Neo’s nirvana was cut short by nearby splashing. Instinctively, he balled his fists. No bass or bluegill he’d ever seen jumped like that. No, it was his old murderous playmates that made those splashes.
“It’s payback time, freaks,” he said threateningly. “This dog is gonna hunt and bring back a heapin’ helpin’ of whoopass.”
The driving rain assaulted his face and lightning struck overhead as Neo quietly lowered his flipper, took several long deep breaths, and sank from view.
One minute Nick was standing in the study, and the next, he was sitting in another room at a round table beside Gabriella. Crow and Jill joined them.
Nick exhaled heavily. “Gabriella, you’ve got to stop doing that! You’re going to give me a heart attack.”
The others laughed, and Gabriella placed her soft hand atop his.
“You didn’t seem to mind at the DEA’s underground facility,” she replied lightly.
“Yeah, well . . . that was . . . different,” he admitted begrudgingly. His senses were ablaze. Gabriella’s touch released a flood of pent-up emotions – some bad, some good. Diverse, eddying feelings. Happiness. Guilt. Hate. Friendship. Shame. Anger. Love.
The poignant vortex slowed, and Nick imagined three indistinct shapes in its center. It must mean something, he thought. Something important. Something he’d forgotten from his lost childhood. Something related to Gabriella. But what?
He didn’t have a clue.
He shook off his frustration and felt the others staring at him. Gabriella squeezed his hand as he raised his eyes. Her hypnotic indigo gaze linked with his and gently energized his soul. His disquiet melted away.
“It’ll all come back to you in due time,” she said softly.
Now how did she know about his vision? He let it go for the time being. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road, Jill.”
Jill unfolded the clasp, opening a 9x12 manila envelope, and slid a tattered book and several sheets of paper from the opening. She passed the book across the table to Gabriella and handed Nick the sheets.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“A letter from my father. In it, you’ll find your past.” Her lower lip quivered and tears pooled her eyes. “And all about you and - the Creeper.”
Nick glanced around the table. “Anybody mind if I read it aloud?”
Nobody objected, so he began his time travel back to the early 1970’s. His childhood.
Chapter 55
Dearest Jane and Jill:
I am writing this epistle to warn you about the danger I have inadvertently inflicted on you by my actions so many years ago. As I compose this detailed account, I am both proud and ashamed of what I did back then, and I know that if you are reading this, I am dead, savaged by the unstoppable beast that I accidentally released on a defenseless world. Please locate a man at the FBI named Nick Bellamy and give him a copy of this letter. It will answer a lot of questions about his childhood for him.
But first, I should introduce myself. My real name is Joseph Lawrence Ellis. I was born and raised in Roanoke, Virginia, and attended the University of Virginia; my major was journalism. After I graduated, the Washington Post took a chance on me because of my bravado and ambition even though I was green as grass, but those qualities that they perceived as positives in my career became tragic negatives.
I had an insatiable professional ego, girls, and I pushed for bigger and more prominent stories every chance I got, no matter who I stepped on. I had no time for relationships; marriage and a family weren’t even on my life’s to-do list. I was the center of my universe, and my lone goal was to become a famous Pulitzer award-winning reporter who commanded the largest headlines. Achieving this goal was all-important; how I achieved it was not. The means, any means, would justify the end.
That voracious appetite for fame was my undoing. In December of 1973, a famous socialite was kidnapped in New York City. Her name was Joanna Rockingham-Danforth. The entire country was talking about it, and I wanted a slice of that national exposure. I begged my editor to let me do an investigative article on the woman’s disappearance, and after three weeks of nagging, he finally gave me the assignment.
Well, that’s not totally true. I discovered that he was cheating on his wife and extorted him with that information.
In the weeks that followed, I came up empty. Even the FBI was clueless. There had been no ransom note or other communication with the husband, Hollis Danforth. My editor was getting antsy and the other reporters were giving me the business, so I drove into New York City yet again, searching for a clue - any clue. It was a complete dead end. After that failure, my ascent to the top of the journalistic ladder was slowed considerably.
I happened to be in New York over the Fourth of July weekend in 1974 with some friends to catch a Beach Boys concert at Madison Square Garden. A close friend of Joanna Rockingham, who I had interviewed for my investigation years earlier, saw me there and offered me a tip, off the record, that led me to something a hundred times more appalling than the kidnapping and eventually to my professional and personal downfall. The friend’s tip was so incredible that I could scarcely believe it: Hollis Danforth had arranged for his pregnant wife to be kidnapped! Ostensibly, this friend theorized that Hollis Danforth did it to gain his wife’s considerable inheritance, and I was inclined to agree at the time. It wasn’t until later that I discovered how horribly wrong we were.
My investigation was back on. I followed Danforth for weeks, telling my editor that I was working a wonderful local story. When that explanation didn’t work any more, I called in sick. When Danforth took the train out to a secret government research facility in Duneden, Ohio, I used the last of my vacation days to cover my absence from the office. It was there that I finally saw the big picture.
