The Place Between

© 2012 by Youngblood. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/27/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-2512-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-2513-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012911081

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Cover Illustration by Starlyn Kelly Youngblood

Contents

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Eula Youngblood is a licensed Vocational Nurse, and a retired Quality Control Manager, who worked for Computer Peripheral Manufacturing for twenty five years. She has taught drama, and Creative Writing in the Communities where she lives, and has written and produced numerous Stage plays that she wrote. She is the published author of four novels, and is legally blind. She writes with the assistance of a voice activated program on her computer.

Up, showered, and a cup of coffee on her desk, at five in the morning, Eula writes about five hours a day, Monday through Friday. This release of hers about the Death Magistrate (The Grim Reaper) is her fifth release, and she will be releasing another novel by thanksgiving. It is entitled Lord, Stand By Me. An eight year old child telling the story of hard times in the South in early forties.

PROLOGUE

I liked The Place Between. Some strong characterization and good plotting.

Carl F. Kugel

Director of Programs at 20th Century Fox

CHAPTER I

Dr. Heinz Fredricks is alone in his fourth floor laboratory suite at the Edmonton Medical Institute. The insurmountable posted awards for excellence and degrees from various universities were of no consequence to him at this acute time of distress.

Gasping, he removed his eyeglasses and ripped the top button from his shirt. Dragging himself weakly to the window that faced the quaint old-fashioned park, he hoped to find some kind of relief. With barely enough strength, the elderly frail gent forced the window open, struggling desperately to catch his breath in the fresh air that gushed through.

Looking out into the night, he could see a fine rain swirling softly down, causing the pavement to glisten with hues of steel, blue, and amber rays of innumerable lights.

Off in the distance, a young man trudged slowly without enthusiasm, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets. The sifting rain saturated the man’s hat and overcoat as he shrugged, seemingly shaking off the wet and cold.

Hey, hey, you there! Heinz called out. His voice was weak and the faint cry, barely audible, escaped the ears of the passerby. Hanging on to the window ledge, he breathed laboriously, looking about, searching for anyone who might hear his cries of desperation.

The soft amber lights threw a quivering glare over the rows and circles of deserted benches that glistened damply, showing patches of wet sod behind them. It seemed their usual freight had fled on this night to better things.

Heinz watched hopefully as the young man loitered about for a time, his desperation growing as the man went shuffling down the park path. He struggled back toward his desk, knocking down glass beakers and books in his attempt to break his fall. Reaching for his throat, he tore the remaining buttons from his shirt. His eyes wide and mouth agape, he whispered hoarsely, with defiance, Damn you, fiendish God of Darkness! I’ve fought you off many times before, and I’ll not go with you this time either!

Heinz shook his fist defiantly towards the door, as he saw the transparent black-attired figure filtering through the panels of the door. The character’s robe extended over its head in the shape of a hood and it was carrying a scythe slung over its shoulder.

As the character approached slowly, Heinz saw its grim, weary face and long gray hair hanging from the sides of the hood. The character extended the scythe towards Heinz, but did not quite reach the fallen man. Heinz climbed desperately toward his desk and out of the reach of his foe. His hands trembled as he forced open a drawer, removed a vial of medicine, and opened the cap, swallowing the contents.

Sweat had ruptured through the pores of his forehead and was trickling down his slightly cyanotic face. Weakly, and almost tearfully, Heinz pleaded with the solemn character, who through Heinz’ numerous heart attacks, has come to take him away, many, many times before. But, each time the character had failed due to the unreleased, experimental drug that Heinz had been perfecting and testing on himself for months.

Can’t you understand that I have unfinished work? Heinz shouted. There must be someone with less important things to do.

The radio had been playing a soft rendition of Mahler’s Symphony #9, but gave way to the eager voice of an announcer, who caught Heinz’ attention.

We interrupt this program to bring you a special bulletin… Butcher Cragen has just paid for his crimes of terrorism and murder. On his way to the gas chamber, the young leader of a mass torture cult declared that he would return to take vengeance on the world; especially the well-known Dr. Heinz Fredricks, who was responsible for the cult leader’s capture, when Butcher and his gang of cut-throat followers were apprehended robbing the Edmonton Laboratory of experimental drugs. I repeat, Butcher Cragen is dead!

Heinz struggled from his knees to the chair at his desk, still breathing heavily but somewhat stronger. He saw that the character in black had disappeared from his room. He looked about the room suspiciously then laid his head on the desk, chuckling softly.

I told you I’d defeat you! You unsympathetic son-of-a-devil! You should’ve been here to collect that freak kid, before he stole my drugs! He’s set me back months in my research.

Becoming stronger all the time, Heinz chuckled to himself as he pulled his body to a full standing position, rejoicing in his triumph over death again.

‘Ha, ha, he laughed. As a matter of fact, take all those moon-tattooed freaks…"

He stopped to take a deep breath…

Their lives ain’t worth two dead flies! he declared.

