The Third Hour

by Richard Devin

  THE THIRD HOUR

  Richard Devin

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities between real life events and people, and the events within this product are purely coincidental.

  Invoke Books

  Print and Digital Editions

  Copyright 2018

  Discover new and exciting works published by Invoke Books at www.InvokeBooks.com

  Print and Digital Edition, License Notes

  This print/ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This print/ebook may not be re-sold, bartered, barrowed or loaned to others. Thank you for respecting the work of this and all Invoke Books authors

  Copyright © 2014 by Richard Devin/Invoke Books

  ISBN: 0692218661

  978-0692218662

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  In Memory

  PROLOUGE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY ONE

  TWENTY TWO

  TWENTY THREE

  TWENTY FOUR

  TWENTY FIVE

  TWENTY SIX

  TWENTY SEVEN

  TWENTY EIGHT

  TWENTY NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY ONE

  THIRTY TWO

  THIRTY THREE

  THIRTY FOUR

  THIRTY FIVE

  THIRTY SIX

  THIRTY SEVEN

  THIRTY EIGHT

  THIRTY NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY ONE

  FORTY TWO

  FORTY THREE

  FORTY FOUR

  FORTY FIVE

  FORTY SIX

  FORTY SEVEN

  FORTY EIGHT

  FORTY NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY ONE

  FIFTY TWO

  FIFTY THREE

  FIFTY FOUR

  FIFTY FIVE

  FIFTY SIX

  FIFTY SEVEN

  FIFTY EIGHT

  FIFTY NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY ONE

  SIXTY TWO

  SIXTY THREE

  SIXTY FOUR

  SIXTY FIVE

  SIXTY SIX

  SIXTY SEVEN

  SIXTY EIGHT

  SIXTY NINE

  SEVENTY

  SEVENTY ONE

  SEVENTY TWO

  SEVENTY THREE

  SEVENTY FOUR

  SEVENTY FIVE

  EPILOGUE

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  Also By Richard Devin

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  TO THE CLASS OF 1977 Fairport High: Your youth and enthusiasm remain with me each day and the memories of our times together in the multi-colored halls of FHS inspire me always.

  Especially to: Leslie Mannix (Plucknette), Mike Stolt, Debbie Jerome (Alderson), Mike Celent and Bill DaRin. The character within each of you, has inspired the characters within each of these pages.

  And to Annabelle and Joseph DePew.

  In Memory

  NONNA, ANTONIA (ANTOINETTE) Rienzi and Nonno, Rocco G. LaFica,

  Thank you for braving the cold stormy seas in 1920 aboard the SS Patria, coming to port at Ellis Island - and giving me life.

  La famiglia ricorda, ama e ti manca.

  PROLOUGE

  JUNE, 1943

  Philadelphia Naval Yard

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania USA

  The second of two massive 75-kilovolt generators was being carefully lowered to the deck of the U.S.S. Eldridge, a 1,240 ton destroyer escort, by the land based crane. The first generator had been set in place without incident earlier this morning and was now being secured to the deck of the Eldridge by a crew of eight seamen, who scurried around and over the generator, bolting it to the ship’s deck. The weight of the generator set on the port side of the deck caused the ship to list a few degrees. Now, with only a few feet remaining before the second generator touched down onto the starboard deck of the destroyer escort, all hands were silent.

  The entire 306 foot length of the Eldridge had already been braided with thousands of feet of copper wire during its construction. Three Radio Frequency transmitters and three thousand 6L6 power vacuum tubes had been installed into a lead coated panel mounted to the super structure of the destroyer escort.

  Four enormous coils of copper wire that would take the electricity produced by the generators, convert it from direct current to alternating current, and step up the power, were secured ahead of the generators delivery. In theory, the steady current of electricity produced via the generators, spun through the cooper coils and then stepped up, would create a harmonic magnetic field that here-to-fore had been unknown.

  “Easy down,” the seaman shouted to another crewman, who repeated the order to another, until the chain of voice commands reached the crane operator. “Easy. Easy,” he repeated, and the entire command chain followed.

  The crane’s motor revved and strained as the generator was slowly moved into place, hovering above the steel reinforced and cross-braced deck pad, where, once in place, it would be bolted and then welded to become one with the Eldridge.

  “Eighteen inches...twelve inches...six inches. Easy now,” the seaman shouted, as he quickly laid himself down onto the deck of the ship. He raised his body up slightly, supporting himself by his toes and fingers, as he eyed the distance between the pad and the generator.

  Several other seamen, in sweat soaked and greased stained t-shirts, took hold of the cables and guided the generator over the seven-inch bolts protruding from the hull of the ship’s superstructure. They pushed and turned the massive machine slowly, until the holes in the base of the generator aligned with the bolts in the ship.

  “We’re there,” a seaman said, waving his hands flat against the deck. An echo of the command continued for several seconds until it reached the crane operator.

