Blackson's Repentance: The Poltergeist Files, #2

Gratitude

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the Lord Jesus Christ to whom I owe everything. You have gifted me and I am looking to gain more for Your investment. This is my act of worship.

To my wife Margot who has been astronomically supportive and patient as I pursue this calling. Thank you for believing in the gift God has blessed me with. Thank you for your encouragement so I can become better. I love you big kind.

To all those who hung in there with me as I struggled to get this one done. Much love to you all.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I want to thank all of you that would spend their hard-earned money on anything I write because you thought it was worth it.

Shout out to my cover designer Olivia at Olivia Pro Designs. Once again, doing a great job.

My illustrator Nele Diel. Glad you came in to do the do on this one. Thank you, thank you.

To my RIU Elites (Leets!). Thank you for your mad support.

To my fellow writers who have helped me in so many ways over at the SPF Facebook group. Mad love to Mark Dawson and James Blatch for a fantastic podcast that has taught me tons.

All the best. God bless.

Easton Livingston

Welcome to the RIU.

Hello. My name is Easton Livingston. I'm a storyteller and universe creator. What you hold in your hands is the second book in the Poltergeist Files series. It is part of what I call the RIU (Reality Imagination Universe).

If this is your first foray into the RIU, welcome. If you haven't read the first book in the series, I suggest you go ahead and read that one first. Here's the link:

Buy Blackson's Revenge.

I have other access points to the RIU you may be interested in. What's an access point? I'll explain that at the end of the story but if you don't want to wait, you can skip over to the RIU HQ and look at the codex of terms.

If you're interested in becoming an RIU Citizen where you'll get updates on book releases, cross promotions, sneak peaks, and other RIU goodies, sign up below.

Become an RIU Citizen.

Also, for purchasing this book, you will have access to the Veiled Athenaeum. I'll explain what that is as well at the end of the book.

Enough of my ranting. Thanks for your support.

Enter and I hope you enjoy Blackson's Repentance.

Chapter 1 - The Evil That Grows

His father was a murderer, and he wanted him dead.

Asim sat at the Cloister Cafe on 238th E. 9th St., waiting for his contact to arrive. He wasn’t sure who he was waiting for exactly. His contact had told him the person would call. The only details given were that he was to sit at a particular table — at this exact café — and wait. So, for the last hour, that is what he did.

How had he arrived at the place where his father had become his greatest enemy? He did not foresee this. He knew his father had a bad temper. There were many volatile situations in their home growing up. Everyone understood their place if they knew better. It was not as if he or his sister Yanni had disobeyed him while living there. His mom was obedient to a fault, and his father had full reign in the house. It was how it was in Afghanistan. That was the expectation. With the position and power his father held, there was an expectation that the family would not embarrass him.

He provided Asim with lifestyle benefits he enjoyed. Comforts many children in the United States — or anywhere else — didn’t have. He was a student at Columbia University, a prestigious learning institution. It was a testament that all the years growing up in a strict environment had paid off. His father paid for his college, no questions asked. As long as he kept his grades at an acceptable level (nothing lower than an A). Asim didn’t have a problem with that because being in college meant being away from his father. Though he was acclimated to the strictness of his environment which trickled into his personality, the last two years had broken down the barriers of his home life. He thought more of freedom, unchaining the patriarchal shackles he was under for so long.

He hadn’t jettisoned all his beliefs in just a few years. There were some things he would never change his mind on. He loved his mom; he loved his people, and he would not change his faith. Being a Muslim was necessary in his culture. The low percentage of other faiths in Afghanistan was because the Muslim influence there was strong. Though he didn't understand everything, his family went through the rituals and traditions they needed to perform to be good, nominal Muslims. Enough to where they appeared serious. The image didn’t always mimic the reality.

There was still plenty of anti-Muslim sentiment on campus. He would not associate with such people. They were the same ones who embraced the decadence that made America the moral cesspool it was. Accepting homosexuality, disrespecting parents, the debauchery of alcoholism which appeared to be the reason for living for many students. He may have been a titular Muslim, but he would adopt none of those things. So he avoided the discussions as best he could.

But even amid that, he’d found a small haven at Columbia. It surprised him to find like-minded individuals on campus who supported his faith. They weren’t just other Muslims but many non-Muslims who agreed to disagree. It was odd and refreshing at the same time.

