The Sending by Matt Koceich

Published by Marcher Lord Press

8345 Pepperridge Drive
Colorado Springs, CO 80920
www.marcherlordpress.com

This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photo-
copy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher,
except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

MARCHER LORD PRESS and the MARCHER LORD PRESS logo are trade-
marks of Marcher Lord Press. Absence of TM in connection with marks of Marcher
Lord Press or other parties does not indicate an absence of trademark protection
of those marks.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people,
organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

The sole exception is the use of the name Andrew Terry. Andrew was the winner of
a drawing, the prize of which was to have the winner’s name appear in an upcom-
ing Marcher Lord Press novel. Andrew’s name is used with his written consent.

Cover Designer: Chris Gilbert, Gearbox, www.studiogearbox.com

Cover Illustrator: Chris Gilbert, Gearbox, www.studiogearbox.com
Creative Team: Jeff Gerke, Dawn Shelton, Christianne Squires

Copyright © 2010 by Matt Koceich

All rights reserved

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

An application to register this book for cataloging has been filed with the Library
of Congress.
International Standard Book Number: 978-1-935929-13-0

Printed in the United States of America

For my wife, Cindi
Today and tomorrow
 Acknowledgments

I’d like to honor those who helped make this dream come true.
First, to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, for rescuing me. To
my beautiful bride, who is a gift of God’s infinite grace. To my
children, Madison, Abby, Max, and Sam, who make life blessed.
To my friends at Pantego Bible Church and Corey Elementary,
who believed, voted, and, most importantly, prayed. To the
Vincent and Taylor families, who have given me encourage-
ment and compassion every step of the way. And to Jeff Gerke,
patient visionary and brilliant publisher, who helped me find
what I was looking for.
 CHAPTER
PROLOGUE

Cold Springs Station

Nevada Territory
March 23, 1861

Heaven bled a hard rain and the water healed.

Travis Bedford sipped his coffee and cherished the warmth
of the tin cup. Both cup and coffee kept him insulated against
the elements. The night storm had turned the small stone cabin
into an icebox. Travis tried to think about his morning duties,
but his mind had become like the stone walls of the station
house. Cold. He let the coffee cool, soaking as much heat from
the cup into his hands as he could.
Travis put the cup on the hearth and grabbed his coat. The
first rider would be arriving soon. He needed to get a fresh
bronco ready.
He stepped onto the wooden porch and looked in the
direction the rider would come. A heavy morning sun painted
the Nevada sky in mixed layers of amber and tangerine.

1
Matt koceich

The sagebrush wilderness stretched for 50 miles in every

direction.
But no horn sounded. No rider appeared. Minutes passed
and still no rider. He went back in and checked the pocket
watch he’d left by his bed. Yes, sir, long overdue now.
Travis had ridden the routes before. Every Pony Express
rider knew the dangers. Accidents, Washoe Indians, outlaws,
getting disoriented in the trackless sage. The way it had rained
last night, any number of the river fords could be impassible
from flooding. So long as man had to contend with nature,
nature would sometimes win.
He sat on the rocking chair on the porch and settled in to
wait.
A thick fog rolled in and wrapped the station in a soupy
mist. Another storm was coming; Travis could feel it in his
bones. Young bones, maybe. Skin and bones, some said. But he
could tell when a storm was moving in.
Hours passed. No rider arrived. The clouds hid the sun.
The fog dropped visibility to 50 feet. Travis went in and fixed
himself some lunch. Went about his chores.
In the early afternoon he pulled out his worn copy of Uncle
Tom’s Cabin. No matter how many times he pored over Stowe’s
novel, Travis could not reconcile how Tom could forgive the men
who had brutally beaten him. Bizarre. Life on the frontier was hard
enough without somebody else inflicting hardship. Tom’s courage
to fight the evils by confronting them with love, not pride, kept
Travis hopeful that his life of near isolation served a purpose.
A harness jingled in the fog. The clip-clop of a horse echo-
ing in the dense fog. Finally!
Travis stood to the railing to greet the rider. “Ho,” he said,
“you have trouble getting across the river?”

