Lorrieann’s World

* * *

M. Robert Kohler

“Are you ready for your messages, Mr. Kohler?”

M. Robert Kohler, Fortune 500’s Corporate Man of the Year, turned his contemplative gaze away from the window of his penthouse office on the twenty-seventh floor of the glass tower bearing his name. “Yes, Julia. Come on in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kohler caught his reflection on a polished bronze plaque awarded to him from some Japanese mogul hoping to garnish his favor. If nothing else, it makes a good mirror, he chuckled straightening his tie, and smoothing a graying wisp of hair at his temple. To bad I had to liquidate them a month after I acquired them, but only a-hundred mill in earnings is small potatoes. But the plaque is nice.

“Ahem.”

Kohler looked away from his image to see his secretary standing in front of his desk, a bulging calendar book and a stack of pink ‘while you were out’ slips in her hand. “Fire away, Julia.”

“Your accountant, Fred Pederson, wants to know what to tell your wife, sorry, ex-wife—”

“Which one?”

“—the last one—about the stipend fund. Should he go ahead and send her another hundred-thou this month or wait for new instructions.”

Kohler rocked back in his imported leather chair, thoughtfully turning a solid gold letter opener in his hand. “The woman took eight-mill in the settlement and she still needs my hundred-thou?” He shook his head, laughing. “Ah what the hell, tell Fred to send it, along with a note that she should spend every dime on plastic surgery. She looked a bit puckered last time I saw her. Next?”

Julia’s lip curled slightly as she took the note. “Mr. Ludlow from Arthur, Davies and O’Neil has left four messages since yesterday asking for a meeting to discuss your decision to dissolve your interests in Medireach Health Services. He insists the clinics cannot subsist without the funding—”

“Next.” Kohler waved his hand impatiently. Julia understood, crumpling the Ludlow messages in a single wad, dropping them into the chrome wastebasket next to the desk.

Kohler chuckled. He appreciated Julia’s cool detached manner with his decisions. He had all the dealings he could stand with the bleeding heart advocates for this group or that; the environmentalists, the animal rights zanies, and every special interest group in between who besieged him daily, waving their banners of injustice and exploitation, calling him everything from corporate bastard to warmonger. They attacked him daily as though it was his own personal fault that a silly little owl in Idaho was dying for lack of a particular tree that was cut down by one  of his subsidiaries, or that some old woman in Tucson died because some doctor didn’t know the drugs he’d prescribed were not available any longer because Kohler Pharmaceuticals had spun off the research lab developing the drug. Couldn’t they understand the simple concept of wise business decisions?

“Anything else?”

“Combank . . . .”

He sat up straight, anticipating news he had been waiting to hear. She looked down, her grin broadening as she placed the slip of paper on the desk before him. “Congratulations.”

He slapped his knees, his face splitting into a gleeful chortle. “Yes!”

“Ravencroft Savings and Loan has already switched over to the corporate accounts and should be fully integrated in the national system by the end of the month,” she reported. “Assets approaching eight-hundred mill. Not a bad day’s work.”

“A month in the family, we keep the bigger loans, sell off the rest, then dump it off to a smaller holding firm and let it build again.” He clapped his hands together, rubbing them eagerly. “The beauty of it is, Julia, that I can buy them back in about ten years and do it all over again.” He jumped from his chair suddenly, heading to the bar on the far side of the office. “This calls for a toast.”

“It’s only ten am, Mr. Kohler.” Julia chuckled. “And you’ve a pretty full schedule for today.”

Kohler laughed and pulled a can from a small refrigerator. “Julia, you wound me.” He held the can, displaying the label. “V8. Good for the heart, you know.” He winked, and poured the contents into two martini glasses, then carried them across the room, handing one to her. “Cheers.”

She laughed quietly, and took the glass, clinking the rim with his before taking a polite sip. “Thank you.” She placed the glass down, and opened the calendar book to the ribbon that marked the current day. “You have a board meeting in a half an hour, small agenda, not everyone could make it.”

“Who’ll be missing?”

“Jack Ramsey is in Myrtle Beach, golfing, and George Ballard is in Aspen.”

“Again?” Kohler laughed. “I suppose he’s claiming that to be business related? Checking out the corporate condo for us?”

“Of course,” she replied, and went on, efficiently, “after that you have a press meeting at city hall to discuss the stadium construction—we put a great spin on that one, even the EPA is happy.”

Kohler grinned and downed his drink, heading back to the bar to pour another.

“Lunch with the mayor after that and you have an invitation from your son . . . ”

Kohler stopped cold, can poised over the glass. “My son?”

Julia looked up over the rim of her glasses, her tone suddenly changing to something less than businesslike. “It’s the fourth one he’s sent, Mr. Kohler.” She hesitated for a moment, then went on. “I went ahead and fit him into your schedule after the mayor. . . you had the opening, and you’ll be in that part of town anyway—”

“I can’t, Julia. Not today. Send him my regrets . . . I’ll fit him in . . . next month. I promise.”

