Introduction

IS IT REALLY DARKEST BEFORE THE DAWN? OR IS THE DEEPEST DARKNESS FOREVER? The answer has been kept secret. Until now. A corrupt stockbroker on the run...

An economy in turmoil...

And a mysterious pendant sought by the richest woman on Wall Street.

Terrified of going to jail, Justin Connelly faked his death and fled the seductions of Manhattan for the quiet corners of Providence, Rhode Island. His only keepsake was an antique pendant engraved with strange markings.

But then a sailing accident almost kills him for real. In his near-death state, Justin is taken into the darkness of hell itself, where he sees things that drive him out of hiding and back to his abandoned wife in New York.

But Tori has moved on, and his old enemies on Wall Street are not happy to see him. They want the pendant, which, in the wrong hands, could destroy humanity--and Justin's former boss definitely has the wrong hands.

The only way out is to swallow his pride, and his doubt, and work with Tori and her new fiancé to expose the truth.

As world economies--and his own soul--hang in the balance, Justin must decide whether to sacrifice everything for the light he has found.

A spiritual thriller for the crises of our time

Editorial Review

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Excerpt

1

The Graveyard Shift

April 2, 1996

New York City

1:37 A.M.

The dreaded moment struck without warning.

It unfolded in slow motion as if in a dream. For forty-three-year-old Franklin Scott, the dream was a nightmare. Everything went silent, as it always had whenever the nightmare had disturbed his sleep during his twelve years as a subway motorman. This time the terror was real. The E train approached the well-lit World Trade Center stop as a man fell from the platform. Franklin grabbed the brake handle and slammed it forward. No! Dear God, please, no!

The man landed on the tracks. Franklin’s heart leaped into his throat. For an instant, he observed the scene rather than experienced it. In less than a week, he would be wed. His glamorous bride, Katherine—with whom he’d shared several glasses of chardonnay before the graveyard shift—would meet him at the altar. He imag¬ined kissing her and taking her arm before they faced the minister to recite their vows. He needed this job to support the marriage; he had to stop his four-hundred-ton train.

Help, God. Please help me! The sudden jolt from the brakes threw him against the windshield, twisting his wrist as he fought to keep hold of the handle. The train screeched beneath him. Sparks rained across the tracks. He clenched his jaw so tightly he nearly dislocated it. Passengers screamed. Loudspeakers buzzed. He feared the train would jackknife and careen off the tracks. Instead it shuddered as it hit the man.

The train ground to a stop.

This can’t be happening. The words echoed in Frank¬lin’s mind. He righted himself and radioed the command center with the 12-9 code for “man under.” He requested that the electricity to the third rail be shut off, that police and paramedics be rushed to the scene.

Ordinarily he would wait in the cab, but if the man died and Franklin failed a Breathalyzer test, he would go to jail. He couldn’t stop shaking, and his heart felt as if it would rupture in his chest. He didn’t know if he could save the man, but he had to try.

He made an announcement over the PA system to calm the few passengers on board. As soon as he received confirmation that the electricity was off, he climbed down onto the tracks with a flashlight.

He shined the beam under the first car, assaulted by the smell of grease and oil. Nothing.

He rushed to the second car and continued to search. Nothing.

Blood as red as the fire raging in his mind streaked the tracks in front of the third car. Halfway down, he found the motionless body of an athletic man lying on his stomach between the tracks. His head was gashed and bleeding, his white skin a contrast to Franklin’s dark African-American complexion. Both of the man’s arms and one of his legs appeared dislocated or broken and had been contorted in freakish directions. His navy blue blazer and gray wool slacks were disheveled and ripped.

The mangled body filled Franklin with terror and revulsion. He thought again of his upcoming wedding. Katherine was his passion, an unexpected gift after his disastrous first marriage. They’d survived a seven-year battle with his ex-wife for custody of his young son and daughter. The wedding was supposed to celebrate their long-awaited joy. Would it even happen now?

