ARCANUM OF EVIL
ALSO BY MICHAEL GOLDCRAFT
THE DARKE LYFE TRILOGY
Tome I – Ascent of Evil
Tome II – Inherited Evil
and
Thirteen Tales of Eclectic Evil
(short story collection)
ARCANUM OF EVIL
Michael Goldcraft
Tome III of the Darke Lyfe Trilogy
Darke Lyfe Books
An imprint of
BROTHERSONS PRESS
FLORIDA
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Brim Business Inc.
All rights reserved.
Brothersons Press, a division of Brim Business Inc.
Brim Business Inc.
P.O. Box 15085
Panama City, Florida 32406
Smashwords Edition
Visit our Web site at: www.brimbooks.com
Printed in the United States of America
Cover photo: 8795243, Monk and Homework Order ID: 9187186
Authorized by iStockphoto LP under Standard License Agreement
Back cover photo: Moon_Farside_LRO, courtesy NASA, U.S.A.
NASA/GSFC/Arizona State University/Lunar Reconnaissance Orbiter
Author photo by Lyman Barger, Copyright © 2010 Brim Business Inc.
First EBook Edition: December, 2011
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
The Library of Congress has cataloged this book as follows:
Goldcraft, Michael
Arcanum of Evil/Michael Goldcraft
ISBN # 10: 098352193X
1. Vampires – Vampyres – Fiction. 2. Government investigations – Fiction. 3. Panama City (FL) – Fiction. 4. Science and forensic research – Fiction. 5. Serial murders – Fiction. 6. Cloning and Cryogenics – Fiction. 7. Hell – Fiction. 8. Washington, D.C. – Fiction. 9. Tasmania, Australia – Fiction. 10. The Moon – Fiction.
This book is dedicated to the biologists
who enriched my life:
J.L. McHugh, Harold Hirth, Larry Ogren,
Herb Kirch, Jim Barkuloo, Lloyd Stith,
John Foster, Lyman Barger, Jon Hemming,
and many others, too countless to name.
Acknowledgments
Finally, The Darke Lyfe Trilogy has been written. It has been a long haul and has taken many years. With this final tome, Harrison Van Gilter’s story is complete…possibly.
I want to take this opportunity to thank the many family members, friends, and associates who helped make the trilogy and this particular novel not only a reality, but a better and richer story. First, I thank those kind people who volunteered over the years to participate in the Michael Goldcraft Reading Group. My sincere appreciation for their work goes out to group members: Anna Daggett, Phillip Ellis, Lisa Fowler, Teresa Hammond, Jon Hemming, Wayne Isphording, Bob Jarvis, Wally Jenkins, Virginia Kash, Herbert Kirch, Neil Lamb, Carol Libby, Lynn McKee, Barbara Stanley, and Lloyd Stith.
Thanks to my friends within the Florida Writers Association, Horror Writers Association, Gulf Coast Writers Group, Panhandle Writers Guild, and all the dedicated workers and volunteers who put together, each year, our two Books ALIVE events to bring the written word to our local public.
Also, thanks to my brothers and sister for their support, guidance, and wisdom, and to my three sons and my beautiful step-daughter for continuing to inspire me. Thanks to my wife, Devona. She has always believed. And finally, to my late parents who have found a better place. Thanks Mom and Dad.
A NOTE TO READERS
The Darke Lyfe Trilogy is a complicated story with many characters and myriad scientific revelations. To make your reading experience more enjoyable, I have included two appendices to this final tome.
In the back of the book, beginning on page 503, you will find the Atticus Letter from Tome II of the trilogy. It defines the difference between vampire and vampyre.
Following the letter, there is a complete Dramatis Personae. It is a list of all characters organized by the social group each falls in.
I hope these additional sources of information make your reading experience more enjoyable and the storyline easier to follow.
MG
AN INVITATION
TO HEAR FROM YOU
Dear Reader:
After you have read Arcanum of Evil, I invite you to send your thoughts, comments, critique, or review. As a writer, your views and input are very import to me. So send and email, if you’d like, to:
michaelgoldcraft@comcast.net
I look forward to hearing from you.
Michael Goldcraft
Arcanum of Evil
Additional Information for Readers
THE FIRST TOME of The Darke Lyfe Trilogy, Ascent of Evil, chronicled the discovery by Dr. Steven Atticus of more than a preserved Viking corpse in a cold Canadian lake. During a routine archeological field trip, Steven inadvertently found the progenitor of the vampyre race! And later, when he learned that a purported contemporary vampyre was wreaking havoc in the small coastal community of Panama City, Florida, he and his colleagues decided to travel there to verify, if possible, the biological realty of an undocumented sub-species: ruthless predators believed to be mythological. Harrison Van Gilter, rogue vampyre of the Van Gilter family, turned out to be all too real. This psychopathic and ruthless serial killer terrorized Panama City. In response, Mayor Larry Hayes created a task force of law enforcement personnel and scientists. Ascent of Evil is the story of what happened during those troubled times in 1997 and early 1998.
Inherited Evil is the second tome of the trilogy. It, too, takes place well over a decade ago, in 1998. During that eventful year, many things happened. Edward, Harrison’s brother, was laid to rest in a lake in Suriname, South America. It was a royal vampyre funeral. Robert, the youngest of the Van Gilter brothers, was already dead. Both were murdered by Harrison’s hand.
A psychopathic, deep-seated feeling of rejection drives Harrison’s desire to kill every member of the Van Gilter family, along with anyone who interferes with his plans.
In Inherited Evil, elderly Dutch zoologist, Benkt Van Leeuwen, and his friend, chauffer Joseph Davis, were key catalysts in Harrison’s capture and incarceration. They, too, made his death list.
After Harrison was found guilty on all counts in a federal trial, an advantageous hurricane and pure luck resulted in his escape. He fled Panama City after kidnapping Susan Stratford, vampiress mate of Bradley Van Gilter. However, Harrison left behind another young woman, Carol Peters, who carried his child.
The rogue vampyre was pursued by two separate parties. One was a ragtag trio consisting of Bradley, Benkt and Joseph. The second was a pair of FBI agents on an unofficial mission. Mark Pierce and Ken Farrell could not let Harrison go unpunished. Both teams found their way to South American and the tiny country of Suriname.