Julia bit her lip, and scratched a note onto the calendar. Good girl. Just do your job and don’t argue. Oh, don’t look at me that way, I said I’ll see him next month . . . on my terms. Is it my fault the kid has no head for business? English lit! God, what sort of degree is that to have in this day and age. He’s lucky I pay his tuition . . . He turned away, but still felt her disapproving gaze on his back. He chided himself for his waffling where his son was concerned. Surely a man who had built the empire he had from the ground up, had the wherewithal to make sound decisions regarding his own family—four failed marriages notwithstanding. Four marriages that had yielded him only one son to place his hopes of lineage on, and that one had utterly turned his back on everything M. Robert Kohler stood for.

He went to set the V8 down when a movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he glanced toward the sliding doors to the balcony. “Did you see that?” he asked.

“What, sir?”

“There’s a man on my balcony . . . I just saw him walk by the glass.”

“I didn’t see anyone.”

He pushed the door open and stepped out onto the balcony, looking both left and right. The door quietly slid closed on its automatic spring. At finding no one out there, he laughed to himself. “Must have been a bird.” He turned to go back into his office, reaching for the latch on the door, then jumped back, suddenly startled by the reflection of the black bearded man he saw in the glass, who appeared to be standing right behind him. He spun on his heal, losing his balance in the process as he grasped at the railing—too late to keep himself from toppling over the edge.

* * *

Maggie Coughlin

“God, I hate stakeouts,” Maggie Coughlin groaned, resting her head on her bent wrist in the front of the non-descript sedan they’d been issued for the assignment. She glanced at the glow of her digital watch. “Ten o’clock and alls . . . dull.” They’d been parked in the lowest level of an inner city parking garage for more than five hours, staring at the door to the stairwell that led to the Medireach Clinic. An informant had given them a tip that one of the most notorious drug-dealers in Ravencroft, a man known only by the moniker ‘Jade’, found that lonely stairwell the perfect place to do business. Even though the information had been sketchy, and the source dubious at best, Maggie had lobbied for the assignment of staking out the garage.

Her partner of eleven months, Ted Baylor, had been fresh out of the academy, and as wet behind the ears as a newborn pup when he’d been partnered with her. Maggie had resented being paired with him in the beginning, but he’d proven his grit a couple of times, and she begrudgingly had to admit that they worked fairly well together. Perhaps not as well as she’d worked with John Knight, her former partner, but good enough.

Ted yawned and reached over the seat for the thermos of coffee. “Refill?”

She pulled the lid off her travel mug and held it out while he poured. “Thanks.”

He drained the thermos into his own mug. “Make that one last. We’re on empty, chief.”

Maggie huffed, shaking her head. “Why do you call me that, Baylor?”

He smirked a little. “Just showin’ respect for my elders. You do have ten years on the force over me, you know.”

“Rookies,” Maggie groaned, rolling her eyes, and they both chuckled a little. “Be careful you don’t trip over my walker when we make the collar, sonny.”

“Right,” he replied with a chuckle, sipping his coffee.

Maggie turned her attention back to the stairwell, staring in both anticipation and dread, waiting for something to happen. Where are you, Jade? Come on, you bastard, don’t disappoint me . . . A flicker beside one of the darkened pillars caught her eye. A tiny flame shot up from a lighter, then disappeared behind a cupped hand and was magically replaced by a glowing orange dot. “You see that?” she whispered.

Ted nodded, instinctually placing his hand on his service revolver. “Is that our boy?”

“No . . . too short, but I’d bet the baby’s college fund that he’s here to do business. No one walks down three levels of garage just to stand in the dark and have a smoke.”

“They do if they ain’t smoking cigarettes,” Baylor pointed out. “The place wreaks of weed.”

“Uh uh.” She shook her head. “That’s a cigarette. Watch, when he drags  Just in and out . . .  no toke to that smoke.”

“Well done, Holmes, I suppose next you’ll tell me what he’s had for breakfast, and how many whores he’s laid in the past week,” Baylor joked. Maggie allowed the sarcasm, recognizing the nervousness in her partner’s voice. This was his first undercover work, and if all went well, his first major bust and his first exposure to the dangers of working drug enforcement.

Maggie could not deny her own trepidation. She’d worked the hard cases before, but not with Baylor, and not since her last encounter with Jade—the day he shot John Knight.

The cigarette tumbled to the floor, leaving a small trail of embers. The man in the shadows pulled up his collar, and started walking slowly toward the stairwell. He flashed his cigarette lighter once, then doused the flame, dropping it back into his pocket. The signal was answered with another flicker from behind the glass window on the stairwell door, and the shadowman quickened his step.

