Radu-Chapter XXXXV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

All previous installments are listed at the end of this chapter
Radu-Chapter XXXXV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
13 pages approximate

Phillip Khoska watched intently the replay of the Senate Select Committee on International Crime-for the third time, as though seeing it for the first time live, with no knowledge of what was about to happen. He knew, of course, that Greg Morrison would soon conclude his testimony. He realized that Morrison had completely absolved him of any wrongdoing perpetrated by employees and associates within his company, conducted supposedly without his knowledge or participation. His own family was unfortunately involved, including his ex-wife, now dead along with his children and grandchildren, all of them murdered along with her second husband-supposedly-in a gruesome Christmas Eve massacre.

Elaine Khoska, Morrison testified, had been a pivotal part of the operation headed by Phillip’s brother-in-law, Varoslav Moloku, along with his wife Dorothy and daughter Marnie-Phillips sister and niece, respectively. It was a conspiracy, said Morrison, that reached into the corridors of power, involving Morrison along with his late father Randall, from the time the disgraced Baltimore Assemblyman had been a mere minor.

The real mastermind, he testified, had been Jason Talbert, the Wall Street financier and international broker, whose sudden and unexpected death set off a power struggle within the cabal that had so surreptitiously infested Khoska’s legitimate company and financial holdings. They corrupted many, from Khoska’s own wife, to powerful politicians and journalists such as Grady Desmond, on down to decorated police officers such as Baltimore Police Department Lieutenant James Berry. Phillip Khoska, he asserted, despondent over the charges leveled against him in the aftermath of the brutal murder of his entire family, made an ultimately unsuccessful attempt on his own life.

At one point, Morrison began looking at his watch, then looking nervously all around him, as though in expectation of something that seemed destined to not come about. He became obviously annoyed and anxious, yet strangely relieved. One of the committee members was at this point in the process of inquiring as to whether Morrison knew of the current whereabouts of Marnie Moloku, or of James Berry, when he took note of Morrison’s strange behavior and inquired as to whether he was well.

Khoska could almost hear Morrison through the television wondering when the damn bombs were going to drop. As unfortunate as it was that this part of the plan failed, Khoska could not help but feel some amusement at his obviously bizarre reaction. Had he been aware, he would likely not have been so willing to follow the script as rehearsed. Morrison pulled himself together somewhat and replied that he was of the understanding that James Berry, whose whereabouts was currently unknown to him, as to everyone else, had murdered Marnie Moloku and disposed of her body. He then went on to murder her mother Doris, in addition to the federal agent assigned to watch over Marnie.

Unfortunately, Phillip came to understand all too well that no one had devised any contingency plan in the event of failure. That was the problem with dealing with religious fanatics. Their faith made failure unthinkable. Now, it would be a simple matter for the Senate Sub-committee members to pick apart Morrison’s testimony. Morrison was a simple-minded stooge unable to think on his feet. He needed coaching and rehearsing. Now, he was on his own. By the time they were finished with him, the whole tapestry of lies would unravel, and Khoska would be back to where he started from, suspected of complicity in all of the criminal activities of which, in fact, he had been a part from the beginning.

Fortunately, Phillip had devised a contingency plan, which his confederates, who were not all together unreasonable, thankfully adopted. Khoska continued watching as one of the other Senate inquisitors asked Morrison about his knowledge pertaining to the recent outbreak of the multi-epidemic, which was yet far from over though somewhat abated, if but temporarily. Of course, Morrison was completely unaware of any of this, which in truth few were. Khoska himself had been unaware of this matter, a secret shared by a very select few-two of who would be soon joining him, this very night.

Tonight would also be the night he would finally come face to face with the one they all reverentially referred to as “The Master”.

The Master, they claimed, very much looked forward to meeting with him, as he had been following and monitoring his progress for some time now. The Master, they assured him, would reward his faith. The bullet from the Derringer, with which Khoska shot himself immediately prior to the expected arrival of the tabloid photographer Phelps, could easily have killed him, and likely leave him disabled for the entirety of his life were he to survive.