2
 The Sending

No answer came. A horse materialized from the fog and gal-

loped up to Travis, shaking its head and whinnying. Riderless.
He patted its side. “Where’s your partner, boy?”
It was the Express horse, all right. It still carried the mochila
with the mail. It hadn’t been tampered with, which would seem
to rule out an ambush. Travis fed, brushed, and stabled the
horse and took the leather bag into the station house.
He draped the sack on the stone hearth. The three cantinas
on the mochila were still locked. The only pocket he could
open was the fourth. That held the rider’s standard-issue Bible.
Travis didn’t have a key to the cantinas, so that was the end of
what he could legally do if he wanted to see the mail. But there
was no need for that.
He held the Bible into what light the fog let through the
window. Words had been stamped in gold letters on the front:
Presented by Russell, Majors, & Waddell—1858.
“Well, Mr. Pony Express rider, wherever you are,” Travis
said toward the window, “I can get your mail to go with the
next rider. But I’ll just hold on to this Bible until I can hand it
back to you myself.” Besides, he thought, he hadn’t had a Bible
of his own since . . . Well, since he’d decided he didn’t need
one. Fool.
He tucked the Bible under the pillow of his bed and tossed
another log onto the fire.
Something about all this made him nervous. He pulled his
Colt Navy revolver from his bedside bureau and checked to see
that it was loaded. He spun the chamber a few times, taking solace
from the gun’s weight and precise clicking. The smell of gun oil
restored his confidence. He set the pistol down on the table.
He made a new pot of coffee. Though the sun had given its
all to warm the day, the blanket of fog and the frigid air refused

3
Matt koceich

to leave. Travis waited on the porch for another three hours for
the next Express rider to show. Nothing stirred the mist but
crows, themselves unnaturally subdued in their squawking.
At last a horn blast cut through the air. Travis ran out the
door and down the path to greet the rider. He hoped the man
had seen something on the trail or could help him figure out
what had happened to the morning rider.
Something was wrong. The rider slowly emerging from the
fog appeared far too big to be an Express rider. They were sup-
posed to be small so as to not wear out the ponies.
The newcomer brought his horse forward and halted right
in front of Travis. A thick mustache wider than the man’s
cheeks tapered to two points. A hat darker than night framed
the man’s dark eyes. Black duster, unbuttoned, and tan roper
gloves covered his body and hands. A weathered face stared
down at Travis. “Where is it?”
Travis didn’t think he was asking for directions to the near-
est saloon. “Where is what?”
The rider pulled out his pistol and aimed it at Travis’s head.
“You know. If you value your life, you’ll tell me where the
mochila is.”
Now it made sense. This was probably an outlaw who had
ambushed the last rider but hadn’t been able to trap the horse.
Robbers usually went after the eastbound mail, though, as that
was what carried any gold being sent from the ’49 Gold Rush back
east to family. What would he want with the westbound mail?
Travis didn’t want to die. As he looked into the ominous
shadow of the gun barrel pointed at him, he tried to think what
might be in the mochila that would warrant this. He thought
of his Colt revolver sitting on the table. If he could get to it . . .
“It’s inside. By the fireplace. I’ll show you.”

4
 The Sending

The rider dismounted, keeping his weapon aimed at Travis.

“Go. I’ll be right behind you.”
Travis led the man onto the wooden porch and into the
station cabin. “It’s right there.” As the man went for the saddle
bag, Travis positioned himself so he could reach his pistol and
the man couldn’t see it.
The man pulled a chair out with his leg and brought the
mochila close, still keeping his gun trained on Travis. He fished
in his duster pocket and pulled out a ring of keys Travis recog-
nized. They had belonged to a Pony Express rider.
Travis wanted to pull his gun out now. Tampering with
the mail was one thing, but this man had apparently shot an
Express rider in cold blood. He wanted to stop the man if only
to honor the rider’s sacrifice. But something stayed his hand,
even when the man turned his attention to opening the canti-
nas with the key.
The man opened the pockets and pulled out the letters.
From his expression, he apparently hadn’t found what he’d
been after. He slammed the mail to the table and thrust his
pistol toward Travis. “Where is it?”
“I don’t know,” Travis said, though as he said it he thought
of the Bible under his pillow. “What are you looking for?”
“A letter addressed to Elijah Grant, San Francisco.”
Oh, so it wasn’t the Bible. Not that a killer couldn’t use
hearing some key bits from the Good Book.
“You’re the one with the keys,” Travis said. “I didn’t take
any mail out. I couldn’t even open the pouch.”
The man held open the flap of the pocket where the Bible
had been. “What was in here?”
“That’s the way I found it.” Now Travis felt the need to
read bits of the Bible. But did he owe the truth to someone

