* * * * * * *
Special Agents Etelson and Stevens had driven to downtown San Diego’s Gaslamp Quarter, and then walked down 4th Avenue to find a place to have lunch. They found an Indian restaurant and were now sitting opposite each other, on one of the tables in the open air, adjacent to the sidewalk.
As Stevens waited for Etelson to finish her conversation with Martin T., he smoothed the burgundy tablecloth, and then moved the wine glasses aside. Looking up, he eyed the long, black awning that stretched above them, along the side of the restaurant, giving them shade. Then, still waiting, he picked up the menu and browsed through the items.
Etelson said, “Well, we got our real victim number three after all, Marty. It’s that poor lady, Mrs. Ackerman. And, yes, Baltimore police found a red pearl in her ear.”
She waited, as Martin responded. Then, she said, “Yeah, well, they’re gonna send it over to you. And we need to ask you to do the same analysis you did, as with the one we found on victim number two.”
Martin spoke.
“We thought of that too. So, if the normal ways don’t work to get the outer covering to break, buy it some wine and say those sweet-nothing words in German, like you did last time.” She laughed her deep-toned, deep-throated laugh. “Alright, Marty. Knock ‘er dead. Call us when you find anything.’
As she hung up the phone, Etelson started their conversation, “Hey, ya feel that earthquake?”
Stevens set aside the menu. “Yeah, stuff suddenly started shaking all around me. I wasn’t sure what it was first. It felt like a train or somethin’ passing by…then I finally figured it out.”
“Welcome to Southern California. It’s weird though. The news was saying it really didn’t have an epicenter. Their words were that it had an ‘undefined epicenter.’ What are they talking about? There’s always an epicenter.”
Stevens changed the subject, “Well, anyway, Thanksgiving’s coming up. The office is all abuzz about the Thanksgiving day football game.”
“Is it gonna be here?”
“Yup, the 49ers are visiting and the Chargers are hosting.”
Stevens reached in his suit’s coat pocket and pulled out a tightly folded triangle, made from a white piece of paper. It was flat, about an eighth of an inch thick, and about the size of the end of his thumb.
He held it up in front of his face and smiled. “Care for a rematch?”
Etelson didn’t hesitate. “Go for it, loser!”
They cleared an area of the table in front of them.
Etelson leaned forward. She drew her hands together and made her thumbs touch at their tips. Then she straightened her forefingers and raised them vertically, at ninety degrees from the thumbs. They were her goal posts.
Stevens, using the paper triangle as a tiny football, stood it up on the table, with one end of it on the table, and the other end held steady by his forefinger. He hunched down, pursed his lips, and positioned his free hand to be ready to flick the paper football through Etelson’s goal posts across the table.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.”
He flicked the football. It was a weak kick, landing two thirds of the distance to goal.
“Oh, you suck,” Etelson taunted.
At that moment, a group of people, on the sidewalk, passed by them. Two or three of them smiled, as they watched the two agents play their game.
It was her turn to kick. She grabbed the paper triangle.
As she positioned the football, Stevens spoke. “I did a lot of digging on the background of both Mr. Jarhead and Mr. Goatee.”
“Yeah?”
Stevens put up his goal posts. “I got a face matched from the databases on the composite. He’s Samuel Ian Kessian. A.K.A., Sik.”
“Got a rap sheet?” Etelson adjusted her aim.
“A couple of misdemeanors and a DUI. That’s it.”
Etelson flicked the football. It curved to the right and hit Stevens on his arm.
“Oh, way suckie! That’s all you got?” Stevens returned the taunt. As he picked up the football, he said, “I’m not quite sure what made him flip the switch to psycho mode.”
“Hmmm,” Etelson put up her goal posts once again. “Any known hangouts?”
“His misdemeanor arrests were in pools halls…a couple of brawls. That’s a possible hangout.”
Stevens fiddled with the football between his fingers. “His dad was a highly decorated Marine. His grandfather and great-grandfather have a really interesting history.”
Etelson put down her goal posts, “Ok.”