I made friends with the research facility employees at a local tavern. Most were genetic scientists, nurses, and medical doctors. After they became more familiar with me, they told me unbelievable stories of horrible experiments gone wrong and the great loss of human life that they felt was akin to murder. One night, a particularly drunk scientist confided that the goal of the research was to create a super soldier for the military. A super-spy and killer rolled into one being that could blink in and out of our existence without warning. I still am not completely clear on the details explaining how anyone could eclipse our existence as we know it, but I listened and wrote notes later to build what would be a tremendous story. Naturally, I was excited. I smelled Pulitzer in the air again.
Gradually, I earned the confidence of many Duneden residents as well, and believe me, that wasn’t easy. They’re very suspicious of outsiders. They also knew many of the research facility employees, and picked up scraps of information that I missed. Occasionally, we’d get together over at the hotel and exchange notes, for gossip’s sake of course. The most valuable tidbit I learned from them was that two super soldiers had been born years ago, but only one had survived. Where it was and what they were doing to it, I had no idea. I assumed it was inside the island compound.
Even though my original story focus had been altered, I was still digging for clues that would uncover the whereabouts of Hollis Danforth’s wife.
When I brought up the subject of Mrs. Danforth, several employees told me that before the kidnapping, Hollis Danforth had had a falling out with Daniel Merrick, the Mortal Eclipse project director. They disagreed on the risky experimental procedures, and Merrick threatened to shut the operation down if Danforth didn’t change protocol. A week after Merrick’s threat, he was the fatal victim of a horrible accident, one that everyone knew Danforth had stage, but could not prove. I was informed that one of the living project failures escaped and mutilated Merrick so badly that there wasn’t much of him left to bury. Danforth inherited the title of director, got private source funding, and continued his grisly experiments. By this time, I was no longer a reporter for the Post, and survived by doing odd jobs for the locals.
But I desperately wanted t
o gain access to the facility and see if all these rumors were true, and to search for Johanna Rockingham Danforth.
For months, I watched the trucks and vans cross the heavily patrolled bridge to the island in the middle of Lake Griffin. I time the crossings, studied every inch of the bridge structure, and logged the guard shift changes. I patiently waited for a chance to penetrate their defenses.
Then something unexpected happened. First, I heard via the grapevine that Danforth was going to kill his super soldier creation. The next day, a car caravan carried what appeared to be just normal civilian vacationers across the bridge. I bummed a ride with a young couple in a red convertible. After we had safely passed the guards, my breathing slowed. I was finally there.
The couple asked if I was there for the witches’ ceremony, and I immediately said yes. Since I had been hanging out in a witches’ town for months, they didn’t suspect otherwise. I drifted away from the crowd the first chance I got toward one of the cement block buildings and looked inside. A barracks. The next one I checked out was a supply storage facility. The third was a boat storage building with a canal excavated in the center of the floor that ran outside to the lake. I thought it strange at the time – and still do for that matter - that large steel cages lined the two east-west walls, but they were empty at the time of my search.
The crowd headed into the fourth building like a line of ants at a picnic, and disappeared. When I checked it, it was empty. They appeared to have vanished from the face of the earth. As I stood there scratching my head, I saw two small boys run past me toward a copse of maples and oaks. I recognized one of them as Valerie Jacobs’ son, Mark, who lived in Duneden. I watched until they, too, seemingly disappeared behind one of the enormous maples. I waited for them to reappear, but they didn’t.
I quickly ran to the tree and discovered a weed-choked cave entrance in the ground. Worried about their safety, I crawled inside and was surprised to find that the ceiling was high enough so that I could walk upright. The floor descended for what seemed an eternity. I heard the boys for a while, but then their giggles and murmurs merged with beating drums and heinous shouts until they faded completely.
Finally, I stepped into an enormous cavern. At the far end sat a medieval castle, and I had to pinch myself to be certain I wasn’t dreaming. It was the damnedest thing. There was even a working drawbridge spanning a moat and manned battlements. Outside the castle stood a stone altar with a sacrificial table and a stone statue of a satanic priest adorned with black robes, a black cape, and a goat’s head. He was armed with a long, curved, jeweled dagger.
The tourists had stripped away their clothes, and their naked bodies gyrated crazily to the ever-increasing beat of unseen drums inside the castle. Two hooded men stood at each end of the sacrificial table, awaiting orders from the priest who had yet to arrive. Suddenly, one of the hooded men bolted away from the table, and I was horrified to see him chasing the two boys. He scooped one of them off the floor and started for the table.
I confessed that I was more than a little frightened when the small boy in the guard’s arms changed into the exact duplicate of Mark Jacobs, bit the man’s throat, and ran deeper into the cavern. The guard bellowed in pain and rage, and gave chase once again. He caught the boy again, and carried him to the table, where he was secured with leather straps. I was stunned. How could the boy have shape-shifted like that?
When I discovered that I had no theories to answer that question, I was horrified to see that they were going to sacrifice that young shape-shifter.
The beat grew louder as a man resembling the vile altar statue marched slowly across the bridge toward the sacrificial table. The people chanted for the boy’s blood. Their dances turned into lewd sexual gyrations. They were a frenzied bunch, out of their heads as if on a drug high.
