No rest for the dead the.., p.1
No Rest for the Dead (The Psychic Guardian Angel Book 2), page 1
NO REST FOR THE DEAD
THE PSYCHIC GUARDIAN ANGEL™ BOOK TWO
A.W. POWERS
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This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.
Copyright © 2023 A.W. Powers
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Published by Marlowe & Vane
an imprint of LMBPN Publishing
PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy
Las Vegas, NV 89109
Version 1.00, July 2023
eBook ISBN: 979-8-88878-140-1
Print ISBN: 979-8-88878-534-8
THE NO REST FOR THE DEAD TEAM
JIT Readers
Rachel Beckford
Kelly O’Donnell
Wendy L Bonell
John Ashmore
Jan Hunnicutt
Editor
SkyFyre Editing Team
For M.J. and Jeanine Anderson
and Al and Betty Oliver
Among the many lessons you taught me were to keep dreaming, work hard, the effort to do it right is worth it, and have a little fun along the way.
Thank you.
I cannot see three of you, but I know you’re watching this happen. I miss you.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Author Notes - A.W. Powers
Connect with The Author
Books by A.W. Powers
CHAPTER ONE
He pointed his gun at the man standing in a grave. “The problem with my job is that I don’t get to kill anyone.”
The man smiled up from the grave. “Killing is the ultimate. Even better than creating life. Any fool can do that, but taking life is a gift reserved for us by the gods. It’s a gift for the gods. There is nothing like it, my man.”
“And here you are, with a body.” He turned on the laser sight and set the dot on the man’s forehead. “I’ll bet I could kill you, and nobody would be upset.”
“You can do that.” Martin Franklin looked at the body he was standing over, then back at the man. “Or I can teach you how to kill and, more importantly, how to cover your tracks so you can keep killing. Teach you to experience something so few get to do.”
“Let’s start with this one.” He lowered the weapon, turned off the laser sight, and slipped the gun into his pocket. “What are you going to do with this body?”
“Let me show you...”
CHAPTER TWO
Just because you saw your friend’s killer die at the hands of the police doesn’t mean you’re ready to let it go. Not your friend, your anger, or even your desire for revenge. Not when you know she wasn’t his only victim. You want to see justice for the rest of them, too. Or at least I do.
I watched Martin Franklin die from three bullets to the chest. After that, Rachel Thompson was at peace. So was Latisha Ford. My need to pull the trigger was diminished, but I knew Martin Franklin wasn’t done. He wasn’t done with me. I was not at peace.
The police had recovered the remains of another five girls who died at his hands, but I knew there were more out there. I kept looking, with the help of John Thompson, Rachel’s brother and my friend.
Shortly after Rachel’s funeral, I found my mom sitting on her bed and digging through a box of pictures. Since she was in her room, I joined her. If she hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have considered going into her private space alone, as she doesn’t enter my room when I’m not there. It wasn’t that I was afraid to touch anything for fear of breaking it, nor was she afraid to enter my room because it was a dangerous mess, which it wasn’t. We simply respected each other’s space.
She’d set a few pictures to the side. I picked them up and sat next to her.
“This is really nice.” It was a picture of my dad sitting on a picnic table and trying to get me to look at the camera. I was probably two. “Did you take it?”
“Yeah. It was at Crystal Lake in Robbinsdale. We went so you could feed the geese.”
I looked at another picture of the three of us. They were a good-looking couple. I still wouldn’t look at the camera. “Who took this one?”
“I did.” She took it from me and smiled. “The camera was on a tripod, and I used the automatic timer on the shutter release.”
“That’s pretty cool. I didn’t know you took pictures.”
“It’s been a while,” Mom admitted. “I always enjoyed photography, and sometimes I miss it. Taking pictures didn’t seem important after your dad died. I had you to worry about, and you never wanted to sit still. They all turned out fuzzy because you moved. Made me doubt my abilities. I haven’t taken pictures in years.”
I picked up a third photo. It was a monarch caterpillar chewing on milkweed. She had zoomed close enough that you could make out all its little feet, black pointy ones in front and suction cups on the back, gripping the leaf it was eating. “This is great. You should get back into it.” I bounced my shoulder into hers. “Especially now that you don’t have to worry about me anymore.”
“Oh, God, if only that were true.”
That was before I actively pursued an escaped serial killer. After Martin Franklin was dead, we thought we could have a normal life. At least as normal as it could be for a single mom and her son who had moments where he could be called psychic.
She had gotten back into photography. Sorted pictures, pulled out her cameras and lenses, had them professionally cleaned and tuned up, and bought a new digital camera.
We were at the Eloise Butler Wildflower and Bird Sanctuary outside downtown Minneapolis. It wasn’t far from where I found Rachel Thompson’s body and her killer, so I thought it might be worth checking out and suggested it as a suitable location for a photo expedition.
Mom was setting up to take a picture of an oak tree so gnarled it looked like a sculpture from Rod Serling’s Night Gallery. I saw the agonized face of a grouchy old man. My girlfriend, Jan Everts, said it looked like a sonogram picture of an almost-ready-to-emerge baby. John didn’t
I turned to look across a clearing and up a small rise. John stepped up beside me. “Well, Daniels, do you feel anything?”
“No.” It was a relief not to receive any psychic messages. “Do you see anything?”