“Get this. Remember that handful of men who lead the well-known series of attempts to assassinate Hitler?”
“Not really. That part of my history is a little fuzzy.”
“Well, it’s called the July 20th Plot. And afterwards, unfortunately, the group was ratted out, and they were summarily executed the next day. But Kessian’s great-grandfather, Friedrich von Tiechler, was one closely involved with that handful of leaders.
“Whoa.”
“Yeah. So, during the war, Friedrich von Tiechler’s family, minus dead Friedrich von Tiechler, move to the United States. Friedrich Jr. - Samuel Kessian’s granddad - is just a kid during the move. Eventually, the war ends and Friedrich Jr. becomes a man. He changes his last name to Kessian and joins the Marines. And several years later, Samuel Kessian’s father is born, and then Samuel’s good-ole dad eventually also joins the U.S. Marines.”
Stevens took a breath to pause. He looked across the street, and then back at Etelson. “Sam Kessian’s dad dies in combat - I think - I’m not too clear on that yet. Nevertheless, it appears that Samuel Ian Kessian is in a line of self-sacrificing, noble, highly decorated heroes.” He looked away again and shook his head. Then, he said, “It’s a shame what Samuel has become. Anyway, that’s where it ends in my search on Mr. Jarhead.”
Etelson put up her goal posts once again. “Ok, thanks. But, will ya kick already?” she protested.
Stevens turned to face her and positioned himself. He narrowed his eyes, concentrated, and then kicked. It was a wide miss.
Etelson grabbed the paper triangle from the table.
As Stevens positioned his goal posts, he continued, “But here’s where it gets more interesting. There were other assassination attempts made by, and planned by, that same group of men before the one on July 20th. In one of them, Hitler was attending a small gathering in his honor.
“One guy, an underground operative connected to the group of men, infiltrated Hitler’s inner circle. He was actually a Frenchman whose family had a vineyard in the Saint-Emilion region in France. He spent a lot of time growing up in Germany and learned to speak the language pretty well, because he and his father did a lot of traveling to Germany for the family winery business. So, over time this French underground operative became a German military officer. This guy was willing to take a make-or-break shot to take out Der Half-Mustached One.”
Etelson smiled. She was amused by that name once again. Then, she leaned back on her chair and listened further.
Before Stevens could continue, the waitress came by and set down the glasses of iced tea they had ordered. They thanked the waitress and waited patiently as she left.
“And in this gathering, this guy actually had Hitler in the sights of his revolver, but he was somehow stopped by one of the Hitler’s elite SS, Schutzstaffel, guards.” He paused to have the information sink in. Then he continued, “And remember back at the D.C. office, when I told you where the tattoo originated - the tattoo we’re seeing on these women’s wrists?”
“A little…I’m kinda fuzzy on that. Sometimes I don’t like listening to you.” Etelson grinned.
“Gee thanks. Well, it was that elite guard - actually he was an SS Major - who started it. He had the tattoo on his wrist. After he took out the lone assassin, the other guards in his team tatted themselves with the same symbol, in camaraderie.”
Stevens paused. He saw his partner’s interest was piqued,
and he wanted to give himself some credit for his diligent research. “I was burning the midnight oil to find this stuff. You otta be proud of me and all the hard work I did.”
Etelson smiled and nodded, giving her obligatory recognition. Tossing the football back to him, she said, “Ok, for that you get a second kick.” Then, she motioned her hand in a circle, coaxing him to continue.
He went on. “Now on Mr. Goatee - he was adopted. Adopted by a family that ran its own farm in North Dakota.”
“No way. I wouldn’t have guessed it.”
“Yeah, way.” As Stevens spoke, he tossed the paper triangle in the air and caught it with the same hand. “I was able to get the name of the birth mother on the adoption papers: she was a French woman. I wasn’t able to find out how she and the adoptive parents hooked up, but it seems all the papers were filed in North Dakota.” He paused again and shook the paper football in front of him, holding a tip of it with his thumb and forefinger. “You’ll never guess who that French lady was.”