Inherited Evil closed with the deaths of Harrison Van Gilter and his mother, Elisabeth. In a rare and ultimate conversation between them, Elisabeth revealed the name of Harrison’s true father. His name is Ladisvlad Dracul and he is a living descendant of Vlad the Impaler, the authentic Prince Dracula. Shortly after that heated discussion, in a final confrontation, Harrison murdered - decapitated – his own mother. And in Suriname, in its dense jungles and on its primeval waters, our story ended with Harrison’s death. After being hideously maimed by piranhas in Dragon Lake, he managed to reach the river flowing from it. There, in a final conflict, he was killed by a huge caiman.
Shortly thereafter Carol Peters found her way to Romania and the stronghold of Ladisvlad Dracul. In 1999, in that ancient fortification nestled within the Carpathian Mountains, she gave birth to Harrison’s son and Ladisvlad’s grandson: Marku Grigore Dracul.
Suriname Center, the headquarters for the World Order of the Royal Dragon, or WORD, was rapidly abandoned. Under the guidance of Wilson Creed, consigliore to Bradley Van Gilter, the headquarters were relocated. At that new location, Susan Stratford Van Gilter bore Bradley a son: Steven Benkt Van Leeuwen.
Dr. Steven Atticus, his wife, Barbara, and Benkt Van Leeuwen spent their time studying a copy of an old record, written by Edward Artimus Van Gilter, Jr. in 1585. That record, Darke Lyfe Eternal, holds the secrets of vampyre life. It has been a fascinating and tedious endeavor.
Finally, after his mortal death, Harrison was relegated to an out post of Hell: Abaddon. There he has served Crulife, the dark angel, and studied an ancient volume of evil, an unholy writ of Satan.
Fourteen years have passed since Harrison died in Dragon Lake. Finally, his negotiations with Crulife for reincarnation and eternal service are complete. Harrison is coming back to Earth. His goal is revenge. And now he can exercise the secret Satanic tools described in an unholy esoteric tome. It is an ancient source of knowledge filled with sinister secrets and pernicious powers. Now, Harrison has at his disposal the
Arcanum of Evil!
Part One
SOUL SWAPPING
Within the Mirror of Copernicus crater, the far side of the Moon
THE COMPUTERS IN LOS ANGELES were monitoring the operations at Lunar Activities Base. It was 1340 hours Pacific Standard Time, Sunday, January 1, 2012. The Space Scope 3 Lunar Engineer crept across the gray granular dust of the moon’s surface toward its destination: the center point of the crater known as the Mirror of Copernicus.
The far side of the moon always faces away from Earth. The Mirror of Copernicus meteor-impact crater was given its name because its position on the far side is almost opposite the Copernicus Crater on the near side. The moon orbits Earth every 27.32 days. Half of that time – during the Earth’s full moon – the far side is dark and the Mirror crater faces the outer solar system, and the infinite universe beyond. Maximum visual clarity occurs during that time because there is no glare from the sun.
The Lunar Engineer, a huge machine, was a monument to the innovation of Digital Marketing Productions. DMP was a private and federal government partnership based in California, with equal investment by a U.S. private business matrix and a source of classified, top-secret government funding. Cloaked as a television commercial and documentary film venture in Hollywood, the DMP mission was both space exploration and solar-energy generation. The project was so covert and hidden that a mere two-hundred and two scientists, engineers and corporate/federal administrators were knowledgeable of its existence. Of those, one hundred sixty-six were sequestered on the moon. That left eighteen federal and another eighteen corporate connections on Earth. More surreptitious than the Manhattan Project, DMP was camouflaged to all others within the “second circle” as a Defense Department satellite surveillance project over ten years old. But those within the “inner circle” believed DMP to be the energy initiative that would free America from its dependence upon carbon-based fuels. In one congressman’s opinion, within the next decade the U.S. should claim the moon as the fifty-first state.
And so, on that first day of the year, the Lunar Engineer carried with it a structural titanium/steel alloy frame across which a 20 x 60 meter solar panel lay fastened. It was the tenth and final unit to be put in place. A scientific spin-off from the National Nanotechnology Initiative, the super-strong, super-light frame weighed only a sixth of its Earth weight but was ten times stronger than normal high quality steel. Once the tenth frame and solar panel was installed, the grid system would generate enough power to heat, cool, and operate the Eye of Copernicus, located at dead center of the crater, as well as all other lunar facilities.
The Eye was under construction, and in another ninety days it would be fully functional – a multi-source monitoring behemoth that would probe farther into the universe, with greater resolution, than any telescopic device every imagined. The Eye would possess an arsenal of data-gathering instruments including visual, infrared, ultraviolet, x-ray, and radio wave components, along with detectors for ionizing radiation, subatomic particles, and laser geo-location.
In conjunction with the Webb Space Telescope to be launched in 2014, the Eye would provide critical information about the universe. While its maintenance would be less problematic than the S.T., all data from it would be attributed to the Space Telescope. For at least two decades, no one would know what was taking place on the far side of the moon. Such deception was not easy; it required a supreme effort in the distraction of other governments, particularly the Russians, Chinese, and Indians. The distraction was disguised in a complex, multi-component plan for global economic management: a topic of concern to everyone.
Most of the $57.6 billion project budget had been used to produce three nuclear-thermal propulsion stealth-series transport rockets that had made at least six trips each carrying crews and mining, construction, and technology cargos. Star-Beta, the second in the fleet, had made a seventh voyage, carrying the tenth solar panel, along with other supplies. Each transport vehicle had been secretly phased in as the traditional NASA shuttle program was phased out. The Stealth Spiral Ships (SSS) had used a new spiral launch technique at a site in Nevada, each ship never leaving the vertical space of the state of Nevada until it reached a minimum altitude of one thousand miles. Although the public thought environmental issues were at the forefront of the lack of use of the proposed Yucca Mountain nuclear waste storage facility, the huge underground cavern actually served as the “quick exit” SSS launch facility. Cloaking of the site was assisted when, on April 14, 2011, congress cut off all waste-storage funding for Yucca Mountain. Congressional members never knew how helpful they were. In addition, nothing of interest showed up on foreign satellite imagery because everything was underground. And during the ten minutes of launch from out of the “rabbit hole,” sophisticated systems feed false imagery to foreign and even U.S. satellites. This diversion, and the stealth nature of the ships themselves, had kept the lunar project off any satellite or radar system. Ten minutes, once every sixty days. If you blinked, an SSS was launched and gone.
