The Forever King - Molly Cochran, ebook
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THE FOREVER KINGBY MOLLY COCHRAN AND WARREN MURPHYSynopsis: Has King Arthur been reborn to live again at the end of theTwentieth century? And how do a washed-up alcoholic FBI agent and aninsane -or is he insane -- serial killer feature in the story? To saymore would spoil this page-turner that spans the centuries. "TheForever King is a fresh and exciting view of the Arthur legend, full ofadventure ranging from ancient Babylon to Camelot to the present day.I read it in one sitting because I didn't want to put it down."A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOKNEW YORK NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should beaware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsoldand destroyed" to the publisher, and .neither the author nor thepublisher has received any payment for this "stripped book.This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed inthis book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or eventsis purely coincidental.THE FOREVER KINGCopyright 1992 by M. C. Murphy All rights reserved, including the rightto reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.Cover art by Joe DeVitoInterior art by Mel GreenA Tom BookPublished by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc. 175 Fifth Avenue New York,N.Y. 10010 This is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates,Inc. ISBN: 0-812-51716-4Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-2677First edition: June 1992 First mass market printing: March 1993Printed in the United States of America0987654 This book is dedicated to Tony Seidl You were valiant, knight,and true.ACKNOWLEDGMENTSWe are indebted to many for their help with this novel, and offer oursincere thanks to those who generously shared their time, advice, andexpertise with us.Most particularly we wish to acknowledge: Duncan Eagleson, forcondensing his prodigious knowledge of ancient weaponry in order toteach us the difference between slashing and bashing; Kent Galyon andRev. Paul M. Corson, for their insights into the theological aspectsof the book; Melissa Ann Singer, our editor, whose brilliance helped usto write the best story we could; And Megan Murphy Coles, who read andcriticized the manuscript for this novel (and everything else we'veever written) before its submission, thereby giving us one last chancenot to make fools of ourselves.To these individuals, and to our friends, who have supported us withtheir kindness through the years, we are grateful.MOLLY COCHRAN AND WARREn N MURPHY1992PROLOGUEThe king was dead; of that there was no doubt.The old man had gone to the castle and had seen the knights inceremonial armor carrying their ruler's body down to the lake wherethey set it adrift on a funeral barge.Later, after the knights had left, the old man went to the lake andretrieved the king's jeweled sword from the waters where the knightshad thrown it. He took it back with him to the cave where he now spentmost of his time alone.For many nights, in the flickering light of a campfire, he stared atthe sword. And more than once he wept for the young man who had beenhis student and his friend and for whom he had had such high hopes.Once he had even dared to hope that the young man would reign forever.But now that hope had died.Everything died in time, the old man thought bitterly. He mourneduntil the moon was new again and then walked back to the field outsidethe castle. There he mixed sand and pulverized limestone with water.He dug a hole in the earth, lovingly placed the sword inside, thenpoured the mortar mix over it until it was covered.The sword would never be found. In time, the castle too would bedestroyed. There would be no songs or histories written of the deadking. It would be as if he never lived; as if none of this had everhappened.And perhaps it was best that way. Perhaps it was best that dreams ofjustice be allowed to die.So why was it that the bitter old man paused momentarily over therapidly drying mortar in which the sword was encased and, with hisfinger, scratched a message into the cement?It was, he told himself, because he was nothing but a superstitious oldfool. Then he strode away, turning his back on the giant castle, backto his small cave where he bundled himself in animal skins and lay downto die.But he only slept: ? . . and dreamed.? . . and waited.BOOK ONETHE BOYCHAPTER ONEHe was there again.The bright orange blaze was scorching, suffocating in the Julyafternoon heat. Through the din of cracking timbers and theair-sucking whoosh of the impossibly high and angry gasoline flames thefrantic voices of the Firefighters sounded muffled and small.Hal Woczniak swallowed. His hands rose and fell