Louis Berry's Blog

Passion for Madeline never waned within the only man who’d loved her ethereally. The writer, who’d spent his career examining desires of fictional characters, knew the woman sitting across from him possessed celestial abundance. She resonated within his being.

Noah had known the woman for eighteen of his thirty five years. Juvenile logic offered evidence of how she’d been a part of the majority of his life. No matter how great the distance between them, Madeline echoed within his consciousness. Never had he known a woman who stoked visions of an eternal existence.

He’d resigned himself to never experiencing a bond more significant than friendship. Writing stories inspired by the most beautiful and strong soul he’d ever known, offered his only hope for creating an existence beyond human manifestations.

Published works were his only contribution to mankind.

Neither Noah nor Madeline wanted their day to end. Gaps of silence were spent staring across the picnic table at one another.

An occasional tingle spread throughout the young man’s psyche. He found Madeline’s beauty so intense, passage of time was rendered inert against profoundly piqued physical desires. What the writer felt was intense; yet ethereal. He could sit indefinitely, enjoying her beauty, without want for another experience.

Hours drifted along. Abandoned shrimp tails and paper cups, caked with dried ketchup, filled the basket that had been pushed to the far end of the table. Only when it emanated an odor that affected sensibilities, did Noah remove it.

Even the action of policing their table exacerbated pangs of separation.

The trained observer watched, throughout the afternoon, as men approached the restaurant. Glances soaked up Madeline’s beauty. Men were incapable of concealing intensity of desires for a woman they didn’t know.

Madeline offered pseudo-suitors innocent smiles in recognition. It was a defense mechanism she’d honed for years. Expressions were pleasant; without encouragement of furthering admiration into physical encounters.

Having such a beautiful woman acknowledge the existences of random men lifted strangers’ spirits for weeks beyond encounters.

Noah had eighteen years to relegate physical desires that raged beneath the surface. Even a man of his intellect, who examined all manner of human behavior when creating stories, was incapable of understanding magma-like desires seeking ventilation. Intense passion only breached the surface once.

As the couple sat and talked the day away, Noah’s ethereal connection dissipated into nothing more than wanton desires. Slowly, he lost recognition of thoughts entering his mind. Time and distance exacerbated basic desires. He’d lingered upon memories of their night on the beach. Noah imagined another sexual encounter with the beauty. He wished to be more than friends. Intensely tactile thoughts reduced him to the level of the many and random troglodyte males encountering beauty.

Men without souls were abundant.

An otherwise intelligent man found himself succumbing to that which was carnal.

Competing in football placated family and community. Noah understood from an early age, growth wasn’t inherent in playing a children’s game well into adulthood. He sought an understanding of that which moved humanity forward.

It wasn’t until William’s trial that the young writer gained an understanding of the ubiquitous nature of evil. It’d been allowed to exist because people became blinded by innate goodness of humanity. That which once existed below conscious thought, had been exposed for all to see.

Madeline peered across the table at the only man she’d known who considered her as offering more than beauty to the world.

William doted on his daughter after that fateful night in 1972. Her father attempted to instill recognition of a man’s true intentions. Failure was assured once evil took from the girl that which allowed her to connect spiritually. Rape was dogmatic and created a barrier impenetrable by future associations. It was an indelible stain left by Jack Elliott.

Noah created a spark possessing the energy to overcome that which the rapist sullied. It was up to Madeline to recognize and embrace it. No one could do it for her.

Jealousy was an emotion that never entered her consciousness. Constant thrusting of attention muted consideration for lost love.

Noah might be taken from her.

Men had come and gone. Madeline had yet to recognize Noah’s significance within a quickly approaching future. Thoughts of squandered relationships never crossed her mind.

Dusk settled over the area and alerted both souls their time together was drawing nigh. They’d be made to split from the other and face individual existences.

Noah felt compelled. He reached across the wooden table, and grasped the hand of the only woman he’d ever truly loved.

Madeline offered a genuine smile reflecting palpable energy sparking between them.

“Can I give you a ride home?” Noah asked.

“That would be nice.”

“Do you still live on MacArthur?”

She shook her head. “I bought a condo at the beach, but you can take me to my dad’s home. I think there is a gathering there tonight.”

“Darn.”

“What?”

“Well, if I had to take you to the beach, I’d get to spend more time with you. Your dad’s house is only ten minutes away.”

Madeline smiled coyly. “When are you going back to New York?”

“Tomorrow.”

She released a heavy sigh. “That doesn’t leave much time for us to visit.”

“No, it doesn’t.” His reply was tinged with disappointment.

“Why don’t you come by the house tonight. I’m sure dad would enjoy seeing you again.”

Noah nodded slowly. “I’d like that.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The hotel across from the mall.”

“That’s close. It wouldn’t place much of a burden on you getting home tonight, and to the airport in the morning.”

Suddenly, a loud bang echoed in the distance and startled the couple.

Noah looked around feverishly for its source.

Madeline clutched her heart. “Whoa. That startled me. Someone must be lighting fireworks at the courthouse.”

Noah hadn’t hunted since he was twenty-three years old. Living in New York didn’t offer opportunities for the sport. He questioningly offered, “that sounded more like a gunshot.”

Madeline shook her head. “No. Dad was going to stay behind and thank all of the people on the courthouse lawn for their support. It must have developed into a tailgate celebration.”

Noah witnessed his friend become discombobulated. “Are you okay?”

His date shook away obvious malaise. “Something powerful just came over me; like it passed right through me.” Madeline breathed deeply. “Gave me a bit of a swoon.”

Noah’s response reflected hope. “Maybe it’s because you’re sad I’ll be leaving tomorrow?”

Madeline smiled. “Regardless, the sensation is gone now.”

Noah’s heart sank.

Innocuous conversation continued for several minutes. Each realized the time had come to leave the picnic table they’d occupied for nearly six hours.

Slowly, within their consciousnesses grew the sound of eight cylinders. Vibrations resonated through once still air. Its source emanated from beyond the stand of trees; at the edge of the restaurant’s parking lot. The sound was obnoxious, and captured the couple’s attention.

From the direction of the courthouse, and down the hill on Fourth Street, sped the same truck that brought Madeline to her lunch date with Noah hours earlier.

The driver turned the vehicle sharply into the parking lot. Once it left the pavement, its tires kicked up a billowing cloud of dust.

Ten yards from the table wheels were locked and tires slid across the gravel parking lot. The truck came to rest in front of Madeline and Noah.

A member of Madeline’s impromptu security force emerged from the front passenger door. He ran as quickly as oversized and muscular legs could move. From behind the young beauty, he lifted her. “We need to go now.”

“What is it?”

“Your father’s been shot.”

Madeline was incapable of comprehending what she’d heard. Perception took several moments, as she stood with the help of her friend.

They walked toward the waiting vehicle. “How?”

The occupants of the rear of the double-cab truck opened the door for the young lady.