5
Matt koceich

who would use it for evil? If the man went for the Bible, maybe
Travis really would use his gun. He felt its cool grip under his
fingers, still hidden behind his body.
The man holstered his gun. “You’re a lucky man. And
if you’re a prayin’ man, you better get on your knees and
thank your Maker because you get to live to see one more
day. Keep your eyes open for that letter. I’ll be back for it
in the morning. If you don’t have it, your prayers won’t help
you.”
Even as the man turned to leave, Travis thought about
shooting him. Why live under this kind of threat? Take the
element of surprise and shoot the bandit in the back. It would
be better than he deserved.
But he didn’t. He stood mutely as the man clomped across
the porch, mounted his horse, and rode into the early evening
fog. A gust of wind stoked the embers in the stove and filled the
cabin with a red glow.
Travis waited until horse and rider were swallowed up by
the mist and the horse’s footfalls had faded to silence. When
he felt confident there would be no more threats, he went
to his bed and grabbed the Bible from beneath the pillow.
Maybe it held the answers.
As he flipped through the pages, he found an envelope
tucked in the pages of Genesis. He held it up and saw that it
was the letter for Elijah Grant in San Francisco. There were no
other markings on the envelope except for the St. Joseph frank
postage mark.
A dread sank into Travis’s gut. Now he couldn’t play dumb
anymore. He had the thing this killer wanted. Which meant
Travis would have to give it to him or knowingly prevent him
from getting it. Neither one was a good option.

6
 The Sending

He looked at the letter. What could it contain that would

make a man want to kill? He shook it gently, but it didn’t seem
to have any gold nuggets inside. Only paper. How he wanted
to open it and discover what was so important that the outlaw
would go through so much trouble to find it.
He shook his head. “What are you thinking, Travis
Bedford?” He would not break the oath he had taken upon
signing on with the Pony Express. He had sworn to conduct
himself in an ethical manner. Opening someone else’s mail was
the worst act of invasion an Express employee could commit.
Before he fully knew what he was doing, he began packing
for a long trip. He couldn’t be here in the morning, that much
was certain. And he didn’t think he could beat that bandit in
a shootout. Best to simply be gone. He was a letter carrier, and
now he had a mission.
He would get this letter to Elijah Grant in San Francisco,
no matter the cost.

Three weeks later

Travis reached San Francisco and found a room in a hotel

on Montgomery Street near the park at Portsmouth Square.
Compared to his tiny stone shack back in Cold Springs, San
Francisco was an empire. People from all over the world had
flooded to the Bay City to make their fortunes. What Travis
saw matched up with the glamorous image his brain created
when he thought of the Gold Rush.
But behind the inviting façade, he also saw that a haze of
condensed vice covered the streets, streets where prostitutes
waited, con men thieved, and penniless dreamers who didn’t

7
Matt koceich

find what they had come here for drowned their sorrows. The
city was a land of new hope, ironically made up of thousands of
seekers with nothing to claim as their own but empty pockets
and thirsty souls.
Over the weeks since his departure, he’d ridden as only a
Pony Express man could ride. He’d changed ponies at the sta-
tions, all the while telling his tale to the station men and warn-
ing them that he might have pursuers. He’d never seen anyone
on his tail, though his dreams had been filled with not one but
as many as five grim men tracking him, always getting nearer.
But even if they had been gaining on him overland, he was
quite sure he’d at least delayed them on the other side of the
bay. He’d been the last person aboard the steamer Antelope.
They’d pulled the gangplank almost while he was still on it. If
they’d been right on him then, he’d gained at least ten hours
on them now, as they would’ve had to wait for the next steamer
or ride around the long way.
At the very least, he felt sure it had given him enough time
to find this Mr. Grant and deliver to him the letter he’d left
everything to transport. He only hoped it had been worth it.
Beyond handing over the letter, Travis had no real plan. He
had a vague idea of slipping out of town and working his way
back to his beloved sagebrush outpost.
Travis skipped lunch and instead worked to find the Market
Street address. He climbed the stairs to the second floor apart-
ment that matched the address on the envelope. Travis stared at
the door he’d ridden so far and so hard to reach, and knocked.
He heard heavy footsteps clomping across a wooden floor.
The door swung open. There stood an elderly man with wiry
hair and a hyperactive beard that would have given President
Buchanan heart failure.