The first two shiploads of construction equipment were landed on the moon in a cumbersome and complicated manner. But in 2010, the Lunar Landing Pad was completed. The regolith of the moon’s surface had been smoothed, compressed, and heat glazed. Unlike Earth sites, with often a water table to contend with, the Moon surface proved quite adequate for pad construction. The pad was ten thousand square meters in size. And with just one-sixth the gravity of earth, the SSS fleet touched down and took off from the pad with relative ease.
The Mirror of Copernicus crater was 70 kilometers across, or about 43 miles, and its ancient impression on the moonscape was an almost perfect circle. The Lunar Activities Base, or LAB, served to house the 166 scientists, tech support and construction crew and provided laboratory space. It had done so for the last 130 days of accelerated operations.
The location of everything concerned with lunar activities was measured as a distance, and a direction, from the crater’s center: site of The Eye. LAB was thirty-five kilometers due west (35-West) of center point, at the base of the crater’s rim. The rim position offered enhanced periods of shade compared to open locations. This location minimized the time of maximum temperatures, which, on the moon, are 127 degrees Celsius, because it reduced the length of time of solar radiation upon the LAB. Night temperatures, which sometimes plunge to -169 degrees, are actually less problematic. Just stay inside the well-insulated structure and generate heat – no problem.
At 36-North, the hydrogen/helium-3 mining venture was just commencing. A small but intense operation, it involved six penetrating-x-ray regolith survey areas and twenty-one drilling sites. If mission geologists were correct in their lunar crust evaluations, the project would produce both fuel and water.
The Lunar Engineer vehicle, nicknamed Lee, moved on carrying the frame and solar panel. At 1500 hours, the Indian pilot of the vehicle was approaching site 10-West, the location for placement of the final solar panel. Ananga Kashi, a bachelor and U.S. citizen, was both a physicist and an engineer. He possessed doctoral degrees from the University of Madras and the American center of learning, M.I.T. At 1530 hours, he radioed to LAB that he was launching the computer-assisted deployment of the titanium frame and solar panel into its position, from which it would be connected to the other panels and the main grid using robotic assembly units. About four hours of direct sunlight remained, but solar illumination was of no significance to either the robots or their operators back at LAB. Engineer Kashi worked for another two hours before radioing in his penultimate transmission.
At 1703 hours, Kashi’s voice came across to LAB’s communications officer, June Dunn.
Kashi: “Transport Lee to central com. Transport Lee to central com. Come in please.”
Dunn: “Go ahead, Ananga. Read you loud and clear. Are you almost finished?”
Kashi: “One plate hinge and one flow-coupling to go. ETA at LAB, 1820 hours. It is somewhat warm however. Somewhat unusual...”
Dunn: “Keep up your fluid level, Ananga. How’s your cooling system within the Lee cockpit?”
Kashi: “Cockpit temperature reads 24 degrees.”
Dunn: “How about your suit temperature?”
Kashi: “Same reading. Everything checks out. I’m just more thirsty than usual.”
Dunn: “Do you have plenty of electrolyte fluids on board.”
Kashi: “Yes, more than enough for two trips.”
Dunn: “Roger that. Keep me informed. It’s probably just been another long day.”
Kashi: “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”
Twenty minutes later Kashi radioed in again.
Kashi: “Transport Lee to central com. Transport Lee to central com. Please come in.”
Dunn: “Yes, Ananga. We’re here. What’s up?”
Kashi: “Very thirsty. Very thirsty. Hot here. My chest and stomach. Very hot.”
Dunn: “Understood. Follow stress protocol. Abort work for now. I’m going to contact Dr. Austin at Med Lab. We’ll get you checked out as soon as you get back.”
Kashi: “Programming for…”
Silence.
Dunn: “Dr. Kashi?”
Silence.
Dunn: “Ananga?”
Kashi: “Fire! I’m on fire!”
Dunn: “Dr. Kashi? Did you say your vehicle is on fire?”
Silence. Static.
Dunn: “Emergency Response. Emergency Response! Code 100. Code 100!”
ER: “This is Donald Austin in Med Lab. What’s up central com? What’s the problem, Officer Dunn?”
Dunn: “Dr. Kashi in the Lee has just reported a fire and has gone out of communication. You’d better send an E.R. unit immediately. Code 100. Do you read? Code 100.”
ER: “We read you, June. We’ll be on our way in three minutes.”
Fisher: “Don? This is Jim Fisher with Allen Parks in Mobile 7. We’re about two kilometers west of the Eye, on our way there with electronics. We’ll turn around and be at Ananga’s location in eight to ten minutes.”
ER: “Good. Good. Render first aid and get the fire out if you can. But don’t take any chances. We’ll get fire-fighting equipment there. It will take us at least thirty minutes, but the Lee’s automated extinguishers should already have put out any fire.” Donald paused, and then came back on the air. “Officer Dunn, you’d better contact Commander Johnson. He’s with Dr. Shou at the mine.”
Dunn: “All ready taken care of. The commander is waiting for a full report, ASAP. He wants no other injuries or risks during rescue, understood?”
ER: “Yes, we copy. We’re on our way now.”
1830 HOURS, Point 10-W, Mirror of Copernicus crater. In lunar work suits, Jim Fisher and Allen Parks waited outside the mobile transport Lee. Inside, Drs. Donald Austin and Nora Rhodes were hunched over the pilot’s seat examining what was left of engineer Ananga Kashi. His lunar work suit appeared intact, except for a 10-centimeter tear near the center at chest height.
“What the hell happened?” Austin asked.
It was a rhetorical question, but Nora Rhodes answered anyway. “I don’t know,” she replied, unable to believe her eyes. “The cockpit of the Lee looks perfectly normal. There’s no sign of a fire anywhere.”
“Let’s get everything back to Med Lab.,” Austin said. “I’ll carry him.”
“Him?” Rhodes asked. “There’s no…” Then she stopped cold when she saw the horror etched on Austin’s face. It was a surreal image created by anguish and the fading sunlight that pierced both the Lee’s windows and the doctor’s faceplate. Finally, she managed to say, “Can I help?”