Everything had gone so wrong so quickly. When his father received diplomatic immunity and moved his family to the U.S., part of him dreaded it. Yet there was also a sense of relief. Work would be the priority of his father’s agenda as liaison and attaché so he wouldn’t be around much. He could spend time with his mother and sister, the latter going to college as a first-year freshman at Columbia. It would be nice to have the ladies around again, to be around family. The other Muslims, and non-Muslims were decent people, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t home. Home was wherever his family was.

He enjoyed not being in Afghanistan. He expressed the sentiment to his friends but wouldn’t voice it to his father. The United States was head and shoulders better than that backwater country. There were things he could afford here that were scarce or nonexistent back home.

For example, the food. There were all kinds of restaurants in New York. There was Little Arabia which is where he spent a lot of time when he wanted to have something close to authentic home cooking. Though he would never tell his mother, some dishes were better than hers. Let’s not forget the fast food. McDonalds. Burger King. Taco Bell. These places were absent back in Afghanistan. Sometimes he felt guilty just going into those places. He had a tendency to overdo it and they had no problem with his overdoing it. They weren’t singling him out, but they weren’t stopping him from coming in too much. It was a business, and they needed to make money. He was a happy participant in that purpose for them.

He loved the freedom. The freedom to walk down the street, look at the sites and not be fearful you weren’t wearing the right thing. However, the women in the United States were another problem for him. The freedom they had to go wherever they needed to work and learn differed from Afghanistan. His father was more progressive in that department. Having two educated children from a prestigious college looked good to the countries where they sent him. Part of his position was about appearances. The secondary concern of wanting Yanni and him to be independent and free from the confines of the East was minimal. They would go to college, get a degree, and it would all be for show. They would do what their father said throughout all of it. Those were the stipulations. Even Asim had a little more freedom but there were strings attached. He had to show up for certain events and act a particular way. It was all part of the diplomatic game.

He looked at his watch. He had been waiting at the same iron-wrought, patio table for an hour and fifteen minutes. With what he was asking them to do, it was understandable they would be cautious. That was speculation on his part. He didn’t travel in those circles. He wasn’t familiar with the ins and outs, the proper protocol. Whatever code it might be probably wasn’t something across the board. He couldn’t see a standard of general operation for all people who made their living killing people. He didn’t even know what to expect in terms of the type of person he would meet.

His heart quickened a pace. The realization of what he rushed his mind in a paroxysm, assaulting his resolve. He was there waiting for someone to hire to kill his father. It sent a shudder through his body. The idea sickened him. That was not the person he was. Contrary to the conventional thinking of many Americans, every Muslim wasn’t a terrorist. They did not want to kill everyone else not like them. In this situation, it was even more bizarre because it was a Muslim murdering another Muslim. No. It was a Muslim destroying a monster.

Asim knew about Yanni and her relationship. He warned her that their father would not be happy. He was vehement in his declaration and told her to end it. But there was a major obstacle in the way. She had fallen in love with him.

It would not have been so bad if he was a Muslim. Or even if he was a non-Muslim from the Middle East. There was a workaround for that. But that wasn't the case. He was not a Muslim and Jewish.

There was the rub.

It was even a shock for Asim and he considered himself flexible. One thing you did not do as a Muslim — you did not ally, join hands, and especially fall in love with a Jew. You could be cordial with them. That was the extent. Anything else was unacceptable. Jews were enemies. This is how he had grown up. Its roots ran deep in his mindset. That was who he was.

The turning point for Asim was when he met Azariah. Though he had apprehensions, the more they talked, the more he liked him. That caused havoc with his whole worldview. Within, he felt he was committing treason by being more than amicable. He was a Muslim with sincere affection for a Jew. He struggled with it for at least a month. In the interim, they became genuine friends. They were the only ones who knew about the relationship — him, Yanni and Azariah. Azariah hadn’t told his parents because of fear of the same reaction Asim was afraid of from his.

Had the United States infected him? Was it making him abandon the tenets of his faith? Or was he finally seeing that a man’s culture or ethnicity didn’t fully define the man? The heart of a man established who he was. He was never taught that, but he now believed it.

Seven months they kept the secret. In that time, he saw his sister happy. Her smile when she saw Azariah glowed. Even when she worried, his presence lifted her out of her somber mood. He was a light in her life and Asim saw nothing wrong with the relationship.

It was not the same for his father.