8
 The Sending

Travis hadn’t known what to expect, but this wasn’t it. “Mr.
Elijah Grant?”
“That’s right.”
Travis introduced himself and held out the Bible he had
hauled from Nevada. The old man just stared at Travis for a
few seconds.
“Can we talk for a minute?” Travis asked.
“Mr. Bedford. I’m 89 and so close to dying that I can see
heaven on a cloudy day. Yes, come in. A visit with you and the
Bible would be a beautiful thing.” Elijah Grant held the door
and motioned for Travis to enter.
The apartment was modest and orderly. Beyond the small
entranceway and living room was a study. A writing desk was
laden with piles of writing paper, a bottle of ink, and a steel-nib
pen. This was where Elijah led him.
“What are you working on?”
“Glad you asked.” Elijah shuffled over to the desk and selected
a few sheets from two of the piles. “I’ve spent my entire life pray-
ing for this day, my boy, would you believe that? And, dear
Gussie, here it is.” He pulled the writing chair out for Travis.
Travis sat. “What’s special about today?”
Elijah looked at him mischievously. “What indeed?” He
pulled the envelope from the Bible—as if expecting to find it
there—and opened it. He chuckled and shook his head, then
placed the opened letter on top of one of the piles so Travis
could see it.
Travis was disappointed. It was just another letter from one
family member to another. He’d hoped it might be a deed to a
gold mine or something big, not just news about his brother’s
rickets. Why had he come all this way when he could’ve just
handed it off at the station nearest his cabin?

9
Matt koceich

And why had that bandit wanted it so badly?

Elijah rolled the pen in his fingers. “After Adam and Eve
ate the apple, they were sent out of Eden. God put an army of
angels with a flaming sword to keep them and future genera-
tions from reaching the tree.”
Travis nodded with fatigue. He was vaguely aware of the
Genesis account. Would he still have to duck out of town to
avoid outlaws . . . for this?
“The reason God gave them for not being allowed back
into the Garden,” Elijah said, “was so they wouldn’t eat off the
Tree of Life and live forever.” Passion turned his eyes into pools
of eternity. Or maybe it was just an old man who had lost his
thought.
“Who sent you this?” Travis asked. He had risked his career
and life for an old man’s fantasy.
“My brother, Larry. He’s a preacher in Missouri.” Elijah
paused. “This is going to sound mad, but he also claims to see
things, Travis. Places. Faraway places, my lad. Larry wrote in
an earlier letter that he’s been able to see . . . the Garden of
Eden.”
Travis’s mind snapped back to the old man. “The what?”
“That’s right: Eden. He says he sees animals there and beau-
tiful flowers. This letter you’ve brought me is Larry’s best guess,
based on his visions, as to where Eden is located in our time.”
Travis looked at Elijah. It was worse than just bringing this
letter here for no reason—he’d brought a letter to a crazy man.
He became aware of a grandfather clock ticking against the
wall of the study.
“All right,” Travis said, now eager to leave, “I’m very glad to
have brought you something from your brother. Now, if you’ll
excuse me, I must be—”

