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Kindergeist
Kindergeist
Kindergeist
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Kindergeist

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Years after his mother’s death, a troubled teenager loses himself in his studies, which involve a colorful deck of cards and a flawless crystal ball.

Murder sends the boy to Southern Indiana's Lamb’s Ridge Academy. And Lamb’s Ridge’s fate is spelled out in the cards and in the murky visions found in the crystal ball.

To the rescue comes the short cowboy.

*WARNING* - ADULT CONTENT!!!

LanguageEnglish
PublisherG L Richards
Release dateJul 29, 2010
Kindergeist
Author

G L Richards

G.L. Richards lives in a deep dark woods surrounded on all sides by cute furry llamas, and as such is very reclusive. Y'all come back now, hear?

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    Kindergeist - G L Richards

    KINDERGEIST

    SMASHWORDS EDITION

    DISCLAIMER:

    This is a HORROR novel dealing with ADULT THEMES.

    * * * * *

    PUBLISHED BY

    G.L. Richards on Smashwords

    KINDERGEIST

    Copyright © 2010 by G.L. Richards

    All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

    This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

    Smashwords Edition License Notes

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

    * * * * *

    I’d like to thank that special person who’s endured through all seasons, all seas.

    With you by my side, I sail calmer waters.

    Your love molds my heart.

    KINDERGEIST

    by

    G.L. Richards

    The late summer's morning air was clear and slightly chilly as Bill Malden topped fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit. Traveling south on Florida's I-75, his low-slung sports car hugged the curve of the exit ramp with a satisfying tension.

    In his new color-coordinated forest green three-piece suit, he felt ten years younger than his recently over forty. Malden whistled a snappy tune, turning his newly purchased silver Corvette onto the main road leading to Donahue's Hill, an upper middle class suburb of Sarasota. ‘Hill’ was a misnomer. Malden, a native of Ohio, figured the suburb's name was coined by a homesick snowbird. He knew, except for the artfully sculpted winding road leading into the tiny community, the ‘Hill’ was merely a beautiful illusion.

    Malden whistled for one simple fact: Basically, he was a stupid man. His usually jubilant mood was buoyed this morning, because today he and his partner, Hank Stevens, were set to pioneer a plum project that was the envy of the other Uniroyal design-engineers. This project might put my name in the news, Malden thought, unconsciously letting his eyes crinkle up.

    Turning onto Mystic Dream Lane, he drove up the still sleepy subdivision road. He pulled into the driveway of the fashionable blue stucco house, and killed the Corvette's engine. Malden absentmindedly patted the dash, while in his mind's eye the brief image of a massive white horse reared majestically on its hind legs, snorting its hot breath through flared nostrils.

    Whoa, Silver. Whoa, Big-Fella, he murmured and sat back into the plush black leather bucket seat to wait the usual minutes for Hank to appear. The man gazed into the car's rear-view mirror, unconsciously hummed Nancy Kwan's number from Flower-Drum Song: ‘I Enjoy Being A Girl’, and fluffed his thinning hair, twisting the ends of his newly grown mustache into starched points.

    When Hank Stevens failed to show in his Malden-allotted ten minutes, he considered blowing the horn; but hastily decided against it. The neighborhood still slept and to Malden's mind it would be rude to disturb the early morning silence. After all, Momma Malden hadn't raised him in a barn as some people thought.

    Perhaps ole' Hank's still asleep, the man thought. He walked up the flagstone path to the front door, and called out in a silly high-pitched voice, Hank! Wake up, ole' buddy. Time to get to work! Uniroyal's money won't wait on any early mornin' lovin'!

    As he peered though the screen, looking down the hallway, he called through the open door: Hey, Hank! His silly-happy voice died in his throat... and for the rest of his life, Malden would never forget the sickness he felt realizing the horror that swiftly held his attention. Years later, his stomach still responded by doing the Funky Chicken at the mere thought of it, and sometimes the horrible memory crept into his dreams like a common street thief.