To this day, he wasn’t sure how his father had discovered the affair. But the night she came home, she got an earful, and more. Asim thanked Allah he had his own apartment but when he visited Yanni the next day, his blood boiled. His father had beaten Yanni. Her left eye swollen, purple and black, her lips inflated and cut. There were scrapes and bruises on the other side of her face and more bruises on her body. His father was unabashed in asserting his authority, revealing his true colors.

It was beyond anger what Asim felt. A seething undercurrent of rage built within him. His father’s job was to protect his children, yet he had always treated them as mere possessions to do with as he wanted. Asim wanted to confront him but knew he couldn’t. Mixed with that indignation was an eddy of trepidation. He wasn’t a fighter. His father reminded him of that all his life. Though he was desperate to do to his father what he had done to his sister, he knew it was a fantasy that would never happen.

Days later, Yanni disappeared. She dropped out of school, took a travel bag, and left. Asim went looking for her, knowing where to look. But Azariah refused to tell him where she was. It wasn’t out of animosity but out of safety. Her injuries were severe and hiding her was the best alternative since his father had diplomatic immunity. Asim understood and his respect for Azariah rose. The situation was precarious and volatile. They had to be careful. There were loopholes in how things operated and his father had found one.

It wasn’t long before his father contacted him and asked where she was.

Asim. Where is your sister? I know you know where she is.

The sound of his voice was guttural. Yanni’s leaving had done nothing but exacerbate the problem. His father demanded obedience without question. She had contravened it in the open. Even if he knew where she was, Asim had resolved he wouldn’t have told him.

I do not know where she is, father. Maybe she has stayed with some friends for a while.

Friends? Is that what you call that kafir? A friend? She is my daughter, and she is defying me! She’s probably sleeping with that kafir! I will see her dead before she brings a half-breed Jewish dog into this world.

His father’s statement shook him. He knew his father was strict, his temper was short. But he did not expect him to act as intense and violent as he did. Him and Yanni received many a beating growing up. But it was far less than other children because they were respectful and did what their parents said. What they were dealing with now was something else altogether. There was a level of illogical fury that went beyond anything he’d seen growing up. Now he insinuated he would kill his own daughter, and it wasn’t an offhand comment he didn’t mean. The tendrils of darkness bled through the telephone and gripped him. His father was serious.

Everything was fine for a week until Azariah contacted him asking if he had seen Yanni. He’d said he had not and thought she was still with him. A week later, the police found her body, beaten and stabbed over twenty-five times. When he heard, he knew what had happened and rushed over to his parents.

You did this! he screamed, pointing his finger in his father’s face. He didn’t care if he received the same thing, the pain so deep, the wound raw. His mother sat at the dining room table, tears streaking down her face. His father just stood there looking at him. No tears. No sadness. Impassive.

This is my family, he said. I am the leader here. No one will defy me, especially my daughter. No one.

The last two words were a threat. Asim needed to decide. Fall in line like his mother or suffer the same consequences as his sister. Though there was no direct admittance of the act, everything in his father’s behavior spoke to the reality. He had killed his own daughter.

They called it honor killing because it was to protect the honor of the family. His father had position and power and was not about to lose it or have it smeared. The people he answered to expected him to have control of his family. In the end, it really was just about him.

That was six weeks ago. He had buried his sister, watching his father shake hands with heads of state, feigning sadness and despondency. It sickened Asim. It was appalling. More than anything, it was evil.

Asim went through several stages of guilt. He should have seen this coming and made a clean break away from his father. Took his sister and mother. But he was too much of a coward. Because of Asim’s inaction, his immediate family diminished by fifty percent. Too scared of a man he now considered a stranger, a sadistic tyrant. His father was dead to him.

In a night of contemplation, the idea came to him. His father needed to go. He needed to disappear from the face of the earth. Life was too precious a gift for him to possess. Asim wanted him dead, and he wanted it done yesterday.

It didn’t take much for him to find a computer whiz on campus to hack into his father’s laptop at home. He knew it was where he kept all of his sensitive information, including his bank account info. The hack discovered millions in an Afghanistan account. They were well off, but it never seemed like they were millionaires. This money was coming from someplace else. It didn’t matter. He had the information he needed and now he had the resources.

He would use his father’s own money to pay for his assassination.