“Show time,” Maggie whispered as she drew her revolver slowly out of its holster. The door latches of the sedan had been heavily greased, allowing the pair to open the doors silently. They slipped out on either side of the car, each crouching as low as possible while holding their revolvers at the ready. Maggie skittered from behind the car door, to a pillar across the lane. She stood up tall, her back pressed against the pillar, and signaled for Baylor to move to the pillar opposite her to flank the stairwell.

Baylor moved as stealthily as a cat, nimbly taking his post behind the pillar. They were close enough to hear the muffled voices coming from the stairwell. Maggie’s hands trembled slightly in anticipation; she had to force herself to wait for the right moment to move, she needed the proof that a deal was going down or Jade would be out on some technicality before the ink on the arrest ticket was dry. Come on, bastard, make the deal. She held her breath when she heard Jade’s familiar, smooth voice.

“You’ve got company,” Jade was saying, in his ever calm, yet dangerous tone, followed by the breathless stammering of the contact.

“No . . . I d’n’t see no one. Honest . . . no one caught my scent comin’ down I swear.”
Maggie signaled Baylor that it was time to move before Jade withdrew. Baylor jumped out from behind the pillar, pistol raised, shouting, “Police! Freeze!”

Shadowman started to run, Maggie jumped out and tripped him, sending him sprawling onto the concrete floor. Jade slunk into the shadow, seeming to melt into the darkness. “Baylor, go!” She shouted. Baylor raced into the darkened stairwell, while Maggie deftly cuffed the shadowman’s wrist to loop of re-bar that protruded from the pillar.

She was two steps from the doorway when she heard the shot, the groan and a series of thuds as Baylor tumbled down the stairs. She was at his side in a flash, shouting obscenities to the darkened stair. “Baylor! My God, Ted . . . Ted!”

Baylor coughed. “I’m . . . it’s ok. Just a fall . . . vest held,” he groaned rolling slowly to his knees, then stood up.

A door slammed on the next level, accompanied by the sound of running feet, and Maggie was certain she’d heard Jade’s smooth, mocking laughter echoing with it. Satisfied that Baylor was okay for the moment, Maggie went back into action. “Go call for back-up, now!” Before he could move to stop her, she was running up the stairs, following the sound of the laughter. The door on the first landing was still swinging when she rounded the stairs. She pushed it open with her hip, emerging into a lime green corridor in the morgue level of the clinic, all the while keeping her gun in front of her. The hallway was dingy, and shadowed at the far end, and all was silent. He’s not here, the door was a decoy . . . she was about to turn and go back into the stairwell when she saw the shadow at the end of the hall. There you are, you son of a bitch.

She raised her gun, and ran down the hall yelling, “Freeze!” She was stunned to see it wasn’t Jade who stepped out of the shadow, but a tall, dark haired man, dressed formally in old fashioned clothing. Before she had a chance to wonder who he was, or why he was there, the shot came from behind, and she saw nothing more.

 

Ten O’ Clock

Spenser Fairbank

The clock on the cluttered bookshelf tolled off the hours, one chime per second for ten seconds, before a gaily painted Bavarian figurine burst out of the little doors to pirouette around a tiny balcony to the tune of some merry little polka. Her dance being finished, the doors sprung open and she snapped back to her hiding place to wait for her next performance, an hour to come.

“Hmm? Must be running fast again.” Spenser pulled his pocket watch from his vest pocket, springing open the cover with his thumb. It validated the Bavarian dancer’s assessment of the time— ten o’clock. “Oh, dear!” He snapped the watch closed and quickly dropped it back into his pocket, jumping from his leather chair, startling the fat tabby sprawled on the desk next to him. “I’m sorry but I’m late again, Horatio. My lecture starts in five minutes.”

He pushed a stack of notes and journals that cluttered his desk aside, searching for his glasses, knocking his pipe holder to the floor, the apple wood tobacco spilling out onto the ancient hardwood. “Where are those blasted glasses!” He went to scratch his head, as the spectacles fell from his forehead down onto his nose. “Oh, there you are,” he muttered with a bit of a chuckle.

Grabbing the tweed jacket from the back of his chair and scooping up the stack of notes he’d made for his final lecture of the semester, he gave a quick glance about the little office he’d called his own for the last twenty-five years. There was so much of his life here that he could not imagine how he would ever be able to pack it up in crates and boxes to be hauled off to some storage bin that the university would provide for him until he found another position. The smell of twenty-five years of journals, notebooks, periodicals, ancient leather tomes of the masters, mingled with the ever-present scent of his pipe and coffee. Three walls of bookshelves were piled high with memorabilia and photographs of his favorite students over the years. He’d been there so long that some of the students he’d taught in recent years were the sons and daughters of those in the oldest photos. Every corner was stacked with magazines and old newspapers. The windows were large and arched at the top, taking up the entire wall behind his desk. A ponderous philodendron snaked around the sill and up the drapery cords and across the curtain rod, making the whole window appear to be encased in some wild jungle. The plant had been there since the beginning as well, and he’d never really taken much notice of it other than to water it once a week. Now, it seemed to look as desperate as he felt; moving it from its well ensconced sill would surely diminish, if not kill it outright.