“Some guy sniped him from the woods across the street from the courthouse…while everyone stood on the lawn.”

“Did he get away?”

The muscle-bound protector lifted the young beauty by her waist, into the vehicle. Heightened by oversized tires and lift kits, his response was reduced to a grunt. “Nope.”

Once Madeline was seated inside, she looked down at her friend standing in the gap of the open rear door.

The man explained, “we surrounded him like a deer in a block. We closed in on him. He’s bound to the flagpole.”

Decades of uncertainty concerning her father’s love had been answered at trial. She’d finally become aware of just how violently he fought for her; and others who’d been made to suffer at the hands of evil. Madeline’s smile reflected a sinister hue. “Don’t let him out of your sight.”

As Madeline was being briefed, Noah made his way to his car, and exited the parking lot ahead of the truck.

Both vehicles sped up the hill on Fourth Street and turned down McKenzie.

Noah dutifully sought out a parking space in the lot across from the courthouse.

The driver of the truck drove over the curb and delivered the daughter of the man dying on the grass.

A crowd gathered around William. He clung tenuously to life.

When onlookers recognized the young woman, they backed away; allowing access to her father.

Kneeling around the father were his three children, Beverly, and Lilith.

Her mother’s partner backed away when she saw Madeline approach. Beverly knelt on one side near William’s head. Charles occupied the other.

Boldly, Madeline approached and grabbed her eldest sibling by the shoulder. She pulled him away; and without a word occupied the space he’d been forced to vacate.

“Dad. I’m here. It’s me. Madeline.”

From the other side of the victim’s body, Beverly explained, “He’s been in and out of consciousness. I was certain he was dead about ten minutes ago, but something seemed to give him strength.”

Madeline glanced at her mother without response. Quickly, she affixed attention upon her father. “I don’t want you to leave me, dad. You’re the only person who’s ever fought for me. I need you.”

The daughter glanced down at her father’s abdomen. A crimson and viscous liquid soaked through his shirt and covered her mother’s hand.

The ex-spouse continually applied pressure to stem blood-flow.

Madeline laid her hand atop her mother’s, and pressed gently. Affection became most genuine between the three.

Slowly, Beverly removed her hand and gently positioned that of her daughter’s in its place. “You can feel an ever so faint pulse. Be tender and allow your father’s soul to flow through you.”

The former wife knew the man she’d pledged a lifetime of devotion wasn’t long for the world. For all the conversations between husband and wife concerning death, no one anticipated a violently random end.

Hope burgeoned after the trial. Optimism lasted not a single afternoon.

Miraculously, William opened his eyes and uttered one last statement to the one person who’d offered intense purpose to an otherwise mundane existence. “I owe no one…but you Madeline. My pledge to keep you safe will be eternal. I can only hope our souls will be endlessly intertwined. Just know that I will always protect you. Live your life to its fullest, and forgive me my failures.”

The daughter watched as life exited her father’s eyes.

Within moments, the gunshot victim’s skin turned ghostly white. Blood no longer coursed through the man’s veins.

His daughter no longer detected the faint pulse through her blood-soaked hand.

Madeline’s calloused soul hardened beyond retraction in that moment.

She gently laid her father’s head on the courthouse lawn. The young woman stood and looked around.

Faces in the crowd looked to her for direction.

The only emotion she’d ever inspired were spurious male libidos. They were mere puppies who’d have followed her to death’s door at the mere mention of the trip.

Local elite families hadn’t considered her beyond the catalyst for murder; and her father’s trial. Myopic and pedophilic energy was only capable of envisioning the elimination of that which threatened their structure and existence. Criminals occupied a purely physical realm.

Madeline’s ethereal expression resonated from a point located deeply within her repressed psyche.

The young victim had decades to overcome rape at the hands of a family friend. She looked long and hard at each individual set of eyes that stared back at her. In the twenty-eight years since the incident, Madeline honed the skill of assessing intent in a man’s eyes.

Her seven-guard sentry stood at the ready; as did others.

Weakness was seen through the windows to weaker souls of several in the crowd. They appeared scared; unsure of what the assassination of Madeline’s father meant for their community.

Unlike her father’s hesitation to commit his initial murder, Madeline spent the better part of three decades envisioning just such a deed.

William developed a rag-tag network of locals who knew they must stop evil’s advancement. She hoped several of those anonymous faces staring back at her possessed the same quest for righteousness. There was an organization. She needed to wrest control of its purpose before others became marked for execution.

Madeline McVie spoke authoritatively. “There will be a meeting at my father’s house on South MacArthur in one hour. Anyone who wants to continue to rid our city of evil, be there.”

The sound of the canon from Key West’s Mallory Square echoed faintly in Adam Phillip’s consciousness. He stood at the end of the White Street pier looking across the water and beyond the horizon. Infinite possibilities for life he’d been taught as a child were replaced by the realization his time on earth approached its conclusion.

Murder was the assignment. It was a task that had been completed nearly one hundred times during his career. Victims were never easy targets. Adam dealt with high level political assassinations. Mostly men who were well protected. The occasional female target proved most difficult.

Personal experience echoed memories of a mother who’d instilled life’s infinite possibilities. Women captured by evil proved especially difficult for him to perform assigned tasks. No one in his life had been more nurturing than his mother. He found himself existing in a time when only the intensity of a mother’s love could overcome forces working against humanity’s survival.

Failures haunted the man who sacrificed his life eliminating evil from the planet. World views had been shaped by parents ignorant of widespread malevolence inhabiting the globe. Innocence was exacerbated by the fact he grew up in a small hamlet in the panhandle of Florida. Isolation during youth slowed the awareness of power structures across the globe and how truly interconnected they were.

Every Saturday as a child was spent at the local library. His mother exposed him to every resource that broadened Adam’s mind beyond local circumstances. STEM subjects piqued the young man’s interests most. That which could be logically proven through mathematics satiated his innate desire for truth. Facts surrounding the environment in which he was raised never jibed with familial assertions of contentment. Relying on the generosity of others and government assistance weakened those around him. His family never experienced financial independence. Being made subservient never set well with Adam. He wanted to be free to move about the world.

Witnessing the dichotomy of blissful ignorance and his family’s descent into poverty drove Adam further from family. No one was willing to acknowledge dire circumstances they’d created for themselves. The boy’s logical mind separated failures into that which could have been controlled by his parents and those considered environmental.

Saturdays when most kids were happy to sit at story-time in the library, Adam drifted from the group and sought out advanced material. Physics was his preferred subject. His consciousness was thrust to the four corners of the known universe. It was the only manner in which he escaped an environment over which he had no control.

Blame for financial circumstances beyond his father’s control was heaped upon out-of-control stagflation of the nineteen seventies. Adam felt the financial strain placed on his family by a phenomenon no one seemed to understand. Inquiries by the child were met with anger. Curiosity drove him beyond his preferred subject, into that of economics. Soaking in the teachings of Milton Friedman brought a keen understanding of how a monetary base untethered and wildly printed destroyed financial circumstances of all except those rare few who controlled the printing. An increasingly complex world purposefully destroyed intergenerational bonds. Adam was left to seek out life’s meaning alone.

