Afternoon, April 1, 1987

  SIXTEEN: Early morning, April 2, 1987

  SEVENTEEN: Early morning, April 2, 1987

  EIGHTEEN: Midmorning, April 2, 1987

  NINETEEN: Late afternoon, April 2, 1987

  TWENTY: Late Afternoon, April 2, 1987

  TWENTY-ONE: Early morning, April 3, 1987

  TWENTY-TWO: Morning, April 3, 1987

  TWENTY-THREE: Midmorning, April 3, 1987

  TWENTY-FOUR: Late morning, April 3, 1987

  TWENTY-FIVE: Early afternoon, April 3, 1987

  TWENTY-SIX: Midafternoon, April 3, 1987

  TWENTY-SEVEN: Late afternoon, April 3, 1987

  TWENTY-EIGHT: Late afternoon, April 3, 1987

  TWENTY-NINE: Early morning, April 4, 1987

  THIRTY: Morning, April 4, 1987

  THIRTY-ONE: Morning, April 4, 1987

  THIRTY-TWO: Morning, April 4, 1987

  THIRTY-THREE: Morning, April 4, 1987

  THIRTY-FOUR: Afternoon, April 4, 1987

  THIRTY-FIVE: Evening, April 4, 1987

  THIRTY-SIX: Early morning, April 5, 1987

  THIRTY-SEVEN: Morning, April 5, 1987

  THIRTY-EIGHT: Late morning, April 5, 1987

  THIRTY-NINE: Afternoon, April 5, 1987

  FORTY: Late afternoon, April 5, 1987

  FORTY-ONE: Late night, April 5–6, 1987

  FORTY-TWO: Early morning, April 6, 1987

  FORTY-THREE: Midmorning, April 6, 1987

  FORTY-FOUR: Midmorning, April 6, 1987

  FORTY-FIVE: Late morning, April 6, 1987

  FORTY-SIX: Early afternoon, April 6, 1987

  FORTY-SEVEN: Afternoon, April 6, 1987

  FORTY-EIGHT: Midafternoon, April 6, 1987

  FORTY-NINE: Early evening, April 6, 1987

  FIFTY: Morning, April 7, 1987

  FIFTY-ONE: Late morning, April 7, 1987

  FIFTY-TWO: Midday, April 7, 1987

  FIFTY-THREE: Midafternoon, April 7, 1987

  FIFTY-FOUR: Afternoon, April 7, 1987

  FIFTY-FIVE: Evening, April 7, 1987

  FIFTY-SIX: Evening, April 7, 1987

  FIFTY-SEVEN: Early morning, April 8, 1987

  FIFTY-EIGHT: Late morning, April 8, 1987

  FIFTY-NINE: Early afternoon, April 8, 1987

  SIXTY: Afternoon, April 9, 1987

  SIXTY-ONE: Afternoon, April 9, 1987

  SIXTY-TWO: Afternoon, April 9, 1987

  SIXTY-THREE: Early evening, April 9, 1987

  SIXTY-FOUR: Evening, April 9, 1987

  SIXTY-FIVE: Late evening, April 9, 1987

  SIXTY-SIX: Early morning, April 10, 1987

  SIXTY-SEVEN: Midday, April 10, 1987

  SIXTY-EIGHT: Midday, April 10, 1987

  SIXTY-NINE: Evening, April 10, 1987

  SEVENTY: Early morning, April 11, 1987

  SEVENTY-ONE: Morning, April 11, 1987

  SEVENTY-TWO: Midday, April 11, 1987

  SEVENTY-THREE: Early afternoon, April 11, 1987

  PREFACE

  At the hospital in Portage St. Mary, Nate Isaacs is sole occupant of the waiting room where he was sent to complete preliminary paperwork. The room is equipped with a pay phone. He ignores it for now and plants himself in front of a window that gives back nothing but his own reflection.

  He’s half surprised to see he hasn’t changed outwardly. He feels shorter, heavier, and older than he was at the start of the mission. He wouldn’t be shocked to discover that his hair had turned white when he went looking for help and his horror-struck expression had turned to stone when he confronted the carnage for a second time. But the only noticeable change in his appearance is a certain hollowness of eye and the need for a shave.

  He continues to ignore the phone while considering what the outcome might have been had he not seized control of the pathetic recovery plan. There are no clear answers. Nor are there any answers regarding the whereabouts of an unaccounted for newborn who may not have survived a premature drug-addicted birth, and a vanished human head that may not have existed outside his overworked imagination.

  Unable to ignore the link with the outside world any longer, he turns to the wall-mounted phone, debating who to call first and where to begin . . . .

  ONE

  November 1984

  Audrey Shantz Elliot has been missing longer than usual. She’s been gone a full seven weeks this time. To close associates and the press, she’s known as Aurora, the lame name adopted soon after her initial exposure to non-celestial starshine. To the several teams of private investigators that have eliminated her favorite hiding places in Europe, she’s known by a more common name—a cruder one.

