“Damn, better than I could have hoped for. I think you and I are going to have a real good time.” The young man took off his football jersey and dropped it on the floor.
“You need to leave,” Sylvia demanded.
“I will. In about twenty minutes, more I hope.”
Sylvia rose from the bed and started for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The young man grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. “We haven’t got acquainted yet.”
“Let me go!” Sylvia screamed. She swung wildly with her free arm, landing a hard blow to her unwanted guest’s temple.
The young man pulled her closer with the huge arm he held around her waist. With the other hand, he grabbed the neck of her nightgown and yanked down hard, burning her throat and ripping the flannel fabric baring her back. In an instant, he spun her around and cupped her breast in both of his hands.
“Nice,” he said.
Sylvia threw her head back with all her might smashing into her attacker’s mouth. He bellowed with pain and hit her hard in the side of the neck. For a long moment, everything went black. When she opened her eyes, she was on the bed and his mighty muscled weight was pinning her down.
He bragged when he said he would leave in twenty minutes. He was finished in two and gone in five. In the morning she reported to her mother in a brief, tearful call what happened. She was told not to report the incident and get home as quickly as possible. She left the university the next day.
“I will speak to your father,” her mother said, instead of good-bye.
When Sylvia arrived, she was taken directly to a pre-arranged appointment at the offices of a female doctor. Following the examination, it was verified from the tearing and bruising she had indeed been raped, though the word was not used.
Only then was she allowed to see her father.
In the weeks that followed, Sylvia was watched closely. She stayed in her room, came out for meals, and did not go to temple. No contact was made with any family member or old friends. No one knew of her arrival home. She cried, read, and prayed. The sound of her walking the floor kept her mother awake long into the night.
On the seventh week of her return home, she was again examined by the doctor. To the grief of all concerned, the worst possible outcome was a reality. She would have a child.
Unbeknownst to his wife or daughter, preliminary talks were being conducted with Hershel Stiner. Stiner was a widower of forty-five. His wife died at thirty-six of a pulmonary defect, undetected until her death. As a teen Hershel was kicked in the groin, his right testicle was removed, the other was damaged severely, rendering him sterile. Even though he spent years undergoing expensive treatments, the sterility could not be reversed. His greatest desire was to have a child.
Hershel Stiner inherited his family office supply warehouse and wholesaling business. Hard work, clever marketing, and timely Chinese import contracts increased the business tenfold. He was a very wealthy man.
Sylvia’s father, along with their rabbi, agreed that the attack on the girl could benefit both parties. A wife and child for Hershel, a husband for Sylvia, and a father for the child. They pointed out to Hershel that Sylvia was still young, tall, and quite beautiful. Having a child would put some meat on her bones. Saving her the shame of a bastard child would make her eternally grateful, and a submissive wife. In the twelfth week, a test was done and determined the child would be a boy. The deal was sealed.
Sylvia, having little to say in the arrangement, agreed, hoped the marriage would give her son a good home. The pair eloped, unusual in their community but not unheard of. They took a honeymoon for six months in Israel and returned with Sylvia nine months pregnant. Being a very tall girl and the child not being overly large, the story was concocted that when she delivered a week later, the child was premature. Of course, the women of the neighborhood all smelled a rat but kept quiet in deference to the beautiful Sylvia, her parents, and her very wealthy husband.
As the years went by it was often noted, but never mentioned, that the boy with flaxen hair looked nothing like either of his dark-haired parents, their parents, or grandparents for that matter. He was a handsome boy and by ten was nearly as tall as his portly, balding father.
When the time came for Elias to have his bar mitzvah, the family began to change. A strange tension filled their home. Hershel, whose usual rather passive nature gave over Elias’ upbringing almost entirely to his mother. Hershel became sullen and often burst into unprovoked fits of anger. The celebration was organized by Sylvia and two friends from Congregation Beth Abraham. Hershel signed the checks but showed little interest otherwise.
When the big day came, the family drove to temple with Sylvia telling Elias not to be nervous, he looked handsome, and that they were so proud. Hershel barely spoke.
Elias, being a very bright boy and a good student, learned his lesson well, and performed to the pride of all at the service. The years mended some of the hurt and shame that for a long time kept Sylvia apart from her beloved father. He embraced his only grandchild and often bored his friends with tales of how smart the boy was. To her delight, he not only agreed to recite the Ha-motzi at the party but asked if he could introduce the family instead of the DJ.
The proud grandfather made the introductions as planned, and Hershel, Sylvia, and Elias took their seats at the head table. The guests were seated and then Elias stood and made a short speech welcoming everyone and thanking his grandfather for the awesome job, teasing perhaps he should consider a job as a DJ. Sylvia passed on the opportunity to speak.
Hershel stood unsmiling and waited until the large banquet room was perfectly still. He looked down at his son and wife and then looked out at the friends and family gathered for the occasion for a long moment.
“He’s not mine,” Hershel said. “Not mine.” He dropped the microphone on the table, walked from the room, and out a side door.