Heinz picked up a glass beaker and threw it crashing hard against a wall, shattering glass slivers over wide areas of the room. As he watched the glistening particles of glass spray all over the floor, his mind drifted back to the icy accident that claimed the life of his middle child Maurice, so many years ago.

He relived that horrifying event that made him feel helpless for the first time in his life. He recalled reaching the accident scene and looking hopelessly as the mangled and lifeless body of his son lay amongst millions of pieces of glass. All that he could do was cradle his lifeless son in his arms.

Heinz grimaced as the memory of the sounds of sirens made by emergency vehicles came plummeting down upon the scene. The sounds of the sirens that he imagined he heard now, brought to mind his children at an early age, playing in the huge backyard of their home. Heinz Jr., or JR as they called him, a frail and blond young child, was flying his remote controlled airplane that Santa had just brought to him. He always did want to be in the Air Force as a pilot or doctor, Heinz remembered.

He recalled that JR slipped on the icy grass in the backyard as he was looking upward toward the flying replica of a Cessna plane. He fell hard against the apple tree that was planted in the center of the yard. Maurice and Annette rushed over to assist with the problem. Noticing a bloody cut on JR’s head, Annette began to cry, as their father came to their rescue.

Assuring Annette and Maurice that the damage was minor, Heinz had to take Annette into his arms to comfort her, as well as his injured son. It was obvious that Maurice felt left out, as most middle children do. Aware of the neglected expression on Maurice’s face, Heinz tried to explain to him why he was not giving him attention at this time.

Hey, my big guy, Heinz said, nudging Maurice. You wouldn’t let a little thing like a scrape upset you?

Heinz remembered that it always was little things that seemed to bother Maurice most. He was certainly jealous of his sister and brother. But surely Maryellen and Heinz had never shown any preferential treatment toward any of them. Annette was only six years old and still just a baby. Little girls have so much charm anyway, he thought. Cute little curly-haired blond. And those wide blue eyes just made his heart melt. JR was always so accident-prone. He was not stocky and olive-complexioned, with dark hair like Heinz and Maurice, but was thin and delicate like his mother. His hair was so light that it sometimes seemed white and his eyes were sky blue. Maurice often complained that he was a misfit because of his darkness.

In an attempt to comfort the hurt that he recognized in Maurice’s dark brown eyes, Heinz reminded the children that their mother had the Christmas turkey with all the trimmings on the table.

As Heinz ushered the children, aged six, eight and ten, toward the back door, Maurice kicked the snowman down and seemed please to watch it crumble into many little icy mounds.

* * *

Weeping uncontrollably while rocking himself back and forth in his office chair, Heinz was unaware that the telephone had been ringing for some time. It was the phone that finally snapped him back to reality.

Seemingly trying to become familiar with his surroundings, Heinz noticed for the first time that the radio had returned to his favorite classical music, and the time on the empireistic clock on the wall read 2:00 a.m. He stared at the telephone as though it was a foreign invader trying to jolt him out of the painful stupor of recall.

Slowly, he picked up the receiver, examining it before placing it to his ear. Heinz here! he said cautiously. Yes, dear. I’m fine. The ringing caught me in the middle of an urgent matter. I’ll be home soon… Just a bowl of soup will be fine.

His face furrowed slightly with obvious aggravation as he listened to the endless chattering of his wife’s scolding, with a great deal of concern for his well being. His patience turned to defensive action and his speech was short and loud.

I’ve been through enough for this night! he declared. Now don’t you give me a hard time, too, Maryellen!

With Maryellen suddenly silent, he realized that he had cut short his best friend. She had stood by him during all of his final schooling, illnesses, and eventual dismissal from a lucrative practice as one of the western world’s most prominent heart surgeons. It was her strength that had helped him survive the death of their son Maurice. Above all, she had reminded him that God had given them two other children.

According to his assessment, Heinz Jr. and Annette were the most intelligent children in the whole world. Heinz Jr. had attained his dream as a doctor for the Air Force and had numerous commendations for his work as a Lieutenant Colonel, Medical Director. And his daughter, one of Boston’s most prestigious attorneys, was about to be appointed to the bench.

As he held the phone close to his face, he thought to himself what a loyal and loving wife Maryellen had been to him through the years. With total recall, he wiped a tear from his eye and whispered with deep remorse for his impatience with his wife, Thank you sweetheart… for caring. Yes, I promise that I will sleep late and eat a hardy breakfast. I know, and I love you, too.

CHAPTER II

The large electronically operated graph, with continuously lighted numbers kept blinking a repetitive red light at the end of the sequential board. The legend flashing was Overload and Unbalanced.

Several robed technicians rushed through a trouble-shooting operation of the panel, checking their statistical timetables. Their facial expressions were of intent and frustration. The technicians’ eyes periodically glanced at the wall clock and the door, as though they expected someone very important to appear at any moment.

The gold pendulum of the clock swung up and down with a piercing sound. At that moment, a horse-drawn chariot pulled into the chamber, halting in front of the large decorated seat.

The Magistrate, carrying the scythe, disembarked, walking wearily,