The Heritage of Luke

By Truman Godwin

Upon the sudden, untimely death of her father, Amy Sinclair learns of a curse that has doomed the males of the Sinclair family for more than two hundred years. Determined to remove the threat to any children she might have someday, Amy begins a search for a woman who can remove the curse.
Amy's Journey takes her to Haiti, into the heart of a world she never knew existed, where the ancient practice of Voodoo becomes both a dangerous threat and a promise of release from the curse of death. This gripping tale offers back-to-back chills, terrors, and surprises as Amy risks her life to find the key that will unlock the deadly secret of The Heritage of Luke.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mathis B Rogers
• Release date: Jun 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458109101

Truman Godwin

Truman D. GodwinAUGUST 17, 1931– DECEMBER 4, 2020Truman was born in Vernon, Texas in 1931. After graduating from Lubbock High School in 1948, he attended Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas where he majored in Electrical Engineering and Economics. He also studied British Literature and Business Law at the University of Texas. Truman was a Korean War veteran, and he was in the Telecommunications business for 52 years before retiring. He leaves behind his wife, Nancy, six children, and ten grandchildren. His favorite diversion was golf.His published works include: The Heritage of Luke, 666, and The End of the Row; a book of short stories, The Treasure of Chama Valley; a book of poetry, Beyond the Hedgerows; other miscellaneous magazine publications.He received the rights back to some of his books, and re-released them on his own and published them in Kindle and eBook editions also. Some of them he changed the names and covers.Find all of his books listed below.

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The Heritage of Luke

By

Truman Dayon Godwin

Copyright 1995 Truman Dayon Godwin

Smashwords Edition 2011

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The historical names mentioned in the book refer to real people, but they are not active characters in the story.

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Chapter 1.

Verne Sinclair sucked in a deep breath of cool night air and swung his arms in an effort to ease his pain. He made a silent vow to stop and relax more often when he resumed his drive the next day.

He made a tight circle with his arms across his chest, and the tension sent waves of pain through the muscles of his back and upward to his neck. The exercise seemed to relieve his soreness, so he repeated the action, stretching a little further each time. The thought that he was acting irresponsible nagged him. He consciously suppressed the thought, unwilling to yield to self-incrimination.

Looking westward from the roadside park past his new camper-mounted pickup, he could see the faint outline of Sandia's peaks in the night sky. The sharp smell of sagebrush carried by a gentle breeze, momentary flashes of light from glowworms, and the intermittent noises of night creatures formed an invisible chrysalis of peace and harmony. It soothed him and provoked an aura of introspection he couldn't ignore.

The emptiness he'd felt since Charlene died four months earlier had settled on him like a dreary cloud. It was impervious to every palliative he'd tried, and it imprisoned him in a vacuum of listlessness that went further than depression. He could cope with depression. It was the feeling of lost continuity created by her death that buried him in a dark tomb of despair.

He'd tried unsuccessfully to counter the devastating effects of loneliness with overwork, but the book he was trying to write remained unchanged from day to day. His creativity was gone; no matter how hard he tried, he hadn't been able to summon it up from that secret place deep inside himself.

This trip was a desperate attempt by him to overcome his grief and get going again. A change of environment, new faces, and different problems might jar him from his doldrums. He felt guilty about leaving Amy, but she understood. Besides, Mrs. Barker would take good care of her.

So he'd loaded the camper and headed for California. It was his intention to take his time and enjoy the scenery. He also hoped to do some writing at the secluded camping spots along the way, but so far his ability to create had not reappeared.

Even with a clear sky, the night was quite dark; the meager glow of a gibbous moon gave little light. A profusion of stars in the unending blackness penetrated his senses like the infinite, throbbing bombardment of bittersweet memories that hammered through his mind.

He was so wrapped in his thoughts, he failed to hear the slight noise behind him--the unmistakable crunch of foot-pressed leaves. Suddenly, the uncountable stars merged painfully inside his head, then faded.

He knew nothing and felt nothing as his body crumpled to the ground near the feet of his stealthy assailant.

Chapter 2.

Amy Sinclair gazed with dry eyes at the coffin. She had cried for days and finally had control, but grief still churned inside her. She knew it'd be best to let go, but wouldn't, lest she become hysterical. She struggled with her feelings as she dropped a rose in the grave.

She walked away in dazed silence with Rick by her side. His attentiveness gave her strength and assurance. She acknowledged the muted condolences of friends with a slight nod and an occasional thank you as she made her way to the limousine.

Rick slid in beside her and closed the door. When the car began to move, her mind raced back over the events of the last few days as if to conjure up an emotional sedative to ease the pain.

She recalled the knock on the door and the two grim-faced officers standing on her porch. She remembered the deep dread she felt knowing they probably had bad news about her missing father.

She clenched her jaws and squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to think or see, but the memory forced its way into her mind's eye.

Miss Sinclair?

Yes, I'm Amy Sinclair, she said. Tears were already flooding her dark brown eyes.

May we come in please? It's about your father.