“Ah, well, parting is such sweet sorrow, is it not, Horatio?”

Sadly, Spenser turned and left the office on his way to deliver his last lecture. The next time he entered that office would be to empty it to make way for a new generation.

Scolding himself for dawdling about his mementos too long, he hurried down the corridor off to the stair well. His office was on the fourth floor of the old Marcus Wainsworth Building—commonly referred to as ‘the attic’ by the student body—the second oldest building at Ravencroft University. He raced over the warped hardwood to the stairway, pattering down the stairs and around the landings, each step as familiar to him as his own hand, his thoughts more focused on the last class he was about to teach rather than watching his way. At the bottom of the stairs, the double paned glass doors were propped open, leaving his way unobstructed across the polished marble foyer. Spenser raced by the doors so quickly, he failed to notice the ‘caution wet floor’ sign that was propping open the door.

“Morning Professor Fairbank!” A student called out, breaking Spenser’s concentration for the moment. He looked up in time to see one of his students disappear through the heavy doors into the lecture hall.

“Oh, hello Rich—,” he began, but never finished his greeting as his feet suddenly turned rebellious under him.

“Careful, sir!” Someone called.

“Watch out!” Someone else shouted, as Spenser struggled to catch his balance with his right foot, while his left foot skated across the polished marble, planted firmly on a wet sponge that had been left by the janitor.

“Help!” he cried as his frantic ballet came to a cataclysmic finale when his head made contact with the marble floor. The last thing Spenser would remember seeing before the blackness overtook him, was the fleeting impression of a tall man, dressed in antique clothing watching quietly from the side.

* * *

Janie Stanley

When the foreclosure letter arrived a week ago, Janie Stanley had been only mildly annoyed, knowing her account was up to date. As a matter of fact, she had been consistently three months ahead on her mortgage for more than fifteen years. She was certain that some young clerk, just learning the data entry, had probably keyed in something wrong and accidentally generated the dunning letter proclaiming Janie to be in default. A simple phone call and a quick check of her account should clarify the error—or so she assumed.

Janie prided herself on her politeness. No matter how tired she was from shopping, or how long she’d had to stand in line, she would take pains to be as pleasant and patient with the tellers at Ravencroft Savings and Loan as possible. She’d seen too many angry bank patrons shout and fuss at those poor girls behind the glass, and on many occasion she’d wanted to kick them right in the pants or yell at them to stop being such meanies! But she never did. She always held her tongue, and made sure that when her turn with the teller came she was a friendly as possible. After a while all the tellers knew her by sight, and would greet her with a smile. A few even argued over who would get to handle Janie’s transaction that day.

Janie was well known with the lady who guarded the vault containing the safety deposit boxes, too. She was there often in the days after David’s accident, to retrieve or return this document or that for the lawyers. Widowhood had forced her to learn the ins and outs of bank accounts and mortgages, insurance policies and codicils, stocks, bonds, wills, and now . . . foreclosure proceedings.

She had called the bank right away when the letter arrived, and was assured that all would be taken care of; yes, her account was in order, yes, the letter was sent in error, no, foreclosure proceedings were not underway. This morning, however, a second notice letter arrived, declaring her twice at fault, first for being late with her payment, second for not responding to the first notice.

Furious, she had dialed the familiar phone number for the bank, expecting Louise, the receptionist to answer as always, “Ravencroft Savings and Loan, how may I help you?” but was stunned to hear an automated message instead, stating, “You have reached Combank Mutual, a Kohler corporation, formerly Ravencroft Savings and Loan. Please listen to the following menu options . . . ”

Janie had had to listen to the message six times and redialed the number twice before successfully navigating her way through a confounding phone maze of menu options, none of them being quite where she wanted to go, and none of them leading to a real human being. Several times she was asked for a pin, and had no idea what sort of pin they had in mind, and where she could possibly find one.

Finally, after more than an hour of nonsense with the phone message, a blessedly human voice answered the phone. “May I have your account number, please?”

“Hello, I’m so glad to finally hear a voice! My name is Janie Stanley, and—”

“What is your account number please?” the voice interrupted, in a flat and emotionless tone.

“Oh . . . I, just a moment, I have to look at my statement, it’s in the other—”

“We’re very busy here, ma’am, please call back when you have everything available. Have a nice day.” The dial tone buzzed in her ear.

“No wait! Please.” She slammed the receiver down, hollering at the letter in her hand, “After fifteen years with you people, I deserve better than this!”

She felt her heart begin to race and she closed her eyes, forcing herself to calm down. “I’ll simply have to go to the bank, and see them in person.”