Franklin steeled himself against the panic in his stom¬ach and climbed under the car. He knelt next to the man in the narrow, cube-like space. The stench of urine made him cough, scaring off a family of rats. The darkness molested him. His ragged breaths were his only defense against the tightening noose of claustrophobia. He fought dizziness and nausea as he groped for the man’s wrist. There was no pulse.

He coughed out an anguished sob and released the wrist, his eyes a blur of tears. When he turned to leave, an object glinted in his flashlight’s beam. Franklin dried his eyes on the shoulders of his MTA uniform then picked up the object. It was a badge. It had the head and wings of an eagle on top and a five-pointed star at the center. The lettering read U.S. Secret Service, and at the bottom were the words Special Agent.

The blood drained from his cheeks. Who was this man? How had he ended up crushed by a train? Frank¬lin’s chances of a happy future slipped away along with his dream of a joyful wedding and an exotic honeymoon. He was powerless to stop it. The glare of the beam against the badge stung his watery eyes. He cupped the badge in a sweaty palm and turned away.

“Scott? Franklin Scott?”

“Where are you, Scott?”

The shouts came from two voices, one husky and the other higher pitched, that echoed through the dark tunnel. Franklin crawled out from under the car. Two flashlight beams bounced toward him followed by at least a dozen more.

“Over here!” he called. “Beside the third car.”

He trudged toward two NYPD cops. A contingent of paramedics carrying a stretcher, a body board, and first aid equipment caught up. They were soon joined by uniformed patrol officers from the MTA and plainclothes detectives in suits and overcoats.

The paramedics climbed under the train and con¬firmed that the man was dead. After the scene had been photographed, they loaded the body onto a stretcher and headed out of the tunnel. The transit authority officers relieved Franklin of duty, and a substitute motorman boarded the train. A cop and a detective led Franklin through a door in the tunnel wall, up some dirty cement stairs, and onto the E train’s island platform.

“I’m Detective Joel Wilson.” The man in plain clothes stuck out a hand. He was balding, clean-shaven, and, like Franklin, of medium build. “We’re going to need a state¬ment from you.”

Franklin returned the firm handshake. The taller, dark-haired cop introduced himself as Sergeant Fernandez. He recorded Franklin’s name and other essentials on a form attached to a clipboard. “Okay, now tell us exactly what happened,” he said.

Franklin stepped to the far end of the platform where it met the tiled wall. He motioned with both hands. “My train was approaching when a body fell from right here.”

“How far away was your car?”

“About a hundred feet.”

Fernandez wrote on the clipboard. “What did you do?”

“Applied the brakes immediately.”

“It was too late?”

“Yes.” Franklin’s throat tightened, but he forced him¬self to describe how he’d taken all the necessary safety precautions and had tried to help the man.

“Okay, that covers the basics.” Fernandez eyed Wilson. “Do you have further questions?”

Wilson nodded. “Could you tell if the man fell or jumped?”

Franklin thought back to what he’d seen. He was tempted to say the man had jumped because then he wouldn’t be blamed. Many of the ninety-odd subway deaths that happened each year were suicides, and the motormen weren’t held responsible. But he couldn’t be sure. “It happened so fast. I really can’t say which it was.”

“When you got out of your cab, did you see anyone on the platform?”

Franklin hesitated as he tried to remember. He’d been so focused on reaching the man he’d paid no attention to the platform. But the implications of the question sent his mind reeling. He didn’t worry that there might have been witnesses but rather that the man might have been pushed. A murder would require a more complicated investigation than an accident or suicide … especially the murder of a federal agent. Franklin couldn’t be sure that the man hadn’t been pushed, but the possibility of becoming entangled in an FBI investigation terrified him. He needed to sound sure.

“No,” he said with conviction. “The platform was empty. It often is at this hour.”

“You’re absolutely sure?” Wilson narrowed his eyes as his gravelly voice modulated from intense to demand¬ing.