The Master insured Khoska would receive the utmost care and treatment by way of the blood-derived compound developed under the auspices of the pharmaceutical laboratories, which were just one part of Phillip Khoska’s extensive holdings. The Master kept his word, as always. The compound proved to be a dramatic cure in his case, repairing all damage to his brain, even restoring the individually damaged cells, leaving no traces whatsoever of the self-inflicted wound.

Not only did he heal completely, he never felt better in his life. Now that he was all but cleared of any charges of wrongdoing, he had his entire life yet ahead of him. The sacrifice of his family was unfortunate, but necessary. Whatever happened next, Khoska’s life, his freedom, even his wealth, all were as secure as they ever were.

He almost pitied Greg Morrison, who noticeably grew increasingly more distraught by the second, as someone inquired, to the overall amusement of those in attendance within the Senate chambers, as to whether he expected company or if he had somewhere that he needed to be at any given time. Morrison obviously did not know how to answer the question. It was supposed to be over by now.

Suddenly he clutched his chest and began heaving, then going into convulsions. The crowded assembly watched in shock as Greg Morrison collapsed at the desk at which he sat beside his team of lawyers, none of whom had any idea of the extent of Morrison’s involvement with the plan that had come so close to forever changing the world.

The screen returned to the evening newscast on ABC Nightline, and to a roundtable interview with people discussing the strangeness of the day’s events. Morrison had died. An autopsy revealed that he had an artificial heart-a heart that had given out on him, and one that had some strange kind of tracking device that was easily misinterpreted as a monitor installed solely for health reasons. There were some, of course, who viewed Morrison’s death as suspicious under the circumstances, but had no clue as to the magnitude of the events of the day.

Khoska watched the television in the quiet solitude of his new though temporary home, the owners of which soon pulled into the driveway. He watched them through the window. They seemed so calm, so assured. It was hard to believe they realized the seriousness of what faced them. They had devoted their lives to their church, and to their faith, toiling in thankless obscurity behind the scenes, out of necessity, knowing that one careless move would lead to their own condemnation by the world, which would denounce them as evil cultists. They would be pariahs, doomed to a life worse than death, possibly executed for their crimes of necessity.

Khoska of course did not share their faith, but he did share their goal of transforming the world. His motivation was basic greed and drive for power, but he felt no shame at this realization, for he knew that he would leave the world a better place for his efforts-at least in the long run.

Yet, he could not help but admire the Krovell’s selfless dedication to their ideals, and to their religion. They possessed, in fact, a child-like faith that Phillip Khoska barely grasped even when a child his own self. His knowledge of their dedication, in combination with their obvious talents and abilities, made them perfect allies. He meant to turn what was at the time he joined it an international criminal cartel, of extensive wealth shielded by vast legitimate holdings, into what would soon become the foundation for a new government ascending from the ashes of the burnt out corpse of the old one, the death of which they would all be obligated to preside over.

They moved slowly up the sidewalk to the door, and then entered, for perhaps the last time, the newly repaired and refurnished former Krovell Funeral Home, now their own private residence.

“Ah, it is good to be home again,” old man Martin said. “After all of these years, of being away for so long, now at last I can feel some semblance of real peace.”

Louise rolled her eyes and chuckled.

“Really, Martin, you are such a complainer,” she said. “What was it you said to me not too long ago? I believe it was something along the lines of ‘wherever a man’s heart is, there is his true home, and if a man’s heart is with God, the entire world is his home.’”

“Oh, that is true, my dear, but at the same time, you must understand, this was after all the home of my childhood. There are so many happy memories here. I still remember the time we buried the old gypsy out in the back yard, with the trunk that contained Radu’s remains. I wanted to open it so badly, but I was told-in no uncertain terms, mind you-that this was not yet meant to be. Our dear Marlowe, God bless him, just doesn’t know how lucky he is to be chosen to be such an important vessel. Our Marlowe, chosen to carry the sins of the world to their ultimate destruction-who would have thought we would actually live to see it all begin to unfold?”