  Although he appears in full support of the effort to find her, expanding the search to include her least-favorite haunts strikes Nate Isaacs as ridiculous. First of all, Aurora is not shrewd enough to do the opposite of what’s expected of her; second of all, Aurora’s not shrewd enough—period.

  Following hunches and questionable leads is unsupportable as well. The only reason he’s involved in this probable wild-goose chase is on the off chance it will be the last one, the one that breaks the Aurora curse.

  Her husband, Colin Elliot, is silent in the passenger seat. According to the dashboard clock of a rented Buick Skylark, they’ve been on the road a little over two hours; two hours that saw them paused first, to buy cigarettes, then to pay the toll for Michigan’s Mackinac Bridge, and finally, for lunch at a harborside restaurant in the town of St.Ignace.

  Now, less than five minutes north into Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, Nate begins to grasp what they’re up against. Pickup trucks of every make, model, year and description far outnumber passenger cars in this part of the world. Although the current model Ford F-350 4x4 pickup truck they’re looking for has been customized with dual pipes, twin rumbler mufflers, jacked-up suspension, and roof-mounted swamp lights, it will not be a standout within this field of camouflage. And to complicate matters, the 1984 deer-hunting season is in full swing with pickup trucks favored as the most practical means of transportin
g weapons and animal carcasses.

  Outwardly unperturbed that they’re searching for a specific needle in a haystack of needles, Nate fiddles with the radio and produces nothing but static and bad country music, interchangeable as far as he’s concerned, and further confirmation of something already acknowledged. When one of the most identifiable rock stars in the world goes unrecognized by local airport personnel, convenience store cashiers, car-rental clerks, and restaurant staff—along with the patrons of those places—the message is that Colin Elliot does not chart here, not in any sense of the word. Not that it matters because they could easily afford to cede the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to Nashville; they don’t need this meager fan base, and they sure as hell don’t need the interference that goes with recognition if they’re to get through this fool’s errand.

  Satisfied that they stand out only as foreign to this part of the world, Nate is approaching a semi-relaxed state when Colin breaks into his musings, asking if he’s ready to admit that freedom’s a welcome change.

  “Freedom?” Nate responds.

  “Yeh, freedom from entourage.”

  “I’m admitting nothing.”

  “Right, because when you’re in full manager mode you never leave off thinking an entourage led by you could’ve saved the likes of John Lennon.”

  “I’ve never ever thought that.” Nate again fiddles with the radio knobs and again produces nothing but noise and Nashville.

  “Maybe not, but I know you’re thinkin’ it every time you assemble the troops. And rather ridiculous it is considering the number of American presidents shot at whilst surrounded by elite troops.”

  “Okay, okay. Did you hear that?” Nate points at the radio.

  “All that crackle and country music? Yeh. The way you’re crankin’ it, how could I help?”

  “The main reason I didn’t insist on assembling the so-called troops is because you don’t even chart up here in East Bejeezus. Your musical genre gets no airtime that I can tell, so no one’s apt to recognize you much less approach you.”

  “And anyone wanting to assassinate me wouldn’t fancy travelin’ this far.” Colin laughs and switches off the radio.

  The miles rack up and prosperous-looking motels and strip plazas give away to a landscape of unpainted houses, collapsed outbuildings, and boarded-up commercial establishments. The few occupied places are neglected, redolent of hopelessness and despair.

  If this contagion of destroyed incentive stretches all the way to Lake Superior, is it any wonder Aurora Elliot was willing to leave with the first latter-day Sportin’ Life to crook a finger at her? In her place Nate would have signed on with the Bremen Town Musicians if they were the only ticket out of here.

  “You see her as prey, then.” Colin says without lead in. “You see Aurora as something to be caught and eliminated.”

  “What?” Nate says. “Where’d you get that idea? Where do you come up with this stuff?”

  “Never mind, but I know for dead certain you think I’d be better off without her.”

  “That I’ll never deny.”

  “I wonder . . . Did you ever consider that I might still see her as salvageable? She is mother to my boy and there’s the new one on the way.”

  “Oh please. She was mother to Anthony as long as it served her purpose and that was only until the novelty wore off. And what the fuck kind of mother poisons her child before it’s born? As far as salvaging her . . . I think you see her as you would a possession. I think you see her as a pet project you never tire of working on. C’mon, Colin, it’s way past time to let go. She’s not worth saving, something you consistently refused to see the first five or ten times she went on a tear. Something else you better start seeing—that baby she’s due to deliver in a few weeks may not make it. Even if it does, it could be born addicted, permanently damaged. The one thing I did find out before the trail grew cold in Europe—Aurora’s unquestionably been using since she flew the coop. For that reason alone—for what she’s done to your unborn child—I’m justified in regarding her as prey.”

  “Flew the coop. Cute. Makes me out as nothing more than a bird fancier, then?”

  Nate ignores the rejoinder, gives Colin a few minutes to digest the cruel realities flung at him and then continues in the same blunt manner.

  “Is ‘Revenant’ just a working title for the new tune or are you really calling it that?”

  “I’m callin’ it that.”