Franklin tightened his grip on the badge until its edges dug into his skin. The man’s body hadn’t been completely vertical as it could have been if he’d jumped. Instead he’d leaned forward, perhaps even tried to keep himself upright, which could have been the case whether he’d fallen or been pushed.

Franklin gnawed his lip as he struggled with whether to show Wilson and Fernandez the badge. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and upper lip. Which course of action would be most likely to keep him out of trouble? They were going to find out who that guy was anyway, he reasoned. He might as well give them the badge. “I found this next to his body on the tracks.”

Wilson examined the badge before showing it to Fernandez. “The Secret Service has an outpost in Seven World Trade Center. My guess is that this agent worked there. The suicide of a Secret Service agent would be a big story and bring shame to the entire organization. But the murder of an agent would be a federal crime. It could even be part of a larger plot against the President of the United States or other government officials.”

He gave Franklin a withering glare. “Think hard. Are you sure no one else was on the platform?”

Franklin let the question simmer. He glanced at the white beams running across the ceiling and the gray steel pillars along the edge of the platform. One of the pillars held a sign that read World Trade Center, but the letters appeared blurry. He thought again of the chardonnay and knew he couldn’t allow himself to take a Breatha¬lyzer test. The horror of the accident looped through his mind—the shadowy movement of the man’s body, the bucking of the train, the splattered blood and pulverized bones. He just wanted this situation to go away.

“Yes,” he said sharply. “I’m sure the platform was deserted.”

Even as he spoke, he knew he wasn’t sure and never could be.

2

A Haunted Man

Wednesday, April 30, 2003

8:06 A.M.

Justin Connelly’s turmoil over whether to turn him¬self in churned faster than the waves on Block Island Sound. He clung to his seat under threatening skies as the twenty-four-foot sloop cut through the choppy seas off Newport, Rhode Island. He’d learned from his father never to trust the ocean, but he had confidence in sturdy, clear-eyed Ken Spalding, the New England sailing vet¬eran at the helm. He also trusted Ken’s girlfriend, Sharon Jenkins, an attractive, thirty-six-year-old brunette who’d crewed Serendipity on many previous outings.

But his adrenaline had been surging ever since they’d climbed on board. It happened whenever he was around good people. They activated his impulse to go to the police because he longed to be like these people, and he feared he couldn’t be good again … unless he cleared his conscience.

Ken eyed him and steered toward Block Island ten miles away. “You must be bad luck. The weather was great until you got on board.”

“As I recall, it was your idea to bring me along.”

Sharon took a sip of her Sam Adams. “I’m surprised you asked him in the first place. He didn’t have ances¬tors on the Mayflower. We New Englanders usually don’t speak to such people, let alone invite them sailing.”

She laughed, but her searching gaze sliced into Justin. He nervously fingered the keyring in the pocket of his jeans. The polo shirt, light jacket, and topsiders wore well on his frame, which was a bit taller than medium height and toned from regular visits to the gym. His fair com¬plexion and sandy hair reflected his Irish heritage, but his large brown eyes appeared more Middle Eastern. When¬ever people asked which ancestor he had to thank for such a distinctive trait, he pleaded ignorance then joked that the inheritance was fitting: the black sheep of the family had the darkest eyes.

Now, with Sharon’s gaze seeming to probe for secrets he could never share, he found no humor in his flippant replies. The gusting wind chafed his face, so he decided to add a layer of sunscreen. When he withdrew the small plastic tube from his pocket, his keys fell onto the deck. The antique wooden pendant he carried on the ring caught Sharon’s eye.

“Cool,” she said. “Does it have some significance?”

“Yeah, it helps me keep track of my keys.” He scooped up the reddish-brown pendant. “It brings me luck, like a rabbit’s foot. I guess you could say I’m super¬stitious.”

He stuffed the keys back into his pocket, determined not to show his anxiety about the four-inch-long oval engraved with peculiar images. He carried the pendant everywhere but at all costs avoided talking about how he’d come by it.