They'd found the remains of his pickup and camper at the bottom of a deep ravine in the Sandia mountains in New Mexico. He'd been traveling on a narrow dirt road that snaked its way across the Sandias from east to west. He'd lost control and went over the edge. The vehicle toppled and rolled about 1,500 feet downhill, then it hit the bottom of the ravine and exploded into flames. On the way down the camper had ruptured and its contents were scattered all over the mountainside. They'd found his billfold and a partial manuscript, among other things. That was how they'd identified him and learned his address in Lubbock, Texas.

He was trapped inside. The crash had crushed the upper part of his body, including his head, and they were quick to point out that he didn't feel the fire that almost cremated him. Ashes and a few charred bones were all that was left. They bagged those up and brought them to Amy for burial.

She cupped her face in her hands and began to cry. Her whole body shook, and Rick drew her close to comfort her. When they got to her house, he led her upstairs to her bedroom.

Try to relax while I fix you something to drink, he said.

Thanks. I'd like some hot chocolate.

Anything to munch on? You haven't eaten since breakfast.

I know, but I'm not hungry.

Okay. I'll be right back.

Rick closed the door softly behind him and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

Amy removed her shoes and tossed them aside haphazardly. She walked to the large window overlooking the grounds at the rear of the house.

It was a warm day, but she felt cold. She looked at the swimming pool below and the orchard beyond. The orchard had been her father's pride and joy.

She scanned the neatly manicured Bermuda grass lawn with its selected trees and shrubs, and she had a momentary vision of him snipping away at the vast hedge that bordered the yard.

It was almost too much. She wanted to cry again but refused to give in to the feeling. When her mother died, she'd been able to release her grief in the strong arms of her father. Now he was gone. Her high school girlfriends had all gone away to various colleges or had gotten married, and they'd drifted apart during the last two years. At college, she spent most of her time with Rick, so she'd never had time to cultivate new girlfriend relationships. Rick was the only real friend she had left, the only person she could cling to.

She went to the dresser for a tissue. Her eyes were watery in spite of her self-control. As she looked in the mirror, she was appalled at the image she saw. Her long, blonde hair swirled loosely around her smooth-skinned face, then curled to points below her chin. Her big, brown eyes, glistening with tears, were puffed and tinged with red. She used make-up sparingly, and what she'd put on before the funeral was smeared.

She quickly cleansed her face, powdered her nose and cheeks, and applied a small dab of lipstick. Then she stood before the full-length mirror to adjust her suit--which was hanging in disarray over her five-four body.

Rick came in with a tray and two cups.

I hope you like this concoction, he said. I'm not very good in the kitchen.

He was smiling. His light-blue eyes--which always twinkled with curiosity--caught hers, and her somber mood was broken for the moment.

You're a dear, she said, then added, I really mean that. The emphasis seemed necessary to her.

They each took a cup of chocolate and sipped in silence. She sat on the edge of her bed, and he was in a chair a few feet away.

What now? he asked.

It was a broad question for which she had no answer. She was twenty years old, completely alone, with no mother to comfort her in time of trouble, and no father to cling to for strength. She had refused, at least until now, to think about the future.

I honestly don't know. Take one step at a time, I suppose.

The silence returned. She gazed at his flaxen hair and thought about the time she'd met Rick Adams two years earlier at a country club golf tournament.

Her father was playing, and she caddied for him. It was a practice she grew up with, because they were close, and both loved the outdoors. Rick had entered the tournament, and he was in the same foursome as her father.

She liked him immediately. He had fine features for a man, and he was quick to smile, even in adversity. He had a knack for saying the right things at the right times. Those qualities, together with his lanky, ambling gait, broad shoulders, and deep voice greatly appealed to her. She felt secure when she was with him.

Will your Aunt Francis and Uncle Wilson be coming by? Rick asked.

No. It's a long drive back to Ardmore, so they went home right after the funeral.

Then you'll be alone in this big house. Want me to stay?

It's sweet of you to offer, but no thanks. I have to face being alone here. The sooner I do that, the better.

I understand, he said.

He arose, and she stood up to meet him.

I have to go. Work to do at the store. Call me if you need me for anything. Day or night.

I will, she promised.

His embrace was warm and comforting. She almost decided to ask him to stay, but the determination to face her problems alone took precedence over her immediate feelings. She returned his kiss and let him go.

For several hours she roamed through the rooms of the huge, three-story house. She was driven by a need to see and feel the material things in her environment. The thread of existence she was searching for eluded her, and the music inside her no longer sang out to her soul. She was a pathetic, lonely figure that moved as a ghost in the vastness of the house.

A local contractor had custom-built the house about ten years earlier using plans furnished by her father. It was located on a one-acre plot about five miles west of the university, and it was surrounded by pecan and willow trees. It had a red brick exterior and a wide driveway on the west side that led to an in-house double garage. Downstairs, there was a living room, dining room, extra large kitchen, and den. There were four bedrooms and three bathrooms on the second floor, and her father's office was on the third floor. On the east and west sides of her father's office, there were two windowless towers which he'd had built to store books, periodicals, newspapers, documents, and his own works--both published and unpublished. On the outside, these towers jutted into the air like extra-wide, square chimneys and made the exterior look grim, almost ugly. When the wind blew around them, they created eerie sounds that sometimes grated on Amy's nerves.

