The Falling Away Read online

  THE

  FALLING

  AWAY

  Other Books by T.L. Hines

  Waking Lazarus

  The Dead Whisper On

  The Unseen

  Faces in the Fire

  THE

  FALLING

  AWAY

  T.L. HINES

  © 2010 by T.L. Hines

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

  www.alivecommunications.com.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Scripture references are taken from the New King James Version. © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hines, T. L.

  The falling away / T.L. Hines.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-59554-454-4 (pbk.)

  1. Indians of North America—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3608.I5726F35 2010

  813’.6—dc22

  2010021109

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 11 12 13 14 15 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Iraq and Afghanistan veterans

  While we were People of the Earth, when the birds and animals could talk, some of us wanted to fight each other. They wanted warfare. They approached our Creator and asked if they could fight each other. Our Creator said, “First you must prove to me that you are men enough to fight.” He placed a man with a bow and arrow at the bottom of a sheer cliff in the water and told the men to dive off the cliff, but they soon changed their minds once they saw the man with his bow and arrow cocked and ready to shoot anyone who dove off the cliff.

  Finally one man walked up to the cliff and dove off into the water. He lay dead in the water with an arrow protruding from his collarbone and blood streaming from his nostrils. Our Creator said, “I won’t make too many of him, [and] from this day forward, [I will] try to wipe him out.” From that time we have been called Biiluke. Even unto this day we still refer to ourselves as Biiluke.

  HISTORY OF THE APSÁALOOKE (CROW PEOPLE),

  CROWTRIBE.COM

  Let no one deceive you by any means; for that Day will not come unless the falling away comes first, and the man of sin is revealed, the son of perdition.

  2 THESSALONIANS 2:3

  It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.

  HEBREWS 10:31

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  Having your leg almost blown off was much easier than having it reassembled, regrafted, and rehabilitated.

  The blowing-your-leg-off thing, well, that was quick. Easy. Automatic. You just join the army, deploy to Baghdad with the 710th Explosive Ordnance Disposal Company, and start taking daily missions to seek and destroy improvised explosive devices. IEDs.

  Better known as roadside bombs.

  After 237 days in Iraq, after some three hundred successful missions fueled by radio jammers and armor-plated robots, you find out that your high-tech gadgets can’t stop all the low-tech explosives when a farmer and a donkey find a hidden pressure plate behind you.

  Dylan should have considered himself lucky. Claussen, the second man in his three-person squad, shielded him from most of the blast. Claussen was the one who insisted they scavenge for extra iron and steel around Baghdad, haul it back to their workshop at Camp Victory, and weld it to their Humvee for extra protection. In a cruel, ironic twist, it hadn’t been the hillbilly armor on their Humvee that had taken the blast. It had been Claussen himself.

  Lucky, of course, wasn’t the word Claussen would have used. He would have said chosen. Did say chosen, in fact—he told Dylan they were chosen many times in their months together.

  Claussen always said that like it was a Good Thing. Dylan knew better now.

  And once again, the whole blowing-up bit, that was the easy part. How long had the explosion lasted? Couple of seconds, followed by the hollow echo of the blast reverberating, something Dylan hadn’t heard because his ears had only picked up a steady whine, as if one long, looping broadcast of the Emergency Broadcast System were playing inside his head.

  Then it was over. Not even painful, really, even as one of the 68-Whiskeys, the combat medics, screamed inside the chaos while hovering over him. Not that he’d heard the medic screaming—that high-pitched whine drowned out everything for Dylan—but he could tell the medic was screaming because even when you watch a silent movie, you get a sense of what’s happening on the screen.

  The pain didn’t sink its jaws into him until he awoke the next morning. Which suggested he had drifted to sleep, or something like it, during that night. Maybe that afternoon. He didn’t remember much of that, didn’t remember much of anything following the boom-of-the-Humvee/whine-of-the-ears/scream-of-the-medic sequence.

  Which was just as well, perhaps, because it saved him from the first part of the reassemble-the-muscle/regraft-the-skin/rehabilitate-the-leg sequence.

  That part was most definitely filled with screams as well. Screams he heard quite well, because they were his own.

  That bothered him, the inability to remember, because Dylan was precise. Part of what had drawn him to enlisting; he found comfort in the delineations and absolute order of military life. Waking at the same time each day, eating at the same time, following exact orders, reporting detailed observations. It was all about order, compartmentalization, numbers. Comfort.

  “I said, you want some more coffee?”