Keen intellect exhibited during undergraduate and graduate work at USC and UCLA was rewarded with a scholarship to Stanford University to study Physics. Full scholarships were aplenty and afforded the young student the opportunity to leave his economically depressed hometown for the riches of California. His body matured during his time in Palo Alto. He emerged from his time there with a PhD. Youthful strength sought an outlet for deep seated anger disseminated by a father who embraced corporal punishment over intellectual conversations.

On a whim he took a psychological profile offered a select few students. Initially, it was viewed by the graduate as a means of satisfying burgeoning curiosity toward all sciences. What he didn’t realize was it had been administered by the Central Intelligence Agency.

Recruitment into the company was viewed by Adam as the perfect situation. Physical strength thirsted for the opportunity to eliminate those he saw as the cause of inequity throughout the world. Seeds of anger planted into the child grew unchecked. The young man lived solely within his ego. Without consideration of a greater self, he was prevented from making compassionate connections with humanity.

Adam glanced at his Rolex Submariner. It was after 9:00 PM. He began his walk toward Truman Annex. It was a night for executing an assignment communicated through back-channels. From the small Island only ninety miles north of Havana, Cuba, Adam launched into Central and South America whenever his job required. Over the prior decade, several jobs were completed in Key West. It was a place that not only attracted unsettled souls in search of nubile flesh, but those in search of world class fishing and water sports. Its proximity to Miami offered an additional lure.

Adam meandered west down White Street. He took on the look of a tourist wearing baggy cargo shorts and a Guy Harvey shirt printed with blue marlins breaching the water’s surface.

His home was blocks away on Southard Street. Whenever there was a job to do, he left its comfort behind and disassociated himself from the relief it offered. Adam tapped into his childhood rage whenever he was tasked with killing another human. It was a hue of energy he never wished to infect his home. He’d witnessed the damage thrust upon siblings in a household filled with anger.

His wife, son, and daughter-in-law had been killed in an accident eighteen months earlier. Only he and his adopted granddaughter remained.

Desperate attempts to maintain a connection with Carolyn, his wife, fused passion and logic. After the deaths of his family, Adam’s scientific mind reconnected with his conception of God so eloquently proved in his doctoral thesis. It was based in the purity of energy, and he was certain his lifestyle prevented life beyond his earthly manifestation. He was convinced multiple deaths by his hand tainted his spirit. He feared his soul would be pushed beyond the fruitful upon death, like the negative pole of a magnet. Never would he be allowed to exist among the right and just. Like the energy pushed through the dead circuit of an electric iron, he saw his life ending in a heated rage.

Adam turned on South Street toward the east end of Duval. Foot traffic increased the closer he got to the avenue of a thousand abuses. He mingled amongst tourists and locals seeking debauched pleasures. Judgment was absent the man possessing fresh memories of his own descent into alcohol abuse. During their twenty-eight-year marriage, Carolyn taught Adam the concept of eternity. He witnessed her countenance as it aged but found their bond strengthening beyond potential for collapse. Would the universe allow them to be together after his death?

Three years earlier he’d given up alcohol. No longer numb to the world, his attraction to his wife grew more intense. Thoughts of his ultimate demise entered his consciousness daily. He hoped they would be reunited after death but knew only outright repentance would counter evil deeds.

The only person that prevented willful crossover was his granddaughter, Maritza. She was sixteen years old, and there was so much he needed to tell her about the world. He needed to be her most ardent supporter. She would need to be told of the evil that will always inhabit the world, and how he’d succumb to its siren song. Adam knew he couldn’t abandon her.

The assassin turned right on Duval Street and began his trek toward the west end of the thoroughfare. Far from the docks where cruise ships brought families to the island were the less family friendly businesses that occupied this end of the street. Bathhouses and drag bars flourished peddling the flesh so many desired. As he approached these establishments he crossed to the opposite side of the street. His actions were not borne of derision. Months earlier there had been a shooting at the Adam and Adam Club. He simply desired a more defensive position if gunfire broke the night air once again.

A small Sig Sauer P365 9mm pistol felt weighty inside his left pocket. Its small profile alerted no one on the street to its presence. Adam tugged lightly on the pocket’s rim to experience the substance of the gun. His action offered assurance to its existence.

Hours were spent meandering. Taking on the aimless path of a tourist acted as camouflage. Circumstances were set for him to take custody of the target of his assassination at 3:00 AM. Orders came down that he would be joined by a young associate. It was the first time in over a decade Adam was made to include another intelligence asset during a mission. But why?

The two met earlier in the day at a diner on Roosevelt Boulevard. The young agent was twenty-five years of age and filled with self-importance. His name was a disguise given to him by the agency, Jim Norton.

As Adam recalled their meeting, echoing in his thoughts was the constant tapping on the table of the man’s signet ring. The action was incessant, and the older agent felt its repetition was meant to convey a message. What that was, he had yet to ascertain.

Nearing 11:00 PM, Adam passed the Bison and Flute Pub. Erratic roaming dulled awareness of immediate surroundings. The agent was startled when a couple in their late thirties stepped out of the stairwell that led to the rooftop clothing optional bar. A stalemate ensued as they stopped on the sidewalk in front of him. Quickly he stepped aside and kept moving forward; until he heard his name being called.

“Adam,” the young woman called. He didn’t turn and kept walking.

Again, she called but louder. “Adam.”

He was forced to turn and extinguish the situation that threatened to expose his identity. Standing and smiling at him were Mary Miller and her husband Lester Goldman. Chills ran down the man’s spine at the realization of who stood before him. He shook his head and replied, “wrong guy.” Without another word, Phillips turned and walked quickly toward Mallory Square.

Fear prevented him from turning to see if the couple was following him. Hopefully, the message had been heeded. He couldn’t be bothered.

Time approached midnight and he stood along the railing at Mallory Square. Only then did he take the time to search the faces of the dwindling crowd for Mary and Lester. They were nowhere to be seen.

Mary was a television journalist. A beautiful woman from South Africa who immigrated to the United States after attending college in country. She’d gained a reputation as one who sought truth. It was a sadly unique trait entering the third decade of the twenty-first century. Troubling was the fact she knew exactly who Adam was, and the job he’d performed for three decades. Not even his wife possessed that knowledge.

Two years prior he’d shared information with Mary concerning a global human trafficking ring that’d been operating out of the Ukraine. When her bosses refused to air the story, she took to social media with her findings. Her account was censored, and she lost all credibility within the media community.

Determination by Mary to expose the truth cost her dearly. Acting on orders, a gang of Taliban soldiers in Afghanistan brutally raped her. It was hoped, by those issuing orders, she would succumb to the brutality. Her death would be martyred and exploited by media narratives. She proved too strong. Adam embraced more respect for the woman he was forced to ignore than anyone he’d ever known.

