The well-manicured plot of ground’s only anomalies were a large, polished marble headstone and a matching mourner’s bench. Two cherubs sat atop the headstone, one on each side, in a classic protective pose. Rachel Stephenson was remembered forever in stone as a loving mother, wife and friend. Underneath the flourishing green grass laid the remains of his beloved wife, Rachel. She had preceded him in death nearly five years ago. Since her death, life had seemed more a journey of endurance than a gift. But now, thanks to his good friend, Colonel Brewer, he would once again see his beloved Rachel.
Stephenson reverently approached the foot of the gravesite and knelt on one knee. The ground beneath his feet was solid, unlike the fragile ache in his heart.
“Hello, dear,” he whispered. “You may not recognize me as I haven’t looked this young in many years, but fret not you can trust that it is me. I’ve come with some fantastic news. Within a very short time I am developing a plan to call you back from your rest and you, too, shall be young again. I am so overjoyed over the prospect that I could no longer contain my enthusiasm and had to share the news with you. Sleep well, my dear, for a few more nights. After that you shall be back in my arms…forever.”
Chapter 13
When Stephenson returned from the cemetery, he dropped a couple of ice cubes into an Old Fashioned glass and poured himself three jiggers worth of single malt Scotch. With the drink in hand, he went to his recliner, sat down and leaned back to relax. He needed quiet time to ponder the details of when and where to ask the Monkey’s Paw to create his Healing Pool.
As for the when, the obvious answer was the sooner the better, but the where was more complicated. The location he chose needed to be a place that would be safe for eternity but also easily accessible, at least to him. His first thought was his current backyard. He could build a super high, wooden fence along his property line to keep out the prying eyes of nosy neighbors then also enclose the area around the pool with a covered building sporting dark tinted glass such as those used for indoor pools. The dark tint would conceal the water’s glow in the daytime and make it appear as pool lights at night. With those props in place, it would easily create the façade of having an indoor pool. The idea seemed feasible in theory, but regardless of how careful he was, odds were, the pool would eventually be discovered.
What about a legally protected place? Like a state park or monument or a cemetery?
The last idea was so encouraging; it was as though he were being hit by a bolt of lightning. He sat straight up in his chair.
“The cemetery!” he exclaimed.
That’s it. I can create MY private Healing Pool in MY burial plot right across the street. Now that I’m going to live forever, it’s not like I’m going to need it anyway — EVER. That location, if handled properly, would virtually assure no visitors and would afford me the luxury of a number of cover-up options. It’s settled then. I just need to make some final logistical plans.
Excited, he reached down and pulled the Monkey’s paw from his pants pocket. It was still attached to his key ring. He put his index finger into the key ring’s loop and twirled the paw around in a circle. His mind was working one-hundred miles per hour.
“Soon Monkey Paw,” he said. “Soon, you are going to change my life for the better, forever.”
Even after a late night of strategic planning and an overindulgence of Scotch, Mr. Stephenson was up at the crack of dawn the next morning.
He made coffee, toast and scrambled eggs, then booted up his computer and browsed the internet for local flower shops. He was looking for a shop willing to craft an extra-large grave blanket of silk flowers. He’d lain awake most of the night developing the intricate details of his plan. He would build a raised, portable wood-framed bed over the top of his grave plot as a place for the blanket of flowers to sit, which in turn would lay over the top of his Healing Pool. The flowers would look completely natural to any passer-by; making them the perfect cover.
After securing an order for the grave blanket, which was scheduled to be ready the day after tomorrow at noon, Stephenson drove to the local hardware store for lumber supplies. If everything worked out as planned, he’d have four easily attachable sections of the frame built and dropped off in the woods outside his plot before dusk. Then under the cover of the night, he could return and snake his way up the cemetery’s unused original entrance; an oft forgotten, path leading into the backside of the property. This path, which he’d walked and jogged many times for exercise as a young man, now dead-ended at the cemetery’s tool shed. Although abandoned years ago, and left to overgrow with weeds after the cemetery expanded and built an expensive, more modern gated entrance on the opposite side of the property, the path should still be somewhat passable. Once inside the cemetery he would have all night to get the sections of frame assembled into one piece and in place above his burial plot in preparation for the artificial blanket of flowers and his big day ahead.
Chapter 14
Finn and Andria, accompanying the missionary group’s trail leader, had barely reached a newly built floating dock a mile down river when Finn’s satellite phone rang. Startled by the call, Finn snatched up his backpack from the bottom of the canoe and anxiously dug through its clutter to locate the phone. After a short search, he quickly extracted it from the bag as a magician would pull a rabbit from a hat, then put it to his ear.
“Hello,” he answered.
There was no reply, only static.
“Hello,” Finn said again, plugging his uncovered ear with the tip of his index finger. “Who’s there?”
It was no use. The line had gone dead.
Finn pulled the phone away from his ear to examine the power indicator. It had a full charge but complained of a weak signal.
“Is everything okay?” the trail leader asked.
Finn gave him a confused look. “I hope so,” he responded. “Only my boss has the number to this phone and I wasn’t expecting to hear from him.
“Can’t you try calling him back?”
“It appears the communication in this area is limited. At any rate, whatever it was will have to wait.”
“All right,” the trail leader said. “Then please step this way. We’ll find a place out of the way and let the crew get us unloaded. When they’re done we’ll be off to the next leg of our journey.”
The three of them disembarked the canoe in single file fashion then reconvened a safe distance from the dock. Almost immediately the trail leader slipped off to himself a few paces and motioned for Finn to join him.
Finn scrunched his eyebrows together and obliged the trail leader’s request.
“Is something wrong?” Finn asked, moving closer.
“No. But before we go any further, there’s something you need to know about the Curar people.”
Uh, oh. “What’s that?” he asked, playing coy.
The trail leader’s facial expression and tone waxed serious. “The Curar, should we happen to actually be lucky enough to find them, are a very secretive and untrusting people,” he said. “They can be extremely dangerous if provoked. In addition to maintaining constant surveillance around the perimeter of their village with round-the-clock posted tribesmen, they are also rumored to have created a plethora of strategically placed booby traps incorporating diverse environmental means such as quicksand, snares, pitfalls and poison darts. For this reason, outside contact from the civilized world has always been limited or nil. However…”