  Dylan blinked his eyes, feeling their dryness for the millionth time, resisted the urge to rub them. Rubbing them only made it worse. He focused on Webb, sitting in the passenger seat of the pickup. Granular snow, buffeted by the w
ind of the eastern Montana plains, sprayed against the window that framed Webb’s scruffy face. Old, gritty snow, punished by the ever-present winds. It reminded him of the gritty sand of Iraq in some ways. Even sitting here in the opposite temperature extreme.

  You’re not in Iraq, a voice said inside his head.

  Thanks for pointing that out, Joni, he answered mentally.

  Just saying.

  Well, just don’t. Not right now.

  Dylan let out a long breath, looked at Webb, shook his head. “Nah, I’m good. I’m golden.” He glanced at his watch; they had been parked here exactly seventeen minutes and thirty-two seconds.

  “Yeah, you’re the golden boy.” Webb unscrewed the cap of the metal thermos, poured some dark, lukewarm liquid into a mug that said I won a pullet surprise! on the chipped exterior.

  “Why don’t you get a travel mug?” Dylan asked. “Actually keep your coffee warm.”

  Webb took a drink from his stained mug, smacked his lips extravagantly. “Give up my lucky pullet surprise cup? Not until you pull it from my cold, dead hands.”

  “Yeah, well, your hands are cold because your coffee’s always cold.”

  Webb shrugged. “Least my cup’s always half full. You’re the guy who looks at everything half empty.”

  He’s got a point there, Joni’s voice said inside his head.

  Dylan looked out his own window, watched the winds whipping snow into fresh images of ghosts and monsters. “Nah. It’s usually totally empty.” He was answering both of them, Joni and Webb.

  “Touché. How ’bout a bump?”

  Dylan turned to look again at Webb, who had pulled out a prescription bottle. He shook it, rattling the tablets inside. There would be sixty-two tablets inside, Dylan knew. A full month’s prescription of Percocet, with instructions to take twice daily for pain.

  “Little bon voyage gift from Krunk,” Webb continued. “He gave them to me so you wouldn’t gobble them.”

  “I’m good.” Mostly because he’d already popped three Perks that morning. Had a secret stash neither Webb nor Krunk knew about.

  Webb shrugged, slipped the pills back into his pocket. “Got ’em when you need ’em.”

  Webb’s coat was a powder blue, down-filled monstrosity that made him look like a large blue marshmallow. Dylan had counted seventeen horizontal lines of stitching from the neck of the coat to the elastic band at the bottom.

  Webb had a little bit of padding beneath that coat as well; he was the kind of guy the old Sears catalogs would have called “husky” on their pages devoted to flannel shirts and work boots. The dark, short-cropped beard only added to the rustic lumberjack look.

  “You need to relax, man,” Webb said, smiling. “Hogeland’s the closest town—and that barely shows up on the map. Not exactly a hot spot for the border patrol.”

  They were just south of the Canadian border, an endless expanse of white enveloping the plains. Across the dappled haze in front of them lay the Great White North of Canada. Soon someone would appear at the end of this road, that was really little more than a set of tracks in the thin snow, and meet them for a drop. At least that’s what Dylan had been told. He’d feel better about the whole thing when it was done.

  Told you not to come, Joni’s voice whispered. I knew it was a mistake. You knew it was a mistake.

  I told you: Not now, Joni.

  Just saying.

  Just don’t.

  “You think the Feds are worried about us,” Webb continued, evidently feeling the need to lecture, “when Mexicans are sneaking hash and Mary Jane into Arizona and Texas? We’re in the middle of Nowhere, Montana, picking up some Perks and Vikes. Not even illegal.”

  “Unless you’re smuggling a couple thousand caps across the Canadian border,” Dylan said, staring out the windshield now, hoping to see some sign of a vehicle.

  Webb shrugged, took another sip of his kinda coffee. “You say tomato, I say tomahto. Governor of Montana brought drugs across the Canadian border when he was running his campaign.”

  “Those were legal prescriptions.” The current governor of Montana had made a big splash by arranging bus trips for seniors to Canada, where they could fill prescriptions for a fraction of their U.S. price. That had been during his first major campaign for office, when he was running to be a senator.

  He’d lost that race.

  Webb drained his mug, tilted it toward Dylan. “Hey, look. Pullet surprise cup is totally empty. You should be happy now.”

  Dylan ignored him and kept his eyes forward. This, too, was a lot like his time in Iraq. Always looking. Always patrolling. Always hoping to find . . . something. Something that would alert you to danger.

  Trouble was, you never spotted any such thing. You knew it was there, some ever-present monster lurking just beyond your view, but you never really saw it. You only felt it. Even spinning numbers and geometric patterns inside your head—counting lighted windows and subtracting them from the number of unlit windows, then changing your equations whenever another light flickered on during night watch—didn’t settle you. The monster was always there. Always waiting.