  “That’s a mistake. Very few people’ll know what it means and the ones who do will probably anglicize the pronunciation. And the radio people—I hate to think. They’ll probably call it remnant or reverent or worse.”

  “So what? Who knew how to pronounce Versace right off? Who here hasn’t mispronounced Perrier one time or another? And you still end up with frog piss in a fancy bottle.”

  “You do realize you’ve just left yourself open to suggestions you’re bottling frog piss,” Nate says with a grin.

  “That’s uncalled for!”

  “What’s uncalled for? I was making a joke.”

  “You know damn well the song relates to Aurora and you can’t resist taking one more dig.”

  “I did not know it was about her. If I thought it was about anybody in particular, I would’ve picked a member of the Dungeons and Dragons crowd.”

  “Is that another joke?”

  “I’ve only ever heard the word revenant associated with fantasy gaming and that’s why I never took it seriously.”

  “Well, start taking it seriously because along with the definition you’re obviously giving it—one that returns after death—there’s another one meaning someone who returns after a long absence.” Colin lights a cigarette and drops his window a crack.

  “Butt that out in the ashtray when you’re finished. We’re in the Hiawatha National Forest for chrissake and I’d prefer you not torch it.”

  “Can you possibly stop telling me what to do at every turn? Do you have any idea what a nag you are? Shit! I have a wife. I have a mother. What in bloody hell do I need with an executive nanny?”

  “Is that your term?”

  “It’s one I hear when the talk’s about you. Describes you a lot better than mere manager.”

  This time Nate waits a little longer before introducing another issue. “I think the collaboration with Rayce Vaughn’s a bad idea as well. He could drag you down.”

  “Down? Sorry, I don’t follow.”

  “He’s on his way, Colin . . . the never-ending substance abuse. He’s gonna hit bottom any day now and you won’t be doing yourself a favor by going along for the ride.”

  “You’re actually sitting there telling me I’ll be tainted by my great friend—my fuckin’ mentor, he is—if I stand by him in time of trouble? Bleedin’ Jesus, Nate, have some compassion, won’t you?”

  Colin makes a great show of tossing the burning cigarette butt out the window. Nate watches in the rearview mirror as it scatters sparks in the distance. But there’s little concern it will start a fire because wet snow is falling in heavy flakes from a glowering November sky. After a minute or two he switches on the wipers and resumes the exchange.

  “I understand plans have gone forward for dividing the Kent property.”

  “They have. Chris already has a team of architects at work and I expect by the time I get back the hop fields’ll be history.”

  “No second thoughts?”

  Colin groans. “About what? About buying a country estate? About selling off a parcel of it to a mate? About establishing the ideal place for Aurora to get a fresh start once she’s found?”

  Nate hears only Colin’s unflagging optimism regarding Aurora. “Speaking of the unspeakable, read me the fax again.”

  “The one from Cliff Grant, that would be.”

  “Yeah, the one describing the truck. And while you’re at it tell me again why Grant and his source are considered believable.”

  From an inside pocket Colin produces the much-handled original copy of the fax tha
t set the wheels in motion. As he reads from it, Nate does his best to discount each assertion and instead finds himself weakening with each one. Maybe it’s Colin’s hopeful delivery; maybe the thing isn’t bogus after all.

  “That’s enough,” Nate cuts in, on the edge of becoming a true believer.

  “You asked me to repeat why I’m willing to believe Cliff Grant, and that’s what I’m doing. Even you cannot deny that Grant was the logical one to go to when he’s made a bleedin’ career of invading my privacy and exposing Aurora’s every whim and fancy.”

  “Don’t you mean every twisted desire and—”

  “Don’t interrupt! We’re talkin’ about Grant, not Aurora, and I’d like you to remember that the sonuvabitch has an amazing track record for knowing where I’m going to be, so—”

  “Reprehensible track record,” Nate says, “and maybe you ought to remember how many restraining orders we’ve brought against him.”

  “If you can shut up for a minute that would be my point. We wouldn’t have had to resort to legal tactics if Grant and his network of fart-sniffers hadn’t been so good at tracking me and Aurora over the years. Who better than Grant to pinpoint Aurora, then?”

  “Jesus, Colin . . . I don’t know . . . and I’m afraid to ask how much you’ve told him and what you may have promised him.”

  “Rather goes without saying that he had to be told Aurora’s gone missing.”

  “So he knows she’s run off again.” Nate sighs. “Do you have any idea how hard I worked—how hard my staff worked—to keep that information out of the tabloids? To keep ’em quiet, I all but blackmailed some of the European PIs.”

  “Then it shouldn’t be a stretch for you to grasp that I was doing similar when I contacted the bastard that’s notorious—fucking infamous—for his far-reaching connections and promised him an exclusive with Aurora if he came through for me. I also promised him a massive lawsuit if so much as one word of all this subterfuge shit appears in print without my permission. Grant knows you by reputation. He’s well aware what you had done to the Seattle transvestite ten years ago and to the stalker that time in Amsterdam. He’ll comply with me or lose his livelihood.”