    Malden stared at Hank's pretty nine-year-old daughter, sprawled across the foyer chair, head pointing downward, her feet and legs draped across the high back of the elegant Victorian reproduction. He stared and searched his mind for the name of the child he'd known since birth.

    For a brief moment, he thought the girl lounging in the playful manner only pre-teens ever managed comfortably. He entertained this hopeful thought, until he saw the blood that had oozed from her slashed throat and gracefully flowed around her ears. The sticky liquid had gathered in a congealing crimson puddle under her head. Once bright blue eyes stared lifelessly up at him. Malden took immediate action.

    In one remarkably graceful and fluid motion, he lost his butter and syrup-drenched breakfast of sinfully-high-in-triglyceride blueberry pancakes into a nearby pot of lamb's ear and he dizzily sagged into shock against the cool of the stucco house.

    Five minutes after phoning the police from his iPhone, Malden and a small gathering of curious neighbors waited beside the Corvette. He absentmindedly patted the hood of his car while nervously smoothing his mustache, but the comforting image of the horse refused to come to him, and he watched in irritation while the growing group of onlookers turned a tragedy into neighborhood gossip fodder.

    His fingers drummed on the hood of the car and he felt hot blood rise to his cheeks. Curious neighbors grew in numbers, coming out of the nearby houses with coffee cups in hand, eager to shove their neighborly noses into the early morning excitement on Mystic Dream Lane. Malden watched two overweight women, dressed for jogging, lead two twin cocker spaniels on rhinestone leases across Hank's well-groomed lawn and up his front walkway.

    Hey! You ladies don't want to look at that! Malden cried. "Stay away from the door until the police get here! Keep those dogs away from there! Do you hear me? You can't help her now. Just stay away from the door!"

    Malden groaned, thinking the police were taking an eternity to respond. You'd think the bastards would be here by now, he remarked to an elderly lady wearing a pink terry cloth robe and matching pink slippers. What's taking `em so long?

    I know what you mean, the old woman said, commiserating with Malden as she handed him a mug of black coffee. Every time the Star-People come down to take me away, it takes forever for the police to come.

    Malden stared silently at the old woman, sipping the offered brew. It occurred to him this old loony might be the reason for the delay; but a short minute later there were flashing lights and the sound of sirens coming over the rise to Mystic Dream Lane’s entrance.

    Waving them up the driveway, Malden ran to meet the first car. As he jogged alongside the squad car, his arms and legs wildly pumping in the excitement, he looked very much like a huge, vigorously aerobesizing and mustached frog.

    She... she... she's in there! Malden's eyes bulged out and his face flushed. "I didn't touch a thing, except the door. My God!! It's horrible. He moaned letting his hands fly around his face like two crazed mosquitoes in desperate need of a place to land. It's horrible!! The little girl... it's horrible!!" Then, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, he moaned once again. My God! Do you think something's happened to Hank?

    The second police car pulled in on the grass beside Malden's car and two officers emerged from the vehicle, leaving their lights flashing, throwing red and blue flashes and shadows over the front of the house. The first officer hurried toward the front door of the Stevens' house and motioned Malden away. He indicated an approaching sports car with a suctioned emergency light pulsing on the top.

    As other emergency vehicles and patrol cars gathered behind it, the classic Mustang, unmarked and red, pulled up to the back of the first police car and a thirtyish, western-dressed, dark-haired, short and boyish-appearing man got out. The first impression the plain-clothed officer made was of a cowboy who'd been separated from his horse. Rude people might have suggested the missing steed came equipped with rockers.

    From the youthful detective's first impression, a huge, mustached, ridiculous frog of a man, aerobesizing and hyperventilating at the same time, seemed intent on pulling him by the arm toward the blue stucco house. Second impression: the other officers on the scene wore the same dazed and horrified expression.

    Take it easy, take it easy, the short man said. The detective disengaged the frog from his arm, grabbed Bill Malden by the shoulders, and lightly shook him. "Mister, calm down. Calm down!! You know you won't do anybody any good if you have a coronary. You told the dispatch that you didn't enter the house? Is that right? Sergeant Mason? Take this man's statement... and do your best to try and calm him down."