Sharon gave him a wry smile. “Don’t you trust the captain and his first mate?”

Justin shook his head and applied the sunscreen. “I need all the luck I can get.”

“That’s what you’ll say when baseball season heats up.” Ken motioned for everyone to duck as he came about. “I usually don’t let Yankee fans on my boat, but I made an exception for you. I wanted to give you a taste of real sailing, not the boring imitation you learned in New Jersey.”

Justin cringed inside and his pulse quickened. He stuffed the sunscreen into his pocket, determined not to continue this line of conversation; it could only end in acrimony. Worse, it would force him to say too much about his past. What he’d done was wrong, and he couldn’t talk about it … ever, to anyone. Even if he explained the extenuating circumstances, no one would empathize with him. Except maybe God. And ever since Justin’s life had become an uninterrupted nightmare, God seemed totally absent … if he existed at all.

“Believe me,” Justin said, hoping to sound convinc¬ing, “storms on the Jersey shore can get pretty fierce. And I’ve weathered quite a few. I sailed a lot through college, but I haven’t been on a boat in several years. That’s why I was looking forward to this outing.”

The smell of salt reminded him of his youth. He’d never been in trouble and hated his deception, but he didn’t have a choice. No one would forgive his treacher¬ies. Going to the police would land him in prison. He couldn’t turn himself in, yet he yearned to be delivered from his burden of guilt. Loneliness and fear were the cost of remaining free.

Eager to turn the conversation away from himself, he pointed at the iron-gray water. “The swells are really kicking up.”

Ken handed Sharon the tiller then went below. When he returned, he held three yellow rain slickers and as many inflatable life vests. After donning a slicker and a vest, he retook the tiller and tossed the others to Justin and Sharon.

Justin adjusted his vest just as a wave hit the boat, dousing everyone. The cold water matched the tempera¬ture of his heart. He’d told Ken and Sharon his well-rehearsed story: that he’d grown up in New Jersey, lived most recently in Albany, and relocated to Providence to be close to the ocean and start his own accounting busi-ness.

When Sharon had commented that his athletic build and brown-eyed good looks made him a desirable bach¬elor, he hadn’t protested. Most of what she believed about him was a lie, beginning with the name she and Ken knew him by—Rainer Ferguson, his Rhode Island alias.

Sharon straightened her slicker beneath her life vest and pointed back at the Point Judith Lighthouse. “It’s always rougher on the open ocean, but don’t worry. We’ve sailed to Block Island many times and never had a problem.”

A gust of spray lashed his face. He hoped she was right, but the experiences of his youth told him differ¬ently. The ocean could lull overconfident sailors into complacency then attack with sudden, raging fury, espe¬cially on the moody Atlantic.

Sharon rolled her empty Sam Adams bottle between her hands. “I’ve been meaning to tell you about my friend Diane. She went through a divorce a couple years ago and hasn’t found the right guy yet. Would you be interested in taking her out?”

He felt as if a drawstring had tightened around his stomach. From the time Ken and Sharon had befriended him at the Eastside Athletic Club in Providence, he feared they would try to get too close. He’d told them very little about himself and kept their conversations focused on mutual interests such as their love of the ocean and work-ing out. When Ken had invited him to sail from Newport to Block Island, Justin had accepted only reluctantly, out of loneliness and a desire not to appear rude. Now Sharon was treading on the minefield of his relationships with women. He needed to discourage her.

“Honestly,” he said, “I’ve never had much luck with blind dates.”

She put her empty bottle in the cooler as it started to rain. “How ’bout if I introduce you two in a less threaten¬ing way?”

His stomach tightened further, and he knew the angry sea wasn’t causing the queasiness. Talking about women reminded him of his wife. Nostalgia gripped his chest as he remembered Tori and the life he’d known before all the trouble had started. If only he could have that life back …

His heart felt numb, as if it had stopped beating out of sheer exhaustion. Images of fun times with Tori flooded his mind followed by their last year of anguish.