She saw each room in a new light: the spacious living room with rose-colored brocaded sofa and chairs, antique Pilgrim furniture, grand piano, and picture window with pull-back drapes; the cavernous step-down den with two soft couches, a big fireplace with brass andirons, tables and lamps, television set and stereo equipment, and potted plants; the big kitchen, equipped with modern electrical appliances; all the bedrooms upstairs, each decorated uniquely by her mother when the house was built; her father's office; the towers. The knowledge that all this was now hers was almost overwhelming.

When she came to her parents' bedroom on the second floor, she stopped. The urge that had pushed her was not strong enough to make her enter that sanctuary, even now. It was their space--their hallowed ground--and Amy seldom went into the room when they were alive. To violate that code of privacy now would be sacrilegious.

Having momentarily satisfied her need to search, she returned to the kitchen. She made a sandwich to quell the hunger pangs she was beginning to feel. As she ate, troubling thoughts of the Heritage of Luke arose in her mind. She had tried desperately to ignore it since her Father's death, but it kept coming back. The fear associated with it was stronger each time, and from the fear, an internal warning arose which forced its way into her consciousness. She knew a little about it, and she'd heard enough over the years to make a connection between it and her father's death.

Whether true or false, the Heritage of Luke had already affected her life. Her mind reeled with a deluge of possibilities that made her shudder, and she felt an isolation that was almost overwhelming.

It had grown dark. A mixture of grief, loneliness, and absolute quiet fell upon her like a dark cloud. The oppressiveness of her situation almost brought her to the brink of despair.

After much introspection, she decided that her problems were magnified in her own mind due to the recent trauma and grief. After all, she was a grown woman, wealthy and independent--or would be as soon as the insurance was paid and the will was probated. She could come and go as she pleased.

Trying to be rational about it, she decided that her main problem was the Heritage of Luke, and it was probably like any other problem--it ought to have a solution.

She went to the kitchen and began to clean up, listening to the radio while she did so. She became so engrossed in her work, she paid little attention to the voice on the radio giving a warning to residents in Texas and New Mexico to be on the lookout for a prisoner who, with two others, had escaped two weeks earlier from a prison in Santa Fe.

Instead, her thoughts were focused in one direction; it was clear that her course of action should be to learn all she could about the Heritage of Luke. Then she had to decide what she could do about it.

She remembered the death of Jody, her younger brother, when she was growing up. He was only two when the accident happened. Her father had backed over him with his car while leaving the house one day. She was four at the time, and she still had a mental picture of his limber, broken body lying in the driveway like a big rag doll that had been thrown aside haphazardly. A vision of her father and mother clinging together in grief was also locked in her mind.

It's the Heritage of Luke, her father had told her mother. It was meant to be.

The incident and the scene of her parents tightly embraced and weeping sprang out sometimes from a hidden door inside her that wouldn't stay shut.

There were times when she had tried to question them about the Heritage of Luke, but they shushed her and told her that she'd be told when she was old enough to understand. That time had never come, and now it was too late to hear it from them.

She dried her hands, switched off the radio, and headed for her father's third floor office. If there was information about the Heritage of Luke, she'd find it there.

Her father had been a very successful writer, and his office was always off-limits to everyone--including his family. It was the only room on the third floor, and he kept it clean himself in order to enforce the privacy he needed for his work.

Amy opened the door and switched on the lights. The room was hot and musty, so she opened a window for ventilation. She looked quickly around the room for a likely place to start. The shelves of reference books by the entrance to the east tower didn't seem promising. She considered a row of shelves which covered the north wall. They contained stacks of typing paper, folders, filing pouches, a multitude of clippings, and various office supplies. She searched them carelessly and found nothing of immediate interest.

She turned her attention to the filing cabinets, but quickly decided they would require a comprehensive search that she wasn't willing to start now.

The only thing left besides the towers was Verne's desk. She began to open drawers and search hurriedly through each one. After rummaging for several minutes, she found a large, brown folder labeled THE HERITAGE OF LUKE.

She studied the format of the typed copy. Names of husbands and wives were entered in blocks which pointed to a line containing the names of their children. The data entered were dates of their births and deaths, how they died, and their ages at death. The data entered for spouses were only dates of births and deaths.

A quick scan of the chart made the skin on her neck tingle. It was obvious that tragedy had lurked in the Sinclair lineage for over a hundred years. Deeply interested but feeling tired, she gathered the papers and charts and returned them to the folder.

She took them to her bedroom, then showered and dressed for bed. As a final act for comfort, she made a quick trip to the kitchen, prepared a pot of hot tea, and placed it beside her bed. Then she fluffed her pillows, leaned