The aging operative felt responsible for what happened to the woman he considered a friend. He loved her without reservation; like a sister. Exacerbating discomfort was the recollection he’d never been able to visit her in the hospital. Had he, it would have alerted his bosses he was the source of information regarding Ukrainian human trafficking.

Lester stood by his wife and nurtured her physical and emotional being back to health. It seemed serendipitous their first trip as a couple led to an encounter with Adam. Familiarities were cast aside by the couple. Mary was astute and realized their friend possessed a higher calling that night.

More time was spent meandering as a tourist, lost and without direction.

Apparent indecision was discarded in favor of the mission’s purpose when he made his way down Thomas Street, to the rear entrance of Truman Annex. Punching the code onto the rear iron gate’s lock, he released its hold and pushed open the entrance. He walked down Fleming Street and took the first left onto Porter Lane. Continuing until its conclusion in a parking area, he walked to a black Chrysler 300 that had been parked there to accomplish the evening’s mission.

Inside the vehicle were black pants and shirt, into which he quickly changed. He looked at his watch once again. It was 1:00 AM. Adam folded his arms across his chest and waited for Norton to join him.

For two hours Adam sat and thought about his past. Repressed experiences were brought into his consciousness to appease an ever-present desire for critical examination. Strength had left his aging body and he focused on the ethereal. Memories occupying points along the timeline of his life were brought together to create a mosaic of the man he’d become. Although cracked and imperfect, he conceived a path toward an eternal existence with the wife he missed dearly. Murders by his hand muddied that vision.

Adam’s memories possessed the potential for destruction. He’d never used his knowledge of the universe to advance humanity’s understanding of their place within infinite society. The assassin knew there was a way forward for all of humanity to coexist, and flourish eternally. His only failure was that he’d yet to quantify the concept.

Mary once again filled his thoughts. Until the assault she was forced to endure, he innocently thought her cache could bring about meaningful change to humanity. She had the platform upon which to communicate the source of all that was wrong in the world. She was meant to die that day. The same men who ordered her rape, directed Adam to work with an unknown associate. Was it his turn to die?

Adam was allowed to operate as a lone assassin for nearly a decade. Jim Norton had been inserted into his world for one purpose; or so Adam worried. Decades of rotating politicians promising peace, while simultaneously implementing war, tainted the man’s view. No matter the party to which one subscribed, the advancement of democracy through violent means continued unabated since the assassination of JFK. Adam’s understanding resolved the source of control emanated from a handful of elite families who’d been in control of humanity for a millennium.

The Nazis’ desire for a thousand-year Reich and its connection to elite families was easily conceived by the man with knowledge of global political machinery. Force never provided peace. It was a method; a means to an end; and those in control would not relent until their ultimate goal was achieved. What that final objective was, only few elites knew. Adam had been a mere cog in the machinery.

The assassin understood even though an objective may be reached, violence would be the manner in which hegemony over humanity was maintained. There would never be peace for the survivors; those who aligned themselves with the elite. Desire for destruction embraced by evil could never be satiated.

Adam was startled by tapping of Norton’s signet ring on the passenger’s side window. He pressed the door unlock button and the young agent opened the door and entered the car.

There was something devious emanating from the young man’s eyes as he stared at Adam. “You ready to murder a Cuban national?”

Fear of triggering the younger man’s presumed second directive, his murder at the hands of an up-and-comer, was blunted when Adam agreed. “Sure.”

There was so much more going through his mind. He looked down at Jim’s left hand resting on his thigh. The ring he seemed so fond of populated the third finger of that hand. Did that signify devotion to that which it represented? Symbolism meant something to evil, and its design conveyed several malevolent symbols.

“So, what do you think Project Trinity is?” the young agent asked, impetuously.

Something contained in the energy that connected the two on this night spoke to Adam. His partner’s inquiry seemed exploratory, less concerned about the man who’d been targeted for assassination. “Maybe we should ask the Cuban, once we take him into custody.”

The two sat silent for several minutes.

Jim fractured the stillness once again. “I bet it has something to do with assassinating the president. You know one-third of the balance of power.”

“Hmmm. Maybe so.”

“Or it could be about the assassination of the third house of Saud?”

Adam looked sternly at his partner. “What would be accomplished by that?”

The young agent shrugged. “Just spit balling.”

Wild theories were cast into the conversation to offer a broad array of possibilities. Doing so was meant to elicit from Adam knowledge as to Project Trinity’s stated goal. It was a mission known to the younger agent. His soul had been compromised by promises of eternal human existence. Differences between the men were stark. It wasn’t as simple as occupying different stages of life. Adam’s perspective was universal. What was to be encountered beyond death and how minuscule human lives were on an eternal timeline was the manner in which Adam approached life.

Norton was all about preserving the pleasures of flesh as long as possible. Beset by desire, the young agent believed those who controlled him possessed universal knowledge that could make immortality a reality. It was how they mocked God; feeling as though they controlled the ultimate disposition of souls.

Any extension of life proved temporary. Adam understood. Jim didn’t.

The driver checked his watch. It was time. He pressed the ignition button and the car’s engine roared to life. He backed out of the space and made his way to Fleming Street. He took a left, advanced a hundred feet and then another left on Emma Street. Stopping at Southard Street before turning left, Adam considered the irony his house was a mere quarter mile away. Thoughts of his granddaughter sleeping soundly offered comfort to a man heading toward destruction.

He maneuvered the car left and continued past the guardhouse. A right on Whitehead Street propelled the car away from their intended destination. As circuitous as his pedestrian path had been, so was that of the two men in the vehicle. Convoluted courses were meant to disguise intent.

The witching hour passed three hours earlier. Simonton Street was deserted. The asphalt glistened from tropical rains all too familiar to Key West. Yellows, reds, and greens flashed on the road’s surface with the intermittent changing of traffic lights. Faint sounds of revelers could be heard from Duval Street. He enjoyed the cover of darkness and its solitude. No one wandered more than a block away from the central party hub at that hour. Operations in the dark were the specialty of the federal government and its minions.

Adam drove the four-door black Chrysler 300 speedily down the empty thoroughfare. Tires hissed constantly on the rain-soaked road as Adam made his way toward their destination. Their mission was to disappear a Cuban national caught passing intel on Project Trinity to a CIA informant in Dubai. His crimes had been committed in a far-away land, but he’d been brought to Key West due to its proximity to his homeland. The appearance of his dead body in these waters could be easily explained. The men were fortunate that green traffic signals lit their entire path.

The agents’ destination was the federal courthouse. It was one of the grandest structures on the island, a massive two-story edifice clad in limestone mined from a local quarry. It took up half a city block. Its parking lot sat on the other half. Surrounding the lot were iron spikes, seven feet tall and four inches in circumference. The tips were painted gold and meant to dress up an otherwise medieval-looking threat against unlawful intruders.

