The Unknown

PROLOGUE

THE UNINVITED

Gong! Gong! Gong!

The Bells of the Golden Age, in the town center, tolled eleven times. Shops closed; roads were empty. A blanket of silence was everywhere. As far as one could see, the heavens were black and starless, a bright full moon the only exception.

Homes hidden from neighbors turned dark. Villagers, nestled in the arms of Morpheus, had dreams envisioning private worlds known only to themselves. All but two remained unaware of what was to happen, and those two as yet did not know.

A woman descended Rocky Mountain Pass, maneuvering the winding downhill curves with abandon. Observers would wonder why such a raven-haired beauty, with facial features of flawless perfection and eyes glimmering like amethysts, would drive so recklessly. Yet Stacey McDonald was troubled.

She was returning from dinner with a friend, a last-minute date set to ease anxieties coming from a stay in Bermuda and a frightening late-in-the-day disclosure arising out of a Tarot card reading. The island visit was to have been a relaxing vacation, one involving a singular love—tennis. Instead of pleasure, however, it became life threatening. Then to learn the reasons why, a reading of the Tarot cards proved vexatious. Three of the eleven cards appearing on the Celtic Cross were The Tower, The Devil, and the Seven of Swords each a forewarning of unexpected events from someone intending great violence.

Why me … why me, she wondered. What violence, and by whom? The secrets of the Arcana are never wrong. What will reverse these life-threatening problems? Can the early forewarnings even be overturned? I not only need answers; I need guidance. Where can I turn? What can I do?

Soon I’ll be home. I’ll kick off my shoes, pour a glass of Sancerre, and think, think, think. Oh, to find the answers.

At the outskirts of her hillside community, the driver eased off the accelerator as she passed the dark homes of her neighbors. Moments later, she turned into a driveway. From the mailbox she removed a pink envelope addressed with an unrecognized feminine flair. Placing the envelope in her purse next to a Tarot deck, she opened the car door.

Across the road, a cul-de-sac—Destiny Lane—circled away from Rocky Mountain Pass. Hidden under a willow’s overhanging limbs was a black Chevrolet. The driver, a man in his late forties with clean-cut facial features, was committed to remaining unseen. He sipped coffee no longer hot, slouching against the backseat of his pitch-dark car. He had been waiting over an hour, patient and pleased that he had arrived at the house before her. He had known she was away and wanted to surprise her with an unexpected entrance.

The man knew her well. Previous undetected visits taught him a great deal—her interests, habits, customs, and peculiarities. All was committed to memory, all including the surrounding property features, the interior layout of her home, and the neighbors’ activities as well.

Tonight’s arrival was perfect. The man wanted her patience overwrought from the fears of the past week and the tiring flight from Bermuda. These would stimulate resistance, excite aggressiveness to his uninvited advances, and achieve the sensual fulfillment desired.

Out of the open car door, her long, gracefully curved legs appeared. Standing, she leaned back into the vehicle. The full moon cast light upon her calves and the white tennis skirt hugging her hips and bottom.

Enjoying the sight, the stranger reached for his car phone and keyed in a series of numbers. With the second ring, an authoritative voice commanded, Go ahead! Speak!

The package arrived.

Are you holding it?

Not yet, but soon!

Well then, get on with what we’ve discussed.

First, I want to examine it … fondle it. The thrill has been long in coming.

Do whatever pleases you, but be damn certain that once you’ve had your thrills, nothing remains. Nothing is ever found.

Don’t give it a second thought!

But his reply remained unheard. The respondent had disconnected.

Retrieving her purse, Stacey stepped away from the car. Swinging her hip, she closed the door and ascended three sets of multiple slate steps angling to the front door.

Meanwhile, the unseen visitor retrieved from the floor both a black bag with shoulder straps and a small leather satchel. In the satchel was what he called his passion playmates—a choker clamp and four chains complete with wrist and ankle restraints, as well as bedpost and bed rail manacles. Each was placed in the backpack.

Now for the final touch, he murmured.

Out of the bottom of the satchel, he removed a mahogany box. Within it was a latex, milky albino, over-the-head mask complete with glass eyes having blue-tinted irises and deep red sclera. Down the forehead, over an eyelid, and continuing to the upper lip was a pus-like yellow-white wound having the authentic appearance of tissue debris. Across the forehead, prominently printed, was Remember Me.