The room seemed to inhale all at the same moment, then burst into chattering and shocked conversation. Sylvia put her arms around Elias as the boy looked out at the gathering in total disbelief. What just happened to his big celebration?
Grandfather moved to where the DJ stood and instructed him to play something, loud! Sylvia’s mother moved to take the seat left vacant by Hershel and kissed Elias on the cheek.
Several minutes passed and Hershel did not return to the room. Elias stood ramrod straight and held up his right hand. The DJ stopped the music and the room fell silent in anticipation of what the young boy would say or do.
“As the rabbi said, today I am a man. This is my party, my day. So, as a man, I declare that we will have fun and celebrate me! Tomorrow will take care of itself, but today we party!” Elias pointed to the DJ and the music began, the crowd roared and the wait staff burst through the kitchen doors with large trays covered with plates and began serving the guests.
For nearly an hour the guests laughed, ate, and visited the front table to congratulate Elias and his mother. The boy was given envelope after envelope of money gifts tucked into cards of every variety. To his mind, this was the greatest day of his life, no matter what his father’s problem was or what he said. That will be dealt with at home.
Elias didn’t notice when the manager of the banquet room came running into the room frantically looking around the room for Grandfather. What he did see moments later was grandfather approach the table and give his mother an unspoken signal he needed her to follow him.
The boy paid no attention to where they went. He was enjoying the company of the Ruben sisters and their cousin, Annie.
Sylvia was led to the Staff Only Door and the hallway just outside the banquet room. There the manager, a handsome black man, stood wringing his hands, his face covered in perspiration.
“This is my daughter, Sylvia, Mrs. Stutzman,” Grandfather said.
“I’m Alfonso Drake, I manage the facility. I don’t know how to say this. There has been, I mean to say, we have a situation that…”
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br /> “Oh, for God’s sake, man! Hershel has killed himself, Sylvia. He is in the men’s room, in the stall, just there.” Her father pointed at the restroom down the hall. He’s used his necktie to hang himself on the door’s coat hook.”
“Should we call the police?” Drake asked.
Sylvia stood looking at her father with a look of anger, mixed with bewilderment. “Why has he done this to him?” Her only thought was of Elias.
The five years that followed Hershel’s suicide were a time of Elias and Sylvia growing closer. Junior high and high school gave the boy a sense of direction and purpose. He excelled in his studies and enjoyed playing baseball. Sylvia convinced her father to help her run the business. He seemed to find new vitality in the challenge. She also convinced her mother they should move in with her and Elias. She acted hesitantly but was at heart thrilled to be given the chance to live in the magnificent home in Manhattan Beach.
The week after graduation, Elias was brought to the company offices. In a large conference room, he sat with his mother and grandfather, the discussion was to be the one he feared for the last two years. Today was the day.
“You are a fine boy, Elias,” His grandfather began. “You are smart and have wisdom beyond your years. So, I know you have to know what we are here for.”
“My future,” Elias said with a loving smile.
“See, I told you he was ahead of us!” Grandfather chuckled and patted Sylvia on the hand.
“Hershel left this company in good shape.” Sylvia began. Since his death and the explanation of Elias’s conception that followed, he was never referred to as father again.
“In the years your grandfather has helped me run it, we have done well. You’ll leave for college soon. You’ll study what your heart tells you. You’re going to find your way in whatever you want to do with your life. It may bring you back here or take you to places we can’t imagine. I know, God willing, you will have a happy, successful life.” Sylvia was suddenly overcome with emotion.
“Oh, for God’s sake woman!” Grandfather said. “Here’s the thing, do you want to run this company after college? There, was that so hard?” He winked at his grandson.
“No,” Elias said softly.
“There. We’ll sell the whole mess.”
“Father!”
“Well do you want to continue? I certainly don’t. I want to live out my life in comfortable retirement!” The unusual show of humor cast the tension and anxiety from the room with their curative laughter.
With his newly finalized name, Eric Elias Stiner left for college in late August. To honor his mentor, he took his grandfather’s family name. She never said but his mother was thrilled.
Eric did find his way. He discovered the math he so despised in high school, now filled him with excitement and a sense of discovery. His love of books, nurtured by his mother’s nightly readings, served him well as he used English courses to bolster his grade point average that was left sagging a bit from the rest of his general education requirements that he found so pointless.
It was in one of those General Ed courses, Introduction to Psychology, he found himself seated next to a man with a severe limp. After a half-hour of lecture, Eric was barely able to stay awake. Finally, he nodded off. The jerk of his head woke him with a start.
“Pretty boring stuff huh?” the man next to him whispered.
“The worst,” Eric responded.
“Think we could sneak out the back door?”
“Sounds good.”
“Can someone get the lights?” the professor said.
“Follow me,” the man said as the light went out.
“That was a stroke of luck!’ Eric said laughing as the door closed behind them.
“No such thing as luck. That my friend, was a carefully developed plan, brilliantly executed.” The man offered his hand. “I’m Logan Connor.”
“Eric Stiner. Nice to meet you.” The pair shook hands.
“I could use a cup of coffee,” Logan said.