Chapter 2 - Pro Bono

It had been an hour and a half and still no one had shown up. Asim started to worry. His contact said the message had gotten through to the right person but maybe something happened. Maybe they had gotten arrested. If they were in jail, would they reveal he was hiring a hitman to kill his father? Or maybe his father had already gotten to them. He had been sure his sister Yanni was safe, and it ended up she wasn't. Maybe his plan was no longer secret. If so, his father bided his time, waiting for Asim to rise from that table, go home, and cover himself in a blanket of false security before he came to kill him.

Asim closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His thoughts ran back and forth, conjuring improbable scenarios. But improbable did not mean impossible.

It might be a good time to give his friend call.

He pulled out a smart phone from his inside jacket pocket. Just as he was about to put in his black screen password, he heard a telephone ringing. He looked at his phone, realizing it wasn’t his. The ringer was wrong. But the phone rang somewhere nearby. No one else near his table, the two tables behind him being empty.

The ringing continued.

Asim scanned the area. The ringing sounded like he was right on top of it. Asim stood up and looked behind him, trying to get a bead on the location. He moved away from his chair and it became more faint so he moved closer. Tipping it over, he saw a phone taped to the bottom. Disturbed he hadn’t seen it the entire time he sat there, he ripped off the tape and answered it.

Hello?

Someone told me you needed some help with a problem.

The voice was curt. A man. American. Slightly deeper voice but not so much so.

Yes. That’s correct. They told me I would meet you.

They told you wrong.

The silence built an uncomfortable wall.

Does this have something to do with your father? I’m assuming it does.

Asim raises eyebrows. Yes, it does. How…

You’re aware of my price, correct?

Yes, I am. It will not be a problem. I have access to an account that has more than enough.

Asim sat back down.

We’ll see. On the front foldout sign in front of your table is a pen and a small notebook pad taped there.

Asim got up, peering inside of the foldup sign. Taped there was a small notepad. A black ink pen lay inside of it. Asim looked around then pulled the pad off the wood. He sat back down and began to write.

Write all of your information inside of it. Bank, account number, the person whose name it’s in. Also, a good phone number I can reach you at.

Asim paused, looking down at the blank sheets. Could he do this? Yes. He would go through with this. He had to go through with this. It was no longer an option. It was a matter of safety for him and his mom. If his father found out Asim planned on having him killed, he would strike first. However, if he pulled out now… but what then? Going back to the same life he had before, concerned about whether his father would kill his mother? What would it take to set him off?

If you’re not up for this, then I’m gone. Are you going to sit there looking at the paper or are you going to write what I asked you?

Asim looked up from his stupor.

He’s here?

Don’t bother trying to find me. It won’t happen. If we’re going to do this, let’s do this.

Asim stared down at the notebook for a moment then wrote all the information. This was necessary.

Twenty-five.

Excuse me?

If you’re having second thoughts on doing this, just think of your sister. Then repeat that number. Twenty-five.

Asim knew what he was alluding to and when he thought of that number, the apprehension left him. He was glad he wasn’t there to see her mutilated body. He was glad what he got to see at the funeral was his beautiful sister being put to rest.

Now, I want you to take the notebook and place it inside that planter in front of the table. Be discreet.

Asim went to the planter filled with marigolds and Black-eyed Susans. He moved a small section underneath the yellow foliage and placed the small notebook there, covering it back up, feigning admiration of the flowers.

Good. Smooth. Now, walk away. I’ll contact you soon.

They told me I would need to make a down payment.

I need to check out some things first. If everything comes back in line, we’ll go to the next step.

Asim nodded.

* * * * *

Adlai waited for Asim to pull off in his blue Toyota Yaris before walking across the street and grabbing the notebook. This was an uneasy job being it was in the U.S. Coming back into the country where he had killed an incumbent Secretary of Defense was tempting Providence. He probably shouldn't have taken the job, but this one was a special case.

Adlai always did his homework with any client. He researched everything about them and what kind of job they were looking for him to perform. This one was nasty. Honor killing of a daughter by an Afghanistan diplomat. There was no definitive evidence pointing to the father, but he did it. He had completed surveillance on the guy. He was that type.

He called his contact back at the Cimmerian Trust and told them to double check the information he gave them over the phone. Everything looked on the up and up. The account Asim gave him had his fee five times over. No diplomat in the world made that kind of money. He had connections back home, and his fingers were probably in the drug trade.