The tires skidded slightly as Adam turned into the courthouse’s drive at a speed slightly beyond safe. He braked hard, bringing the vehicle to a stop in front of the iron-spiked barricade.

His young passenger got out of the car and approached the gate’s gold painted lock as he took a key from his right front pocket. He opened the lock, removed the heavy chain, and pulled mightily to slide the heavy gate open.

Adam drove through the gate and pulled into the parking spot around the rear corner of the building nearest a large, windowless steel door.

The young passenger left the gate open and jogged to the back of the building. He rounded the corner, so he’d be hidden from the view of anyone passing on the street. As an added precaution he pulled his Glock 19A from his belt and a silencer from his jacket pocket. He joined the two.

Adam emerged from the car and hurried to the rear door. He pulled a single key from his pants pocket, unlocked the door, and disappeared into the dark courthouse.

Feeling along the rear wall, he found the switch. The long rear corridor filled with light.

At the end of the hall, he found what he was looking for—a holding cell next to the bailiff’s entrance to the main courtroom. It was never meant to house anyone overnight, but inside lay a man on a wooden bench. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and a black hood, cinched at the neck, covered his head.

The startled prisoner struggled to sit up as Adam unlocked the door and stepped inside. Moving quickly, he concentrated on the task at hand. He was forced to keep at bay compassionate thoughts possessing the potential to distract him. Adam blocked out philosophical considerations at moments like this. He’d honed the skill over decades of completing horrific jobs on behalf of God and country. His concept of God and the universe changed greatly throughout life. Constantly changing viewpoints possessed the potential to destroy the man.

He grabbed the prisoner’s right bicep, yanked him from the cell, and walked him out of the building. Neither said a word.

When the lookout saw the two emerge from the courthouse, he gave one last glance toward the empty street, fell back from his position, and retook his seat on the passenger side of the Chrysler.

Adam shoved the hooded captive into the back seat. Norton turned around and pressed the end of his silencer to the man’s forehead—the only statement necessary.

Adam settled into his seat and closed the car door as quietly as he could, not wanting to draw attention to happenings behind the courthouse building.

Questions about the night’s mission popped off in his mind like Fourth of July fireworks. As much as he wished to press the accelerator and be done with the task that lay ahead, decades of experience overcame his impulse. Age changed him. No longer did he simply give over his trust to authority. Contemplating his place in the universe brought him to the realization no one was above God. Why should he trust the narrative offered by a flawed human? He himself possessed many failings. Examining every aspect of his time on earth was supposed to bring him satisfaction his was a life well-lived. But as he controlled the circumstances that would lead to the death of another, Adam wondered if he’d ever made a Godly decision.

The trip east on Simonton Street was not nearly as smooth as the trip to the courthouse. Shimmering green asphalt gave way to frustrating, intermittent red as the car seemed to encounter every stop light on the street. Adam just wanted the night to be over.

Finally, the assassin drove sharply left onto Windsor Lane. Although the task of taking another man’s life lay ahead, Adam’s anxiety dissipated as the conclusion of his mission grew nigh. He’d become numb to the deaths of others. His own imminent demise weighed heavily on him.

The driver turned left onto Passover Lane and drove the short distance to the three-way intersection of Passover, Angela Street, and Carey Lane. He turned into the entrance of the cemetery.

Slowly, the driver steered the car toward the center of the graveyard. He knew its layout well. He took the fifth path to the left and brought the car to a stop in front of a mausoleum with the name “Robert Otto” inscribed on its façade.

The entire trip had been made in silence. Adam knew words could get someone killed, and the fewer spoken, the greater his chance of survival.

The driver quickly emerged from the car and moved toward the great stone edifice. With the tip of his shoe, he tapped out a distinct pattern on a group of stones that lay on the side of the burial house. The rear wall slowly sank into ground revealing an iron staircase that led down through hollowed out limestone, and into complete darkness.

The driver returned to the car, reached into the back seat, grabbed the prisoner by the upper arm, and hauled him out and onto his feet. He nodded for his accomplice to take control of the prisoner. The three men moved quickly around the mausoleum, through the doorway, down into the darkness, and out of sight.

Adam went ahead of the other two. It was completely dark, but he knew the layout of the murder chamber like it was his own living room. When he reached the landing, he flipped a switch, filling the space with an eerie red glow.

He reached out and grabbed the top of the hood and removed it from his prisoner’s head. It took only a moment for the Cuban’s eyes to adjust to the softer red light.

Two steps down from the platform on which they stood the prisoner saw an iron mechanism that resembled the jaws of a large shark. Fashioned along each mandible were metal, serrated teeth. It was obviously designed to precisely mimic the bite of a Great White. Farther below ran a stream that had been cut from the limestone. Affected by tides, its level rose and fell with the currents and storm surge that regularly influenced the island.

The Cuban put two and two together and envisioned his shark-mangled body washed out to sea and then back onto a Key West beach. He looked to his left, then to his right. Each of his captors held one of his arms. They controlled what little of his life remained. As a Cuban intelligence operative, he knew this day would eventually come.

“Interesting little James Bond contraption you have set up,” he said bravely. “You Americans come up with such unique ways to hide your crimes.”

The man’s bravado caught even Adam, the veteran assassin, off guard.

The Cuban looked at Adam and smirked. “At least I can go to my grave knowing the United States sent their most prolific murderer after me.” Neither captor responded. “What’s the matter? Neither of you seem to be having any fun. Isn’t this why you got into this line of work? So you can murder bad people? Or at least those your government deems bad?”

“You’re getting to be a bit too mouthy,” the young captor said, before punching him in the face with his free hand.

The man’s head snapped back. Upon gathering his composure, he laughed. “Watch the ring, asshole.”

“Okay, let’s get on with this,” Adam said. “Do you have anything else you want to say to God before we kill you?” His words were sincere.

“I have one question of you, and then I will speak to God. If that’s okay.”

“Go ahead.”

“For what crime do I stand judged by your government and by the two of you?”

Adam was confident and matter of fact. “You were caught passing information on Project Trinity. In other words, you’ve been engaged in an effort to eliminate most of the world’s population.” The leader had unwittingly acknowledged his understanding of the global elite’s directive.

“Wrong. I was passing bogus information meant to flush out the true perpetrators of Project Trinity.”

"Oh?” said Adam. “Who’s that?”

“They aren’t who you think they are. Just like your bosses have never been the originators of your orders. A consortium of intelligence assets from all over the world have been working off the books to prevent programs like Project Trinity from happening.”

Adam’s epiphany brought forth the realization his work on that night was merely a repetition of lifelong behavior; an action devoid of critical thought. Seeking greater awareness brought him to this point in life. Aging flesh shifted focus to energy contained within his soul. That which propelled him forward had been tainted by societal impediments. He conceived all humans should be afforded the opportunity to freely express their souls. Was the Cuban’s energy pure?