“Me too.”
The pair made their way to the coffee shop next to the student center.
“So, what’s your major?”
“Undeclared at the moment. It was Math, then English Lit., then I thought Sociology, hated that, up until last semester it was Political Science. Then I thought, what do these people really know about politics that they haven’t read in books? I can read the same books. I really am struggling with what to do.
Logan liked this kid. Eric sought definiteness of purpose. He wanted and needed a goal.
“Tell me something. What is your passion?”
“How do you mean?” Eric frowned.
“What gets your juices flowing? What makes you happy? What matters to you most?”
Eric picked at the corner of his napkin. “I like to know why,” He said not looking up.
“Why?” Logan knew what he meant but wanted more.
“Yeah, like why do people hate Jews? Why are the Muslims hell-bent on destroying the US? Why do the Republicans and Democrats disagree as a matter of course? Why don’t we just blow the hell out of our enemies? That’s why we don’t win wars. We are too careful to not hurt civilians. Pave Syria, problem solved.”
“Now who’s the hater?” Logan smiled.
“It’s not hate at all. They are a threat to western civilization. They harbor terrorists, they kill their own people. Why don’t we cut the head off the snake? Bomb the capital, or palace or wherever they hide the leaders.” Eric was as matter of fact, like a surgeon discussing the removal of a tumor.
“Maybe the strings are being pulled by, I don’t know, unseen special interests?” Logan offered.
“What, like the Illuminati? Be serious.”
“There could be behind-the-scene players that aren’t some fantastical conspiracy theory secret organization.”
“So what, you’re a ‘the government was responsible for 911’ guy?”
“Not at all. I just believe there are forces at play that even the President isn’t privy to.”
“You’re serious.”
“As a heart attack. It is a giant chess game. Money, power, oil, weapons, and food. All the things that make the world go ’round, all the pieces on the board being moved around the world, in the boardrooms and homes of the most powerful people on earth. None of which you would recognize by name or photo.”
“Let me ask you something.” Eric looked Logan straight in the eye. “You’re kind of old for a college student. No offense, but you seem way too smart to just be starting out.”
“Work injury forced me to take a different path. My turn, why don’t your classmates give a flying fig about anything but beer and babes?” Logan grinned.
“I thought we were being serious.”
“I am. You seem to be way too smart to be held captive by the “Gimme, Gimme Generation.” Logan looked at Eric with a knowing expression, “How do you put this inquisitive mind of yours to work?”
“That is the big question.”
Logan smiled. “Well, I may have the answer.”
Logan Connor Will Return in
East of the Jordan
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Continue reading for a sample of Book #2 East of the Jordan
CHAPTER ONE
For the first time in years, Logan Connor was bored. He had no plans, nothing needed his attention, no mission to plan, nowhere to go, no one to be killed and more importantly, no one was trying to kill him. That wasn’t entirely true. Someone was probably trying to kill him, but they hadn’t done enough work to find him yet. He learned not to make any plans when he learned that his mentor, Titus Crow, was conspiring to kill him while he was on a mission. At no point did he think he would live to see the next day. What good are plans to a doomed man?
Titus Crow was dead, decomposing deep in
the Atchafalaya swamp in south Louisiana. Logan and Sydney Firenca dumped Titus Crow’s body in the swamp over a year ago. The humid swamp and the alligators likely ate him down to the bone by now. Sydney wanted to hunt down the other remnants of Crow’s network, but Logan declined. He had enough that life.
For a brief moment, he thought he would train up a new guy the way Titus trained him. He was a smart kid with a grasp for math that Logan could only envy. A math brain like his translated any system into a series of rules. He learned new languages it seemed almost weekly. Computer coding and hacking were just languages themselves. He picked that up quickly too. Eric Elias Stiner was the kid’s name. After about six months, he wanted to test his skills in the field. That’s when Logan got cold feet.
How could he toss another kid into the blender Titus threw him into? He was just a kid himself, a college freshman when he met Titus. He never even drank a beer. Within three years of meeting Titus, he was dumping his body off the interstate bridge into the dark water. He killed more people than he could count, most of them no different than he was. He scanned every room for entries, exits, and potentially deadly weapons. At no point, was he able to relax. He couldn’t do that to Eric.
He cut the kid loose. He seemed disappointed. Logan used some money he took from Titus’s drug network to pay for a full ride for Eric at any college he wanted. Eric wanted to stay at the University of Virginia. They said their goodbyes and Logan drove south.
Alabama seemed as good a place as any to stop. He’d only been to the Deep South once before, and that was to kill Crow, but he liked it. He stocked up on guns, rented an apartment under a fake name, and found a job.
His mechanic’s uniform said Walker on the breast pocket. Walker Bryant was twenty-four, a college dropout, and an apprentice mechanic at Fully Auto in Stonewall, Alabama. He had a cell phone with an Alabama phone number but it bounced the signal through satellites and towers in about twenty-six countries before anything connected. He drove a 2012 Toyota Camry, the kind of car that the owner himself has a hard time describing.
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