“Hmm?”
For dramatic effect he said, “Dumm-dumm-dummmmmm. She was the wife of that lone French assassin who was stopped by the SS Major - the same SS Major with the tatted symbol on his wrist.”
“Whoa! Mr. Goatee and Mr. Jarhead connect by the same group of guys.”
“Quite a shared history, huh?”
“Yeah, way!”
Stevens smiled, proud of himself. Once again he positioned the football on the table.
“Good job, Rye! Very good research.” She put up her goal posts. “Wow, I’m just amazed.” Then, Etelson offered, “Well, wait a minute, the French woman would have been the age of Mr. Goatee’s grandma if she put him up for adoption when he was a baby.”
“Yup, he was adopted when he was a baby. And, yup, she would have been certainly the age of a dear-old-grandma. And dear-old-grandpa, the French guy, was already dead. So, there’s a missing piece there: Who was the real birth mother? And I’m still chasing that down.”
“Wow, cool.” Etelson was impressed. But she felt she was a little wanting in her lack of contribution of facts and interesting information to the case. Stevens had unwittingly “one-upped” her. In her competitive nature, she wanted to offer her own interesting and peculiar bit of information. “Well, I’ve got a story of my own,” she said with raised eyebrows.
“Yeah?”
“Remember that couple that saw Mr. Goatee at the Montreme? Did I tell you that they thought they saw frost forming on the hotel’s lobby window? Right on the window that Mr. Goatee was staring at?” She gave a pregnant pause then queried, “Strange, huh?”
“Frost on a window on a hot day? Yeah, strange.”
“Yeah, way!” she said in an exaggerated voice. “Of course it is…yeah.” Her voice trailed away.
“And?” Stevens coaxed.
“Well…well, there you go. Cool and strange info.” She looked at him with her head turned to one side and with wide-open eyes. Then, she added, while putting on an eerie tone in her voice, “…and weird…yeah, weird.”
Stevens grabbed the football from the table. After nodding his head a few times, he asked, “And when had you planned to tell me this new and interesting tidbit of info?”
Etelson, after nodding her head a few times, answered, “About now. Yeah…right now.”
* * * * * * *
The Alleyway itself was an anachronism. It had stood on Kenmore Street for over forty years since the street was a dirt road. Back then, its neighbors were businesses that sold construction and building materials. Over time, Kenmore Street became a four-lane paved road, with a concrete center divide, and those businesses that used to flank its sides have since been replaced with strip malls and tall office buildings with shiny reflective mirrors. Nevertheless, the Alleyway endured its changing environment, unaffected. To its patrons, it was historic.
It was four o’clock p.m., when the longhaired goateed man arrived at the front of the Alleyway. Looking around, he saw the dark-stained, wood paneling that created the exterior of the rectangular shaped building. Above the entrance, the long neon sign was off, but just as he walked in, it came on to welcome him into the Alleyway and into its history.
Behind him, the heavy wooden door closed on its own.
As the longhaired man walked, he noticed black and white pictures of long-time patrons hanging on every wall. Turning his head, he saw three pool tables staggered down the floor, dividing the length of the building into sections. Ample light came in from the windows; nevertheless, long fluorescent light bulbs, hung from the ceiling, illuminated each table. Opposite the entrance was the bar, with a couple of men sitting among the handful of barstools. He made his way to it.
On one of the pool tables, he watched two men playing a game of 9-ball. One man was maybe six feet tall. He was bald, had a rounded face with a black goatee, and was about thirty pounds overweight. The other man was about the same height but had contrasting facial features and body type: he was Sik.
The longhaired man, gaining greater command of his new abilities, had no fear of Sik. And Sik, knowing of the day’s agenda, had no fear of him.
Sik stared him down, thinking in disdain, Huh, he’s still alive. No problem. Next time, I’ll just kill him the way I’ve wanted to kill him.
The longhaired man sat down at the last barstool, furthest from Sik. After ordering a stout beer from the bar tender, he turned around and watched Sik’s game.