Upon meeting Norton earlier that evening at a diner, he examined the man’s signet ring to which the Cuban referred. It had the all-seeing eye surrounded by three black onyxes that formed a two-dimensional pyramid. Rays emanated from the larger, top stone, signifying the black sun worshipped by World War II–era Nazis. The dark star symbolized our galaxy’s black hole, destroying all matter approaching its event horizon. It was an evil bastardization of the Christian Trinity. A singular inflection point in a man’s life could never have been more obvious.

The Cuban saw through the assassin’s eyes and into his soul. Adam’s hesitance was all too obvious. He continued questioning the man’s actions. “What makes your country better than mine? We don’t have the prostitution and human-trafficking problem your country has. We don’t have the drug problem your country has. Are Cubans that different from Americans? No! You must ask yourself why is that? Is your government complicit? With the NSA recording every single conversation, text, and website traffic, why is it that the people who are causing so much damage to your country have not been arrested? I’ll tell you. Your politicians, judges, and corporate executives are profiting from it. We are both in the intelligence game. Do you honestly think Fidel didn’t know these things? Of course, he did. He may have overreacted in tightening restrictions in my country, but he succeeded in many ways. Your own John Adams said, ‘Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious people. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.’ Or did they not teach you that in your school?” He chuckled. “Americans think themselves as intellectuals. Yet whenever anyone possesses a contradictory ideology, your solution is to eliminate them with some crude medieval device hidden inside a limestone cave.” He tossed his head toward the jaws of death.

Norton shifted his feet. “All right. Say adios, amigo.” All he desired was the orgasmic burst of vitality felt in taking the life of another.

Adam held up a calming hand.

The Cuban viewed his captor’s hesitation as an inducement to continue. “We live in a world where we have to compete. There are no easy ways out. There are no shortcuts. Those who promise such are destroying those who follow them. Think about the timeline of your life. American households in the fifties and sixties could exist on one income. Now people must use a credit card to buy groceries. It’s all by design.” He saw that he was not getting through to Adam. It needed to become personal. “What kind of world do you wish to leave for your Guatemalan born granddaughter? Do you know how lucky she is? Did you know the adoption service your son used was set up to benefit human traffickers and pedophiles? Women having babies for the sole purpose of making money feeds the supply line. Your granddaughter’s soul is fortunate to have made its way into your home. Now it’s up to you to educate her properly to the evil that exists in the world, and from where it comes.”

Adam never considered assets from adversarial agencies would research him. Simultaneously, it scared him while making perfect sense. Another epiphany rang within his being. He’d become so much an arrogantly blunt instrument, he couldn’t fathom himself the target of another agency. Was the Cuban trying to send a message? His enemy’s words contained urgency. Did the prisoner know Adam was meant to die that night? Did Norton truly have a second directive?

Wisdom comes from age and experience. The Cuban’s thoughts paralleled many of Adam’s recent judgments. He realized the murder of this man was meant to further the agenda of evil. How much damage would Adam do to humanity by taking from it this man who seemed to care so much? He gambled with his life every time he accepted a mission. The situation in which he found himself mimicked that of a roulette wheel. Should he bet red or black?

He raised his gun and aimed it at the forehead of his captive.

“Wait,” the Cuban pleaded. “You promised one last talk with God.”

Adam sighed. “Okay.” He lowered his gun frustratingly, allowing it to slap against his leg.

Hands still cuffed behind his back, the Cuban dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “Dear God. The souls contained in these three men have been brought together under dubious circumstances. We ask you not judge us for the failings of human flesh but allow us to exist together in harmony for all of eternity.” The captive’s tone seemed sincere.

Adam furrowed his brow. The man was about to die, yet he prayed for the eternal peace of his executioners. Just when he thought he’d figured out life, someone did something so surprisingly selfless. Childlike innocence had long been suppressed in favor of acute skepticism. Deep within the recesses of his mind Adam recalled saying prayers each night with his mother. Requests for humanity’s happiness were pure to the child. The Cuban’s prayer sparked his long dormant faith in humanity. Adam grew in the moment. He understood his intended victim possessed not only wisdom and strength, but love for his fellow man; regardless of circumstances. Spiritual awareness was the only path that would propel the man toward a universal existence beyond his earthly vessel. It was that same peace of mind Adam sought.

Shaking his head, he raised the gun toward his captive’s face, shifted it upward and fired. The bullet struck Norton between the eyes. The young man’s arm went slack, and his gun fell from his hand and clanged onto the metal deck. Then the man himself slumped and fell to the floor.

Adam hurried to the body. He grabbed the gun off the deck and tossed it into the subterranean canal. Then he grabbed the young man under the shoulders and began dragging him down the two steps toward the death mechanism. He paused and looked up at the Cuban. “If I remove your handcuffs, are you gonna help me?”

“What are you going to do with him?” The Cuban asked.

Adam stood the man up and removed his prisoner’s restraints. “The same thing I was going to do to you. I’m going to put his head in that contraption, chop it off, and throw his body into the channel for it to be swept into the ocean. He’ll wash up on Smather’s Beach, same as you would have. Victim of a shark attack.”

The Cuban rubbed his wrists and surveyed the situation. “Wouldn’t it be easier to take a chunk out of the side? That would look more like a shark attack.”

“Agreed. However, I’m sure there’s no way you would’ve allowed us to simply place you in that contraption so we could take a chunk out of your side, so we’d already rejected the most realistic option. Besides, we have to remove the evidence of the bullet wound. Also, this will play better with the media. Can’t you just see the headline? where’s the head?”

The Cuban laughed. “You understand your culture better than I thought.”

The prisoner grabbed the dead man’s ankles, and he and Adam carefully made their way down the two steps and positioned the man’s head inside the iron jaws.

Adam looked at his new partner in crime. “Would you like to do the honors?”

“I don’t mind if I do,” said the Cuban. As he approached the machinery he seemed at a loss.

“You release the hydraulic pressure with this lever,” Adam said, pointing to a long iron bar that wouldn’t have been out of place in Frankenstein’s lab.

The Cuban grabbed the control and, without hesitation, released the jaws that crashed together.

Inside the chamber, the sound was deafening. The blood splatter was more than Adam anticipated. It sprayed both men’s pants below the knees. The head, its oblong shape and uneven weight distribution, rolled crazily at the men’s feet like a Mexican jumping bean.

“I’ll take care of that,” Adam said.

“What do you want from me?” the Cuban asked.

“Nothing, other than to never see you again,” Adam replied as he pushed Norton’s body into the subterranean canal by rolling it over with his right foot.

The Cuban nodded and turned away. He double-timed it up the stairs, through the door, and into the darkness.

Adam tried to grab the severed head by its short, gelled, spiky hair. He could not get a good grip and dropped the head twice before finally grabbing it by an ear. He placed it in the cloth hood that once covered the Cuban’s head and wiped his hand on his slacks.