Worth every dollar paid, he whispered. Tonight, my ultra ego will inflame the fear, the combative rage, and the defensive actions that lead to sexual fulfillment. After all these years eluding me, you’ll finally be mine. And I intend on receiving my just rewards before disappearing like a shadow in the night.

Leaving the car, he stretched his arms through the shoulder straps. In the anticipated excitement, he slammed the car door. Its sound carried through the distant, quiet night.

Damn, that was dumb. Studying the three-story house, all the windows remained dark and empty. I’ve got to be quiet, or I’ll be warning her and destroying the pleasure of seeing her startled, god-fearing look when I unexpectedly appear.

Turning, he loped across Rocky Mountain Pass to partially spaced oak and maple trees bordering the western side of her house.

Inside, Stacey headed to a wall intending to turn on the downstairs lights before entering her library for incoming telephone messages. She stopped.

What was that?

On each side of the front door was a vertical window. Looking through one, she scanned the front yard. No movement. Nothing. Usually confident of her instincts, she became fearful.

Am I imagining things? Was there a noise? Are the readings coming true? Instead of going to the library, she, like a blind person familiar with the surroundings, stepped unhesitatingly down the unlighted hallway, beyond entrances to adjacent rooms, to a circular center staircase. Ascending carpet-covered steps, she came to a landing with three large glass-tempered windows, each one overlooking portions of the western, northern, and eastern sides of her property. At the left and right ends of the landing were hallways leading back to the front of the house, each hallway passing doors to bedrooms on its respective side.

Out of the west window, she caught a glimpse of something. It moved and disappeared quickly. Frightened, she darted to the second window. A figure, clothed in black and carrying a shoulder pack, ran across the yard and turned the corner.

Unable to see the figure from the third window, she moved down the hall, entered her bedroom, and tossed her purse on the bed. Through an unobstructed bedroom window, she watched the person maneuver a backpack in order to climb an oak tree no more than five feet from her room. Alarmed, she looked for a weapon. She had no gun, no knife, no club, not even a tennis racket. Yet if she had, she would not have known how to defend herself.

Stacey considered running but hesitated. On an adjacent table was a crystal bowl holding several dozen multi-colored glass balls. Removing the bowl and a polyester table cloth, she carefully laid the balls on the floor, hiding them beneath the cloth. Standing, she stared out the window at the scarred demonic face of a big man climbing toward her window.

Stepping back, she stifled a scream. She watched the monster grab an oak limb and begin swinging back and forth, gaining momentum to fly the short distance through her window. Turning, Stacey ran to the door. Glass disintegrated. Over her shoulder, she saw the trespasser’s feet hit the floor-covered cloth. Momentum from the leap moved the glass balls, causing the backpack to swivel. The intruder lost his balance; his shoulder and side of his head hit the table, smashing it into a pile of wood.

For a moment, the invader remained motionless. Stacey, without waiting, headed to the door, stopped, returned to her bed, and retrieved her purse. Dashing from the room, she ran down the hall and through another door.

The aggressor rose tentatively to his feet, rubbed his head, and wiped, with his sleeve, blood seeping through the torn mask. He charged after the woman only to have his feet, once again, fly out from beneath him as they rolled over more loose balls on the bare wood flooring.

Damn you, bitch!

He rose to his feet and moved cautiously through the bedroom door. In the outer dark hall, he searched the wall for a light switch. Locating the switch plate, he flooded the upstairs and downstairs with light. He ran to the top of the stairs, looked down, but heard and saw nothing. At the other end of the hall, he noticed the open door through which his intended victim escaped. Sprinting past rooms, he exited the door and saw, from the upper landing, Stacey’s descent on uncarpeted steps two flights below. He moved swiftly, taking the steps two and three at a time.

She heard him and glanced upward. He was gaining, less than two flights away. At the basement landing, Stacey could hear his breathing, smell his sweat. She stole another glance! Now he was only one flight behind. Quickly, she retraced her steps down the cellar hall to another door, running as fast as her legs would move.