“No, Nora. Don’t touch the suit. He’s… he’s not heavy.”
Austin gathered up the suit with its remains as Rhodes opened the interior hatch. Once they were between the three-foot double-walled housing, she closed the interior entrance and then opened the exterior hatch.
“God almighty, what happened in there?” Jim Fisher’s voice sounded tinny inside Austin’s helmet. Fisher watched as Austin moved slowly down the entrance ladder with Kashi’s body draped oddly over his shoulder.
Finally, perspiring heavily, Austin turned and faced Fisher. The intense glare of the setting sun flashed off his colleague’s silver faceplate, as he offered a reply: “God only knows,” Austin replied. “Leave the Lee alone. Nobody goes back inside. Not just yet. You guys follow Nora and me back with Mobile 7. Go straight to Med Lab.”
“Yes, sir,” said Fisher. Allen Parks raised a bulky arm and gloved hand in agreement.
The sun had just sunk below the rocky gray rim of Mirror crater and the temperature was plummeting when they arrived back at the medical laboratory within LAB.
TEN HOURS LATER, twenty-three of DMP’s Lunar Team 24 sat at, or crowded around, the large conference table in the only meeting room at Lunar Activities Base. The air was electric with anxiety.
“Thank you for coming,” said Mission Commander Gregory Johnson. “I’m pretty certain I couldn’t have stopped you from attending anyway. We have both a tragedy and a scientific mystery at hand. I’ve just spent the last eight hours in nearly constant communication with mission headquarters in Los Angeles. They want answers – straight and simple, fix‘em answers. And like any secret, government venture, they want them now.”
“And what about D.C. Digital? Has D.C. been informed?” Don Austin asked.
“No, not yet,” Johnson said. “But we need to develop a report and we might just as well start with what we know and get the facts straight. And the facts are: there was no fire; Dr. Kashi’s suit was in perfect working order except for a small tear; and the transport vehicle, Lee, appears also in perfect condition with all systems operating within normal parameters. So, Don, what are the autopsy results? And what did the chemistry lab learn about the suit and the tear?”
Donald Austin stood up and looked around the room. Never before had any audience given him so much attention. “The tragedy and the mystery… the impossibility... is that Dr. Kashi was not in his suit. He wasn’t anywhere. And there was no sign of a fire. There wasn’t any body to autopsy. And,” continued Austin, “his suit was intact. There was no indication that he doffed the suit, no sign that he left the Lee.”
Suddenly the meeting room broke into a cacophony of chatter, whispers, and loud imprecations.
“Alright, alright, quiet down,” Johnson hollered. Suddenly there was silence.
“What the hell are you saying, Don? How the hell does one of my crew just evaporate?”
Austin turned to the team’s chemist. “Nad,” he said, “you’ve got more information than I can provide. You want to tell the team what you found?”
Now Dr. Nadisu Priyamkara stood up, and in a thick Indian accent he said, “I took swabs from inside and outside the suit, everywhere it was possible. And I took gas samples from the fingers of the gloves and the lower extremities. These were analyzed with every instrument at my disposal that would provide rapid results. The results are qualitative not quantitative.”
“And what did you find, Dr. Priyamkara?” Commander Johnson asked.
“Nothing but elements,” replied Priyamkara.
“What do you mean?” asked Johnson.
“I mean that I found traces of hydrogen gas and oxygen; I found elemental carbon, nitrogen, phosphorus, calcium, potassium, and many other trace elements.”
“That’s all?” said Austin. It wasn’t a question; it was a reaction.
“That’s all,” Priyamkara replied. “I found nothing molecular at all.” He paused, and then said. “But there is the ratio, and it is disturbing.”
“The ratio?” Johnson asked. “What ratio?”
“The ratio of the chemicals. They are in the exact proportions found within the human body.”
“And what does that indicate?”
“I believe that what I found is all that remains of our friend, Ananga Kashi,” answered Priyamkara. “I can only conclude, sadly, that he was almost completely vaporized. It’s as if he were entirely consumed by a raging fire within. But by a fire that destroyed only his mortal body and nothing else, nothing he was wearing and nothing within the Lee.”
“Good God,” was the only response Commander Johnson could muster.
Shortly thereafter, the first meeting of the Kashi Incident ended. But the mystery remained. It hung in the near vacuum surrounding Lunar Activities Base like an invisible portent, both ethereal and preternatural.
LAWRENCE HAYES JUNIOR moved to Washington, D.C. in early January of 2009, two months after winning the election for Florida’s District 2 congressional seat. With a bit of financial aid from his father, former Panama City mayor Larry Hayes, the congressman and his wife purchased a stately home in Georgetown. The residence, 741 Avalon Lane, faced west and sat on the corner of R Street. From the north side of the home one could look across R Street to heavily wooded Montrose Park. The two-story Georgian manor was everything Larry and Susan had ever wanted. The front red-brick facade included eight rose-colored pilasters framing seven generously-paned windows, the center one being a twelve-foot Palladian which allowed plenty of sunlight to brighten the entrance foyer. The keystone arch above the center window gave the home a somewhat imperial look. The house was set on a quarter-acre of land consisting, in the summer, of immaculately manicured Kentucky bluegrass, border gardens of annuals and perennials, and well trimmed shrubs – all enclosed within a perimeter six-foot brick wall topped with decorative and somewhat intimidating ornate iron curves and spikes.
Now, three years later, it was another crisp, clear January morning, the first day of the new year. The gardens and lawn lay beneath four inches of fresh snow. And on this Sunday morning, within the warmth of a second floor parlor, Hayes was at work at his laptop computer. The parlor was a place where, at a glance, he could gaze out at the park grounds across the street. From time to time, young couples strolled past on their way to Lovers Lane Walkway, a three mile path of paved and natural surface that meandered between Dumbarton and Montrose parks and eventually led to Rock Creek, a small babbling brook flowing within a heavy forest of hardwoods. The view was a pastoral scene of winter beauty.
But Larry Hayes had his mind focused on other urgent matters: two Monday morning committee meetings just over twenty-four hours away. He was currently involved with the House Committee on Homeland Security, serving as a member of the Subcommittee on Intelligence, Information Sharing, and Terrorism Risk Assessment. Hayes was also a member of the Committee on Standards of Official Conduct, a task often fraught with dealing with unsavory actions of his fellow House members. It wasn’t an assignment he particularly enjoyed; he had been selected, he surmised, largely because of his father’s impeccable record of ethics and decorum while serving as the head of a municipal government.