Quickly, the aged assassin climbed the stairs and exited the mausoleum. His first stop was at the rear of the car where he placed the head in the trunk. Adam moved back to the crypt and secured it by tapping out the pattern on the stones once again.

Only after he’d slid behind the wheel of the car did the gravity of his actions fully soak into his consciousness. He faced the most uncertain future he’d ever known. Conscious anxiety extended to his granddaughter’s life as well.

Book Blurb

Seven-year-old Madeline McVie was raped by a close family friend. Upon discovering evidence of the assault, the young girl’s parents plot their revenge which offers culpable deniability. Intercepted by a sheriff’s deputy, William McVie is offered the opportunity to not only exact revenge on his daughter’s attacker, but to dismantle a drug and human trafficking apparatus that has been operating in the small and inconsequential port town of Panama City. The establishment of a human trafficking task force brings together those who are involved and profit from the flesh of innocent women and children and those who wish to eliminate them. The criminals agree to serve on the task force to observe tactics against their organization. A network of townspeople develops organically to protect their children and provide counterintelligence to the two members of the task force working to bring justice to lost innocence. Nearly three decades would be spent eliminating the town’s power structure that controlled every vice and destroyed the fabric of humanity living within its limits. Normal teenage struggles exacerbated Madeline’s secret which she tried to push deeply into her subconscious. Discussions between parents and victim never occurred. Truth of circumstances were only revealed when William was arrested and tried on eight counts of murder. The Bay County Courthouse became the venue in which father and daughter finally understood the other’s struggles coping with the vilest act perpetrated upon a seven year old girl twenty-eight years earlier.

The book is available for pre-order in Kindle version on Amazon.com. Release date is August 1, 2023.