The assailant leaped from the fifth step to the landing, stumbled, regained his footing, and sprinted after her, reaching the swinging door just as it was closing.

PART I

THE BEGINNING

CHAPTER 1

TWENTY-FIVE YEARS EARLIER

TUESDAY, JULY 16, 1985

Another night—starless, hot, and humid! A black limousine moved down Commerce Avenue, veering slowly from one lane across the yellow line to another. Cautiously, the driver avoided the ruts and holes of the neglected street.

Behind the vehicle and from an unlighted doorway, a prolonged but subdued whistle was heard. Stepping out to the sidewalk, a small woman in a tattered sweater and skirt, frayed hat, and long-since clean white gloves, stood immobile, staring at the back of the passing vehicle while unconsciously shuffling Tarot cards in her hands.

Putting the always accessible deck protectively in a timeworn purse, she mumbled, If I hadn’t seen it and somebody had told me about it, I’da said he was nuts.

To the community, the west end had become a forsaken area. Commerce Avenue was more commonly referred to as Pothole Parkway with both names complete misnomers. Commerce had departed the area years before, apparent from the deteriorating, abandoned buildings on each side of the road. And a parkway it certainly was not.

As the car eased to a stop, the curious woman stepped up her pace, pressing close to the empty structures. Out of the driver’s door stepped a groomed chauffeur who walked behind the vehicle and opened a rear passenger door. From within, extended arms handed him a package, which the driver accepted before closing the door. Turning, he proceeded down an alley. The woman, now even more curious, walked rapidly toward the car. Within feet of its trunk, she hid in another doorway, listening for the sound of the driver’s returning steps.

Moments passed, and at the alley entrance, the chauffeur reappeared no longer carrying the package. Before climbing into the car, she heard him say to the passenger, I’ve done as you told me. Unable to hear the reply, the woman watched the chauffeur climb into the car and drive away. Now, even more interested, she entered a garbage-strewn alley, one inhabited by rats, stray dogs, homeless people, and other occupants ignored by the community’s governing council.

Proceeding down the passageway, the woman walked slowly looking to her right and left for something unknown. Forty yards from the entrance, she quickly stopped, tilted her head, and listened. To her left was a dumpster. Moving to it, she placed her ear against the cold metal and listened. Lifting the lid, she grasped the upper edge of the receptacle, hoisted her five-foot body, and looked down into its half-filled contents. Then she let out a cry, dropped to the ground, and ran further into the alley to the opposite wall. There, she began kicking a pile of old newspapers and raggedy wool blankets.

Stop it! Stop your damn kickin’! I’m sleepin’, groaned a voice from beneath the pile.

Get your ass up, Roscoe! You gotta see this.

Pushing away papers from his face, he said, Dora, what’s got into you? It ain’t even morning. Let me sleep.

Roscoe, ’less you get up, I’ll give you such a boot in the head you’ll be dizzy for days. Now, get up, and I mean this instant.

Moaning unhappily, he stood in toeless stocking feet, yawned, and stretched, mumbling, Dora, this better be damn important, or I’m gonna—

You’re gonna what? she fired back.

Oh, nuttin’! Forget it! Just tell me what’s crawlin’ up your backside!

Just follow me and find out!

At the trash bin, she raised the lid and pulled Roscoe to her side.

Look down in there! Over six feet tall, he could easily see into the bin.

You mean that sound? Comin’ from that box? Sounds like something’s crying? Move, so I can climb in and fetch it!

Up to his ankles in wet, loose garbage, Roscoe lifted up the box, wiped its dampness against his trouser legs, handed the package to Dora, and climbed out. As they walked back to his estate, the crying continued. Dora removed the lid and held the box against her breasts, sliding it side to side, humming a tune softly in a baby’s ear.

What’re you gonna do, Dora?

Me! Why me? What about you? You’re now part of this too!

I know, but you’re the woman!

Yeah, but I ain’t never been a mother. And just what to do, I’m not certain. Keep quiet. Let me think!

After a few moments, she said, Bingo! That’s what we’ll do!

That’s what we’ll do? And just what in the hell is ‘that’?

We’ll find Doc! He’ll know!

Doc? That old drunk! He’s been away from medicine so long he won’t even remember what a baby is.