Lawrence was always amazed and baffled by the connections his father had cultivated throughout the federal system. The only political office he’d ever held was mayor of Panama City, yet his network within the Washington matrix seemed endless. And those connections had largely been responsible for Lawrence’s quick appointment to two powerful congressional committees.
Now Hayes busied himself with the perusal of classified materials related to a suspect group of radicals whose home base appeared to be Hungary. The group, known only as Genesis, was not a terrorist organization, at least not yet. Intelligence reports indicated that their primary objective was the acquisition of genetic data from the United States and other countries. Several computer hacking attempts had been thwarted. They had been aimed at the Human Genome data bank housed in the Department of Energy’s Office of Biological and Environmental Research at Germantown. But the would-be thieves were still at large somewhere near the border of Hungary and Romania. And they had made other attempts at the Stanford Human Genome Center. Most of the hacking efforts appeared geared at obtaining human cloning information. The primary target of Genesis, it was believed, was a top-secret federal project code named Abel. Hayes scrolled down the intelligence report on his monitor, scrutinizing every line as he sipped his morning coffee. The information in the report was the basis for a healthy CIA appropriation request now before the congress: a $160 million dollar budget proposal for investigation and eradication of project Genesis and those behind it.
Across the hall, Susan Shaowong Hayes, Lawrence’s Chinese-American wife, brushed her long, ebony hair. Even now, at thirty-seven, Susan had lost none of her beauty. She remained trim and fit, and her caramel skin was still elegantly smooth and flawless. After thirteen years of marriage, Susan had become, in Lawrence’s eyes, even more attractive than when they met. The only change her husband observed was within her deep brown eyes. Over the years, they had gradually become more penetrating, sensitive, and keenly aware. The experiences in Panama City more than a decade before had left an indelible mark on her psyche that could be detected within her beautiful eyes. Her suffering as a kidnap victim, not once but twice, had given her a defensive edge she could not shed. At least annually, usually in the summer time, Susan would have horrible dreams of a dank, dark hole and a malevolent predator that could terrorize her in a thousand hideous ways. The animal, Harrison Van Gilter, was not a being one could ever forget.
Even so, the last six months had been extremely pleasant, particularly the Washington social events surrounding the holidays. There were no people more convivial, gregarious and cordial that the upper echelon of the federal government. And they came from all walks of life, not just from old family money. Many had simply won over the populous of their districts or states. They were middle-income congress men and women who, for now, dipped into the deepest pocket of all: Uncle Sam’s tax payer’s revenue. And some dipped deeply indeed. Because of Larry’s involvement on the Official Conduct committee, Susan had learned of the miserable downfall of more than one member of the House of Representatives. These investigations were powerful stimuli for rigid, careful behavior. First by nature, and second by fear, Larry and Susan Hayes were ethically impeccable. The congressman played it by the rules and by the book – that book being primarily the United States Code. Most of Washington knew that the Hayes’s were as straight arrow as they come.
Susan finished brushing her hair and was about to go downstairs for a Sunday morning croissant and a cup of chamomile tea when the phone rang. “Get that, honey, will you?” Larry called from the parlor.
“Alright,” Susan replied, “but if it’s Justice Hathaway, you’ve got to pick up. He always seems to have more time than I have to chat on the phone.”
“He likes you. That’s all,” Larry echoed back.
Sure, Susan thought to herself as she picked up the receiver. “Hello, Hayes residence,” she said pleasantly. There was a moment of silence followed a few seconds of electric crackle, and then…
“Hello, Susan…”
A bit baffled Susan replied, “This is Mrs. Hayes. Did you wish to speak to the congressman?”
More electric ticks and snaps. Then the voice, a strange almost mechanical monotone, said “Hello Susan. It’s you I want. It’s been a long time, but it won’t be much longer. I’m coming for you. I’m coming to take you back to a place we can enjoy.”
An icy wave passed through Susan’s body. The voice was unlike anything she’d ever heard. It was cold and dead. “Who is this?” she asked, her voice quavering.
Silence and electric static.
“I said: who is this?” she asked again, louder and with obvious panic.
Larry Hayes stuck his head though the doorway. “Susan, is there a problem?”
She turned to him and he watched the color drain from her skin and a mask of horror take over her countenance. He quickly took the phone away. “Hello. Who is this?” he demanded in an angry voice. The only sound that followed was the audible click of a severed phone connection.
Hayes put down the receiver. Susan, shaking, came to him and put her arms around him. She wasn’t crying, but she held him tightly. His placed his arms around her and said, “What was that? Who called?”
She whispered her reply. “It was a man… a voice… He said he was coming for me. He said he was going to take me back.” Then she began to sob.
TWO SECRET SERVICE AGENTS arrived at the Hayes home within thirty minutes. The congressman greeted them warmly and anxiously at his front door.
“Come in gentlemen. Thank you for being so prompt.”
The first man into the Hayes parlor was tall, about fifty, well muscled, with distinguished gray hair. He wore a dark blue suit, white shirt and a cobalt silk tie. His partner was younger. He was slender, late twenties, and dressed nearly the same. His tie was black.
“Frank Dillon,” said the older agent.
“Matt Rather,” added the second agent with a smile and nod of his head. Rather couldn’t help gazing around at the interior. One hell of a home, he thought.
“Let’s go into my office. Mrs. Hayes is waiting there. She’s pretty shook up.”
The agents followed the congressman to the rear of the home. Midday sun angled in through southern windows. Dappled shadows, caused by the sheer window drapes, covered the floor. The room was more of a library than an office, with comfortable accommodations suitable for a half dozen visitors. The agents sunk down into the plush cushions of a large Timberlake leather sofa, a warm cherry color with matching antique wood trim. Mrs. Hayes sat across from them on a matching love seat, her legs drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. Her body language and the vacant look on her face told everything. The woman was terrified. Hayes sat next to her in a recliner but his posture was straight and stiff. He had his elbows on his knees, the fingers of his hands laced together. His body language spoke of urgency and intensity. Finally, he leaned forward, almost with the eagerness of a quarterback.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” said agent Dillon. “Would one of you like to tell us what happened this morning?”