Louise Krovell cleared her throat then at the notice of Phillip Khoska standing in the doorway to the dining room, standing and listening intently to Martin’s reveries.

“Phillip, you are looking well,” Louise said.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ve never felt better, just as you promised. What was this about Marlowe carrying the sins of the world?”

“Oh, you mustn’t mind Martin,” Louise replied as Martin approached their confederate. “He does tend to engage in a great deal of symbolic hyperbole. You should really hear him recite Hamlet’s monologue one of these days. You would think he had composed the stanzas the way he carries on sometimes.”

Martin reached out and shook Phillip’s hand heartily.

“That was how I won her, you know. I tell you, my friend, recite poetry to a woman, and if you can make it seem as though it comes from the heart-if you can make it your own, as they say nowadays-you will win her every time. A little blackberry wine used strategically in conjunction with it doesn’t hurt either, by the way.”

“He was quite original, I must say. Even my gypsy blood and wiles were unprepared for the prospect of being wooed by a recitation from The Tempest. Of course, our marriage was an arranged one, you know, but still, Martin had a way of making it seem like the blossoming of true love. I have no doubt that had we met as strangers, the end result would be much the same as it was.”

“So, when do I get to meet this mysterious Master, as you call him?” Phillip asked expectantly.

“Very soon, my friend, very soon indeed”, Martin answered. “He and his new bride should be here anytime now. He is more than delighted with your contribution to our cause. And now, of course, that your private holdings will soon be once again recognized as legitimate, as they once were, now that your legal status has been cleared up and your innocence proclaimed, we all know we can count on you to keep your word.”

“The orphanage, of course,” Phillip said. “That seems a small price to pay, actually. I will gladly see to their needs, and beyond that. They will want for nothing, I promise you. I likewise assure you that they will be raised in the true faith, as you require. In fact, the paperwork has already been prepared, as you requested.

“I am only sorry our original plans did not come to fruition. They would be among the top elites of the world had we succeeded. At any rate, their lives shall yet be one of privilege, tempered with knowledge, faith, and responsibility.”

“And you will keep the doors open to any other children that might be in need, and likewise raise them in the true faith of our Lord Jesus Christ?” Martin asked.

“Of course,” Khoska assured him. “Of what use is wealth and power if you don’t use it to leave the world a better place, to what extent you are able?”

“Oh, that is such a relief,” Louise declared. “We so much feared that you would renounce your earlier promise seeing as how we failed unfortunately to live up to our end of the bargain. You would certainly have every right to do so.”

“There is always tomorrow,” Khoska replied. Martin and Louise looked to each other with a knowing glance.

“That is very true, Phillip,” Martin replied. “Tomorrow is a promise that never fades. The children are indeed the future of the world. Their needs are of paramount importance. Not only their material needs, as important as these are, but their emotional and spiritual needs as well. Far too many children in this world live lives of deprivation. They know not the joys of art and music, of great literature, and as such, their souls starve every bit as much as the bodies of the materially destitute. The result, I am afraid, is a world famished of spirit and bereft of hope.

“You, Martin, can provide for their sustenance, and set an example for others to hopefully follow.”

“So,” Louise said, “I trust you are finding the guest room to your liking.”

“Of course,” Phillip said. “It used to be Marlowe’s, I think you said? It is actually quite comfortable.”

“If you would be a dear and go up there for just a while longer, we will let you know when the Master arrives. We do need to speak to him in private when he first gets here. It has been a good while since we have seen him and, to be frank, we are a bit selfish when it comes to what little time we get to have with him. I do hope you understand.”

“Of course,” Khoska replied. “If I by some chance fall asleep, please feel free to wake me.”

Martin turned to walk up the steps, but before he got halfway up, he stopped and turned.