in a jerky motion.The features of his face were contorted, still wearing the expressionof shock that had followed the explosion. Nearby, sweating andhelpless, stood a small army of useless men---six members of the FBI, afully armed SWAT team, the local police. A' heavyset, balding manunwrapped a stick of gum and popped it into his mouth. "Forget it,Hal," he told Woczniak.The house blurred and wavered in the heat. Two firemen dragged abody--what was left of it--out of the doorway. "Leave him!" Woczniakshouted.The heavyset man raised a hand to Woczniak's chest, a gesture ofrestraint. "Chief, there's a kid inside!" Woczniak protested. "Theyknow that," the Chief said placatingly. "But they just got here.They've got to move that body. Give them a chance." "What kind ofchance does the kid get?" Woczniak growled. He shoved the Chief'shand away and ran for the house. Into the thick of the smoke pouringfrom the building, his lungs stinging from the black air, his legspumped wildly. "Woczniak! Hal!" the Chief shouted. "Somebody stophim, for God's sake!" Two firefighters flung themselves at him, butWoczniak leaped over them effortlessly and hurtled himself into theinferno.It was pitch-black inside except for high licks of orange flame thatshed no light in the dense smoke. Coughing, Woczniak tore off hisshirt and pulled it over his head as he crawled spider-like up thefragile, superheated wooden stairs. A timber broke with a deafeningcrack and fell toward him. He slammed against the far wall at the topof the stairs. In the blind darkness, a shard of glass from a brokenmirror cut deep into his cheek. Woczniak felt only a dull pain as hepulled it from his flesh."Jeff!" Stooped and groping, he found a door. He pulled it open.The boy will be there, tied to the chair. The boy will be there, andthis time I'll get to him. This time Jeff will open his blue eyes andsmile, and I'll muss his carrot hair, and the kid will go home to hisfolks. This one will escape. This time.But it was not the boy with the carrot-red hair tied to the chair. Inhis place was a monster, a fire-breathing dragon straight out of afairy tale, with eyes like blood and scales that scraped as it writhed.It opened its mouth, and with its foul breath came the words: "You'rethe best, kid. You're the best there is." And then the creature, theterrible beast Hal Woczniak had somehow known all along would meet himin this room, cackled with a sound like breaking glass.Screaming, Woczniak ran up to it and clasped the saurian around itsslimy neck. It smiled at him with triumphant malice.Then, fading as if it had been fashioned of clouds, it vanished and thereality of his life returned. In the monster's place was thered-haired boy, tied to the chair . . . dead as he had been all along,dead as he always was in these dreams. Woczniak was still screaming.He couldn't stop. He woke up screaming.Honey. Hey, mister." Hal gasped for breath. His sweat was slick andcold. "You musta had a bad dream." It was a woman's voice. He lookedover at her. It took him a moment to orient himself to hissurroundings. He was in bed, in a dingy room he reluctantly recognizedas his own. The woman was beside him. They were both naked. "Do Iknow you?" he asked groggily, rubbing his hands over his face.She smiled. She was almost pretty. "Sure, baby. Since last night,anyway." She snuggled against him and flung her arm over his chest.He pushed her away. "Go on, get out of here." "Watza matter?" She'snot even angry, Hal thought. She's used to it. He pulled the filthycovers off them both, then saw the bruises on the woman's body. "Did Ido that?" She looked down at herself, arms spread in self-examination."Oh.No, bon. You was real nice. Kind of drunk, though." She smiled athim. "I guess you want me to go, huh?" She didn't wait for an answeras she wriggled into a cheap yellow dress. "What . . . ah . . . Whatdo I owe you?" Hal asked, wondering if he had any money. Heremembered borrowing twenty from Zellie Moscowitz, who had just fencedsome diamonds for a second-story man in Queens.That had been yesterday. Or the day before. He pressed his fingersinto his eyes. Hell, it might have been last week, for all he knew."What day is this?" "Thursday," the woman said. She wasn't smilinganymore. Her shoulders sagged above the low-cut bodice of her dress."And I ain't no hooker.""Sorry." "Yeah She zipped up her dress. "But now you mention it, Icould use cab fare." "Sure." Hal swung his legs woodenly over theside of the bed and lurched toward a pair of pants draped over a chair.They reeked of stale booze and cigarette smoke, with a strongpossibility of urine.There were four one-dollar hills in his wallet. He handed them to her."It's all I've got." "That...
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