Susan glanced at her husband and nodded for him to begin. “Okay,” he said, “maybe I can summarize. Then you can ask Susan any specific questions.” Hayes described the details of the earlier phone call as best he could.
“Did you happen to get the incoming number from your caller ID?” Dillon asked.
“Yes,” said Hayes. “I’ve written it down.”
“Good.” Then turning to Susan, Dillon asked, “Have you ever heard the caller’s voice before, Mrs. Hayes?”
“No,” she replied. “It was nothing like any voice I’ve ever heard.”
“What do you mean by that?” Dillon asked.
Susan cleared her throat. She appeared to gain a little composure; she seemed to be searching for some inner strength. “It sounded mechanical or electrical, not real.”
“You mean like a digital rendering of a voice, such as some recorded business menus have?”
“Yes,” Susan replied, “only hard or tinny, almost robotic.”
“And the voice said that you would be kidnapped?”
“It was a man’s voice,” she replied. “At least it seemed so. And he said he would take me away.”
“It was probably a crank,” interjected Matt Rather. “There are a lot of sick people out there who get their kicks by harassing people in positions of power. This sounds like a computer pervert who synthesized a voice and decided to pick on you.”
“But we take this very seriously,” Dillon added. “We’ll check the incoming number and we’ll put a tap on your phone line.” Then glancing at Larry Hayes, he added, “With your permission, of course.”
Hayes nodded his agreement.
“And for the next ten days we’ll keep an agent close at hand, with frequent drive-bys of your home, particularly in the evening. I doubt anything will come of it, but you never know.”
Then Rather asked, “Congressman Hayes, have you ever had any trouble similar to this telephone threat?”
Larry Hayes glanced at Susan and then turned back to the agents. “Yes, several years ago. Susan was kidnapped – twice. That was in Panama City, Florida, and in New Orleans.”
Suddenly Hayes had the full attention of both agents. “Do you know who the kidnapper was?” asked Dillon,
“A man by the name of Harrison Van Gilter,” Hayes replied.
Rather began to write on a pad. Then Hayes added, “It couldn’t be him, though.”
“Why not?” Dillon asked.
“Because he’s been dead for over ten years.”
Rather stopped writing. “You’re sure he’s dead?”
“Yes,” replied Hayes. “His death was verified by two FBI agents. He died down in South America – in Suriname. They saw the body.”
Rather drew a line through the name Harrison Van Gilter and shut the notepad.
Dillon took a deep breath. Then he smiled reassuringly at Susan. “We’ll do everything possible to look into this. There will be a technician here later this afternoon to set up the phone monitoring equipment. Try to relax and go about your business as usual. As Matt pointed out, odds are this is nothing more than a crank call, but we’ll look into every aspect of the situation.”
“Thank you for coming by,” Hayes said as the men stood up.
“Not a problem,” Dillon replied. “Mrs. Hayes, try not to worry. Congressman Hayes, we’ll be in touch.”
With that, the agents were out the door. Once they were in their government sedan, Dillon turned to his younger partner. His face was etched with concern and his instincts whispered a subtle warning: there’s more to this – and it’s not good. “Run a history on those earlier kidnappings, and on that perp, Harrison Van Gilter. And find out who the two FBI agents were.”
“All that because of a phone call?” Rather asked.
“No, it isn’t just the phone call,” Dillon replied as he cranked the ignition on the government Dodge. “Call it a dull ache in the middle of my mind. I’ve got nothing to go on, but something doesn’t feel right about this. Anyway, just check it out and maybe this nagging portent I’ve got will go away.”
THREE DAYS LATER, on Thursday evening, Congressman and Mrs. Hayes left their new Bentley in a reserved parking slip at the Kennedy Center’s South Plaza and walked through the entrance of the Grand Foyer. The huge lobby, longer than two football fields, with a ceiling sixty feet high, was one of the largest rooms in the world. The Grand Foyer was the entranceway to the concert hall, the opera house, and the Eisenhower theatre. The Hayes’ made their way among other congressional members, corporate heads, and art lovers. Larry stopped occasionally to shake a hand and exchange pleasantries, and Susan felt an electrical tingle and a surge of adrenalin caused by the enormous elegant lyceum and the elite and powerful people who filled it. They moved past one of the eight huge mirrors within the foyer. Each was fifty-eight feet high and nine feet wide. The towering works of glass had been gifts to the Center from Belgium. The one Susan gazed into revealed a reflection of the milling crowd, the outside River Terrace, and beyond, the lights cast upon the Potomac River. In the distance, the shadowy profile of Theodore Roosevelt Island blocked the view of portions of the illuminated business buildings crowded along the distant Virginia shoreline.
Larry and Susan finally reached the entrance to the concert hall where the Potomac Symphony Orchestra was tuning up to render an evening of romantic classics. They passed beneath a colossal Orrefors crystal chandelier and held out the tickets for their parterre seats. A young, attractive usher pleasantly reminded them to turn off all electronic devices. Susan smiled at the woman, retrieved her cell phone from her suede Dooney and Bourke shoulder tote, and turned it off. The Hayes’ made their way to their seats while the orchestra members warmed up with a few measures of music. As they got comfortable, the house lights dimmed. Susan placed her tote neatly on her lap, rested her hands upon it, and smiled at her husband.
The orchestra members, seated and ready, became silent. A hush fell over the hall. In moments, the concertmaster made his way to center stage. He bowed and the crowd applauded enthusiastically. Then he turned to the orchestra and cued the principal oboist. In response, a single A note was sounded to which the other members of the orchestra tuned their instruments. After that, there was silence and a spotlight illuminated stage left. Maestro Leonard Ackleman strode confidently forward in an impeccable tuxedo, his full head of distinguished gray hair literally glistened in the light. Applause echoed off of the interior of the acoustically-perfect hall. He bowed graciously, turned with the stealth of a Persian cat, retrieved the baton, smiled and nodded to the orchestra, and with an up sweep of his right arm, he commenced selections from Claude Debussy’s La Mer.
