by Don Dewey
Angled forty-five degrees to their right and undetected by them was a lone shooter with an old Winchester. He knew he wouldn’t have any trouble with the shot; he had a lot of experience with many weapons, and this rifle was an old friend. As he held it many memories were evoked, all the way back to riding his horse alongside a running herd and shooting a massive bison with it the first time he tried it out. He even recalled the white man he’d killed when he took this gun from him. For a warrior and leader of warriors, Geronimo could be very patient when necessary, even though he was by nature a man of action. So he waited, keeping a keen eye on the house, his Winchester ready.
Unknown to the squad of men sent by Maximus, there was a small group of Chinese mercenaries behind the house, purposefully avoiding everyone else. Geronimo was aware of them but unconcerned about their presence. It seemed extremely unlikely that circumstances and timing should bring three groups together at one time like this. Yet here they were, and Karl did have a lot of enemies after all. Geronimo’s thoughts as he sat there watching were for what was left of his family. My son, you should have come with me for this vengeance, not denied what you are and left. His pain was acute, and hadn’t gotten much lighter since Elihas had walked out. Geronimo knew where he was, but he’d give his son the space he needed. I know, your mother’s death lies at my feet. His eyes were moist as he pictured his tall, proud son walking away from him.
Geronimo watched for any movement on the part of the other groups, not really caring that they were there. He would kill Karl Schmidt today, or tomorrow, and they could waste all the ammo they cared to fire.
During the first day of their stake out, two men in suits carried a bundle wrapped in black plastic. They struggled with it, long and thin, clearly awkward for them. Dropping it at the rear of a car, one popped the deck lid and they tossed the package into the trunk, slamming it down and driving off. Everyone in hiding watched with interest, but it wasn’t part of their plan, so they let it go and kept waiting for Karl to show himself.
It was a long wait. People came and people left but there was no sign of Karl. He was, in fact, attending to some business affairs he’d left unattended for too long. Three days he spent on the telephone, both demanding things from people and scalding them with his acid tongue for not doing well enough.
Finally he felt he’d caught up with the mundane parts of running the number of businesses in which he was involved, and decided he could travel to his estate in Italy for a week or so and plan his next move against Maximus and Robert. The last episode hadn’t ended so well.
As the people waiting and watching the house lapsed into boredom, a man exited the house by the front door. Suddenly everyone was alert and reaching for their weapons. Three others followed closely behind the first man, who went directly to the limo waiting in the drive. Then Karl came out with one thug on each side, trained bodyguards no doubt, loyal only to him. He walked toward the car, and when he was perhaps three steps from the door the man holding the car door for him lifted a handgun and shot Karl in the chest. He moved the gun from one bodyguard to the other, shooting them with calm efficiency. The other three men grouped up behind the shooter, obviously prepared to take his side. It was clear to all the watchers that this had all been planned very carefully. Two groups and a lone Pure, all camped out for Karl’s blood, watched as he fell to the treachery of an underling.
Not sure what to do, Max’s men had waited so long they automatically took action. Their leader didn’t know if it was the correct action, but he ordered it nonetheless.
“Make sure he’s dead! Fire at will.” They opened fire, mowing down the man who had shot Karl and the other three men, who were clearly the killer’s accomplices. They kept firing, concentrating on Karl’s immediate position.
Armed men came boiling out of the house like bees protecting their queen. Whether these men had been loyal to Karl or to his killer meant very little to Maximus’ men, the Chinese contingent or Geronimo. The only consideration was their firepower as they burst out of the building in a continuous line. The swarm of men was surprisingly large, spreading out quickly and firing toward Karl’s attackers. Two men from the squad on the hill were down and their leader was retreating, covering his men’s retreat himself as they dragged their fallen comrades with them. Finally they started down the hill, rushing toward their hidden vehicles.
Geronimo was still and quiet in the confusion, waiting for some sort of resolution. It took great restraint on his part to sit still and not enter the fray. When two of Karl’s men headed up the hill after those who had been firing at them, Geronimo couldn’t just watch as they got to the peak. They would have the advantage of the retreating men. Slowing taking aim, his old Winchester barked twice, and both of Karl’s men were down.
Karl had been hit many times, with at least one shot to his head. His right ear was missing, and Karl seemed a bloody corpse as his men carried his body inside the house.
Geronimo was sure Karl was dead. There was just too much damage to his body. Good riddance. He crept away with the natural stealth of the Apache. He was confident that even though he hadn’t pulled the trigger, Karl was finally dead. Geronimo slipped away, heading back to New York. He anticipated a difficult conversation with his partner about this unplanned absence.
The Chinese group sneaked around the edge of the house halfway up the hill to watch. Perplexed, they also stood down, waiting to see what would transpire. When Karl was dead and the fight was over, they too slipped away. Their purpose had been accomplished and it mattered not at all to them that they hadn’t had to do it themselves. Their employer would just want to know the end result.