    A prickling premonition of dread washed over him, and Detective Zack Williams turned, jogged up to the house where he dropped his black Stetson hat on a wrought-iron bench and joined two policemen already on the porch. Another police officer met him at the door.

    It's grisly in there, Zack. Really bad. There's more than one, the officer said. It's been just a couple of minutes and we think we've found the little girl's father in the family room. Looks like they've both been dead for a few hours. Take a couple of deep breaths before you go in. You'll need it. As the uniformed man hurried out the door toward the first patrol car, Williams was dismayed to hear the usually unshakable officer heave under his breath as he went by. Must be bad... must be really bad.

    He'd been out sick with a horrible case of the flu the preceding week, and his stomach was still sickeningly delicate, so even with the warning, Zack wasn't quite prepared. Dark crimson streaks from the drying blood congealing around the little girl’s head stained her honey-blonde hair. She wore blue baby-doll pajamas decorated with a sad-eyed yellow bear, saying: BE KIND TO ME— I'VE HAD A HARD DAY, and her glazed blue eyes stared sightlessly at the opposite wall as if she was intently studying the crudely drawn bloody pentagram points dripping crimson tears down the flowered wallpaper.

    Most probably, Zack thought, the media of choice was this little girl's blood. Next to her hand, a rag doll lay smiling; crumpled on the carpet. Looks like a cult murder, was Zack's second thought. He cleared the lump from his throat, and asked aloud to no one in particular: How many are there?

    So far, this little girl and the man in the family room. We're preparing to search the rest of the house. It's absolutely brutal. Really, really brutal, the officer said, stepping aside, allowing another plainclothes policeman room to pass on his way to the family room. The burly uniformed policeman's voice caught in his throat as he glanced down at the little girl and cursed low under his breath, muttering: The scumbag that would do this to an innocent child... should be strung up by his balls.

    Zack walked through the hallway into the family room. The investigators would methodically search the area around the couches. A man sitting on a loveseat appeared to be lazily lounging. The detective immediately knew the guy wasn't trying to cop an early morning nap; someone had gouged the man's eyes out and a beer bottle was stuffed down his throat.

    Zack's gaze was drawn like a reluctant magnet to the mangled blackened holes, one-time windows the dead man used to view his world. A manic and fleeting thought ran swiftly through his mind as he looked into the deep caverns of the black pulpy mess that was previously the corpse's eyes. I wonder if the last image this man had was of the weapon used to bludgeon and blind him. I wonder if his brain still sent him video pictures of the terror around him as he faded like a far away radio signal into his sightless death?

    The detective forced his attention from the ruined eyes of the dead man and he felt a lingering stomach spasm course through his body. It reminded him of the miserable week spent in his bed fighting the vicious virus. He coughed and rubbed his hand across his eyes. Lord, what will I find upstairs? He took the stairs two at a time, turned at the top of the staircase, and made a mental note of the clear view of the foyer.

    With his enhanced perspective from the second floor landing, Zack watched the morgue photographers arrive to photograph the little girl. He saw the burly officer kneeling beside her body wait to gently fasten evidence-protecting plastic bags around her hands. Silently shaking his head on the sad scene in the foyer, Zack turned his attention on the bedrooms.

    Coming to a bedroom on the right, he drew his revolver, carefully pushed the first door open with his shoe, and entered the master bedroom. He wasn't surprised to find a goat's head apparently drawn in blood and feces smeared across the dresser mirror bearing the crudely scrawled words: Dark Master. He looked up at the rough graffiti, and marveled to himself. If this precious jewel of crude art from the hand of a talented. but troubled, artist had been missing, I'd be strangely disappointed.