IT WAS AFTER THE INTERMISSION, during the lively commencement of Dvorak’s Slavonic Dance No. 1 in C major, that Susan felt a vibration within her purse. It slowly, deliberately grew stronger. She nudged Larry and directed her eyes down. Then she reached over and casually placed his hand upon the tote. He returned a quizzical look and mouthed the words: open it. She slid back the fastening strap, opened the bag, and in the dark of the concert hall saw the red flashing bar of her cell phone pulsing impatiently for attention. Completely puzzled – because she specifically remembered turning off the phone – Susan took it out, flipped it open and, shaking her hair aside, placed it to her ear. As she did, the volume of the symphony dropped as the orchestra entered the lilting pianissimo second movement of Dvorak’s composition. The audience was enraptured by the soft subtle tones. With great skill, the maestro guided the eighty gifted musicians across a wide field of elegant musical passages.
Susan listened to the ethereal music – and to an odd electric hum from the phone. Then, once again, a masculine monotone voice with a metallic echo quavered out an unearthly message:
“Hello, Susan…” There was an electric crackle, then a high pitched, far off murmur. Then the voice repeated: “Hello, Susan…”
Susan slowly lowered the phone and held it in front of her. Her hand was shaking; her shoulders began to tremble. The woman sitting next to her, a wealthy matron, cast an irritated glance toward her until she noticed the trembling hand and the phone. The illuminated screen was not a pretty background photo of the Hayes’s rose garden – it was a brilliant sanguine rectangle that began to pulse from deep red to black and back again. At first, it was at the tempo of a beating heart at rest. But as Susan’s heart began to race...so did the pulsing of the phone’s scarlet image.
Larry Hayes saw the stricken look on his wife’s face and he snatched the cell phone from her. Just then, the phone’s speaker came on. That’s when Larry, and those near him, heard a preternatural voice deliver a macabre message.
“Susan, it’s you I want. It’s been a very long time, but it won’t be much longer. I’m coming for you. I’m coming to take you back to a place we can enjoy…” There was a pause, and then the voice said, “I’m sorry, Lawrence, she’s not for you. Hell…” An electric hiss. “…Susan. Hell…” More electric hiss and hum. “…Susan. I’m coming for you. Coming very soo…” Then the connection went dead.
Hayes gripped the phone tightly and stared at the display. It now revealed, in stark black and white, a caller ID number, which he quickly committed to memory. Then it suddenly became terribly cold – like a piece of ice – and it slipped from the congressman’s hand, glanced off his immaculate black trousers, and clattered loudly onto the concert hall floor, shattering to pieces. The sound clashed irritably with the pianissimo passage and several of the audience turned in the direction of the noise. Larry stood up and helped Susan stumble and stagger from their seating and out into an adjacent hall, where Hayes, using his own cell phone, quickly connected with a pre-programmed Secret Service number. In twelve minutes, three agents were consulting with the Hayes’ in a small alcove off the Kennedy Center’s Grand Foyer.
LATE THAT EVENING, Susan Hayes lay upon her bed with her husband, her head on his chest. She was asleep and breathing easily, softly. Three hours of discussion between the two of them, with strong reassurances by her husband, had been therapeutic – particularly coupled with a visit by their physician and a 10 mg dose of zolpidem tartrate. The doctor also left a prescription of diazepam for anxiety: 5 mg tablets two to four times daily as needed.
Meanwhile, two Secret Service agents sat in the Hayes’ kitchen sipping coffee and watching the clock turn. It was 2:45 a.m. They discussed the perplexities of the situation: a congressman’s wife threatened by a lunatic, and the facts regarding two calls that actually didn’t come from where the phone system had indicated. The first call appeared to have been placed from the general media desk of the Smithsonian – not true. And now the second, to Susan Hayes’s cell phone, had been linked to an old rotary phone still functional in the chapel of Congressional Cemetery. But during the Kennedy Center concert, the chapel was completely empty -- locked tight as a tomb -- and surrounded by only the dead. No call had come from that phone. In fact, it was found covered with a healthy layer of dust.
“Well, it’s not the Treasury Department’s problem,” muttered one of the agents. “It’s a case for the FBI.”
The other agent only grunted, “Uh huh.” Then he smiled sarcastically and poured more coffee.
Upstairs, Larry Hayes Jr. stared up at the ceiling. He was wide awake. He was thinking; he was strategizing; he was filled with hate. In his mind, he saw the image of the shackled, snarling Harrison Van Gilter in the federal courtroom nearly thirteen years ago, his mouth dripping and his face covered with the blood of U.S. Attorney Milton Darrow. He was nothing more than a raw predator: conscienceless, cruel and calculating. Then Van Gilter’s victims passed through his mind one by one: Elizabeth Parker, Theresa Harrell, Calvin Preston, Rudy Washington, and Al Keeling, The FBI had also reported that Harrison had slain his own mother and two brothers. There were undoubtedly dozens more victims unknown to Hayes or even to the authorities. The predator had purportedly lived for over two hundred years. His victims must have numbered in the thousands. Must have…thought Lawrence. Must have… It had to be past tense. It had to be because Harrison Van Gilter was dead. He died in Suriname. That had been verified by Special Agent Mark Pierce.
So who is terrorizing my wife? thought Hayes. Who is posing as Harrison? Because he’s dead. Hayes repeated the phrase in his mind. It was some kind of subconscious mantra of safety. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead… Finally, Hayes slipped into fitful sleep where his subconscious betrayed him with an echoing word...again and again: reincarnation.
ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, Susan Shaowong Hayes lay nude upon a massage table in the master bedroom of her home. The smoky fragrance of floral incense enriched and softened the air. She rested comfortably on her stomach, an ivory Egyptian-cotton bath towel covering her buttocks. The effleurage strokes of the masseuse sent her into a deeply relaxed state. The masseuse worked the body lotion, rich in Kukui oil, gently into Susan’s skin. Her hands glided across Susan’s shoulders and then pressed deep into the back muscles. Glided again, and then pressed deep. From a Bose Acoustic Wave system, Tchaikovsky’s October drifted in lilting piano keys across the room to caress her ears and calm her mind. Each note was so clearly defined that she could envision a silver-haired pianist at the keys of a 19th century Steinway grand, isolated by a spotlight thrown upon a gilded stage. Everything, including a recent Valium tablet, was combining to nullify the anxiety, fear, and shock of the past two days. After what seemed a pleasant suspension of time and space, Susan heard a voice.