“I guess you know all about Morrison,” he said. “It was really too bad in a way. At one time, he had such a brilliant career ahead of him. He might have been useful. It’s too bad they had to die, but I guess it’s like they always say-everybody is expendable.”

“They?” Martin asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Morrison’s father Randall, of course,” Khoska replied. “It’s ironic, in a way. He had hopes at one time of being Governor of Maryland, maybe a Senator. He even entertained dreams of possibly one day being President. He always had these dreams of political accomplishment. He always wanted Greg to follow in his footsteps. He told me once that the American people loved their political dynasties, and that it was a part of their European heritage they could never throw off. It was up to people like him to provide them the leadership they all inwardly craved.

“Instead, he and his youngest son end up killed in a plane crash in the Himalayas, and now Greg dies of heart failure in the middle of a Senate Sub-Committee investigation of his criminal activities. It’s almost sad. That’s saying something coming from me. I never considered myself the sentimental type.”

Martin and Louise looked at each other, as though neither was sure exactly how to respond and looked to the other for the answer. Finally, Louise cleared her throat.

“It is really understandable, Phillip, if you are experiencing regrets as to the fate of your wife and children, and of course your grandchildren. As we explained, it was an unfortunate necessity. All the same, we certainly understand your grief. Matters such as this are never easy.”

Phillip looked at them both, and then looked away briefly, and breathed deeply.

“It had to be done,” he replied at length. “My only regret is that it seems to have been for nothing. I don’t fault you for that, in that you tried your best. Still, sometimes I wonder if they could have been brought into the circle. Are you sure-“

“The Khoska bloodline has to perish from the earth, Phillip. That is true not just of your own children, but all of the Khoskas who are of childbearing age. At some point, they would revive the heresy that has cursed the world. After all, it was they who drove underground we who make up the true elect, the faithful followers of the Lord Jesus Christ. It is they who have been at the forefront of persecuting us throughout the centuries.”

“As for the Morrisons, they had to die due to their own greed for power-a fatal flaw in far too many of us. Yet, in death, there is a resurrection and a renewal. This will prove true of your own bloodline as well, my friend. Remember, we are all one within the universal whole. There is no death-truly, there is not. There are only varied modes of existence.”

“Of course,” Phillip replied as he turned once more to walk up the stairs. “Be sure and wake me when the Master arrives.”

They watched him walk up the steps towards Marlowe’s old room until he disappeared out of sight.

“I think he knows,” Louise said. “What do you think?”

“Perhaps he does, but even so, it shall do him precious little good,” Martin said as he turned off the television. “What do you say we break out the wine? It seems most appropriate for the occasion.”

“I will gladly do the honors,” Louise replied, and was soon off into the kitchen as Martin sat down upon the recliner. “Besides, this is a special occasion, and it would not be appropriate for you to hold back in miserly fashion as you are so often prone to do.”

“I would not dream of such a thing on a night such as tonight,” Martin replied defensively.

“Just the same, I am happy to do the honors,” Louise said as she made her way toward the kitchen. “You just sit back and relax.”

“Yes, it is good to be home,” he muttered once, as much to himself as to Louise, now in the kitchen, from where she asked him what he said.

Before he could respond, however, Martin felt the cold steel of the revolver up against the back of his head, and a steel-toned voice command him to “turn around real slow.”

Martin did as commanded, only to see the cold, determined glare of James Berry, his service revolver pointed at his head.

“Well, I see that you have recovered quite nicely,” he observed. “So, what brings you here James?”

“Can it, you old fart,” Berry replied. “I’ve recovered all right. What you didn’t realize, when I was infested with that spore from Marlowe, is that it tends to increase your susceptibility more towards diseases you are already prone to catch, which in my case happened to be allergies and influenza-things I’ve dealt with all my life. When Chou treated me for them, he drove the allergies back into remission and cured the flu that was kicking my ass.