Don’t kid yourself! He’s got moxie. Under that gray head of hair is a wealth of knowledge. You’ll see! And off she scurried, juggling the infant up and down to ease its distress.

Watching this from further up the alley was Freddie, another homeless person. He recognized the couple and had watched Roscoe retrieve the box from the dumpster. But their movement down the darkened alley had taken them too far away to be seen or heard.

Now that’s interesting, thought Freddie. Wonder what’s in that box. Had to be something worth a lot for Roscoe to climb in and fetch it. By damn, you two! If it’s valuable, then I want some of it. You’re sure as hell not going to keep it for yourselves.

Dora, Roscoe, and the baby left the alley and moved to a large abandoned warehouse. Entering, they walked through rooms fraught with damaged goods and debris. At a rear door, they left the building, crossed Prosperity Road, entered a small vacant retail store, and exited through a back delivery door. Ahead of them was an overgrown hill with buried rocks and protruding roots, causing them to trip and stumble on their way to the bottom. Finally on level ground, they arrived at Settlers’ Park.

In addition to the bushes and trees scattered across the lawn, there were blankets—brown, black, off-white, and tones of every hue.

Take the kid, Roscoe! Hold him gently but keep rocking him. I think he’s crying himself to sleep, so let’s keep it that way!

He! Him! How do you know it’s a boy, Dora?

I don’t, but we’ll know soon enough.

Passing by sleeping bodies, the woman peered into faces. Of those covered by blankets, she carefully lifted the fabrics seeking someone she knew.

Hey, Rose! Rose! Have you seen Doc?

Not lookin’ for him and don’t care to. Let me sleep!

Dora continued to search until she finally found someone who had seen Doc by the bridge. Together, the three moved in a new direction. After fifteen minutes of checking several dozen bodies, they found a source.

Yeah! Saw him a while back down by the river. Had a jug of elderberry, nice and sweet! Sharin’ it with everybody! If you hurry, maybe there’ll be some left.

Rosco finally spotted Doc leaning against a stump.

There he is, over yonder.

The medical man’s legs were extended, his ankles past the edge of the embankment, inches above the water. Slightly built and only a hand’s length taller than Dora, he rested a jug on his shoulder and with two fingers and thumb, clutched the spout near his lips. His feet were bobbing up and down, out of sync with an off-pitch Irish lullaby rasping from his mouth.

Doc! Hey, Doc! Over here! shouted Dora.

Stifling the tune, he squinted and then grinned, waving his jug.

Whasha know? Fi-fi-finealee my buddies ha’ come to party. Have some of life’s precious juice and join in the singin’.

Still swinging his arms, he fell to the side and smashed the bottle against a rock.

Oh, hell! Looka whatta I done! The prom … prom … promise of life’s pleasure’s lost and gone forever! Wha, whatta shame!

Forget the juice, Doc! Pointing at Roscoe, Dora said, Give us a hand with this baby!

Focusing through squinting eyes, Doc muttered, A baby? You Dora? Roscoe? When? Didn’t even know you were intamunt?

It’s not ours, you old coot. We found it, and we don’t know what to do. He won’t stop crying. Maybe he’s sick. Help the kid, Doc! You’re all he’s got!

Pulling himself up, the medical man once again leaned back against the rock. Looking bleary-eyed at the baby, he belched, his head falling to his chest.

He’s no help! He’s out of it! complained Roscoe. Let’s go!

We ain’t leavin’!

Dropping her purse, she stepped into the water and grabbed Doc’s ankles giving them a tug.

As the lower part of his legs submerged into the river, Doc howled out in laughter. If you wanna go swimmin’, Dora, just ask?

With a second tug, his butt fell from the embankment, splashing into the water.

Damn, tha’s cold!

Buoyed by the water, Dora’s third and final tug caused the man’s head to sink beneath the surface. Twisting her captive on his front, she pressed one hand against his back, grabbed his hair with the other, and angled his face in and out of the water.

After thrusting him up and down several times, she commanded, Sober up, you old goat! This kid needs help, and by diggedy, you’re going to give it to him.

Again, she pushed Doc down and pulled his head out of the river. Gasping, he regurgitated a mouthful of water, bent his knees into the sand, extended his arms, and straightened up.

