Swords into Plowshares

Copyright © 2010 by John G. Morgan.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[email protected]

82363

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to Charles S. Morgan and Marie Hunter Morgan, my mother and father. They were two God-fearing people who saw to it I received a Christian upbringing.

From my father, I learned self-reliance, pride in my labors, and dedication to family. From my mother, I learned honesty, respect, and the unashamed love of Jesus Christ.

Six days a week, it was my father that rolled me out at 4:00 a.m. to get the milking done before preparing for school or the labor in the field. On the seventh day, it was my mother that rolled us both out at 4:00 a.m. to do the milking, then clean up for Sunday school and church services.

I am very grateful to both of them.

Today is the day you can make a choice between living in the pain of the past or letting all you have learned produce wisdom, compassion, depth and even joy within you.

– Neva Coyle

The Holy Bible – A Translation for Our Time

What no man ever saw or heard,

What no man ever thought could happen,

Is the very thing God prepared for those

Who love him.

– 1 Corinthians 2:9

Good News for Modern Man

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Epilogue

Appendix

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THERE ARE NUMEROUS persons to whom I will be eternally grateful for their assistance that made this book possible. There are others who deserve special mention.

Ruth Ann Morgan: My faithful and constant helpmate. Without her allowing me to spend untold hours in research and development, this book would not have ever come into print.

Linda Ray: My thanks and respect goes out to this special lady. I will always be grateful for your encouragement and assistance.

Kaywood Morris: Pastor and spiritual leader. I likely drove this outstanding man to the point of madness in answering my constant questions during research. His expert knowledge and patience will be ever treasured and appreciated.

Tammy Godbey: The unwavering encouragement and faith in me from the beginning is a constant reminder there are still special people out there who freely give of themselves, asking nothing in return. I am indeed fortunate to know such a beautiful Christian lady as this.

CHAPTER I

THE SLENDER FIGURE crouched motionlessly beneath the shadows of a spreading bush on the lawn along a street in the well-to-do suburb of Los Angeles. Clad from head to toe in black and with charcoal smudged on his face, there was no indication anything was out of order along on this quiet summer evening.

Benjamin Slattery allowed only his eyes to move as he maintained his vigil. Carefully, he surveyed the darkness around him, alert for anything out of the ordinary, anything that would be a danger to him. For three nights, he had returned to this same location, carefully noting the routines of the neighbors and the daily activities. Now he was ready; tonight, he would reap the results of his careful planning. Tonight, the contents of that house would be his. Ben Slattery was a burglar and a good one at that. He had been for much of his life.

Ben had not espoused to be a burglar. While still in his teens, he had dreamed of being accepted into the mob, of becoming a trusted member of the underworld. He had schemed and bribed himself into a position as a numbers runner for one of the leading syndicate bosses when the police had apprehended him with a bag of money and betting slips. The sad thing was the two policemen had kept the money, split it with their sergeant, then had hauled him before a crooked judge who was also on the take.

Sentenced to juvenile hall, Ben had served his time until his nineteenth birthday when a compassionate parole board had released him once more onto the street. Shunned by his former employees and with no skills, he, in partnership with another youth, had held up a mom-and-pop grocery store to secure money for his growing drug habit. Quickly apprehended, his cohort had ratted him out for a lighter sentence. Convicted of armed robbery, Ben had been tried as an adult and sentenced to six years in prison.

Serving his sentence, Ben had become a model prisoner, even becoming so trusted he had secured a position in the prison library. He became so exemplary that, after four years, the parole board once more released him back into society.

While he was incarcerated, Ben’s cellmate had been a burglar serving a lengthy sentence for his third offense. The con had taught him everything he knew about his profession, even down to safecracking and how to avoid house alarms. By the time Ben was paroled, he was well versed in what he determined would be his new line of work.

Within two weeks of his release, Ben had burgled his first home. He quickly became adept and soon was known by all the better fences of stolen goods. He became known as someone who produced a steady supply of excellent wares and easily moved goods.

His ability to deal in easily marketed materials provided Ben with a steady source of money. His reputation spread, and he was seen in the finer nightclubs and always in the company of a beautiful woman. He spent lavishly on his friends and soon became immersed in a steady stream of alcohol and drugs. Frequent trips to Las Vegas and wagers on the horses became his favorite pastime. It was not long before he was losing more than he could possibly earn from his stealing. He fell further and further into debt to the mobsters, being consumed by the lifestyle he was now living.

Despite his weaknesses, Ben was an intelligent and methodical man. He carefully scrutinized the daily newspaper to learn when each of his victims would be away for any amount of time. That was how he knew the owner of this house and his wife were away on a three-week voyage to Bermuda. His thoroughness had shown him in the last two nights the pace of the neighborhood, who came home at what time, where they parked, when they retired for the evening.

A movement on the street drew his attention. In the dimness, he peered closely at a police patrol car as it drew nearer. The light from the streetlamps revealed the two officers inside slumped in weary boredom of their long shift and constant vigilance. He tensed, watching as they slowly made their way past and receded into the distance. He smiled knowingly, realizing it would be at least two hours before their route would bring them past once again. Plenty of time for him to do his plundering and be long gone.

Moving cautiously, Ben made his way to the rear of the house. Here, there was only the light reflected from the stars above. Carefully, he examined the outside wall until he discovered two wires running along a rear window. Drawing two sections of wire from his pocket, he snapped the alligator clips attached to each end along the wires. With a small set of clippers, he snipped each, creating a break in the alarm circuit. Removing a thin slender section of metal, he slid it between the windows and swiftly disengaged the lock. Sliding up the bottom section of the double window, he paused listening but heard no sound. He slipped inside with only the whisper of his clothing crossing the frame.

Inside, he once more paused, listening intently for any indication his invasion had been detected. There was no barking or growling of a dog, no screech of an alarm, no indication he had been discovered. Being good at his business, Ben knew where the best loot was secreted, so it was to the second-floor master bedroom he first went. On the dressing table, he saw a ladies’ jewelry box and, opening it, shook his head and snorted. All he found inside was cosmetic jewelry, hardly worth his efforts. Still, there were several pieces that he would be able to readily dispose of. Stripping the covers from the bed, he removed the cases from the pillows and poured the