    With his shoulder, Zack hesitantly pushed open the door to the master bath, and pointed his gun at the body on the floor. A woman kneeled before the commode, her head shoved into the bowl and her right foot raggedly amputated and missing. Her nightgown pushed up under her armpits, exposed her lower body. He could clearly see the satanic symbol of a ‘666’ carved into the woman's right buttock. I suppose they must have used a very special knife for that little bit of artwork. Wonder where they got it... Daggers-R-Us?

    Zack's head throbbed. Steady, old Hoss, he cautioned, aloud to the room. Careful not to disturb anything backing out of the bedroom, and still holding his gun at ready, he reached the hallway, and called down to the first floor, Hey, Bert— woman up here. First bedroom. Same-O Same-O. His stomach roller-coastered in a depraved and gleeful fashion.

    The door of the next bedroom stood wide open revealing a room decorated in multicolored hearts. It was undisturbed other than an unmade bed. The little girl's bedroom, he thought, from the looks of it, she was in bed before the murder.

    Continuing down the hallway, he arrived at another room with its door ajar. This room's color scheme was red and blue plaid. Posters of heavy metal rock groups covered the walls; the only group Zack recognized being Metallica. Signs of a struggle drew him into the room. He entered cautiously, feeling a strange unease about the surroundings. On the bed, he found a bloodstained, vomit-smeared pillow and rumpled bedspread. A large braided rug was carelessly thrown to the side of the room. A giant five-pointed symbol of a pentagram drawn out in ragged smears of what looked like blood covered the middle of the wooden floor. One black taper candle stood in each of the five points of the star. Blackened wicks and melted wax testified to the fact they had once been lit.

    The detective automatically pinched a wick between his fingers to test for heat; the coolness of the string and the solidity of the wax told him it had been more than minutes since the candle had been blown out.

    It's a cult murder, all right, Zack murmured. And it looks like someone performed a power ceremony right here. His eyes searched from floor to ceiling and finally, satisfied the bedroom was unoccupied, he backed out of the room.

    Coming to a small bedroom at the end of the hall, decorated in red and blue drums-and-stars motifs, his next discovery was a little boy asleep in a car-shaped bed. Hhmm… about five or six years old. Zack whispered, Hey, Sport. You sleepin'? ...please, please be asleep. The child wore only his underpants, and appeared to be asleep on his stomach. After checking for a pulse and finding none, Zack holstered his gun and gently turned the child over hoping to find the cause of death.

    Sticky dark blood and blue-gray intestines spilled from a massive wound in the little boy's abdomen. The small elfin-like child had been disemboweled. That in itself was horrifying; but what stabbed immediately into the detective's mind, with an agonizing and painful clarity, was that someone or something had been at the boy. Parts of the wound were missing and in his fifteen years experience on the force, he knew teeth marks when he saw them.

    Zack's delicate flu-ravaged stomach refused to take the visual abuse any longer. He turned and puked violently into the Indiana Jones wastebasket sitting next to the bed.

    ~o0o~

    -2-

    Leaving the Stevens' house by the officer-secured front door, Zack spoke a quiet aside to an officer holding a clipboard. I... eh... left a little involuntary DNA in an upstairs waste basket. Make a note, okay? The other officer frowned in sympathy and Zack stepped off the front porch, out into the yard.

    A long hour passed and finally the last of the bodies were loaded into the ambulances bound for the hospital morgue. Zack turned to a considerably calmer Bill Malden. Any ideas, Mr. Malden? he inquired, taking a piece of gum from his pocket and offering the taller man the next stick.

    I'm stunned, Detective Williams... I'm in shock, replied the man, taking the gum and popping it into his mouth. His starched mustache worked up and down in a comical manner as he quickly chewed the gum into a pliable mass. Hank didn't have an enemy in the world, he said, that I knew of. Everyone— I mean everyone— loved Hank Stevens. Just ask anyone at Uniroyal! Turning to the other officers standing nearby, Malden nodded his head in an apparent plea for affirmation of his partner's goodness.