  In the distance, lights flashed in the white haze. Once. Twice. Like the lights in the shattered brick buildings on the streets of Baghdad.

  “You see that?” Dylan asked.

  Webb turned, looked out the windshield. The lights flashed twice again. “Yeah.”

  Dylan pulled a lever on the dash, flashing his own headlights twice in return.

  “Seriously? They’re in a white pickup?” Dylan said, not really expecting an answer.

  “Harder to spot,” Webb responded. “Aren’t you at least happy about that? Keep the big bad DEA and border patrol on their toes. Bet the thousands of secret cameras they got here in eastern Montana won’t even pick it up. Those Canucks are crafty.”

  Dylan ignored Webb, shifted in his seat, zipped his parka, pulled on his nylon gloves.

  “Those the warmest gloves you could find?” Webb asked, displaying his own padded mittens. They fit the rest of Webb’s marshmallow getup.

  “I’m good,” Dylan said. He put his hands in his pockets, not bothering to explain that he wore thin gloves so he could move his fingers easily. So he could use the .357 Mag revolver tucked into the right pocket of his parka if he had to. Loaded with 158-grain soft points. No need for Webb to know about such a thing; he’d just laugh, chalking it up to paranoid delusions on Dylan’s part.

  Dylan wasn’t paranoid, didn’t hear voices out to get him or anything like that.

  There was Joni’s voice, of course.

  And the numbers and patterns thing.

  And the kill box inside his mind, where he sent unwanted thoughts.

  And . . .

  Okay. Maybe he was paranoid. Or schizophrenic. Or mentally unbalanced. A bit of that posttraumatic stress disorder, as the therapist at the VA hospital was fond of telling him.

  After all, Joni wasn’t out to get him. And the mental kill box and the strange manipulation of numbers and shapes were just . . . mental exercises. Ways of controlling his environment. Perfectly healthy ways of coping with stress—another nugget of wisdom imparted by the VA therapist.

  You didn’t tell your therapist about me. Joni’s voice.

  No. If I did, we’d probably still be in the hospital.

  Dylan and Webb sat in silence for a few moments, studying the area ahead of them.

  Dylan cleared his throat, waiting patiently. His eyes still itched, almost as much as his leg. It was always worse in the cold like this, his leg. He knew it would start to roar with pain even more when he stepped into the frosty air outside.

  “There they are,” Webb said.

  “Yeah.” Dylan watched as two figures slowly materialized, moving slowly. Like mules on a long, hard trail.

  And that’s what they were. Drug mules. What he himself was about to become. A limping mule.

  I can think of another word for mule that might be more fitting, Joni’s voice said in his min
d.

  Hilarious, that Joni.

  “Let’s go,” Webb said, popping open his door. The lights in the cab of the old Ford Ranger sputtered to life.

  Dylan, shaking his head, opened his own door and struggled into the biting cold. He closed it behind him, leaned on the pickup’s fender as he made his way to the front. At the front of the pickup he returned his right hand to his coat pocket, loosely cradled the revolver’s grip.

  Outside, even though he stood on the vast, flat plains of northeast Montana, it felt as if he were in a tunnel. The wind was part of that; it lapped at any exposed skin, whispered hollow echoes in his eardrums, swirled dirty snow around him in a cloud. He could even taste the wind on his tongue as he breathed: it should taste fresh and clear, he thought, but instead it was loamy, like soil.

  Yeah, he was in a tunnel. A long, dark tunnel to nowhere, and coming down that tunnel were two guys carrying drugs.

  Webb stepped away from the front of the pickup, clutching a dusty blue rucksack of his own in his left hand as he raised his right hand in a greeting. Webb was what you’d call a people person; he loved bull sessions, loved telling and hearing jokes, loved slapping shoulders and shaking hands and exchanging high fives. It energized him.

  Dylan wasn’t a people person.

  Webb hailed the two men, a greeting of some sort Dylan didn’t quite catch; Webb was turned away from him, and the wind was carrying his voice to points unknown. But Dylan knew Webb was grinning expansively as he spoke. He always did.

  The two Canadians stopped a few feet away from Webb, their breath misting as the wind carried it away from their mouths, as if they were exhaling smoke. The two exchanged a quick glance, and the taller man spoke. “Nah, let’s just get this over with.”

  Dylan could at least make out what he was saying, since he was shouting to be heard over the wind. Even though they’d only walked a short distance from their pickup, crossing the U.S. border in the process, ice crystals had formed on the taller man’s beard, longer and fuller than Webb’s. He wasn’t a good beard guy, though, not like Webb. Webb looked like the guy on the Brawny paper towels packaging. This guy’s beard made him look more like a wannabe biker.