  The ship tilted slightly to the starboard side as it absorbed the weight of the second generator, then slowly righted. The tilting and then leveling of the ship created a small wake that crashed into the sea wall, splashing white foaming water onto concrete walls and rocks. Most on deck took no notice of the movement of the ship as it continued a slight sway from side to side.

  Albert did.

  He steadied himself, placing one foot to the side of the other, spreading his legs, and reached for an iron ladder rung. He had not been on a ship for many years; the last time was a great crossing over the Atlantic. He wasn’t fond of the ship’s movements then, and he was even less fond of them now. He took a firmer grip on the rung of the ladder running up the side of the ship’s tower.

  The crane powered down and the cable relaxed as a crew of seamen, electricians, and midshipmen swarmed the machinery, securing it in place.

  “Are you holding up?” Lieutenant Hamilton asked, noting that Albert was still supporting himself with the ladder.

  “Yes. Yes, just fine,” Albert said, his German accent punctuating each word.

  “We’ll be on our way by nightfall,” Lieutenant Hamilton said and checked his watch, silently calculating. “Your quarters are ready for you below.”

  “Very good. I should like to go there now and prepare for the experiment.” Albert took his hands from the ladder, pausing moment
arily, then took a step, his sea legs returning.

  “Corporal Jennings?” Lieutenant Hamilton called out to the young man.

  “Yes sir, Lieutenant?”

  “Kindly show our guest to his quarters.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If there is anything you need, do not hesitate to ask,” Lieutenant Hamilton said, giving an informal salute. “And, Mister Einstein? It is an honor to have you aboard.”

  Legend: A tale told when truth is too dangerous.

  ONE

  SPRING, 2006

  Rome

  3:00 A.M.

  The thought that he should be more careful on the slippery ancient stones had no sooner crossed the mind of Dominic Renzi, when he found himself lying flat on his face on those same cobblestones.

  The light drizzle that fell throughout the city and surrounding Roman countryside all through the day had continued into the early morning hours. It brought with it both a chilling air that seeped into Dominic’s bones—despite his Armani Exchange leather jacket—and a dampness that made for dangerous walking on wet, ancient stonework.

  Dominic saved himself from serious injury, by throwing his arms out at the last second before hitting the stones, but the palms of his hands took the brunt of the fall and they were stinging. He landed, face to the stones, arms under him. His hands molded around the curves and ridges of the stones, that had been carried from the fields that once surrounded the city and the river bed, then laid out all along the Roman city some two thousand years ago. He could feel the wetness seeping into his clothes.

  Of course I landed in a puddle. The thought was both self-effacing and sarcastic.

  Slowly, Dominic began to push himself up. His hands slipped slightly on the sticky wetness of the foul smelling puddle he had landed in, and he struggled for a moment to regain his balance.

  His apartment was just up the road, not more than ten yards. This was not the brightest idea, he chided silently, walking at this early hour with the rain still falling.

  He eased himself up from the roadway and continued to make his way along the few remaining feet with a slight limp to his gait, but without further incident. He leaned against the doorframe to his apartment putting pressure on his left leg. It hurt. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. I didn’t lock it? He shook his head at his own thoughtlessness and justified his lack of action by the lateness of the night and the fact that no one else was out at this time, at least none that he saw. Still, clear thoughts seemed to be a thing of the past. He sighed heavily. I couldn’t even remember to lock my door, what else have I forgotten? He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He couldn’t think about it now. His thoughts were too clouded, filled with indecision. He hated indecision in others and now that’s all his thoughts were, one indecision after another. Taking long late night walks and sleeping until the sun was high, did not make thinking or decision making any easier. It did nothing to clear up his mind. In fact, it might be making everything worse.

  A sudden image materialized in his mind; a lone lamb in an expansive field, baying to an unseen and unresponsive flock. He was that lamb without a flock and certainly no herder. He pondered the biblical reference then closed the door to his apartment. He turned and walked the few steps down the main hallway toward the living room. His left knee ached. Old uneven bricks were just as hard and unforgiving to human skin and bones today as they were when first pried from the earth and laid to form the old Roman streets.

  He leaned against the wall with an outstretched hand, while using the other hand to check his knee. His pants weren’t torn. That’s good. Not that he was a clotheshorse, but he had just purchased these pants, some shirts and the jacket he was wearing, about a week ago—and he didn’t want to have them ruined already. Funds were tight and even shopping at the exchange got to be expensive.

  His left knee took more of the fall than he had previously realized. There was blood soaking through the pants at the knee. Then, glancing to his right knee Dominic noticed that blood covered his pants there, too. He was bleeding from both knees. His eyes skimmed the fabric of the pants from the knee to the hem. They too were stained with the rain-diluted blood.