His surveillance turned up that not only was the father a murderer but also an adulterer. He started meeting a blonde over at the Sheraton at least twice in the last four days. Knowing him, they were due for another meeting soon. Adlai planned on being there.

* * * * *

Come back to get me in an hour. I’ll be here in the front. No need to come up.

Fariq smiled at the limo driver then walked through the gold trimmed revolving doors of the Hotel Sheraton. The United States was full of decadence, against everything his faith taught. Being who he was, there was an exception. He was not just anyone. He was a diplomat. A man of influence and status. He was in the greatest country on the planet and could come and go as he pleased. It was like being back home except with more fringe benefits.

One of those fringe benefits were the women. There were many of them and he could have his pick of the litter. He refused at first but began to ask, Why? Why deny himself the things he would receive anyway after he died? Why not taste of that blissful existence in the here and now? There couldn’t be anything wrong with that. Even if there was, he was who he was. Allah would forgive him.

He boarded the elevator, pressing the button for the third floor. The key had been waiting for him at the front desk. He booked the room in advance, thinking about Julia nonstop since their last rendezvous. A beautiful woman with golden blonde hair down to her milky shoulders. There were no women like this back in Afghanistan. There were beautiful women but nothing that tantalized the imagination. Women covered themselves. That didn’t stop men from thinking how they thought. But in America, they didn’t have to think so hard since everything was on display before the eyes. It was alluring, exciting, and arousing. An open invitation.

There were certain qualities Fariq had to come to terms with about himself. Allah put him in a favored position. He was a man which was another favor of Allah. So there were privileges and leniency. Julia wasn’t his wife but if they allowed it in the United States, she would be.

Why did he marry Sabera? Responsibility. His family expected it of him. They promoted her as being a good potential wife and she was. She knew how to cook; she took care of the kids, and she obeyed him. His home life was peaceful so there were no complaints there.

There was something missing, however. Love? He wouldn’t say that. There was a level of love he had for her. But there was no… no… passion. Yes. This is what he had with Julia that he did not have with Sabera. Passion and fire. This drew him like a moth to a flame.

The passion was purely physical. One-dimensional in many respects. But there was a relationship kindling. They would laugh and talk about things. She would ask him about his family life and country. She was interested in him as a man. It was refreshing. He didn’t have that kind of relationship with Sabera. She always ran around the house like some kind of mouse, her eyes shifting and teary. He wouldn’t have to do anything but come through the door and she became nervous. It infuriated him. A peaceful life with no passion was stale and mediocre. It was only because of basic biology that they would have any kind of sex. She would lay there, he would grunt, and it would be over. Sleep came soon after. There was no life in his marriage.

This new assignment changed all that. He found someone intelligent who held her head up high. The relationship burgeoned but he would have to address certain issues down the line. How she dressed was one of the main ones. He didn’t want other men looking at her. Temptation whispered at him to broach the subject. But this would only be their sixth rendezvous, so it was better to hold his tongue until they were more established.

He slid the key card into the small slot in the door handle plate. The light went from red to green as he turned the handle and entered the room.

It was a typical hotel room like most, clean and modern. The king-sized bed had a dark mahogany headboard that curved. White sheets with three white pillows and a matching burgundy and beige long pillow lay at the head of the bed. All the wood in the room was the same dark brown. The blinds were beige and a runner at the top matched the rest of the room. The next several hours would be worth the one hundred and twenty two dollar price tag it cost per night. It also was worth paying the thousand dollar fee Julia charged.

He wondered if all the things she said and how she behaved toward him was just an act. Did she have a true interest in who he was or was she playing the role until the clock ran out? He wasn’t an idiot. He knew part of the game they played was in the arena of a business transaction. But she would stay around longer without asking for more money. They would talk in bed after she rendered her services. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility she had true enjoyment of his company as much as he reveled in hers.

He threw his coat onto the bed and went to the bathroom. He was there early so he would unwind before she came. Exiting the bathroom, he walked over towards the bed. A sudden prick burned his neck.

Ach!

Reflex moved his hand to the spot. He pulled it away, seeing a small bloodstain smeared on his middle right finger. A hand pressed against his back and he tumbled face forward onto the bed. Rolling over, he found himself face to face with a tall black man. He had on a pair of red glasses, a long brown trench coat and his hair done in cornrows. Brown gloves adorned his hands with small spikes on the knuckles. He stood there staring at him.

Fariq.

His sight became blurry for a