Damn you, Dora! Stop it! You’re gonna drown me.

Resting a moment, he pulled his wet shirt up and wiped his face.

Are you mad, woman? I haven’t practiced since I lost my license, and I’m not gonna batter my heart and soul by putting some infant at risk. Find a doctor who knows what to do.

How? Where? And how’ll he be paid? You know what to do! You’ve more sense and experience than hundreds of those shingle-practicing nincompoops bleeding patients in hospital beds. At least look at the kid. If he’s seriously ill, we’ll go from there. But at least look at him.

Reluctantly, the doctor took the baby from Roscoe’s arms. Touching his forehead, he noticed no temperature. He checked the pulse, and the rate was normal.

Wish I had a stethoscope.

Placing his hand on the infant’s bottom, he said, Well, a changing will help. I don’t suppose you know when he ate last?

Not since we’ve had him, volunteered Roscoe.

With the child in his arms, he hitch-stepped to the dry ground and his resting rock. Near the stone was an old canvas bag packed with three clean T-shirts and other personal items.

A very surprised Dora said, I’ll be! Where’d you get them clean clothes?

It’s the one thing, maybe the only thing I carry over from my profession. In my other life, cleanliness was ingrained in me. Good health and good hygiene are interdependent. Some habits just don’t disappear.

Removing the dirty diaper, Doc said, Well parents, your first lesson in caring for your baby is to know he’s a she. Roscoe, wet this shirt in the river while I tear up another one.

He wiped the baby’s bottom with the wet cloth and dried it with the second one. Then he took the torn shirt and fashioned it into a diaper. As he lifted her, he stared deeply into her eyes.

Would you look at that? said Dora. She’s smiling at you, Doc!

And a cute smile you have, my little ballerina, said her caregiver. Bet it gets bigger with a full tummy. So let’s go shopping!

Kissing her on the cheek, Doc asked, Roscoe, how much money have you got?

Roscoe cast his eyes downward, lowered his head, and shook it barely.

Dora reached into her purse and removed one dollar and thirteen cents.

Come on! said Doc. Let’s go to that all-night grocery on the hill and get some formula. Similac, Mull Soy, Lactum, or whatever they’ve got. I’ll do the shopping. At least I didn’t spend everything on wine. After she’s fed, we’ll turn her over to the authorities.

Turn my baby over to the authorities! The hell we will, shouted Dora. No way is she going to some godforsaken foster home recommended by uncaring social workers or indifferent juvenile authorities. She’s my baby, and she’s staying with me. Don’t give me any lip, either of you. And so we understand each other, make damn certain you don’t spread the word about her. No one’s to know she’s with me. If you tell, you’ll become high-pitched eunuchs.

CHAPTER 2

WEDNESDAY MORNING, JULY 17

Mr. Jensen, you have a phone call.

Anna, I thought I made it clear that I was not to be disturbed.

You did, but it’s Peter Grouse, and he says it’s an emergency.

All right. Put him through!

Peter, this better be important?

It is, Mr. Jensen. Earlier, on my way to Central City Bank, two squad cars with sirens howling passed me on the interstate and took the exit onto Commerce Avenue. I got curious and followed. Coming to where we were last night, I see a cop and a group of homeless people. Slowly, I pass the alley and see two black and whites along with one of those ‘We Don’t Refuse Any Refuse’ trucks close to the dumpster.

What were they doing?

I don’t know, and not wanting to be questioned, I continued down Commerce. I was in my own car, not the limo, so it’s unlikely that my presence was even noticed. But I thought I’d pass the information on.

Thanks, Peter! You did the right thing.

Hanging up the receiver, Jensen turned to three men sitting at his conference table and said, Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, I have an important call to make. Go down the hall, get some coffee and Danish. We’ll resume shortly.

Pressing four numbers, he waited. On the third ring, he heard, Security Office! This is O’Malley.

Tom, Walter Jensen!

Hi, Chief! What can I do for you?

Have a job! Hush, hush! Only you and me! Understood?

Fire away!

There’s an alley at the west end of town off Commerce Avenue, between Oak and Maple.

Know it well!