“Unfortunately for you, when he did that, he also eradicated the damned spores from my system. Once they were gone, Marlowe’s influence went with them.”

“Ah, but you have been a bad, bad boy James,” Martin reminded him as Louise now re-entered the living room, carrying a tray upon which sat a bottle of wine, along with two chilled wineglasses.

“As you can see, Louise, we have an unexpected visitor.”

“So I see,” Louise said as she nonchalantly placed the tray on the coffee table in front of where Martin now took a seat on the sofa, and where Louise now joined him.

"Why, Lieutenant Berry, what is that foul odor emanating from you. If I didn't know better I would swear you must have just bathed in garlic?"

"Why, Louise, I think you are right," Martin concurred. "You will never attract a wife that way, Lieutenant. Well, of course, that might be all for the best after all, as we are all so unfortunately aware."

"Shut the fuck up," Berry hissed. "I'll do the talking here."

“You aren’t going to shoot us, are you, Lieutenant Berry?” Louise asked. “Surely you don’t think such drastic measures are necessary in the case of two old invalids such as me and Martin, do you?”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to shoot two old rattlesnakes like you two, but no I hope that won’t be necessary,” Berry said. “I want answers, and I damn well better believe what I hear. Like for example, I want to know who is really behind all this shit. Marlowe obviously ain’t behind it, and you two are too hands-on to be the real ringleaders. Everybody else is either dead or no more than pawns, like Chou and me. So what in the hell is going on here, and why?”

“Very well, Lieutenant Berry, we will tell you, everything you want to know. We will leave nothing out. First, though, will you consider joining us in a bit of wine? This is a fine vintage, from Romania. It comes from the days of the Phenariots. It is really quite exquisite.”

“Do you really think that is wise, Louise?” Martin asked reservedly.

“Oh, gracious, Martin, you are so selfish,” she replied.

“As tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll pass,” Berry said with obvious sarcasm as Louise poured first one glass, and then another. Martin took a long, languorous sip and closed his eyes in obvious satisfaction.

“Now this was truly worth the wait,” he said as Louise sipped her glass in turn.

“Before I answer your questions, I really have to wonder if you are sure you really want to know,” Louise said. “The truth can be a harsh companion, Lieutenant, especially for those on whose hands are so much blood as yours.”

“You should be an expert on that,” Berry hissed. “Any blood I shed was while under the influence of”-

“Really now, are you sure?” Martin asked with his eyes now wide with skepticism. “I do wonder what your dear, departed wife might have to say about that. You are going to have to answer for her death one of these days, you know, in addition to so many other things-many of which you did well before we ever came into the picture, I might add.”

Berry bristled at this, and seemed ready to lash out, yet restrained himself.

“My wife’s death was an accident,” he protested.

“Oh, of course,” Louise replied with a cackle. “The two of you fought because she discovered your affair with our dear departed Marnie Moloku, which occurred while she was yet just a young, naive, love-struck teenage girl. Later, of course, you engaged in yet another series of liaisons with her mother Doris. Oh, and let us not forget your corrupt dealings with our good friend Voroslav.”

“Need I also remind you,” Martin added, “of your part in the murder of Jason Talbert, as per the orders of Phillip Khoska? Should it prove necessary, it would certainly be no problem for me to call Mr. Khoska downstairs here in order to refresh your memory.”

“Phillip Khoska-is here?” Berry asked.

“He most certainly is,” the old man replied with a sudden twinkle in his eyes. “He is here to meet the same person you are so interested in, and who shall be here momentarily. He is here to meet the Master. Who knows, James, maybe this is fate’s way of affording you an opportunity to acquire absolution for your many and varied sins-some of which are, as we have noted, of quite a heinous nature.”

“My absolution will come from making restitution for my crimes and doing whatever is necessary to gain forgiveness for my sins. I know full well that I have a hell of a lot to make up for. I intend to start by taking the two of you in and seeing that you are charged and convicted in a court of law. Whoever your master is, I’m sure somehow I can make sure he joins you.”