“The four of us could go out to dinner,” Ken said. “Or we could just get together for coffee.”

Justin swallowed. He recommitted himself to keeping his real name, along with his past transgressions, secret. If Ken and Sharon knew why he’d moved to Rhode Island or the story behind the pendant, he doubted they would invite him sailing again, let alone arrange a blind date. Determined not to raise their suspicions, he said, “Tell me about your friend.”

Sharon closed the cooler and smiled. “She’s a bit shorter than you and has dark eyes and nice features. She teaches third grade and loves clam bakes, Rhode Island beaches, and the Red Sox.”

As attractive as the woman sounded, the thought of dating her or anyone else sent shivers through him. Coming to Providence had been his opportunity to start over as a bachelor. Women had created upheaval in the past and were a major reason for his despair. The pros-pect of dating again was terrifying, but he couldn’t let his true feelings slip.

“She sounds fun. Except she’s a Red Sox fan and I was born in Yankee pinstripes. She’d never want to go out with me.” He fingered his hood and hoped the darken¬ing sky and thickening rain would save him from discuss¬ing the matter further.

“We’re getting wet,” he told Ken, “and I don’t like the looks of those waves.”

Ken warned him and Sharon to duck again then came about. “We should be okay. Remember, this is America’s Cup territory. You’ve got to be ready for a little adven¬ture.”

When the Point Judith Lighthouse was no longer visible behind them, a thunderclap and several lightning flashes confirmed Justin’s fear: adventure had turned to danger. The angry sky unleashed a torrential downpour, and the wind gusted viciously and churned up eight-foot waves. Serendipity leaned and swayed as she climbed each crest before slamming down the other side. The three of them were soon drenched. The howling wind made it hard for them to communicate.

“This is more adventure than I bargained for!” His voice went hoarse as he yelled.

Sharon wiped a dripping strand of hair from her eyes. “Shouldn’t we turn back?”

Ken used his body to hold the tiller straight and cupped his hands to his mouth. “It’s too dangerous to come about. Besides, if we run—” A torrent of rain cut him off. He wiped at his face and yelled louder. “We’ll be in the storm longer and could get rolled from behind. We need to take down the sails and ride it out.”

The sloop heeled dangerously as Justin crept toward the bow. He helped Sharon untie the halyard that secured the jib and fought to keep his balance above the raging, frothy sea. The wind clawed and bit at him with the sin¬gular goal of sweeping him overboard. But they finally won the battle to lower the jib and crawled back toward the mast.

Although secured by the mainsheet, the boom shook and swung on a three-foot path, as much as the sheet would allow. It threatened to knock out anyone who crossed its path. Sharon yanked on the sheet to secure the boom just as a ten-foot wave washed over the boat. Justin clung to the mast with one hand and grabbed her with the other. A massive wall of water pummeled them. Only through the full exertion of his strength was he able to keep them from being swept overboard. He wiped water out of his eyes and let down the mainsail as Sharon stead¬ied the boom.

“Hold on while we lie ahull!” Ken fought to stabi¬lize the boat. He started the outboard engine and began to steer Serendipity parallel to the waves. Another wave washed over the boat, and water cascaded across the deck.

Terror paralyzed Justin. For the second time in his life, he thought he was going to die. The white heat of shame seared his cheeks as he remembered the first time. His mind flashed images of the people he’d hurt. Never again, he told himself.

“Call in a mayday!” Ken’s booming order sent him careening toward the hatch.

“Where’s the radio?”

“On the shelf toward the bow, on the port side.”

Justin shoved the hatch open against the vicious wind. He lurched down the stairs, ducked into the cramped cabin, and groped in the dark. His fingers ran over blan¬kets, seat cushions, life vests, and buoys. The sloop pitched viciously and slammed him against the sink on the starboard side. He bit his tongue and tasted blood.

