IN THE WORKS
Prologue
He stood in the middle of a white-walled room that had no windows or doors, and no ceiling. Clouds swirled above him, but they were unlike any clouds he had ever seen, constantly changing colors, occasionally broken by streaks of jagged lightning. His body felt light, foreign, as if a strong wind could blow him away.
He had no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there. Or where his clothes had gone. Not that he was naked. No, he wore a long, white robe made of some feather-light material. He told himself he must be dreaming.
He stilled as the air in the room grew suddenly heavy, oppressive, like an invisible weight that threatened to crush him.
"It hurts, doesn't it?" The voice was gentle, decidedly feminine.
He turned in a slow circle, searching for the source, but saw no one.
"What you're feeling are the weight of your sins," the voice said. "Broken promises. Broken commandments. Broken lives."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Soft laughter filled the room. "Funny you should mention hell."
An icy chill slithered down his spine. "Is that where I am?"
"Not yet."
The realization hit him then. He was dead. He had a sudden image of facing Jack Shaunhessy across six feet of dusty ground, a sudden. searing pain in his chest, and then nothing.
You've done one good deed in all your life. Do you remember what it was?"
"No."
"I'm not surprised. Years ago, you saved a man's life. He promised one day he would repay you. This is that day."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm saying that he stood up for you and pleaded that you might have a second chance to redeem your soul. You have one year to prove yourself. I'll be watching everything you do. See that you make better choices this time."
Before he could ask what the hell that meant, T. J. Vance found himself astride a paint pony in the middle of a verdant valley, with no idea how he'd gotten there. But a clear memory of a white room with no windows and no doors and no ceiling. And a vivid memory of every sin he had ever committed. And a soft warning voice whispering, "Make better choices this time."
One year, he thought. He had one year to change his fate.
He clucked to the mare. And for the next few miles, he dredged up his past. It was not a pretty picture. He had done a lot of rotten things in his life -- lied a little, cheated a little, whored a little, robbed a few banks, killed a few men, but only in self-defense. Out and out murder was about the only sin he hadn't committed.
One year. Hell. How did a leopard change his spots?