“Turn over now,” the masseuse whispered softly. Without opening her eyes, Susan did so, and wriggled slightly into a comfortable position. For another half hour the masseuse worked -- her hands seeming almost heavenly -- caressing the soft skin and relaxing the delicate muscles of Susan’s coppery body. Now her mind drifted to images of pleasant times on the Gulf coast and the beaches of Panama City. She saw the sand, the finest white quartz, too brilliant to look at without sun glasses, but so cool under her bare feet even during the midday sun. She listened with pleasure to the soft commencement of Mozart’s Fantasy in D Minor. It led her mind back to the beaches of her childhood near the coastal city of Qingdo within Shandong province. She remembered many treasured days upon the sands of Huiquan Beach, where she played as a little girl while her father kept a careful watch. On infrequent days off from commercial fishing, he would sit under a shade, sip his pure Qingdo beer, and cast smiles at his young daughter. Then he would look out upon the Yellow Sea, remembering adventures of his own youth and envisioning dreams of a future for his daughter. His dreams of a secret future in America. Dreams that finally came true.
The soft voice of the masseuse came once again: “We’re finished now. Lay still. I’ll bring hot towels to cover you and impregnate the oils and lotions into your skin. In the meantime, let me place these head phones over your ears. I have a portable CD player with some music I know you’ll love. It a personal favorite of mine that I think you’ll enjoy.”
Susan opened her eyes and stared dreamily up at the woman, a woman of Spanish descent, named perfectly: Maria. She felt Maria place the velvet mufflers over her ears, and then she closed her eyes once more. The woman left the room, turning off the Bose as she exited. Susan’s mind drifted as the beautiful sounds began. First, she heard the gentle flow of a small brook, the water trickling and splashing over smooth rocks and pebbles. That was followed by a melodic tinkle of piano keys and wafting waves of tones from violins. Other instruments blended in and traced pleasant pathways across landscapes of natural terrain filled with flowers and grasses.
Susan felt the warm towels placed upon her body. Then Maria placed a smaller towel over Susan’s face. It was pleasantly warm and held a light scent of her favorite perfume. It reminded her of her mother’s touch on a cold winter day: secure, loving, forever. The towel provided a pleasant darkness; it cloaked her eyes perfectly for fantasy vision. From the soft ear phones, more music and nature filled her mind: the wash of waves, spring showers, babbling brooks. Natural medleys designed to make one’s consciousness drift to balmy beaches, mountain meadows, and rain forests filled with orchids and curious orangutans.
A second melody began, and Susan let herself become completely embraced by the music. She was almost within a sensory void as the tones of the wooden flute stepped upon a garden path, followed by trickles of piano notes. The flute seemed to be climbing a gentle slope, moving up higher and higher upon a grassy hill. The female voices of an angelic choir combined harmoniously with accompanying violins… softly, so softly. The violins called to her, calmed her. She glanced toward the top of the hill and saw a man in white robes, framed against the rich blue sky. Then she saw herself moving slowly up the slope toward him, picking wildflowers of myriad colors along the way. The man gazed down at her and smiled. There was a wonderful kindness and understanding in his deep blue, ancient eyes.
But then the sky changed.
Clouds, dark and menacing, began to roll powerfully in from each side of the hill on a collision course. They were about to violently crash together in tremendous, ugly storm. The air became cold and humid, and the wind contorted from a warm zephyr into an icy gale. The pleasant grassy mount began changing its geologic shape. Its paramount became steep, rocky, and devoid of any vegetation. And now even the music transformed into an almost preternatural, unpleasant theme: somber, darkly depressing. The angelic voices of the choir became keening wails of tormented souls.
Susan was swept over with a terrible feeling of dread. She cast her eyes upward toward the paramount and saw the white-robed old man slowly change. He became a handsome younger man wearing a business suit. And his eyes altered from the pleasant blue to an ominous black. She didn’t recognize him, but somehow she found him uncomfortably attractive. Who was he? He was a strong male; a man she had never seen before. But that face, so handsome, with intelligent penetrating eyes. He had chiseled features, a strong jaw, an aquiline nose, and full crop of wavy hair touched with gray. Who was this charismatic, mesmerizing male? He was certainly an image she would never forget.
Then the stranger morphed. He become dark, hideous and death-like. His face suddenly appeared very close: like the zoom inward of a camera lens. He smiled seductively, looked deep into her soul.
His mouth moved slowly, dripping fluid unlike saliva, fluid sanguine and putrid. She could smell him now. His stench of evil filled her senses. And then he spoke. “I’m coming for you. Coming very soon. I’ll be there before you live to see Valentine’s Day.”
Susan bolted upright… and screamed! The sound of absolute panic echoed off the walls of the room, out into the hall, and down to the second floor of the house. She screamed again, and again.
Two Secret Service agents stood just outside the home: one at the front door, one at the back. Each spun around, grabbed a door handle and ran into the house.
Maria turned quickly from the window – she’d been watching children at play across the street – and found Susan standing naked beside the massage table, shaking, eyes focused blankly ahead. She raced to her, held her, and then looked into her eyes. “It was a dream,” Maria said. “Just a dream.”
Susan, suddenly cognizant, glared at her like a threatened animal. “No. No! No dream. He’s coming.” She yanked off the head phones. “I… I heard him!” she yelled.
It was a demand for acceptance, not a plea for understanding.
“No,” said Maria softly. “No. This is only a portable CD player. Just a player.” Maria took the head phones from Susan and placed them over her ears. There was a bit of pleasant music... And then a menacing, unearthly voice roared angrily into Maria’s ears.
“I’m Harrison Van Gilter! I’m coming for Susan! And no one can stop me! Not even you and your crucifix, Maria Amaranta Vasquez!”
Maria screamed! “Dios, nuestro Padre! Auyda! El voz del Diablo!” She ripped off the head phones and threw the unholy things down hard onto the floor.
And then two Secret Service agents burst into the room.
FBI SPECIAL AGENT MARK PIERCE laid his briefcase down upon the Secret Service conference table, unscrewed the cap from the bottle water he’d been given by a congenial receptionist, and took a sip as he glanced around. The furnishings were plush by government standards. They ware certainly better than the standard, usually austere, Bureau accommodations. And the Service headquarters were a convenient meeting location, less than a half mile north of the FBI’s Hoover Building. Because it was a Sunday morning, there were only a few staff members within the building.