    The distraught man continued, Hank and Jesse— they were two of the best and sweetest people you'd ever want to meet... give you the shirts off their backs and the last morsel off their table. Hell... you wanna know how good they were? Malden picked at a loose string on his color coordinated forest green suit. Hank even put me up for a week when I got my divorce. No questions asked. I guess you could say that Hank was my best friend in the world... wish now I'd let him know that.

    He turned his full attention back to the detective, Now, I ask you, who in their right minds could do such a thing to Hank and Jesse and those two sweet children? I just don't know what to think. When a body's not safe in their own home... it’s crazy. He shook his head and hung it in disgust. Suddenly, Malden raised his eyes and grabbed the short detective by the shoulder, "Hey, wait a minute! Hank had three kids!! An older boy. Near college age. Belonged to his first wife. She died. There was trouble with him. He was seeing a child shrink or something. Hank told me he was at his wits end with the boy. Detective Williams— you find him— you find Alex Stevens, and you bet your ass you'll have your murderer!!" He snorted like an angry horse.

    Mr. Malden, Zack replied, patting the agitated man on the shoulder. I make it a practice never to wager with parts of my anatomy I'd be hard pressed to lose.

    The detective left Malden beside a massive front yard palm tree, turned and motioned to an olive-skinned policeman standing near the house. Perez! he called. Take a look for an older boy. Hey, how old is he, Malden? —sixteen? Eighteen? Maybe older? Okay. He's something like mid-to-late teens. Should be around here. Name's Alex Stevens. Take Lourory and Cochran with you.

    Perez nodded and started into the house.

    Zack added as an afterthought, Be on your guard, Guys. He could be our man. May be armed.

    Perez nodded again and continued on into the house. Two other policemen joined the Hispanic officer to search for the boy or a fifth body. Stepping carefully through the family room, Perez's stomach was taut with anticipation.

    First, checking the remaining two downstairs rooms and finding them empty, the policemen searched the kitchen area and all of the pantry closets. Finally, satisfied the area was covered, they took the search to the attic. Finding the pull-down stairs in the garage's ceiling, they tugged the hanging trapdoor open.

    Preceding the other two, Perez drew his gun and was the first up the rickety steps. The officer stopped on the third step from the top, his head in near total darkness, his flashlight switched off, but ready. He listened to the soft muffled sobbing coming from somewhere deeper in the attic. Slowly, he climbed the last two steps, his gun ready. The other two officers grouped under the steps, their revolvers drawn, their legs locked in the firing stance. This is the police! Come out, you're covered! Perez ordered, Alex Stevens, if that's you in there, come on out. We just want to talk.

    Minutes passed.

    Are they gone?

    Perez could barely hear the whispered plea.

    "They're really gone? All of them? I'm scared... help me... help me, please!"

    You're safe now. We won't let anyone hurt you, Perez spoke soothingly in a voice one would use to coax a frightened kitten from a tree; three years of talking jumpers down from high places helped. He'd lost only one, and that was a crazed junkie on meth. Perez watched as boxes stacked in a corner were shoved free from the attic wall and a slight teenage boy stepped out.

    Come'ere, Perez whispered, motioning the boy closer.

    The boy hesitantly stepped to the attic stairs and allowed the brown-skinned officer to help him climb down to the garage, where the other officers frisked him. Finding the boy unarmed, the two men holstered their guns.

    Alex Stevens appeared terrified, his platinum-blond hair sweat-soaked and matted, his Nirvana tee-shirt ripped and bloodstained, his eyes damp and red-rimmed from crying, the teenager's body shook uncontrollably. The Hispanic officer holstered his weapon, took the boy into his arms and let him sob onto his shoulder.

    You poor kid! Perez shook his head with incredulity. How long have you been hiding up there?

    They were... they were everywhere. I don't know how I got away!! the boy sobbed. They ki... ki... killed my dad! They ki... killed my dad!

    Come on, kid. Let's take you to the hospital and check you out, the officer quickly led the boy from the house and helped him into a squad car.

    That's him! Malden rushed over to the car, grabbed the car door through a half-opened window and pointed through the window at the boy still huddled in the Hispanic officer's arms, that's him— he did it! He killed `em!!