She freshened her makeup, chose an appropriate sweater, tucked the letter into her purse, along with two years worth of cancelled checks clearly proving her payments had been made. If she’d learned nothing at all since David’s death, it was to have all her paperwork in order before setting out to do battle with the PTB, as he always called them—the powers that be.

Well armed, her confidence bolstered by the strength that came from knowing that she was right, she drove the three miles to the bank calmly, even humming along with the radio. By the time she arrived, and pulled into a parking spot in front of the bank, she was in full control of her anger, and had rehearsed her speech several times silently to herself.

“Lady, you can’t park there!” an impatient voice called to her as she walked away from her car. She turned to see a young man approaching her, wearing a uniform with an embroidered insignia spelling “Kohler Security” in gold braid.

“But, I park there every time I do business here,” she replied calmly, even offering a little smile.

“Not no more, you don’t. Lot’s across the street. Move it.”

Janie pursed her lips, and glared. “Not any more, and yes I am aware there is a parking lot across the street. Will you please explain why I should . . . move it?”

The young man sneered and pulled a pad out of his back pocket, “Because this spot is reserved, and because I told you to move. And you will move, or I’ll write you up. No one but authorized personnel are allowed to park this close to the bank.”

“I see,” Janie said, coolly, retrieving her car keys from her purse. She stalked past the man, and got into her car, slamming the door. Before she pulled out of the spot, she lowered the electric window on the passenger side. “Oh, young man?” she called in a pleasant, grandmotherly voice.

The man leaned down, resting his hand on the car door to look through the window, a smug grin on his face. “Yes?”

“I know you’re just doing your job, so there is no need for any . . . misunderstanding, right?”

“Yes, I am, that’s right, ma’am.” The man stood away from the door, and began to walk away.

“Oh, young man?”

He turned around impatiently, “Yes?”

“Just so there is no misunderstanding, please let me show you how I really feel.” In the most defiant act in her forty-five years, Janie lifted her right hand, folded it into a fist and raised the third finger as she floored the gas pedal and squealed out of the parking spot.

She would have reveled in her rebellion longer had the man with the walking stick not chosen that moment to step off the curb. Janie slammed the break, and cranked the wheel hard to the left, sending her car directly into the path of an oncoming truck.

* * *

Seth Walker

“Sorry to call you out of class, Seth. But I thought it would be better to hear it from me, now, than to get blindsided by the letter going to your home.” Mr. Jonas, the interim head of the English department at Nathan Birnbaum Memorial High School, fumbled with the letter typed on RU letterhead. “I know we haven’t worked together very long . . . ” He sighed, and handed the letter to Seth.

“I didn’t get the scholarship.” It was more of a statement, than a question. Seth had become all too familiar lately with the look and tone the faculty affected before delivering bad news. His senior year had been a study in disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Jonas replied.

Seth let out a heavy sigh, and allowed his overloaded book bag to slide off his shoulder and onto the floor as he dropped down into a chair. He hadn’t truly expected to win the ten thousand dollar scholarship to Ravencroft University he’d applied for by way of an epic essay. But when he had gotten the letter congratulating him on making the semi-finals, and was asked for a second essay, he’d allowed himself the luxury of optimism. When his second essay made it to the finals, and the prize was within his reach—there were only two finalists—he’d begun to believe he had finally caught a break, and his dream of going to RU on scholarship would truly happen.

Seth would not have even entered an essay if not for the encouragement of Mr. Stanley, the former head of the English department. Seth had struggled throughout all of his school years, often being shunted from one special-ed class to the next. But for whatever reason, early in Seth’s freshman year, Mr. Stanley had taken a bit of extra time with him, helping him to understand the Shakespeare he’d been assigned to read. During their one-on-one help sessions, Mr. Stanley always seemed to explain the complicated text in a way that made sense, but when it came time to take the tests, Seth would barely be able to garnish a passing grade. But one afternoon, Mr. Stanley asked Seth to stay after class and had surprised him with a pop quiz, delivered orally. Seth aced the quiz, and it was then that Mr. Stanley took the extra step that turned the corner for the young man by recognizing the symptoms of dyslexia.

Soon, Seth was receiving help he never knew he needed, or was even available, and a special program was developed just for him where he was able to take his tests differently than the other students. Before his freshman year was out, Seth had gone from barely passing to the honor roll. His life had brightened considerably then, particularly at home, where his father had finally begun to show some interest in his son. Earning his father’s respect had been a never-ending challenge. Years of discouragements and verbal beatings on report card day had finally come to an end when Seth presented his first report card of straight As, and his father had actually told him he was proud of him. And he owed it all to Mr. Stanley.

The day Seth found out he’d made the finals, he’d nearly cart wheeled down the corridor to Mr. Stanley’s office to show him the letter. But when he arrived at Mr. Stanley’s door, he was met by a group of dour faced teachers, and a few sobbing students. Seth had been so excited about his letter that he’d not paid attention to the morning announcements, and had not heard the principal call for a moment of silence—Mr. Stanley had been killed in a single car wreck on his way home from school the night before.