“Oh, really, James, and just what do you propose to charge us with?” Martin inquired. “Might I suggest you begin with the rather ingenious plan we hatched to resurrect the spirit of an ancient Romanian nobleman, and to insure that this vampire took possession of the body of our heroin-addicted grandson? I’m sure the jury will be on the edge of their seats.”

“Especially once they hear that the spirit in question is that of the brother of Dracula himself,” Louise added with a delighted chuckle.

“As far as any crimes that we might have committed, the only thing on which you have any real evidence, which is entirely circumstantial, is our presence at the Baltimore Sun immediately prior to the murder of Mr. Desmond. As it happens, our presence there was for a very legitimate reason. Mr. Desmond sought to inform us of the truth regarding our heritage. It seems that Father Khoska and I our half-brothers, though thankfully this is not on the Khoska side.”

“We’ll see what Grace has to say about all that,” Berry said. “She was there too. You two are up to your eyeballs in everything that has happened. I am past caring about what happens to me, and unlike David Chou, I know more than enough to put all of you people away for good. I intend to do just that.

“So go ahead and enjoy your wine. It might well be the last little bit of pleasure you ever know. Whatever happens, you sure as hell ain’t going to live out the rest of your lives here as though you are a couple of respectable old retirees living out your last days in comfort and serenity.”

To Berry’s amazement, Martin and Louise looked at each other lovingly, and then entwined their arms as they finished the last of their wine. They then looked with a gaze of contentment toward Berry.

“You misunderstand our intentions, Berry,” Martin said. “We didn’t come back to our home here to live. We came here to die.”

Before Berry could respond, the lights went out as a sudden onrush of wind blew throughout the house, bringing with it a foul, stifling odor that made Berry’s senses reel as the two elderly Krovells merely looked upward, as through addressing an unseen presence.

“Welcome back, old friend,” Martin said. “We have awaited your return. We are of the hopes that you and your beloved wife will find this place to your pleasure.”

“We trust that you will kindly see to our remains as we prepare to take our leave of this mortal veil of woe,” Louise added as the wind blew ever harsher throughout the house. It dislodged from the wall an old still life that had been in the family for three generations, in addition to a vase that sat precariously upon a ledge. Berry looked all around him in mounting terror as the Krovells, smiling, leaned back on the sofa and leaned against each other, Martin’s arm around Louise, who laid her head upon his chest.

Suddenly, Berry heard the sounds of someone knocking from an adjacent room, the one that had previously been the Funeral Home office. The sounds had a desperate tone to them, and as Berry approached it, he saw that it was bolt locked from the outside.

“Hold on just a minute,” Berry commanded, as he surveyed the lock and the doorknob. Bracing himself, he first kicked with as much force as he could muster against the door, then throwing the entirety of his body weight against the solid oak door. After the third such attempt, the door finally gave way. Berry entered cautiously, only to see the form of Phelps, the tabloid photographer, tied to a chair behind the desk of the recently refurbished room. He had somehow managed to free his mouth from the confines of a gag stuffed inside it, while yet tied securely to the chair.

“Please-you have to help me,” Phelps begged desperately.

“How long have you been here?” Berry asked as he hurriedly loosened the rope, then tearing at the knot that bound Phelps securely to the chair.

“What the hell is going on out there?” Phelps asked in terror while ignoring Berry’s question.

“You probably know more than I do,” Berry asked. “You’ve been sending photographs of Marlowe Krovell and other things to the Inquirer, from what I hear. So what happened, did they figure out you was spying on them, or what?”

“That wasn’t me,” Phelps swore. “That thing-that thing that wears the gray robe, he was the one that used my camera. My God, he took his hood off once and”-

Phelps was obviously in a state of shock and found it hard to continue.

“So they’ve been trying to set up Marlowe to take the fall for all this stuff, just like I figured. The only thing I can’t figure out is, why didn’t they just kill you?”