Duke William, King William the Bastard, Karl of Schmidt Worldwide Enterprises, friend of tyrants and villains, was finally dead.
Chapter 51
Always Plan Ahead
Karl’s chief lieutenant was the traitor who’d killed him. His next in charge, Trevor Wallace, was now at the head of the line and it was up to him to make final preparations for Karl’s interment, and the continuation of his financial empire. He had explicit written orders from his boss, and he followed them to the letter. One never knew what safeguards Karl had put in place to make sure his wishes were carried out.
The crypt on the estate was prepared, and interestingly there was one on every major residential property Karl owned. A closed casket was on display at the funeral as guests at the service, three days later, filed by to pay their respects. Although Karl had never graced the interior of a church, a minister was procured from a highly respected, mainstream denominational church, and some of Karl’s associates gave short remarks. They all centered on his drive and vision for business. None were warm or fuzzy by any stretch of the imagination.
Pallbearers carried the beautiful Rosewood casket into the small stone building, set it on the shelf awaiting it and walked out. The vault was sealed, the guests fed, and everything was exactly as one would expect at a successful business man’s funeral.
Two days later, Trevor, now in charge, had Karl’s driver, correction, his driver, take him to another location where other arrangements had been made. Shaking his head, thinking this was all a waste of time, energy and money, Trevor nonetheless checked on the arrangements to make sure they were just as Karl’s last wishes had demanded. His thoughts regarding his now deceased employer weren’t particularly kind. What a waste, and what a risk, just to hide your body. You paranoid, ego-maniac. I can’t say I’m sorry you’re dead. Those thoughts were also kept buried in his own mind, never to be let out. Even in death Karl Schmidt was a man to be feared.
The park had been donated to the city by Karl a few years earlier. It had three buildings. There was the necessary one for restrooms, another for equipment to maintain the park, and the last was a novelty - a building with a small but tasteful history of New York, using plaques and pictures, covered with large sheets of smooth Plexiglas-like material. Workmen had closed it for the past three days to finish some renovations. Knowing wh
ere to look, Trevor’s eyes traced seams below the historical diorama, pleased that it was sealed so well as to be practically invisible. The tight seams matched the pattern from the other panels in the room. Nobody would ever find Karl Schmidt’s remains, locked in a metal vault hidden behind an innocuous wall of pictures - a vault that had oddly enough been locked from the inside by way of an ingenious little device. The container was vented carefully to a spot fifty feet away, and the air was run through an elaborate purifier, in case of any odors, since the body wasn’t embalmed. The site would be forever maintained by the proceeds derived from a perpetual trust fund set up for that purpose.
Trevor had done what his boss had wanted. He was now the CEO of Schmidt Worldwide Enterprises. May Karl rest in peace.
Fact and Fiction:
The First Book of the Pure is based on the historicity of real lives. Many of the main characters are real people in their own settings of time and place.
Our host for the telling doesn’t reveal his identity until late in the book. The people he has known and the settings in which he has lived are real. He is William the Bastard, once King of England, and a real person. How he gained the throne and the difficulties of it are equally genuine, with some literary license.
The process of the life, conquests and disappointments of Kublai Khan can be traced, as well as the details from the life of Adolf Hitler.
Ruby, in her identity as Mary Parker in Salem, who was condemned as a witch and allegedly hanged, is indeed an historical character, and can be read about and understood. Her culture demonstrates the tragic reality of one of the worst times in our nation’s history.
Goyahkla, or Geronimo as he is best known, is a man whom history tells us could not be killed. Attacking men armed with guns with just his knife, he was never shot, never killed. He was captured but never kept. We found out here that he was indeed shot, but wasn’t killed. He’s lived since 1829 and was most recently a detective in New York City.
These people’s lives are the meat of this first book of the Pure. They’re woven throughout our own history, usually unseen for what they really are. They live on, in more ways than memory. Enjoy their stories and their lives. Watch closely for them, because they could be nearer than you think.
Acknowledgments:
Three people helped immeasurably in this first account of the Pures.
My wife and best friend, Barbara, for reading this book more times than anyone should be expected to read anything, and making helpful notes again and again.
Lisa Bradman, who read it in its infancy, correcting innumerable items which improved the story and its readability.
A friend (unnamed) who is an author herself, smoothed out the prose, improved the story, and made it, over all, a better book.
Group Discussion Guide
These questions are provided to help the conversation and thought processes in a discussion group. Share some of your thoughts about the characters, situations and possibilities that come to mind.
General
1. What other books have your read that you might compare this one to, at least in genre?
2. Assuming the main characters would be more fully explored along with new ones, would you read the sequel?
Style
1. Did the author’s writing style add to the book?
2. Was the book driven by plot, idea, or characters?
Characters
1. Why did it take Kenneth so long to accept the truth behind his Host’s story? The details, personal narrative, and historical accuracy of so much should have made it credible.