Another wave smashed his head against the fiberglass shelves on the port side. He began to lose consciousness and collapsed onto the deck. The water that had seeped in kept him from passing out. An intense longing swept over him in the wet and dark and cold, a sensation more pow¬erful than anything he’d ever felt. He longed for harbor … Newport, Block Island, Point Judith, it didn’t matter which.

Even more, he longed for the harbor of a woman’s arms, the woman he doubted he would ever see again—his wife, Tori. But she was farther from him than ever. Far away and forever gone. An image of her lovely face appeared in his mind. He lifted his head. Then he saw a faint red dot of light on the shelf toward the bow.

The radio.

He stood, careened across the slippery deck, and ran a hand over the instruments on the shelf. Where were the receiver and the on switch? He had to find them fast and locate channel sixteen, the one used for emergencies. They were running out of time.

His fingers stumbled onto a coiled cord. He followed it up to the mike, switched on the receiver, found chan¬nel sixteen, and yelled, “Mayday! Mayday! We’re three miles south of Point Judith and taking on water. Mayday! Mayday!”

3

A Fight for Survival

Waves thrashed Serendipity’s hull, rain pelted her deck, booms of thunder reverberated through her frame. The dank, salty air in the cabin carried the stench of death. Justin’s head throbbed from having hit the shelves. His ears ached from the changes in air pressure. His legs shook from the strain of holding himself upright.

He dropped the microphone and considered stay¬ing below. Staggering guilt and debilitating shame had stalked him ever since he’d run away. Going down with the ship would be an honorable way to die.

Before he could embrace the idea, a chill colder than the water penetrated his spine, making him stiffen. The thought of his life coming to such a dismal end wracked his heart with regret. He couldn’t let it happen. Not as long as he could still think and breathe. Not as long as Ken and Sharon needed his help.

The rampaging sloop threw him toward the bow. Fighting to keep his balance, he reached beside the receiver and grabbed the brick-shaped Emergency Posi¬tion Indicating Radio Beacon. He activated the EPIRB to signal the location of the boat then staggered toward the stairs.

Sharon yelled something that was drowned out by the clang of the rigging, the screech of the wind, the roar of the surf. Her intensity reminded him of how Tori had yelled at him on their last morning together. Now he real¬ized he’d deserved her rage. He’d never known a more intelligent, fun, caring, or gorgeous woman.

Nor had he ever experienced greater oneness than they’d shared in the early years of their marriage. A gust of yearning more powerful than the shrieking wind blew through him. If only he’d appreciated the treasure he’d had in her, he would have guarded their love more vigi-lantly.

He dragged himself up the stairs then battled through the hatch and closed it behind him, buffeted by wind and spray. The rain, driven horizontally, stung his face. Lightning flashed from cloud to cloud and struck the water in the distance. The cooler broke loose and flew overboard. Sharon clung to the lifeline that ringed the boat and vomited into the sea. Justin turned away and swallowed to keep from doing the same.

His eyes found Ken’s. “How can I help?”

Ken motioned for him to sit down. “Stay low, Rainer. Keep your weight balanced against Sharon’s.”

One eight-foot wave after another crashed over the sloop. Ken strained at the handle of the outboard motor to keep the boat from pitching out of control. Justin had doubted whether lying ahull—taking the sails down and propelling Serendipity parallel to the waves—would work given the storm’s severity. He also doubted that challenging the mountainous waves head-on or trying to outrun the weather would have worked either.

Just then the sloop stopped. A wave hit the bow and spun it to starboard. Another hit the stern and spun it back to port. Ken gave the engine full throttle.

No response.

He yanked on the starter cord.

Nothing.

He yanked again.

A sputter of smoke.

Justin offered to help, but Ken waved him away and yanked several more times. The engine remained dead. He swore and pounded a fist on the throttle.

With no engine pushing the boat forward, it was at the mercy of the churning currents, the relentless wind, the towering waves. Serendipity pitched wildly first in one direction then the other.

Justin prayed that the Coast Guard had heard his dis¬tress call. The thought was still in his mind when a wave larger than any he’d ever seen, at least twelve feet tall, broke and crashed against Serendipity’s port side.