I wondered what he expected me to feel. People, or ghosts, watching? I’ve known when I was being followed, but I’ve never been able to tell by whom. So, unless I was getting stronger or some ghost wanted me to feel them, I counted on John to tell me someone was there and that I should reach out with my feelings and learn what I could.
“Nature.” He was tall and lanky, with a skin tone that suggested he never left the basement. In reality, he rarely went to the basement. It was old, moist, and populated with lots of things John considered crawly but still intriguing.
“Then we might as well enjoy it.”
We turned to face the oak. Mom had her camera on a tripod. Jan was looking through the viewfinder. Then Mom stepped up, adjusted something, and took a picture. She adjusted something else and took another, then made one more tweak and snapped a shot. This time the flash fired. I would have to ask why she’d used the flash on a sunny Sunday. I was sure she had a reason, probably artistic.
She lifted the tripod, backed up about six inches, and appeared to repeat the series of pictures.
I was already planning additional photo expeditions. Most of them would be near train tracks or cemeteries or not far from where I found Rachel. I was intent on discovering Martin Franklin’s habits and all his victims. At some point, I’d tell Mom what I was up to.
We moved around the Butler Sanctuary, and Mom took more pictures. Jan assisted, and John and I kept our eyes open. I pointed out some flowers blooming in the middle of a clearing on a small hill outside the fence.
“Can we get there?” Mom asked.
“I saw a rear gate to the sanctuary not too far back.” I pointed in the general direction. “We could go out and follow the fence around, then walk out there.”
“Lead on,” she directed.
We made our way back and out the gate, then found a path that led us in the right direction. It entered an area of woods within the park system but outside the sanctuary and rarely used.
I felt the presence of others. Felt us being watched.
I didn’t say anything as I kept looking for our observers.
John was the one who claimed I was psychic. I was in denial. Jan had seen some evidence to support John’s theory, but she didn’t know how it worked, how extensive it could be, or if she wanted to know. She only knew I seemed to find trouble. Mom had seen enough to know she could trust what I told her. She also didn’t want what I may know or think I know to change who we were and what we did. So unless I was sure or needed to act on something, I’d wait to tell her.
The clearing was in sight. Mom picked up the pace.
Then I heard a rustle.
“We’re not alone,” I muttered.
Mom looked at me. “We’re almost there. We’ll get this last shot and go home.”
Two guys stepped from the brush ahead and to the side of us. They held beer cans. One emptied his into his mouth from about six inches above his face, crushed the can, and tossed it into the brush. Jan opened her mouth as if to scold the litterbug. She closed it when he belched.
“Isn’t this sweet?” the other one commented. “Mommy’s leading the kids on a field trip.” He wore a denim vest over a green and gold Harley Davidson tee shirt.
“We’ll go home.” Mom turned to go back the way we came. “You can have the woods to yourself.”
“Nah, don’t go.” He held out his beer as if offering it to Mom. “You’re just in time to party with us. You can take our pictures too.”
Two others stepped out. The rustle I had heard was them circling behind us.
“I don’t take pictures of ugly things,” Mom declared.
“Now you’re calling us ugly.” He sounded shocked. “Did you guys hear that? We’re too ugly for her to take our pictures.”
“Grab a camera.” One of the two behind us pointed at the camera hanging from Mom’s shoulder. He wore a holey, faded Minnesota Vikings sweatshirt. “We can take our own pictures.”
The other one at the rear, wearing a black leather jacket, grabbed the camera strap across Jan’s shoulder. It was the new digital.
“You don’t want to do that.” I tried to keep my tone even.
“And why not?” He met my eyes, then stopped and let go. Jan stepped away, so she was between me and Mom.
I pointed at Mom. “Because she prefers that I avoid violence and stay out of fights.”
“I might make an exception this time,” Mom remarked. I smiled.
“You think you four can take us?” the first who’d spoken asked. He emphasized “four” and “us,” making them sound snide.
“No. Those three are going to watch. I’m going to whup you all by myself.” I stepped closer. “But hey, before we begin, maybe you can help me out and answer a question.” Denim Vest furrowed his brow but didn’t say anything. “You probably live close by. Do you know where the nearest cemetery is?”
“What?” Leather Jacket asked.
“I can’t help thinking there’s one close, but I can’t find it,” I explained. “Do any of you know where it is?”
“Why do you need a cemetery?” Denim Vest asked.
“I can’t decide if I’m going to find something there…or if I’m going to leave something.” My smile broadened as I rolled onto the balls of my feet.
“What would you find in a cemetery?” Leather Jacket inquired.
“Dead people, of course. Maybe a ghost or two.”
“And what would you leave there?” Denim Vest asked.
“Probably one of you.” My smile had not faded.
“Are you a fucking nut job?”
“That’s open to debate.”
“I should probably have him tested. It’s been suggested before,” Mom explained. “But it’s so expensive, and he really isn’t a threat to me or himself, so why bother? In times like this, I don’t care if he hurts someone else.”
“You’re as bad as he is,” Denim Vest commented.
“Yeah, maybe,” Mom agreed.
“Are you willing to find out?” I asked.
Mom set down her camera stuff, shrugged her shoulders, and rolled her neck. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“I don’t want you thinking ill of my mother, and I should probably pound on you for saying she might be crazy, but we do like to do things together. We’re a little weird that way.” My arms hung loose, and my fists closed. “So I guess I won’t have to whup you guys alone after all.” I shrugged my shoulders and rolled my neck like she had. “Are you ready? C’mon, let’s do this.”