2. Think about a woman who lived through hundreds of years of various cultures. From the perspective of a woman, what kind of things might she have seen and lived through?
3. When Ruby was Mary Parker, living in Salem, how could she possibly not take more precautions to avoid accusations?
4. Gheret, many years into his life, found love. Does it seem likely that someone so ancient could truly lose his heart to a Normal? Why or why not?
5. Is Geronimo tragic, with all his loss, or fortunate, having had two families to love and nurture?
6. Would you expect most Pures to be quite old, like Karl or Gheret? Might some of them still be young, and not even know what they are as yet? Strength, vigor, resistance to aging; we have all known people like that. What public figures are you familiar with who have the makings of a young Pure?
7. Was Ruby justified in testing An’Kahar as she did? Why such a “life and death” kind of test?
8. Should Kenneth have been able to do more to extricate himself from his dilemma? What traits in the young reporter impressed or distressed you?
9. In this book’s sequel, Pure Power, more Pures enter the action. Which of the current characters would you anticipate seeing rise to centrality and even leadership? Are there any other historical characters who might fit the Pure profile?
10. Which character(s) do you identify with most, and why?
Now you are invited to read the first three chapters of the sequel.
Pure Blood
The Second Book of the Pure.
Chapter 1
Partners
Detective David Lacy lay as still as a corpse in the morgue at midnight except for the fact that he was still breathing. He was very close to becoming said corpse, with a hole in his right kidney and an inadequately repaired puncture in his pericardium. His wound was critical, so he was in the ICU, tubes running from a central machine to every orifice on his body. He looked at first glance like something from a science fiction movie, skin as pale as a child’s school paste. Even the rasping pulse of the breathing machine gave the room a Darth Vader sense.
Two bullets at close range had laid out the law enforcement officer of twenty five years. His partner of the past fourteen, Detective Gerard Goyette, was sitting in the too quiet room, listening to his friend’s shallow breathing. As he sat in the stillness he could hear his own heart beating. He was a hard, fit, six-foot-two gumshoe, as he liked to call himself. He had a fine career with the NYPD except for some reprimands for taking too many chances. His immediate boss had some trouble with Gerard’s hair too, but usually, as now, it was held back in a pony tail. He had a sculptured face with lightly shaded skin and ebony black hair. Oh Dave, it should have been me, thought Gerard Goyette, calm as a department store manikin on the outside, but aching inside.
Dave stirred and opened his eyes marginally. Two nurses came in at that moment to remove the tube from his throat. Removing it was gruesome to watch and painful for Dave, but he could at least talk after that, though with difficulty. He blinked at Gerard, which encouraged his friend to come closer. Dave had to struggle to talk, but he would not be silenced by Gerard’s concern. “Hey partner, don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?”
“I do.” He knew that was what Dave wanted to hear. “But I’d have gladly taken those hits for you. You have to know that. I tried.” His voice caught and it was obviously a struggle for him to get that much out.
All Dave could muster was a hoarse whisper. “Crapola. We pays our money and we takes our chances.” He almost managed a smile as he usually did when he spoke in odd platitudes.
Of a sudden Gerard had an overwhelming need to share some things with this friend, his partner. He was in some ways closer than family. Gerard had once had family, well, more than once he thought to himself more honestly. But it would be dangerous both for himself and for Dave. It might not make a difference for Dave, since his chance of recovery was slim at best. Right now it just didn’t look very likely based on what the doctors had shared. The doctors were negative, but they wouldn’t give odds. Probably a good thing to not take odds on a cop’s life, thought Gerard with a chuckle. He made his decision. He quietly scooted his chair very close to Dave. “Can you hear me if I talk at this level, Dave?”
Dave nodded, very slightly. “You can be pretty loud when you want.” It was the first real smile he had worn since the shooting. “
It won’t bother me.”
“No, but having this overheard would bother me. This is very private. I need to tell you some things I should have told you a long time ago. It’s like a story, but it takes a lot of time to tell if you’re willing. But you’ve got to understand that what I’m going to tell you must forever be a secret. This must go with you to your grave some day.” He immediately regretted his choice of words, since Dave seemed so close to the grave now.
“Got nuthin’ but time. Go ahead. Make it good.” It was obvious it would be far easier for him to listen than to speak.
Gerard thought about how to approach this, and did as anyone who knew his pattern would have expected: he made a quick decision and never looked back. He jumped in, as he did with life in general. “It started a long time ago, in a place not too far away.” He smiled. With that intro, he became comfortable with his decision to tell his story.
“There was a man named Gheret, who lived a long time ago,” he began. “He was, and is, a Pure. That doesn’t mean he had what you would call pure bloodlines. It means he regenerates tissue at an impossible rate. If he had been shot like you, he’d already be walking out of here, looking to take revenge on his attackers.”