Mr. Jonas leaned forward, placing a hand on Seth’s shoulder. “There are other schools, Seth. Other scholarships. Baker Tech, the community college over in Falldon, comes to mind. They’ve an excellent program for their size. If you’d like, I can make some calls for you.”

A one-legged chimp could get into Baker. Seth shook his head, not looking up to meet Mr. Jonas’ gaze. “It was more than just a scholarship, Mr. Jonas,” he replied quietly, stuffing the letter haphazardly into his book bag. “It was everything.”

“It may feel that way now, but chin up, there’s always options. Come see me again tomorrow. I’ll have a list of alternatives for you,” the teacher said, then crossed the room and opened the office door, signaling the end of the meeting.

Seth hefted his bag onto his shoulder, gave the teacher a half smile and left without saying anything more. It was only ten in the morning, and he still had four classes left that day. He headed down the science corridor toward his biology class, then impulsively turned, and started walking toward the exit door instead. He kept his eyes on the door at the far end of the long corridor, the daylight spilling through the wired window as he walked, each step a bit faster than the last until he was running.

A teacher stepped into the hall way, shouting, “Mr. Walker! Slow down! Where are you going?”

Seth kept running, his heart beginning to race. He felt the heat rising in his cheeks as his vision started to blur through the moisture that was forming on his lids. It was everything! It was . . . I’m not stupid, Papa!

“Walker! Where’s your hall pass?”

Seth charged past the teacher, ignoring her, hearing only the echoes of his father’s old verbal assaults. Why won’t you apply yourself . . . special program my ass! You’re just lazy . . . you’ll never amount to anything . . . you’re different . . . you’re stupid . . . no college will take a lazy kid . . . you’ll wind up at Baker with all the other losers . . .

“I’m not stupid!” he yelled, throwing himself against the door, it crashed against the doorstop and slammed closed behind him. The front stairs of the old school were steep and made of concrete. There were fifteen stairs that ended at a brick walkway. Seth had descended these stairs hundreds of times, but never at this pace, and never half-blinded by tears. Three steps down, he was startled by the sudden appearance of an oddly-dressed man standing on the first landing. Seth jagged to the left to avoid plowing the fellow over, but it was then that he lost his footing and tumbled head over heels to the bottom of the concrete steps.

* * *

Elizabeth Staunton

“Dr. Staunton to ER stat, Dr. Staunton to ER stat.”

Elizabeth Staunton sighed, and dropped the nearly full foam cup of coffee into the wastebasket in the doctor’s lounge. This had been the first break she’d taken in nearly nine solid hours, and she doubted that the one mouthful of caffeine she’d managed to swallow before the page came would be enough to keep her from fading, but there was no choice. She wished she could just ignore the page for once and slip into some empty examining room for a quick nap. But her greater self would not allow her to consider such an act seriously for more than half a second.

She dashed through the swinging ER doors, automatically grabbing a paper mask from the bin and tying it behind her head before the doors even swung closed behind her. She scrubbed up quickly, then grabbed a pair of latex gloves and had them pulled on as soon as the ambulance access doors flung open. A quad of paramedics, two leading a gurney the other two juggling various IV lines attached, rushed their patient into T-1—trauma room one. Two agitated looking police officers followed, one giving a nod to Elizabeth.

“Hey, doc Staunton.”

“What we got?” she asked, hurrying up to the gurney. Two nurses appeared as if by magic, taking over for the paramedics.

“GSW to the shoulder. His buddy’s on his way to the morgue,” the officer replied.

Elizabeth moved the med pack the paramedics had placed on the wound to get a better look. “Looks like close range.”

“Yeah, real close,” the cop confirmed. “Deal gone bad. He took it in the shoulder and still managed to get the gun away from his contact. Plugged him right between the eyes.” He shook his head, disgusted. “You watch, some fast talking lawyer will get him off on some self-defense plea, and he’ll be right back out there dealin’ again.”

“We need OR2 ready, now!” Elizabeth called over her shoulder to one of the nurses, ignoring the officer’s sermonizing. “There’s way too much blood here for this to be just a shoulder wound.”

The nurse glanced up to the patient’s face, scowling. “God, he’s just a kid. Why do they do this to themselves?”

“It’s not my job to know why. I’m only here to keep them alive.”

The man on the gurney began to moan slightly, his eyes fluttering open.

“Can you hear me, sir?” Elizabeth asked, instinctually reaching for the small flashlight she kept in her pocket. He moaned again, and she lifted one eyelid, shining her light into his pupil. It responded immediately, shrinking under the assault of the light. “Can you hear me?” she said again, examining the other eye.