    Malden, we'll handle things now, Zack snapped. He pulled the frantic man's hands from the open window of the police cruiser. Remember, everyone's innocent until proven guilty; and from all appearances, it looks as if the boy might also be a victim.

    Malden snorted, Don't you believe it! He shouted at the back of the car taking Alex Stevens away, "Don't you believe it!! He killed `em! Do you understand anything I'm saying? He killed `em! He turned to the detective and grabbed his arm. You mark my word, Detective. That wasn't a boy in that car— that's a monster! And he killed my best friend." The man, who looked so much like a mustached frog, twisted his face up into a grimace of intense agony, released Zack's arm, walked a few feet to his sporty car, and collapsed into the driver's seat. Oh, God, he whined, through clinched teeth.

    Malden? Are you okay? Zack walked up to the opened window of the Corvette. Malden? He spoke quietly, I asked if you're gonna be okay? Do you need someone to take you home?

    Home? Malden murmured. Home? I... I got no home. He tilted his face up and looked into the youthful face of the cowboy policeman. "Hank... now, Hank had a home. Hank was a goddamned lucky man. Tears trickled down his face. I'll be okay, Detective, he said. Think I'll ride around awhile. Try to shake it off, ya know? But, you just mark my words. He, the sobbing man pointed at the boy in the retreating patrol car, killed `em"

    Malden started the deeply rumbling motor and pulled out of his friend's driveway for the last time, while Zack shook his head, settled his black Stetson neatly over his thick dark brown hair and hurried back inside the house. Sidestepping members of the investigative team, he searched out the family room phone, took a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to open the drawer on the end table. Finding a small address book, he opened it to the emergency numbers page and noted the name of the family physician. Doctor Mark Partridge. For the first time that day, Zack Williams felt like chuckling. Right, Doc. No shot, my ass, he muttered. From his cellphone, the detective dialed the handwritten number.

    He drove away from the scene, and called ahead to the hospital. After a swift identification, a calm voice informed Zack that Perez had already reached the hospital and was— at that minute— delivering Alex Stevens to the ER doors. Dr. Partridge was already in attendance at the hospital. Zack applied his foot to the Mustang's pedal and, lights flashing, rushed through traffic.

    The ER personnel moved Alex into an examining room and drew heavy curtains around the boy and the policeman. Suddenly, the curtain was thrown back and a tall dark-haired man in a white lab coat hurried to the side of the gurney.

    "I was paged— Alex!! Are you hurt?" Dr. Partridge nodded a perfunctory greeting at the police officer. A spot examination revealed the boy's face bore mostly superficial scratches and bruises, and his arms were cut and bruised as if someone had violently held him by the wrists.

    Zack burst through the outside ER doors, flashed his badge, asked for Officer Perez and was quickly shown to the side room where the doctor was examining the boy.

    The detective again showed his badge. Partridge nodded and said, We spoke on the phone.

    Raising Alex's ripped tee shirt, the doctor involuntarily drew a breath, wincing in sympathy for the boy's pain. A star pattern carved in shallow, but bloody, scratches covered his chest, and the number ‘666’ was scribed over his abdomen.

    Who did this to you, Alex? Dr. Partridge asked.

    It was horrible— the boy's eyes were glassy with fear, his speech disjointed, as he said, they woke me up. They came in my room and woke me up. They held me down on the bed and beat me. They cussed me and cut me. They used my blood and drew on the floor in my room. Then they started chanting… chanting. Just… chanting.

    Partridge and the officers exchanged silent glances. The boy shivered and continued in a nearly sing-song voice, I could hear my dad and the others screaming— there was a big man and a woman. The man hit me, and he held me down while the woman kissed me. She stuck her tongue in my mouth.