He had no time to think or move. He braced himself against the wave but could do nothing to lessen its crush¬ing impact. His body somersaulted backward into the sea.

He went down and down, propelled by the power of the wave and the weight of his slicker and wet clothes and shoes. Water swirled in his nose. Pressure built in his ears. He felt smothered, lightheaded. Submerged in inky darkness, he fought the temptation to panic. He slipped off his topsiders and pulled the cord that inflated his life vest.

The buoyancy pulled him upward. Desperate for air, he kicked and stroked. He broke the surface, drew a breath, and got a mouthful of water from a surging wave. He spit and coughed, searching for Ken and Sharon. The capsized sloop bobbed on its side, its hull half sub-merged. Ken swam toward it. Since Justin had closed the hatch, he was confident the boat wouldn’t sink and fol¬lowed Ken’s lead.

Then he saw Sharon. She was motionless with her face in the water. A wave between him and the boat crested and broke over her. He swam through another breaking wave, grabbed her hair from behind, and lifted her face out of the water. She was bleeding from a gash on her forehead. She appeared pale and wasn’t breathing. He placed one hand on her stomach while supporting her back with the other and pushed.

She vomited seawater and remained motionless. He kicked to elevate himself and rehearsed the skills he’d learned while working as a lifeguard. He breathed into her mouth. She vomited again. He kept kicking and adminis¬tered as much mouth-to-mouth resuscitation as he could manage. His legs and arms felt as if they were filled with concrete. Still she didn’t breathe. Terror stabbed at his heart. “Please breathe. I won’t let you die!”

Only the howling wind heard his lament. He kept giving her mouth-to-mouth on the trough side of each wave, fighting to keep her afloat. Her body was limp. He couldn’t let her die. He gulped the salty air and breathed into her lungs. Finally her arms moved. She belched and wretched and opened her eyes.

“Oh God … oh God …” Her eyes went wide when she recognized him. “What happened? Please help me. Please …”

“I will. I promise. You’ll be all right.” He wrapped an arm around her chest and scissor-kicked toward Serendip¬ity with his head half in the water. The sloop drifted aim¬lessly two boat-lengths away. The waves clawed at him, and the wind whipped water into his eyes and mouth, but finally he reached the bobbing hull.

Ken had climbed onto the keel and was splayed across the hull gripping the edge of the deck. Justin grabbed the keel, which was still partially submerged. He held the keel and kicked to push Sharon up as Ken hoisted her from above. His legs cramped. His arms were leaden. Sharon let out a gasp as he shoved her onto the hull.

“You’ve got to stay with the boat!” he yelled above the screeching wind. “It’s your only hope.”

She nodded weakly and struggled to hold on. Just as Ken maneuvered her onto the hull, Justin heard a squawking, whirling noise. He glimpsed the lights of a Coast Guard helicopter. A wave hit him from behind and smacked his head against the keel. A murky haze descended. He opened his mouth and water poured into his lungs.

He began to sink. His head ached as if it had been crushed in a vice. The last sound he heard was the whir¬ring cacophony of helicopter rotors above the shrieking wind. He strained to kick, but cramps gnarled his legs. He felt himself sinking deeper and blacking out.

No more light.

No more strength.

Must have air … now! … Can’t wait any longer …

His lungs spasmed and inhaled more water. Help me, God! Please help me! Please …

He tried to scream but couldn’t. He was drowning … too long without air … too pummeled by the waves to save himself.

A massive steel door opened in front of him. Suction pulled his spiritual essence out of his convulsing body. He didn’t want to leave. He fought the relentless force but soon grew exhausted. A deafening whoosh pierced his ears as his soul left his lifeless body and flew through the door.