“Get that fucking light out o’ my eyes!” the patient growled, one arm suddenly swinging, knocking the flashlight from her hand. In the next second, all hell broke lose in trauma room one when the wounded man rolled himself from the gurney, knocking Elizabeth to the floor, closing his fingers around her neck. Pandemonium reigned around her; police officers shouting warnings, the crash of a steel instrument tray falling to the floor, panic stricken screams from nurses and patients alike, the sounds of running feet and slamming doors, and obscenities being exchanged. The world began to fade as she struggled to keep from being strangled.

Another instrument tray crashed to the floor and at the same moment, the hands released their grip on her throat. She opened her eyes slowly, relieved, thinking the police officers had subdued the patient, but before she could move from the floor, a shot rang out, sounding like a bomb going off in her head. She blinked once, and for an instant was blinded by the glare of the examination lamp, and for that briefest of moments, before the world turned black, she wondered who had allowed the civilian wearing the old fashioned derby into the ER.

* * *

Prologue

Arcana, Day One

Gabriel stepped before the ornate dressing mirror with its amber glass tilted slightly upward on its iron pivot, to get his first look. The image before him stood tall, slender but imposing, dressed in shirtsleeves and shall-collared waistcoat, black trousers seamed with a black satin ribbon down the sides, and smartly polished oxfords topped in lambskin spats. The black tail coat waited on the broad wooden hanger on a dressing stand beside him. His reflected eyes looked back at him from the glass, dull as stone and gray as ash, dry and lifeless. His hair, long and as black as a crow, was pulled back and shone glossy against his head, and his meticulously trimmed beard and mustache stood in stark contrast to his pallid complexion. He tugged at the points of his waistcoat impatiently, and frowned, disappointed in the reflection of his own being.

“I suppose you shall suffice,” he said to the glass, with a shrug, turning away from the mirror for an appraisal from his assistant. “What say you, Malus? Am I . . . appropriate?” Malus nodded, solemnly. Gabriel expected no other response, though he wished for once that Malus would dare to speak his own mind. He turned back to the mirror. “So, is everything in order?”

“As much as . . . humanly possible, Master.”

Gabriel cocked a brow, amused at Malus’ rare display of humor. “Witty.”

“Thank you, sir.” Malus held out a length of black silk in one hand, and in the other, an ornate silver pin—a serpent looping in a sideways figure-eight clasping its tail in its mouth. “Your cravat and pin, sir.”

“Thank you. I’ve waited a long time for this day, Malus. So very long.” He fumbled with the cravat in a clumsy attempt to tie it properly, then turned to Malus with an apologetic sigh. “Would you be so kind?”

Unperturbed, Malus expertly tied the cravat around his master’s collar, fastening it in the middle with the silver pin, and tucking the ends into the top of the waistcoat. He reached for the top coat, then paused, a thoughtful crease on his brow that was quickly banished as he held the garment out for Gabriel.

“What is it, Malus?” Gabriel asked softly, watching the man’s reflection in the glass.

“Nothing, sir.” Malus replied, brushing Gabriel’s shoulder with a small whisk. Gabriel turned, to look at Malus directly. The man shrunk back slightly, holding the whisk between his palms like prayer book. He cast his glance toward the floor and mumbled something.

Gabriel placed his finger under Malus’s chin and gently raised the wizened old face to meet his own. “I know your concern, but it is as it is, my friend. It is far too late to turn back now. The wheels are all turning, the events are taking place as we stand here.”

“Yes, sir.” Malus nodded, the crease returning to his brow. “It’s just . . . ” He shook his head, then crossed the room, plucking a bowler derby from an elaborate wooden hat rack and brought it to Gabriel. “Forgive me for saying so sir, but I’ve been watching this lot who’ll be sent to you, and I fear the odds of any of them stepping up to the task are very slim.”

“Perhaps.” Gabriel offered a rare smile, and placed the hat squarely on his head. “But with stakes as high as these, if my challenge was an easy one, then anyone could take this mantel and wear it as I do, and there would be no need for the challenge that must now take place.”

“High stakes, indeed,” Malus agreed, adjusting Gabriel’s hat so that it sat with a slight tilt on his forehead. “Are you sure the time is now, sir?”

“What know I of time, Malus,” Gabriel answered patiently, idly tracing the silver serpent with one finger. “I only know that the barrier has begun to crumble and the choice of when the time would come was not mine to make. I am, after all, at the mercy of my own master, am I not? He sees fit that the challenge should come now. Please don’t cast a pall of doubt about me, Malus. Confidence, man. All shall be well, you’ll see.” A ghost of a smile crossed Malus’ lips. Gabriel gave him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “Good, man. Now, am I complete?”

“Nearly,” Malus replied, then hurried out of the room. A moment later he returned carrying a large service tray laden with an ornate, silver goblet and a long, polished oaken case, both adorned with the same looping serpent symbol as the pin Gabriel wore on his cravat. “I took the liberty sir, of retrieving this from the vault in the library. I hope I haven’t overstepped.”