This morning, a couple of cruisers and one of those ‘We Don’t Refuse Any Refuse’ trucks were snooping around a dumpster. Find out why and anything they learned. The quicker you have something, the happier I’ll be. And the tip will be generous.

With some luck, I should have an answer by morning. I still have some friends from my days as a cop who’ll share what’s going on.

Good! Be circumspect and be certain to keep my interest out of it.

Commerce Avenue Precinct. Sergeant Circerchi here!

Hi, Wop! How’s my old partner?

My god! It can’t be. I’m hearing things. Is it really the Mad Irishman, O’Malley?

The one and the same! How’ve you been?

Not bad for a gimpy paper pusher! Guess you heard? My being shot and pulled off the streets!

No? What happened?

End of a shift! Just got home and was stepping out of my car when a truck drove by with two or three gun happy perps opening fire. Lucky to be alive, but they sure played hell with my knees. Could have had full disability but talked the command into letting me be a desk jockey. It’s boring as hell but better than sitting at home watching the soaps.

They ever find out who shot you or why?

The case is still open, but the leads are thin. I’d been on surveillance, looking for scum. There had been talk about an organized gang dealing in white slavery of twelve- and thirteen-year-olds. Thought to be a major crime family! But we haven’t been able to connect the dots. Now a chunks been taken outta my hide, and the shooters have disappeared. At least for now!

Dom, that’s a damn shame. Wish I’d been around! I owe you a couple!

You owe me nothing! Oh, a beer or two might come in handy!

Count on it! How about tonight at the Lucky 13? Around ten or so?

Sounds good! See you then, partner.

CHAPTER 3

WEDNESDAY NIGHT—THE REUNION

As the minute hand struck twelve, the door to the Lucky 13 swung open precisely at ten o’clock. The place was crowded, and noisy cops were everywhere. O’Malley walked in waving to some, shouting hello to others, and slapping a few on their shoulders. It was as though he had finally come home. Passing slowly among the tables, he headed back to what was formerly known as Red and Dom’s Private Sanctuary.

Rising from a chair, Circerchi stepped forward, arms outstretched. The two embraced, renewing a friendship that would never be broken.

Dominic! You don’t know how good it is to see you. It’s been too damn long.

Before the Italian could respond, a waitress leaned into the Irishman’s back and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Hi, handsome! Welcome back.

O’Malley turned, hesitated momentarily, then pulled the girl against him and stared into her eyes. Making no attempt to prevent her body from pressing against his, she accentuated the embrace with a prolonged kiss.

Tom, it’s been too long.

Slowly her fingers danced down his chest to his stomach.

Under that shirt is one hunk of man. And while I can fantasize, you’d better release me and place your order. Otherwise, I might do something that’ll close this place forever.

Laughing, O’Malley said, I swear, Amy, you’re more Irish than me! What a bunch of blarney! But you have a point. Dominic and I are thirsty. Get us a pitcher of ale, a couple of glasses, and some munchies. He and I have a lot of reminiscing.

Walking away, the security officer shouted, One more thing, girl! Make certain the glasses are clean!

You gotta be kidding! Here, in this joint! If you think things have changed since you left, you’re an optimist!

His deep, hearty laugh carried across the room.

Like old times, Dom! Good to be back!

Looking at his partner’s girth, O’Malley said, "How’s Rosetta? Looks like she still making that delicious rigatoni Bolognese!"

Now it was Dominic’s turn to laugh.

Does she ever! And so much more! Red, I’m the luckiest guy in the world. How I ever convinced her to marry me, I’ll never know. But she stays by my side and puts up with my crap. We’re truly in love. Just the other day …

Circerchi’s voice trailed off as the muscular six-foot-two O’Malley fell deep in thought.

What ever happened, partner? When we were a team, you were always the one in shape, the one making the challenge—handball, foot racing, basketball, even arm wrestling. The first in the gym, the last to leave! Now look at you—fat, jowly, and even breathing hard. When was the last time you did anything physical? Months I’ll bet. I wonder how long you could last with me now. Ten minutes? Twenty minutes? Half an hour? If you saw me at the gym, you’d know what it’s like to work out. And I mean work out. Strenuously! Pressing weights, using the machines, and running—not jogging—around the track! No less than an hour a day,