Terror ripped through his gut. Where am I? What’s happening to me? He thrashed and kicked but couldn’t stop flying. He remained aware but inhabited a new spiri¬tual body, translucent in essence. Darkness enveloped him. He lost all sense of where he was until he splashed into a frigid, raging river. Foaming rapids swept him along in powerful currents. He stole frantic breaths as he bobbed and swirled downstream. “Help me! Please, anyone … help!” view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. Justin Connelly is knocked unconscious in a sailing accident and, while in a coma, taken to the depths of hell itself. Do near-death experiences provide reliable information about the afterlife? Read I Peter 3:18–22 and reflect on Justin’s encounter with Jesus Christ in hell. How does his encounter relate to this passage of scripture and to the statement in the Apostles’ Creed that Jesus “descended into hell”?

2 The terrorist attacks on September 11th, the suffering Justin brings on himself and others, and the horror he endures while he is in his coma are all examples of the experience of hell. How do these examples either support or challenge your ideas about whether hell exists and/or what it might be like?

3 The title of the novel is a reference to September 11th, 2001. The day began with blue skies and brilliant sunshine in the East, but the terrorist attacks turned the morning dark and filled it with suffering. How does the “take back the morning” theme apply to Justin Connelly? To other characters? To the Seven Challenges of a Transformed Life? (See Genesis 1:1–5; John 1:1–5; 8:12).

4 The complications of romantic love is a major theme in the novel. Discuss the ways in which you empathize with and/or question the romantic choices that Justin, Tori, and Paul make. How might the predicaments faced by the men and women of the Bible inform this discussion? (See Genesis 21:1–21; 29:1–30; 2 Samuel 11:1–27; Matthew 1:18–25; 2:13–15).

5 Justin, Tori, and Paul each suffer heartbreak in their intimate relationships. How do they find healing and reconciliation, and what can we learn from their individual stories? (See 2 Corinthians 5:17–21).

6 Candace Donahue and Quentin Rathbun are entangled in an intricate web of deception, greed, and lust for power. What do their stories reveal about the problem of evil and how the problem plays out in everyday life? Are Candace and Quentin evil to the core or are they in any way sympathetic characters? (See Genesis 36; Matthew 4:1–11).

7 Reflect on the role of the pendant in the novel. In what ways does it drive the plot? If such an artifact were actually discovered today, do you think it would create a scenario similar to the one dramatized in the novel, or would you envision a different scenario. (See Exodus 4:1–20; 7:6–24; 8:5–19; 9:22–26; 10:13–15;14:15–22; 17:1–7).

8 When Justin encounters Reverend Robert Sherman in St. Paul’s Chapel, he asks the priest, “Do you believe that a person can ever be so bad that God stops loving him?” Do you agree or disagree with Reverend Sherman’s answer? Is Justin redeemed by the end of the novel? If not, why? If so, does he still have to suffer the consequences of his actions? (See Ephesians 1:3–10; Colossians 1:9–14; Hebrews 9:11–15).

9 Corporate greed, religious fanaticism, and cultural decadence are among the contemporary problems addressed in the novel. Is the spiritual vision it presents capable of solving these problems? Why or why not? (See Mark 3:20–30; Ephesians 6:10–20).

10 As Justin speaks under the power of the pendant, he reveals the Seven Challenges of a Transformed Life.
Discuss each challenge and the scriptures that support it.

1. Accepted Acceptance: Luke 15:11–31; Matthew 20:1–16; Romans 5:1–11

2. Healed Emotions: John 4:1–30; Luke 5:27–32; Luke 7:36–50

3. Awakened Intimacy: Mark 12:28–34; Matthew 5:43–48; John 13:34–35 382 Ta k e Bac k the Morning

4. Reimagined Abundance: John 10:7–10; 2 Corinthians 9:8–9; Ephesians 3:14–21; Philippians 4:19

5. Liberated Service: Mark 10:35–45; Luke 22:24–27; Philippians 2:1–11

6. Inspired Creativity: Acts 2:1–47; I Corinthians 12:1–11; Ephesians 5:15–21

7. Transformed Faith: James 1:19–26; James 3:13–18; Romans 12:1–21

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