“Grace,” Phelps answered as the wind blew harder, it seemed, with each passing second. “She told them not to hurt me. They’ve been trying to convert me to their fucked up cult, though. Please, we have to get out of here. That thing is coming, and he ain’t human, he’s”-

By this time, though, the fury of the wind all but drowned out his words, and even though he shouted, it was difficult for Berry to hear him. Yet, as Berry looked outside, what struck him was how calm it seemed. The wind was entirely within the house. He motioned for Phelps to follow him. Phelps did so, and as they entered the living room, he looked over toward where Martin and Louise Krovell sat on the sofa, both of them obviously dead, staring out into space, both of them smiling contentedly.

Suddenly, the wind stopped, and everything became engulfed in a deadly silence, all within the space of less than a heartbeat. Then, from upstairs, a terrified scream pierced the atmosphere, followed by desperate pleading. Berry recognized the frantic cries of Phillip Khoska.

“I’m getting the hell out of here,” Phelps said. “If you’re smart you will too.”

With that, Phelps was out the door, but Berry approached the steps, determined he would make things right, even if it cost him his life. He trudged carefully up the stairs, until he approached the room from whence the desperate cries yet emanated-the former bedroom of Marlowe Krovell. He listened for but a few seconds, as he stood by the door. Finally, he swiftly threw open the door, and entered. At first, he saw nothing but the furniture tossed violently about the room. Soon, however, he heard desperate, mournful moaning.

“Khoska, is that you?” a terrified Berry demanded as he aimed his gun.

Suddenly, Berry saw a bloody hand reach for the edge of the far side of the bed. Then, a horror stricken Phillip Khoska pulled himself up over the edge, as he tried desperately and painfully to rise while looking straight at Berry with pleading, yet hopeless eyes.

“Please-help me,” he begged. At that moment, however, an unseen forced pulled him down to the floor and out of Berry’s sight as a different head appeared-a head of dark, raven black hair. Berry watched in horror as Khoska’s desperate screams finally stopped and Berry could hear his body ripped open.

“Who’s there?” he demanded. “Come out now.”

The head raised up above the edge of the bed, to reveal the now lunatic features of Lynnette Khoska, her eyes deranged with the satiated lust filled by the blood of her father, her grinning, cadaverous face caked with his blood and gore as her eyes shone with an intensity that was maddening to behold.

She looked at Berry and growled like a wild animal. Then, she laughed, as Berry backed up out of the room. He turned and fled desperately down the steps. Upon reaching the first landing, he jumped the rest of the way down, but caught his left heel on the second to the bottom step, from which he plunged head first to the floor. He rose painfully as he felt a presence hovering over him.

He looked up in agony and terror at the gray robed and hooded figure that towered over him. He raised his gun to aim at the creature, but he just stood there. Berry aimed, and pulled the trigger, but the gun jammed on him, would not fire. Desperately, Berry flung the gun at the rapidly approaching figure, but the gun seemed merely to bounce harmlessly off the thick, bulky robe. Berry lowered his head and cried. The figure stood over him and watched curiously, as Berry mumbled a frantic prayer as he repeatedly made the sign of the cross.

“What are you going to do to me?” Berry asked in a whining, defeated voice.

“Nothing,” the figure answered. “You have already done it to yourself.”

Berry looked up as the figure then began to remove the hood from his head. Berry found himself staring into the reddened eyes and fire-scarred face of Bradley Marlowe, who looked down upon him with a sneer.

“You are already a dead man,” he said. “You just don’t know it yet. Or, maybe you’ve just forgotten it. Maybe you are just a mere ghost of a man. Maybe everything you’ve done these last few years has been nothing but a dream that you need to wake up from. When you do, maybe you will forget all of that as well.”