“Well thought, Malus!” Gabriel grinned, tipping his head slightly. “As always, your intuition is squarely on the mark.” He reverently opened the wooden case. Though it had been so long that he’d forgotten the last time he’d seen it, the time seemed to vanish as he gazed at the familiar object resting in its black velvet bed. Outwardly, it appeared to be an ordinary walking stick, but Gabriel knew its true nature. He traced his fingers lightly along the length of the shaft, wrought of a single perfectly turned piece of black oak, polished to a near mirror-like shine. The sphere shaped handle was cast of silver, it too polished to perfection. He grasped the sphere and gave a half twist until he heard the faint click, then withdrew the blade that was concealed within the oaken shaft of the walking stick. He smiled, pleased to see the blade was still bright and sharp, before sliding it back into the cane.

He reached for the goblet, and hesitated only for a moment before grasping it and raising it to his lips to sip the liquid it contained.

Malus reached out and covered the bell of the goblet with his hand before Gabriel could drink. “Master? Are you . . . certain?”

Gabriel met his gaze, and smiled kindly to his loyal assistant—his only true friend in the universe. Malus withdrew his hand slowly, and when his master tilted the goblet to drink, he turned his head, pretending not to see the contortions twisting Gabriel’s face as he swallowed the bitter potion. And bitter it was, more bitter than any drink known to mankind, a drink distilled from all the tribulations of mortality, a vintage that had fermented since the dawn of human existence. His hand trembled slightly as the brew trickled down his throat. It burned. God! How it burns! For an instant he wondered if he had already lost, but he closed his eyes and forced himself to remain calm, as his entire being began to quake.

He leaned heavily on the cane, his knees shuddering beneath him. Malus caught the goblet as it fell from Gabriel’s fingers, and reverently placed it back on the tray. Gabriel sank to his knees, his fingers viselike on the silver sphere. Malus began to rush forward to help, but backed away when Gabriel growled a warning for him to stay back, his teeth bared and clenched tightly together.

The tremble in his body radiated into the handle of the cane and down into the shaft. The sphere began to glow, faintly at first, and then more, and more until it was as bright as the sun. Malus fell to his knees, covering his face, sobbing, “Master . . . master . . . ”

A moment passed, and all quieted. Gabriel drew in a long breath—his first. He leaned on the cane, and realized it felt cool in his hand—his first tactile sensation. He looked into the mirror, and his eyes went wide at the reflection of his ruddy face, the drops of perspiration on his brow. His eyes had turned to a bright blue and glistened with tears that trailed down his cheek. He caught a tear on his finger and stared, enraptured by the simple drop. He placed his hand against his chest and felt the thump of his heartbeat, and began to laugh, then sob, then laugh again unabated for several moments, reveling in the sensations around him, feeling for the first time, as all mortals must feel.

In the distance, he heard the rumble of thunder, and knew it would soon begin to rain for the first time in Arcana. For the first time, there would be wind, sunshine, clouds. Night and day would come on a regular cycle, the moon would force the tides, just as she did in the other world—if only for this brief time while the master’s game was played—for mortal beings could not exist whithin an immortal world. But, when the challenge was met and no mortal dwelt here any longer, Arcana would return to the stasis of timelessness in which it had always existed. Oh that it could stay, lush and living, he thought sadly. But then, all living things must die, and that is something the keeper of Arcana can never do.

His hand grasped tightly on the cane again, as another thought crept to his mind, what if none of them are adequate to take this role? Malus’ fear was not without merit—the players his master had chosen seemed impossibly derisory to him as well. He worried on that for a moment, wishing he’d had a say in who would be sent to meet the challenge. He tried to push the worry from his mind; it would not serve him now. After all, he’d taken the first step and it was too late to take it back. He was mortal—for better or worse—and there was no choice but to accept the challenge his master had put before him—to redeem the unredeemable, love the unlovable, console the inconsolable, find a purpose for the lost, and in the doing find the one among them who would become the new keeper of Arcana. It’s impossible! What if none of them is the one? What then? What will become of me? Of Malus? Of Arcana and the other world?

As if in answer to his silent questions, the tray began to rattle. Malus clasped his hand to his mouth, his eyes fixed and wide, staring at the goblet. Gabriel comforted him, his hand on the man’s back, as they watched the goblet begin to shimmer and glow, the rim flanging bell-like, its stem elongating as the base began to shrink. It hovered above the tray, glimmering in midair, taking on the form of an object he had never actually seen in his entire existence, but had feared and dreaded since the beginning, the message of its appearance leaving no room for him to doubt the intentions of his master should he fail to choose a successor—the trumpet had been presented. “I understand,” he said quietly, shuddering as the dreaded instrument melted back into the shape of a goblet.

If he failed, it would not be long before the four held behind the crumbling barrier would awaken to hear the signal that Gabriel was obligated to deliver, that would free them to wreak destruction between the worlds.

Gabriel dropped his head, allowing his first silent tears of sorrow to fall.