    The boy paused and then dropped his voice. He turned his face away from the men before muttering, "Then she whispered in my ear what the man was going to do to me— what she was gonna let him do to me while she watched. He gritted his teeth, and shivered again as if he were trying to shake off a repulsive touch. Somehow… somehow, I broke away from them and ran down the stairs. Dad was fighting two men beside the couch, and there was another man chasing Jill. They were everywhere. I was so scared. Alex’s fisted hands beat an angry tattoo on his knees. He continued, They were blocking the front door— I didn't think to try for the back door! I just ran into the garage and hid in the attic. I was so afraid they would come up and find me. An' I knew they'd kill me if they found me… I just knew."

    Wordlessly, Dr. Partridge injected Alex Stevens with a strong sedative, and as he was growing drowsy, the boy mumbled, Masks. They all wore masks. Like Halloween... they all wore gloves... plastic gloves. Like doctors wear. There were seven... seven or eight. And they were dirty... so dirty. They kept screaming horrible words at my dad. They wanted him to get down on his knees and worship Satan, he paused, met the eyes of each of the men gathered around him and continued as his words began to slur, "they killed my dad! They tried to kill me... they wanted to kill me... they wanted to kill me."

    Zack waited until the boy drifted into a deep sleep, before turning to the physician. Dr. Partridge. I'm Detective Zack Williams. I don't know if you remember me. Earlier in the week, bad case of the flu. You surprised me with a penicillin shot in the ass— thanks loads, by the way. Now, what can you tell me about the Stevens'? Did you know them?

    Yes, the doctor answered sadly, "I knew them very well... they were my dear friends. Believe it or not, I introduced them to one another. Jesse and I were... once lovers. God, I can't believe she's dead!! Williams— who... what monster did this?"

    I wish I knew, Doc, the boyish detective clenched his fists in frustration. We have no useful clues, so far. We haven't found any fingerprints yet. The only witness was this boy, and it remains to be seen how much help he'll be when he wakes up.

    What do you mean by that?

    Williams shook his head, Sometimes, kids can be so traumatized their minds lose valuable pieces to the puzzle. Or they get the facts mixed up. We may never know who murdered those people.

    Partridge groaned, Oh, God... oh, God.

    The detective continued, Right now, the main priority is the boy. Technically he's still a juvenile and I want to see that he's cared for. Does Alex have any close relatives? Is there someone he could go to?

    Partridge thought for a moment and replied, Hank had a sister in Indiana. She runs a private girl's school. I remember meeting her, years ago, at Hank and Jesse's wedding. Listen. After Alex is released from the hospital— and after he makes his statement, I'll take him there myself. Under the circumstances, it's the least I can do for Jesse. Sweet Jesse.

    ~o0o~

    Chapter 2

    TWO DAYS PRIOR

    -1-

    Just out of a hot shower, she dressed in her long warm cotton gown, turned down the comforter on the king-sized bed and crawled between the sheets onto her husband's side. This was Jesse Stevens' nightly ritual of warming the bed while her husband was in the shower, and she performed this act of love even in the heat of the summer.

    As she snuggled down in the bed, Jesse took a silent account of her life. On the advice of Dr. Mark Partridge, their family physician, she counted her blessings as a nightly meditation. After less than ten minutes of making a mental list, sleep always claimed her.

    She was often moved to tears at the thought of her perfect life. Life was good. She had her two beautiful children, a very loving husband, a lovely home— and a dream career in the art field. The only dim spot in Jesse's life was Alex, Hank's son by his first wife. For even though Jesse had tried to be a mother to Alex, he had constantly rejected her parental attempts and actively resented Jill and Jason, Jesse and Hank's younger children.

    At the time of their marriage, Jesse watched Alex go from a withdrawn seven years old, to a sullen and just barely respectful teenager. She had tried, many times, to assure the boy she wasn't trying to destroy his memory of his mother; but Amy Stevens was dead and Jesse vowed her willingness to do her best by Alex. Finally, she and Hank mentally threw up their hands, gave up and turned for help to a child psychologist.

    The help the couple received, for an exorbitant payment, was to be told— in a rather aloof tone, in Jesse's opinion— Alex obviously blamed his step-mother for his mother's death, even though Amy had been killed in a car accident

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