Once the bar tender returned with his drink, he took a swig, and then sat waiting for something to happen.
Within a few moments of following Sik’s game and listening to their conversation, he noticed that the game had something at stake aside from money. The two men laughed and taunted each other in good humor, as they played.
He continued to drink his beer. Minutes later, he turned away from the game.
Then, he felt someone at his side.
Next to his beer mug, he saw a hand slipping him a small piece of paper torn at the edges. At that moment, a man in a thick, dark hooded coat, with the hood covering his head, brushed by him and told him something in a soft, calm voice, “You have no beginning.”
Chapter 12
PRESENT DAY
On the seventh floor of the Marsters Hotel, the longhaired goateed man’s left fist quickly rises into the air, and then pounds down on Sik’s jaw. He growls, “That’s for hurting the nice young lady!”
As he straddles over Sik, he can sense that Paige is watching, from behind him, on the floor. His right fist cocks back then lands on the other side of Sik’s jaw. “That’s for making me chase you all over the country!”
He rocks back his left arm, and then leans down with all his weight to deliver his last blow. “And that’s for making me admit I suck!”
Sik is completely knocked out.
As he leans his arm on Sik’s chest, he shakes his head briskly, and then blurts, “Whoa…deja vu moment. It feels like I smacked him around before.” With a sly smile, he adds, “Either way, it still feels good.”
Paige, still groggy, sees the goateed man stagger to his feet and stare down at his foe. Soon, he turns and walks to her. Bending to his knees, he slowly cradles her head in his hands, and then rests it on his lap.
“Paige?” he quietly says. As Paige closes her eyes and loses consciousness once again, he suddenly gets a feeling that something disastrous is about to occur, like an unexpected premonition. Instinctively, he raises his head, looks at the mirror from across the room that reflects the world outside, and strangely expects the very object that he is about to see.
Then, an ear-shattering sound, like a fast low-flying jet, pierces the air.
Terror grips his heart, as a metallic flash blazes from west to east, cutting over the center of the Golden Gate Bridge. There is a figure far away at the very top of the north suspension tower of the bridge. For an instant, the longhaired man thinks he can see something there, but then immediately, the person disappears.
The missile’s ex
posed warhead bores a precise tunnel through the air. An instant later, a short distance further inland, the nuclear warhead detonates just above the earth. The explosion’s intense energy splits billions of atoms at ground zero, triggering a chain reaction that cascades into an uncontrollable atomic destruction.
With a blinding flash of light and unfathomable intense heat, the entire San Francisco Bay Area is left in utter devastation.
Away from its epicenter, what the powerful explosion doesn’t disintegrate, it crumbles, melts, and disfigures beyond recognition.
Hours later, after finding himself in a far coastal city south of ground zero, the longhaired man is in painful disbelief of what has occurred. With his heart sinking almost to despair, he decides to return to San Francisco, to where the Marsters Hotel used to be.
Grief overcomes him, as he looks out into the destruction and sees that the two suspension towers of the Golden Gate Bridge are now only stubs the size of houses. He takes himself to the south tower, and at the edge of its concrete base he goes on one knee. Gazing down into his reflection from the water lapping up the side of the base, he whispers in dismay, “There’s complete death underneath.”
His rash decision led to the annihilation of millions of people, and he was warned not to act this way. Now, guilt begins to break his once fighting spirit.
Still staring at his reflection, he says in anguish, “Look at what I’ve done - look at the damage and the lost lives.” Then, he adds, “Smiley told me what I am…but I can’t be that person if I’m making these unforgivable mistakes.” Smiley was the name he gave to the ever-positive and joyful Omar Malshar Gul, when they first met.
After a few moments, he tilts his head to the side, noticing a rip beginning to form at the knee-bend of his jeans. As he runs his hand over it, he sees that it has been worn down from the years of constant movement and pulling, and the repetitive stress and tension, has finally started the tear.
RB 01 Through Flesh & Bone Page 28