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The Presence
Copyright © 2005 by Bill Myers
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Myers, Bill, 1953–
The presence / Bill Myers.
p. cm.—(Soul tracker series; bk. 2)
ISBN-10: 0-310-24236-3 (softcover)
ISBN-13: 978-0-310-24236-9 (softcover)
I. Title.
PS3563.Y36P74 2005
813'.54—dc22
2005006083
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible:
New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International
Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
Verses marked KJV are taken from the King James Version.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy,
recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without
the prior permission of the publisher.
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680
Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
“How Great Thou Art,” words and music copyright 1953 by S. K. Hine. Assigned to
Manna Music, Inc., 35255 Brooten Road, Pacific City, OR 97135. Renewed 1981 by
Manna Music, Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission. (ASCAP)
Interior design by Michelle Espinoza
Printed in the United States of America
05 0607 08 09 10 11 /?DCI/ 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
one
some presence has joined us. Yes, something has definitely
decided to visit us from beyond.”
David Kauffman tried not to smirk at the melodrama.
Honestly, the medium sounded like she was out of a bad
1950s movie. The only thing missing were some cheesy
special effects. Then, sure enough, right on cue, the table
candles flickered as if someone had opened a window. But
of course no window had been opened. Nor door. Nor anything
else in the lodge’s spacious dining room of pine paneling
and hardwood floors. Just the fan or whatever it was
the medium had obviously switched on by hidden remote.
Still, it had its desired effect. None of the participants
moved; they waited in breathless anticipation. This is what
they’d been preparing for. What they’d traveled so many
miles to experience.
A chill crept across David’s shoulders. Apparently the
medium hadn’t turned on a fan but an air conditioner. He
could literally feel the temperature of the room dropping.
A neat trick that made an instant believer of the woman to
his right.
“Is it . . . him?” Her voice was thick and husky, cured
from years of tobacco smoke. Savannah (she used no last
name) was an ex-supermodel edging out of her prime—with
thick blonde hair, complete with fashionable dark streaks,
an indigo butterfly tattooed on her left shoulder, silver and
turquoise jewelry, pink capris, and a silk camisole sheer
enough to show off her lacy black bra. Nearby was the water
bottle she took frequent drags from. In further efforts to
kick her nicotine habit, she perpetually clicked and rattled
sugarless candy inside her mouth.
“Ashton . . . baby?” She gave a sniff and gripped David’s
hand tighter, her fingers damp and cold. “Is that you?”
There was no answer—except for the slapping candles
against the air and the rattling of sugarless lemon drops.
Directly across from her sat a young man—Albert Sinclair.
He’d barely met David before mentioning he’d sold his
first software company at twenty-six, for 2.5 mil, and was
working on his second. He sported a shaved head with fuzzy
stubble, mandatory goatee, and casual khakis. In an effort to
hide his nerdiness, he wore a black T-shirt just tight enough
to indicate he’d been working out. He nearly succeeded.
“Man,” he sniffed, “it’s getting cold in here.”
David fought off another shiver. The kid was right. It
had dropped a good ten degrees.
“It often happens when one contacts those on the other
side.”
David shook his head. He’d written better lines than that
in junior high. He turned to the medium, Rachel McPherson.
She was in her midthirties and had that handsome sophistication
that sometimes follows pretty girls when they grow
up. Smart, personable, sensitive—the perfect combination for
a con artist who bilks the grieving by “contacting” their
dearly departed. Now if she could just do something about
that corny dialogue. He had studied her bio on the flight up
from LA. She had two books out, a syndicated TV show with
a growing audience, and a PSI rating by the National Psychic
Board of Level Three—a classification held by only a dozen
or so in the country. A classification that to David meant she
was simply good at not getting caught.
Ever since they’d started the séance some fifteen minutes
earlier, he’d been silently evaluating her performance.
Her eyes were closed in concentration, her head tilted to
16 the presence
the side as if listening, allowing her shimmering copper
hair to brush against some very bare and lovely shoulders.
It’s true, he’d been taken by her beauty the moment they’d
met—which explained his immediate shifting to a cooler,
more professional approach, a curtness that bordered on
rudeness. He didn’t enjoy it, not in the least, but it seemed
to be necessary if he was to do his job.
She had offered her hand at the lodge’s front door when
he and his son had been dropped off by the chopper less
than an hour earlier. “Good morning, Mr. Kauffman. We
were beginning to wonder if you would make it.” It was a
good-natured barb, softened by kind eyes and the slightest
flirt to her smile.
He nodded, glancing at the hand-carved beaver near the
entrance, the beamed cathedral ceiling, the stuffed bobcat
crouching on the table—anywhere but to her green, lowswooping,
cowl-neck sweater. It was a clumsy defense, one
he knew she saw through, but it was the best he could
come up with on such short notice. He kept his answer
simple and to the point: “Then let’s not waste any more
time, shall we.”
“Don’t you want to see your room? Get unpacked and
settled?”
He shook his head. “The sooner we get on with this,
the better.”
That was it. No pleasantries. No apologies for missing
the first day. Just his attempt at trying to be direct and professional.
The woman’s smile remained, but it grew a few degrees
cooler. Just as well. He may have been taken in by her
looks and winning personality—but he would not be taken
in by her scam.
Initially, David had declined the request to fly up to
Washington state and take part in the séances. He was an
author, for crying out loud—not some psychic ghost buster.
But Savannah, widow of the famous rock and roller, Ashton
Hawkins, had been very persistent . . . the twenty-five thousand
dollars she’d offered hadn’t hurt, either. All she asked
was that he attend the gathering with a couple close friends
and the acclaimed psychic, Rachel McPherson. Savannah
insisted that they had made several contacts with her dead
husband over the past few months. And it was during those
contacts that his spirit claimed again and again that David
had seen him in hell. More importantly, he insisted that
David could actually help him escape from it.
Far-fetched to say the least. And David would have
written Savannah off as a nutcase—except for the gold pendant.
The swirling gold pendant he had seen around the
neck of an individual suffering and burning when he had
visited the Lake of Fire. The very pendant Savannah had
later sent him as proof that he had actually seen her dead
husband during those awful minutes he’d spent in hell.
Even then, David had declined. Although a relatively
new believer, he’d read the Bible’s warnings against contacting
the dead. Besides, according to his research, most
were merely hoaxes and con jobs.