10
 The Sending

“Young man,” Elijah said, immobilizing Travis with his

gaze, “the good Lord has honored your obedience. This town
is loaded with young people your age who came to find buried
treasure. Trying to get your hands on what you think will bring
true happiness will leave you empty-handed.”
The old man put the papers back on top of the desk and
made his way to the stove. He opened the grate. Instead of a
log, he pulled out another Bible. Elijah closed the grate and
turned to face Travis. “I want you to take this with you. The
good Lord wants us to read His Word.”
None of this made any sense. Travis had outrun a stranger
intent on taking the letter only to be handed a Bible from a
delusional 89-year-old man. “Sir, I believe I’ll just—”
“That letter is a map, Travis. This Bible has notes that will
help you make sense of the map and figure out what to do once
you find Eden.”
Travis felt like he had missed some huge secret. “Find
what?”
“The Garden of Eden.”
Travis had risked his life for a basket case. “You’re joking.”
“You’re 33, right?”
Travis stopped breathing. “How do you know how old I
am?”
“Just promise me you’ll find the Garden of Eden before
the devil does.” Elijah might have been crazy, but the urgency
in his eyes showed that he at least believed this was important.
“The enemy’s army is strong. He will do whatever it takes to
get back into Eden.”
“How’d you know my age?”
“Because that’s how old Jesus was when the Sending began.
And now, here you are, ready to be sent.”

11
Matt koceich

The sending ?  This was ridiculous. Travis turned to leave.

“Mr. Bedford, you have been invited to be a part of some-
thing wonderful. Beyond imagination. Everything happens for
a reason. You get to choose now, lucky boy.”
“Choose what?”
“Satan has spent the last 4,000 years trying to get back
into heaven. The secret of the Sending is that a select group of
humans in each generation have a chance to join the cherubim
and be a part of the guardian force protecting the Tree of Life
from Satan.”
This was too much. “No, thank you, Mr. Grant.”
A knock sounded on Elijah’s door. Travis thought to use it
as his excuse to leave, but Elijah grabbed his wrists.
“Please stay. Just a moment more.”
When Elijah let go and went out of the room toward the
entranceway, Travis noticed the old man had pressed the Bible
into his hands. Sighing, he set the Bible down on Elijah’s writ-
ing desk.
Elijah had partly closed the door to the office on his way
out, but Travis could see through the crack as Elijah opened his
front door. Two police officers were on the other side.
“Are you Elijah Grant?” the taller of the two officers
asked.
The old man nodded. “What is it you want?”
“We’re sorry to bother you, but we need to ask you a few
questions.”
“Ask away.”
One of the two policemen walked past Grant into the
apartment. That seemed odd. Elijah hadn’t invited them in.
Sensing another storm on the horizon, Travis gently eased the
office door closed.

12
 The Sending

A gunshot cracked. Something heavy fell to the floor.

Travis froze. The letter. The Bible. Had they finally caught
up to him?
He grabbed the Bible and the letter and looked around.
There, behind the writing desk, was a tiny closet. Travis crawled
into the small space, shut the door behind him, and prayed.
He could hear the two men walk into the study. These were
not normal police, if they were policemen at all. Travis was
seconds away from being discovered.
Why had this happened to him? Why hadn’t he just given
the Bible to the horseman when asked or waited until the next
morning to give it to him?
Minutes passed. The men seemed to be moving furni-
ture around. He heard scrapes and thumps and the sound of
arguing. Travis continued his silent communication with his
Maker.
Finally, he heard the front door slam shut. He waited a
moment to be sure it wasn’t a trick. Ever so slowly he opened
the little door and peeked out. The apartment had been ran-
sacked, but the men appeared to be gone.
Travis crawled out of the closet and went to the window.
He saw the two officers walk across the dusty street. They met
with another man under the eaves of a general goods store.
Travis couldn’t see who it was, but he saw the edge of a black
duster and a hat as dark as night.
He ran to the living room. Elijah Grant lay facedown on
the wood floor in a pool of blood.
Travis dropped the Bible and knelt beside Elijah Grant. He
rolled him over. “Hold on. I’ll get help.”
The old man shook his head. His chest heaved for precious
air. “Go . . . find . . .”

13
Matt koceich

Travis didn’t want to watch the man die. He might be a

lunatic, but he deserved a chance. “I’ll be right back.”
“ . . . the Garden . . .”
“You’re going to live. Breathe!”
“ . . . before . . . the devil . . . does.” As the last word past
from his lips, Elijah died.
Go find the Garden before the devil does.
Travis grabbed the man’s shirt, shook his limp body. “Come
on! Wake up!”
Blood threatened to seep onto the Bible, so Travis moved it
away. But as he did, he noticed that it had fallen open. He spot-
ted markings on one of the pages. A portion of the Scripture
had been circled in black ink. He read it.