I caught a movement from my left and saw Mark Jacobs sprinting toward the cave exit behind me. Again, I was somewhat shocked. The little boy at the altar was also Mark Jacobs. Were they identical twins? This Mark Jacobs carried what appeared to be a journal under his arm. (I’ve never been able to decipher it. I’ve enclosed it with this letter. Girls, please give it to Nick Bellamy. Maybe he’ll have better luck.)
I grabbed Mark and the book, and as I led him toward the surface by the arm, he changed into a terrible lizard shape with yellow eyes and a forked tongue. He swiped at the journal with one clawed hand and for my throat with the other, but I swatted him with the book instead. He peered behind me at the altar, and then ran into the cave.
I stuffed the journal down my pants and rushed the altar table. They were about to sacrifice the real Mark Jacobs, and I couldn’t let that happen. Girls, your father’s not a hero. I just felt deep inside that this was wrong, and it sickened me. Maybe a sense of righteousness, or whatever you want to call it, drove me toward the altar and prompted me to save the boy. In those short minutes, I didn’t think. I just acted, and by doing so cost you, your mother, and me the serenity that life should offer all decent people.
From the moment I freed Mark from the priest’s dagger, I was a hunted man. That little lizard boy was the super soldier who knows what I look like and wants the journal and my life for ruining its perfect escape. Danforth wants me because I know too much about his project, Mortal Eclipse - enough to ruin his political aspirations.
Nick, your real name is Mark Jacobs, son of Valerie. I don’t know her whereabouts, because she disappeared the same night we did. I drove you straight through to San Francisco, as far away from Duneden as I could get. I kept track of you all these years, and have grown to love you like a surrogate son.
The purpose of this account is not to drag any of you into my nightmare. I want you to be aware of your enemies, because, believe me, they’re aware of you. Take whatever steps necessary to protect yourselves, and I pray that the contents of the journal may hold the answer to Danforth’s demise and the truth about Joanna Rockingham Danforth’s disappearance.
May God forgive me for unleashing that evil creature on the world, and bless and protect all of you.
Love and Prayers, Joe Ellis “Sandlin”
Nick dropped the last page onto the table and pinched the bridge of his nose. The others remained quiet. Finally, he looked up.
Nick eyed the tattered book in front of Gabriella. “Is that the journal?”
“Yes,” she replied, “and I can save you the trouble of translating it. Since it is written in ancient Enochian, and I happen to be fluent in that language, I have already translated it for you. First, this was Hollis Danforth’s personal and scientific journal. He recorded some very technical notes concerning his human experiments to create a super soldier, and these notes encompass over a hundred years of experimentation ending with the Mortal Eclipse project, but nothing in those transcriptions would further your investigation, Nick. In fact, mankind would be best served if they were destroyed. I’m certain we all agree that we’d never want these experiments repeated.”
Everyone nodded wordlessly.
“However, Danforth was kind enough to include a mission statement of sorts at the beginning of his Mortal Eclipse entries that I found absolutely disquieting.” Gabriella paused and nervously flexed her fingers. “His purpose in creating a race of super-soldiers was to eliminate all his enemies so that he could attain a position of considerable power and destroy the human race.”
“You mean like President of the United States?” Jill asked.
“Exactly,” she replied.
“But why would he do that? Without people, power would mean nothing,” Nick observed.
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that question at this time, Nick. Later this evening, perhaps?”
“Sure, but now I need some time alone. Some time to think.”
“But don’t you see, Nick, you’re the only one who can stop this madness. You’re related to . . .” Jill began.
Gabriella laid a finger across her lips.
“Related to who?” Nick demanded.
“
Uh, Valerie Jacobs. Sorry,” Jill added quickly and left the room.
Gabriella gripped Nick’s shoulder. “Don’t forget about our talk later on tonight. It’s important.”
“Sure. No problem. I just need a little space right now to digest what I’ve read.”
“I know. Later’s fine.” The wheelchair retreated noiselessly past the closing door.
Nick stood and paced the small room. Jill’s comment tonight was as puzzling as her comment at the airport. Was he was related to someone else other than Valerie Jacobs? Jill seemed to think so. And why did Gabriella quash Jill’s comment?
Blood is thicker than water, you bastard!
Jill and Gabriella were holding out on him; it was obvious. What wasn’t so obvious was why.
He would definitely have a serious heart-to-heart with Gabriella tonight.
Chapter 56
The gale continued, whistling at the windows and howling along the gutters and around the gargoyles circling the fourth floor of the manor. Nick listened in the windowless room, wishing he could watch the storm. Suddenly, he stepped backwards as a window appeared in the wall before him, complete with flowered window dressings. He shook his head. This house was amazing.
The treetops bobbed and twisted in the furious gusts, as the heavy limbs swayed to and fro like elephant trunks. Orphaned leaves and twigs slashed through the electric air, seeking rest from their tumultuous ride. Lightning split the sky into obsidian fragments that were quickly restored by the returning darkness. Nick reflected that it was a perfect night for a Frankenstein resurrection, a witches’ sacrifice, or murder.
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