  He reached out to touch the hem of the pants and noticed that his hand was covered in the thick red liquid. As he pulled his other hand away from the wall, blood, like a watercolor painting, smeared the wall with a reddened handprint, reminding him of the Anasazi Indian rock art he had seen in deserts of Arizona. He had spent two years after high school finding himself, as well as ancient petroglyphs and pictographs, in the mountains of Nevada and Arizona. He didn’t fare very well at finding himself, but he did manage to stumble upon a previously unrecorded trove of pictographs in Sloan Canyon in the Black Mountains of southern Nevada, and he’d received some acclaim for the find. He still had the pictures that appeared with an article on the find in the Las Vegas Review Journal, somewhere.

  After finding the intellect in himself, he decided to find the man and joined the military for a short stint. Dominic never saw any action, save a few exercises in the New Mexico deserts. But he did find a calling—at least he found what he had thought to be a calling.

  His knees were bleeding and so were his palms. He must have hit the roadway harder than he had originally thought. Attempting to avoid contact with any other surface, he made his way to the hallway bath. It wasn’t anything more than a room with a sink and toilet, but being the American he was, he still referred to it as a bathroom, just as he refused to call the apartment a “flat.” Something his onetime housekeeper, a local woman from his church, could never understand. “Toletta, non una stanza del bagno,” she kept telling him.

  “I know it’s a toilet,” he would respond. Then he’d call it a bathroom again, just to get her going. He couldn’t afford the housekeeper anymore, so now he was free to call the room whatever he wanted, without outside commentary.

  Tapping at the faucet handle with his elbows, he got the water to pour out. A little too cold, but he couldn’t make an adjustment with bloodied hands, so he just let the numbing cold flow over his flesh.

  The water ran red, then clear. He dried his hands gingerly on the terrycloth towel that hung from a hook in the wall, taking care not to exacerbate the injury any further. On closer inspection, he saw clearly that his palms were scratched, but not cut. He pulled his hands closer to his face. There was nothing more than a minor scratch. He turned his hands over slowly, one at a time, checking the top of each. He checked his knees, rolling up the legs of his pants as far as he could. Then, looking into the mirror, he checked his face. Dark brown hair, now looking black from the rain, hung, weighted down with tiny drops of water over his forehead. His cheeks were flushed with color from the cold, and the slight creases around his black eyes showed signs of age slightly ahead of his years. But there was not one cut on his hands, knees or face. And yet, there was clearly blood on his pants, his hands, and the wall. He paused in his thoughts as the question rose up. If not mine? And begged the answer. Whose?

  A crash from the hallway startled him from his self-examination and he rushed from the bath, out into the hall that lead from the main entrance down toward the living room of the apartment. The door, the same door that Dominic had just entered through a few moments ago, smacked hard against the wall, pushed by a heavy wind that gusted from outside and now cylconed through the apartment.

  Dominic closed the door, this time remembering to lock it. Then, turning in the opposite direction, he began to make his way toward the main living quarters of the apartment. He saw them a second before his mind admitted what he was looking at.

  Footsteps.

  Bloodied footsteps.

  Confused, he hesitated. Then, bracing himself against the rough plaster walls, he checked the bottom of his left and then his right shoe. There was a touch of blood on the sole of the right shoe and an uneven thin line of it around the ankle, but not near enough blood to mark his own footstep. He studied the tracks for a moment, squinting his eye
s at them to make out the detail. And then, the thought hit him hard enough to cause him to suck in his breath. He had stepped into the bloodied tracks...not made them.

  A cool sweat broke out under his arms and quickly began to trickle down his sides. He began to breathe heavily, an unconscious response to the now growing fear. Run. Get out! His conscious thoughts screamed in his brain in response. But he paid no attention.

  Dominic stepped around the crimson footsteps, walking alongside the bloodied path into the living room. There, they faded into the dark room. The lights were off. He damned himself for being so conscientious about wasting power and turning the lights off when he left a room. He decided that he would leave the lights on in every room from now on. So what if he wasted power?

  Commanding one hand to do what he wanted it to and not to act on its own, as the deepening fear willed it to, he slid the hand around the corner of the wall. He fingered it slowly along the rough stucco. Finding the light switch, he let out a gasp of breath. Did it come from the greater fear of being able to see, once he switched the lights on, or from a sense of relief that he would soon have light? He wasn’t sure.

  He wasn’t sure what to do next either. His fingers paused on the button of the electrical switch; the bottom button was extended out, the top button in. That’s all he needed to do was push in the bottom button, popping out the top button and the lights would be on. He thought about what he’d do after the lights came on, and came to the quick conclusion that...he had no fucking conclusion. He didn’t know what he was doing or what he was looking for, and he didn’t know what the hell he was doing still in this apartment? More indecision, of course, he cursed. He was growing angry with himself and his inability to make a decision in life, in love, and in this damned moment. Before he could consciously decide what action to take, his fingers took control and pushed the bottom button in.

  There was just a second’s hesitation before the lights came on—flickered really. The tattered electrical wiring in the old apartments of this Rome neighborhood was held together with masking tape and rat spit. He prayed that the lights wouldn’t flicker back out as they tended to do. The faint glow from the dust-covered, glass bulbs nearly illuminated the room. It was better than nothing. He nodded his head slightly in self-agreement.