You were in Eden, the Garden of God; You

were blameless in your ways from the day
you were created till wickedness was found
in you. I expelled you, O guardian cherub.

Travis grabbed the Bible and opened it to be sure the letter

was securely tucked inside. Then, after a prayer for guidance, he
told Elijah Grant goodbye. “I’ll see you in heaven, old man.”
Travis stepped outside, careful to stay in the shadows and to
go in a direction away from where he’d seen the men talking.
Thirty minutes later, sweating and completely lost in the
bustling city, Travis felt confident he hadn’t been followed. He
stepped into a narrow alley and looked at the letter that at least
two men had been killed over. Just the same correspondence.
He almost crumpled it in frustration. Maybe the clues were in
the text. He’d look at it la—

14
 The Sending

Wait. He spotted something drawn on the back of the

page. Maps. Maps leading to, if the labels could be believed,
the Tree of Life.
“Hey!”
It was the two false policemen from Elijah Grant’s apart-
ment. How had they found him? They were a block away but
already sprinting toward him, yelling for him to stop.
Travis Bedford ran.
And ran.

15
16
 CHAPTER

1
San Francisco, California
Present Day

Mark Grant grabbed the Wii remote from the table and pushed
the A button. He’d racked up eleven consecutive strikes and was
in the hunt for a perfect score. Video game or not, the excitement
was the same in the Grant living room as it would be in a bowl-
ing alley. The only things missing were the garish shoes.
Mark lifted the white controller in front of his face. “Dear
family, prepare for perfection!”
In one fluid motion, Mark brought the game remote down,
then forward and watched the digital lime-green ball roll down
the lane toward the headpin following a smooth right-to-left
arc. Mark’s ball attacked the pins with a vengeance. They all
exploded into one another, falling like obedient dogs trained
to play dead.
“Oh, yeah! Three hundred, baby!” Mark turned away from
the television and did a victory dance for his wife and son.

17
Matt koceich

The patented celebration move included a victory lap around

the kitchen table and a brief waltz with the family Shih Tzu,
Charlie.
“Dear, I hate to burst your bubble.” Aubrey wore a grin
the size of California. “Look.” She directed Mark’s eyes to the
screen.
The television had sold him down the river. The 10-pin had
never moved. It stood stationary in mock repose.
“No way.”
299.
“Did you make a scoy, Daddy?”
Mark looked at his four year old and composed himself.
“Yes, angel. Daddy made a score. Just not the one I wanted.”
“Mommy, Daddy scoyed!”
Aubrey smiled. “Ask Daddy what he scored at real
bowling.”
“What did you bowl fo weal?”
Mark rubbed his hands through his son’s spiky blond hair.
“I love you, buddy. That’s for real.”
“Luh you too, Daddy.”
Mark kissed Sam on the forehead, grateful that the boy
wasn’t old enough to want to continue the questions. “Get your
coat and shoes on. I promised Uncle Andrew we’d be at the
shelter by seven.”
“We have to bwing ice cweam!”
“Yes, we’ll get ice cream for Uncle Andrew and his friends.”
Mark laughed at Sam’s terrific memory.
Like water flowing downstream and reaching its destination
despite the interference from boulders and felled trees, Mark
navigated the minivan through traffic and found a Safeway.
The Grants grabbed a cart and went to the frozen food section