Berry cried as Brad Marlowe’s eyes pierced inside him, burning into him with a laser-like intensity, as Berry cowered and attempted to hide. Brad Marlowe stood there over him and, producing Phelps’s camera from inside his robe, he pointed it at Berry, now crouched on the floor in a fetal position. The last thing Berry heard was the lens shutter snap as a light flashed. When he woke up, he felt a strong handclasp onto his shoulder as more camera flashes permeated the room as they assaulted his retinas, obliging him to throw up his hands in a futile defensive posture.

“Get up, James,” he heard someone say. “It’s over now.”

He looked up to see his former partner from the Baltimore Police Department, Lieutenant Frank Anderson, towering over him, as another detective approached. Yet another detective walked around the room, snapping pictures. Berry rose in confusion.

“They’re both dead,” the approaching detective informed Anderson. “It looks to me to be poisoning. I’m suspecting hemlock, probably in their wine. Might even be a case of a suicide pact, if not murder-suicide.”

“Who are you?” Berry asked the unknown detective, who looked at him strangely.

“Come on, James, you’ve known me for seven years now. I’m Frank’s new partner now, for going on four months.”

Berry looked at the man and at Anderson, as though what the man said just did not register in any kind of sensible manner, as another detective, a woman, came down from upstairs.

“I don’t know what went on up there but there’s blood all over the damned place,” the fourth detective said to the one taking the pictures. “You better go up there and get some pictures fast.

“All right James, what’s happened here?” Frank demanded.

Berry looked around as more detectives filed into what was obviously a crime scene. He did not understand any of this.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing here,” Berry said. “How did I get here? What is this place?”

“This is the Krovell Funeral Home,” Frank answered suspiciously. Berry looked at him as though he had never heard of such a place.

Frank helped Berry to his feet, but Berry had to lean on him. He had twisted his ankle, but did not even remember how he had done that. They made it outside the house, where Berry saw Phelps, shivering while wrapped in a blanket, drinking coffee as uniformed officers stood around him, along with yet another detective who seemed to be taking his statement.

“Who is that guy, is he a suspect?” Berry asked. “He looks like he’s in a bad way.”

Frank just looked at his old partner with a mixture of sadness and apprehension.

“James, what were you doing here? You don’t remember anything at all?”

Berry stopped suddenly, as though a veil lifted.

“Oh shit I forgot,” he said. “We were supposed to go to the game tonight weren’t we? Oh hell, Frank, I’m sorry. I’ve been looking forward to this game for two weeks. That new pitcher the Orioles got is something else. We might make the play-offs this year, huh?”

“What new pitcher?” Frank asked, aware that suddenly Berry seemed to have already forgotten the events of the last few minutes.”

“Oh, you know, Gordon Reynolds,” Berry replied. Frank wiped his brow and stifled a gasp. The Orioles traded Reynolds to the Twins after his rookie year, more than twenty years ago. He never worked out to expectations, but at the time, the Orioles had put many of their hopes for future seasons on the young firebrand fastball pitcher from Kansas.

Frank opened the back door to his car and helped Berry crawl inside the back seat area. He was not sure where he was going to take him. He obviously needed medical attention. He hated the prospect of taking his old partner in for questioning, but at the same time hated not to be there. He was obviously not faking. Frank had known Berry for far too long. Just as he had for some time been suspicious of his recent activities, he now knew something profound had happened to his old friend. As he got into the front seat, Berry knocked on the back window. Frank looked back towards him.

“I want to make it up to you,” Berry said. “Maybe we can take the girls out for dinner sometime next week. You know what they say about wives always worrying about their husbands with their partners on the job. It always helps to keep them a part of your life. You know, so they’ll know it ain’t all constant life-threatening danger and gunfire. What do you say?”

Frank looked inside Berry’s eyes. They were empty, devoid of reason. He was really in another era now.

“Yeah, James,” Frank said somberly as he started up the car. “I think I’d like that.”

Links To Previous Chapters
Part One
Prologue and Chapters I-X
Part Two
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
PartThree
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XXXX
Chapter XXXXI
Chapter XXXXII
Chapter XXXXIII
Chapter XXXXIV