18
 The Sending

and loaded up with five quarts of chocolate, five vanilla, one

peppermint, and one rocky road. Mark led his family to the
party supply aisle and grabbed a huge greeting card and a trio
of helium balloons.
Ten minutes later, Mark parallel parked on the opposite
side of Greenwich. Sam wanted to show how he could be a big
boy helper by carrying the balloons and the ice cream. Mark
held Aubrey’s hand as they watched their son struggle. No more
than fifty paces away, Sam dropped the bag of ice cream and
lost two of the balloons. Mark picked up the ice cream. Aubrey
told Sam not to worry about the balloons.
A warm breeze filled with sticky humidity pushed a piece of
newspaper down the sidewalk. Mark thought about the articles
that he would find if he read the paper. Civil unrest in foreign
countries. Hunger and disease in places that no one knew how
to pronounce or where they were on a map. Mark picked up
the paper and crumbled it into a ball. He tossed it into a grimy
Dumpster.
Uncle Andrew Terry met Mark in the shelter’s entry and
brought him up to speed on the background and current needs
of their newest clients, Dana Okoro and her son, Will.
Mark found the lady sitting on a threadbare sofa holding a
red backpack with her left hand and her son’s hand in her right.
“Dana?”
The woman’s eyes painted a picture of confusion and need.
“Mark Grant?”
“Yes.” Mark put his hand out in greeting. “This is my wife,
Aubrey. And my son, Sam.”
After they greeted each other, Aubrey went with Sam to
blow up some non-helium balloons and help serve the ice
cream.

19
Matt koceich

Dana Okoro took Mark’s hands in both of hers. Mark

had experienced this unfortunate interaction too many times
to count. A broken woman at the end of her rope. Mark was
grateful that the mother in front of him had found the courage
to leave her abusive boyfriend and rescue her son. It was a hard
first step but the best one she would ever make.
Dana Okoro did not look familiar.
“Have we met before?” Mark asked.
“My boyfriend’s mother was in the same nursing home as
Tillie Jones. Didn’t Tillie found this shelter?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, they were roommates. One day when I was alone in
the room and his mother was sleeping, Tillie started talking to
me about you.”
Dana’s son, Will, had found the Lego blocks and was trans-
forming the single pieces into a yellow, blue, red, and green
castle. He was lost in a fantasy world where everyone was good
and daddies didn’t scream and hurt mommies.
The toy block creation lasted less than thirty seconds as
Will pretended to be a monster bent on destruction. The little
boy kicked the multi-colored structure, causing it to collapse
in several clusters. After surveying the damage, the boy used
his hands to tear apart the pieces so that after a few seconds
the plastic building blocks were scattered all over the dingy
linoleum floor. Mark knew this was probably the rage he had
witnessed between Dana and his father reenacted in the boy’s
pretend world.
Mark listened to Dana talk as he played with Will. It was
important to gain the children’s trust from the beginning.
Mark promised to do whatever it took to get Dana and Will on
a better path in the shortest amount of time.

20
 The Sending

Andrew stuck his head in. “Just ’Cause party in the kitchen
in five minutes.”
Will Okoro stood over his Lego dominion. “Birthday
party?”
“Sort of.” Mark knelt on the floor in front of the boy. “We
have Just ’Cause parties and do you know why?”
He shook his head.
“We have them . . . just because.”
The boy looked confused, but grinned when he saw the
balloons and ice cream coming out of the kitchen.
Mark stood and escorted Dana and Will to a card table
draped in a red plastic tablecloth. Other mothers and their
children filled the empty chairs. Aubrey gave each child a bal-
loon and a bowl of ice cream.
Twenty minutes later, after most of the clients were fin-
ished, Mark played Bingo with the folks that wanted to while
Aubrey took a second group to the shelter’s media room and
put on a Little House on the Prairie DVD.
When they finally got home, it was after ten. Aubrey set
the timer on the microwave to help motivate Sam to get ready
for bed. All he had to do was get his pajamas and pull-up out
and brush his teeth. If he could do that before the timer went
off, Mark would read two stories.
Samuel came bounding out of the bathroom with a glob
of blue toothpaste on his brush. Mark bit his tongue. He
brushed Sam’s teeth and sent his son back to rinse his mouth
out.
Mark gave Sam a bath and read him a Thomas the Tank
Engine story. Trains were Sam’s favorite, and Mark had as
much fun as he watched his son get involved in the escapades
on Sodor. Cranky the Crane and Percy. Sam knew them all.

21
Matt koceich

Mark was proud that he knew them too. “Hey, bubba. Look
under your pillow.”
“What?” Sam stared at Mark.
Mark pointed to his son’s pillow. “Look under there.”
Sam lifted the pillow. “Whoa! Thomas!”
Mark had found an Easter Thomas train with three match-
ing pastel cars.
“Cool!”
Mark prayed, and Sam added his own words about how the
other day God didn’t know what to do when Mark had a losing
battle with a stomach bug, but because of Sam’s prayer, God
heard and helped Mark. It was a classic example of why Jesus
must have said the kingdom of heaven is like little children.
Mark turned the light off and said good night.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Sam.”
“Daddy, I’m an angel.”
“You sure are an angel.” Mark told his son that every night
before he left the room. Sometimes, Sam would beat him to it.

Mark found Aubrey in the office checking her e-mail. He put

his hands on her shoulders.
“That feels good.”
“I’m wrapping up the Eternity Project in the morning,
Bree.”
Aubrey shook her head.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“I’m tired, Mark.” Aubrey pushed the office chair back in
to Mark. “I need to go to bed.”

22
 The Sending

“What’s the matter?”

“Let’s see. Tomorrow’s Easter and, while I’m at church
watching our son’s play, you’ll be at the lab playing supernatu-
ral hide and seek.”
“I went to church Friday. Bree, you know how much this is
going to mean for our family.”
Aubrey exhaled in her patented coping mechanism.
“Tomorrow’s Easter, Mark. Easter. Sam’s in the church play.”
“Aubrey, if I find Eden, I’ll be able to stay home every day,
all day, for the rest of our lives.” He crossed his arms. “Come
on, Bree. You used to be so excited about this. You used to treat
me like a king. You used to tell me how proud you are to be
my wife and that I had a gift. Remember that? Then you found
religion and now . . .” He looked away. “Whatever.”
“Do what you need to do, Mark. I’m going to bed.”
“Come on Bree. Don’t talk like that. I love you.”
“For goodness’ sake, Mark, don’t give me that. You haven’t
been here for us.” Aubrey stared at her husband with eyes that
had turned into pools of hurt. “Just go back to the lab. That’s
where you really live anyway.”
“I saw the Garden!” Mark said. “A couple more views and
I’ll know where it is.”
“You promised we’d go to church together, Mark. As a
family. You promised. We haven’t spent time together in I don’t
know how long.” Aubrey took a deep breath.
“Bree, please.”
Aubrey left the room but Mark followed her and stood in
the office doorway. “Mark, let me go to bed. I’m tired.”
“Honey, look. One more view. That’s it. I’ll get the coordi-
nates to the Garden and our checking account will have a few
more dollars.”

23
Matt koceich

“How many times in the past year have you said that to
me? And how many times do I have to tell you that I don’t care
about the money? I want our family to be a priority for you.
That’s all I need.”
Mark spun his wedding ring around. “Aubrey . . .”
“I’m not arguing about this anymore, Mark.”
“Fine. I’ll call Konrad and cancel our morning meeting.
I’ll reschedule it so we can all go to church as a family.” Mark
hugged his wife.
She relented a bit. “I don’t want you to change your plans
because of me.”
“No, honey. You and Sam are more important.”
“Thank you.” Aubrey returned the hug. “Oh, you got a
letter from your mother.”
“I don’t care,” Mark said. “Sorry. I meant I don’t care about
her letter.”
“It was addressed to ‘Grants’ so I opened it. She says she
has something urgent for you in a safe deposit box at the Wells
Fargo down on Montgomery. Something that belonged to your
great-great-grandfather Elijah.”
“Probably a lawsuit. I wouldn’t put it past her. Thinks
everyone’s out to get her.”
Mark took the letter off the dresser and twirled it around
in his hands. He had come to the conclusion that a boundary
had to be set and now was the time to set it. His mother was
old school and didn’t do e-mail or text. The last letter she sent
was some ridiculous threat that if she couldn’t spend time with
Sam she was going to get a lawyer and make it happen.
“You know, Bree. There’s a sick, twisted part of me that
wants to go to the bank and see what’s in the box. Probably
nothing but a stack of conspiracy theories written on index

24
 The Sending

cards mom concocted over a case of beer. But still. What if it’s
something valuable?”
“Mark, don’t do it. She reels you in and then pitches you
back into the water. Emotional catch and release. Every single
time.”
Mark tossed the envelope and its contents into the trash
can. “Good night, Bree. I love you.”
“Night. Love you too.”

25