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Chapter 1

Madeline McVie was born into a family with two older brothers and a younger sister. Her brother Marcus eclipsed her age by only thirty minutes. The twin’s appearance favored that of his mother; and his sister, that of her father. The only commonality of countenance was the long, straight, dark hair they shared. The brother aspired to reflect his twin’s pleasing appearance. Attention was thrust upon his sister, leaving him feeling isolated. Parents allowed the boy to grow his hair long to match that of his sister. Ethereal bonds between the two were formed in utero. The dizygotic nature of conception required nurturing to perpetuate the connection. Each were thrust into the world and forced to meet challenges. Threats encountered did not reflect equally upon siblings. Distinct individuals must seek empathic passion within in order to withstand external and evil forces. A world bereft of benevolence created humans without conscience.
Whenever the family went out together, strangers naturally gravitated toward the third child. Her appearance was viewed as striking by all who encountered her. There was something special about Madeline. Views of family members were based in the superficial. Recognition of the manner in which outsiders treated the young girl prevented conception of the fragile soul encased by her tiny body.
The family’s home was on South McArthur Avenue. The northern and southern sections of the road were bisected by Cherry Street. The southern section provided a picturesque view for those who drove the oak canopied road as it extended toward the bay.
It was 1972, a time without social media or ubiquitous camera phones. Kids’ main mode of transportation were bicycles that propelled them from home to home and friend to friend. There was a great deal of freedom for young people to discover themselves without the dogma associated with communicating via chat rooms.
There was no way for the seven-year-old Madeline to avoid facing the destructive nature inherent in humanity. Although it arrived in the form of a friend, it would leave having destroyed her earthly soul. She had yet to be taught to value herself, endangering innate value by giving it away to others.
Influential men controlled most every facet of life in the small town in which she lived. The most vulnerable were those onto whom they wrapped dominant tentacles.
Madeline’s hair was dark brown, some would say black. It was straight and hung to the middle of her back. Her skin was olive and a darker hue than that of family members, even Marcus. Parents’ friends jested she wasn’t a full-blooded McVie. Madeline was born in 1965, a time when morals were tossed aside for that which felt good in the moment. Family lifestyles changed not long after the introduction of a television in every home. Outside influences were broadcast nightly. Attitudes became less ethereal and more physical. Divorce rates escalated in the subsequent decade and never reverted to the mean. It was a decade that damaged Madeline physically and emotionally beyond repair.
Her brother, Charles, was five years older than Madeline, and her sister Carolyn, four years younger. Age differences left Madeline isolated and without confidants. Although Marcus desired the same hair as his sister, his interests in 1972 shifted to the rough and tumble life enjoyed by little boys. Madeline preferred the pristine and pretty. Her birth order left her at a time when her mother became parentally lazy. Assumptions that older siblings were instilling pearls of wisdom necessary to become successful humans absolved the woman of responsibility.
The zeitgeist broadcast through 1970s television pulled the oldest child, Charles, away from his family. It was no longer the nuclear situation his parents, Beverly and William, enjoyed in the 1950’s. There arose a sink or swim existence for all four.
Beverly McVie had been the homecoming queen at Cottondale High School. Her husband William was in his high school’s homecoming court, and escorted Karen Rothberg. It was a mere coincidence the two attended the University of Alabama at the same time. William majored in Hospitality Management and Beverly American Literature. It was a time when the young girl had difficulty imagining anything other than being a mother. In 1972, she found herself desiring more from life. What that was, she had no idea.
Parenting by proclamation wielded an unintentional two-edged sword. Throughout each child’s young life Beverly wagged her finger in front of innocent, yet curious faces and proclaimed that her children, “were no better than anyone else on the planet.” Her intent was borne of the civil rights struggle, which she fully supported. Each of her children took this lesson to heart and ran in circles of friends from all walks of life. They developed the skill of learning vicariously. The cutting came at varying times in each child’s life. Inability to recognize those with whom they associated as possessing malevolent intent, accomplished nothing more than hastened extraction of value for perverted purposes. This phenomenon struck Madeline hardest.
It was a Sunday evening. The family finished dinner and adjourned into the television room to watch The Wonderful World of Disney. On that particular night the family had a guest for dinner, Uncle Jack. The man was not linked to the family by DNA. He was however a man that exerted a great deal of influence over the household by owning the hotel William managed.
A rug covered the hardwood floors in the middle of the room where Madeline sat, leaning on her left hip, and playing with Charles’ Hot Wheel cars. The carpeting consisted of large red squares. Separating the cubes were three-inch black lines, and down their middle were solid yellow stripes. Embracing her childlike imagination, Madeline used this pattern as her personal system of highways.
She stopped what she was doing when the familiar image of Tinker Bell came on the television and tapped her magic wand atop Cinderella’s castle. Fairy dust exploded throughout each corner of the family’s nineteen-inch color television. The episode on this particular night was The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes, starring Kurt Russell. He was a favorite of Madeline’s.
Surrounding the seven-year-old girl were her two brothers who sat on a sofa situated beneath the window between the television room and the back porch. Her younger sister sat on her mother’s lap in a rocking chair, and her father lay prone in his recliner. Uncle Jack stood in the doorway between the dining and family rooms. His arms were arrogantly folded across his chest. His gaze was not on the television but fell upon Madeline. The manner in which he appreciated her visage was wholly unnatural.
Jack was a businessman and one of the wealthiest people in town. Any parcel of land in town that held significant value was at least partially owned by the man. The majority of his holdings had been obtained legitimately through hard work and intellect. Some of the most valuable properties had been obtained through sham foreclosures with the aid of corrupt bankers and judges. Powerless business owners lost everything to his schemes. Some had never once been late on a mortgage payment. Operations were repeated whenever the desire to own something that wasn’t his motivated the man to set the wheels of corrupt apparatus in motion. If he saw something he wanted he didn’t hesitate to invest money in legal fees that provided massive returns.
Jack stood patiently in the doorway observing Madeline as she watched the movie. When Dexter Riley was shocked by lighting while repairing a mainframe, the man reached over and tapped Madeline’s father on his right shoulder. The father turned to his guest, and Jack motioned with his head toward the young girl still playing with cars and watching television.
Upon his guest’s direction, William called down to his daughter. “Madeline, why don’t you go outside and show Uncle Jack your dollhouse?”
The seven-year-old turned to her father and whined, “But I wanna watch the movie.”
“Now, sweetie, you know Uncle Jack paid to have your dollhouse built in our backyard. I think you need to show him the finished product and be grateful.”
Emphatically, she tossed the Hot Wheel in her hand into the air and watched as it crashed into the others aligned on her carpeted thoroughfare. Madeline righted herself, stood and walked over to the old man, who still leaned against the door frame. She held her hand up, and the old man took her tiny hand in his and they walked through the back door, down three concrete steps, and onto the back porch. The concrete floor was painted dark green. Colorful crocheted throw rugs knitted by Beverly’s grandmother were scattered about offering varying hues to an otherwise drab environment.
Madeline pushed on the wooden frame of the screen door that led into the backyard. Just outside the entry was an arc of concrete no wider than the doorframe. It was only large enough to hold a welcome mat for those entering to wipe their feet. Beverly prettied up its appearance by painting the step to resemble a clam shell. The mural’s purpose was to brush away stress associated with raising a family and remind the mother of her favorite spot on the beach.
The pad was only a few inches off the ground, but Madeline took the opportunity to jump from it as if she were taking flight. Jack never let go of her hand.
The young girl innocently tugged her uncle’s hand as she led him to the rear of the yard where the dollhouse stood. Her brothers were angry about the obstruction to their football field. No longer could they launch deep passes and proclaim themselves the second coming of Archie Manning.
Jack became aggravated at the dirt collecting on his shoes from the well-worn path. Every few steps he lifted a foot and brushed away the dust with his free hand. He hopped to keep up with Madeline as she continued to lead him by the hand.
Upon opening its door, the seven-year-old entered the dollhouse first. The old man followed, ducking under and through the five-foot doorway. He stooped as he walked through the small house until he reached the chair at the end of an undersized, yet quality built bed.
After sitting down, he smiled at Madeline. “Why don’t you get in the bed like you would in your own bedroom at night?”
The young girl’s look was confused as she glanced around the room. She held her palms skyward and shrugged innocently. “But I don’t have my pajamas.”
“That’s okay. You can take your clothes off because no one sleeps in their clothes.”
His instructions were firm, or so that’s how they were perceived by the seven-year-old. Butterflies fluttered in the stomach of the child. She was nervous and unsure of what the man asked of her. Hesitantly, she removed her shoes and socks and then climbed into the small bed, never removing her stare from the man. There was nothing she could do to prevent whatever was to happen. Her role seemed cast as witness and victim.
Jack’s smile would have been recognized as smarmy, creepy, and untrustworthy by adult women. He was a man intent on taking what he desired. The child’s nerves were racked. At a time in a little girl’s life when she should begin conceiving the beauty the world contains, young Madeline was being made to surrender innocence to a man she’d been taught to love like a relative. She was confused and unsure of what should be done.
Without standing, Jack scooted his chair from the end of the small bed to its side where Madeline lay. She watched intently without blinking. The old man reached over and undid the button-fly on her jeans. Grabbing the hem at her ankles, he tugged and removed her pants with a couple of quick jerks.
Oblivious to the time elapsed and what may be transpiring in their own backyard, the McVie family sat staring at the nineteen-inch television. Seemingly more important were the challenges faced by a young college student who could perform math problems without the use of pencil and paper. A boy who could memorize encyclopedias upon one reading. Someone who could learn foreign languages simply by reading them. The family soaked in the stress of the fictional character being tugged upon by all of his classmates to complete their work for them. Trapped in the plight of an imaginary personality they’d never met, nor with whom they would maintain a relationship, the family was incredulous to the brutality forced upon their sister and daughter.
Without realizing it, the entire two-hour movie neared completion before Jack and Madeline made their way back to the house and into the family room. Beverly was the only family member who noticed their presence. Anger was her only reaction when she saw her daughter’s jeans soaked in urine.
Witnessing Beverly’s disgust, Jack interjected. “Yeah, I guess I should have built a bathroom in the dollhouse. She was having so much fun playing I guess she didn’t realize how badly she had to go to the bathroom.” Shifting blame to his victim, the old man declared, “or, she may have some emotional issues.”
An angry mother’s face gave way to one of confusion. She stood and placed Madeline’s now sleeping sister in the chair she vacated. She looked curiously at a man she’d welcomed into her home on numerous occasions. Beverly laid her hands gently on her daughter’s shoulders from behind and led her into the bathroom.
The happenings in the room drifted into the consciousness of Madeline’s older brother Charles, and he asked, “What happened?”
The father brushed aside any significance. “I think your sister had an accident.”
To wit, Charles refocused his attention on the Disney movie.
Jack casually slapped William on the left shoulder with the back of his hand. “I’m going to head home now. No need to walk me out.”
“Okay. Will I see you at the next HRA meeting?”
With his back to the man, Jack walked out of the room and responded arrogantly, “I’ll be there.”
Once inside the bathroom Beverly issued commands. “Take these clothes off, get in the tub and scrub every nook and cranny of your body. And when you’re done, don’t drain the water. Leave it for your brothers.” Her commands of conservation were borne of tales of the Great Depression as a child. “Oh, and take these pee-stained clothes directly to the washing machine and drop them inside. Don’t get any pee on my floor.” Madeline’s mother left the room angrily but modified her demeanor before entering the family room, unsure if Jack remained.
Slowly, Madeline began to undress. Progress halted as she became confused. Innocence wished not to defy her mother. When she took off her jeans, they touched the floor, so she stepped onto the bathmat. Her actions brought forth the realization the rug was merely an extension of the floor. Quickly she moved to the towel rack and pulled a towel off and dropped it to the floor. She spread it open using her feet and proceeded to get undressed.
The young girl looked at the towel beneath her feet that held her soaked jeans. It would need to be used to dry off once out of the tub. She then picked up her clothes and placed them in the sink.
Slowly, apprehensively, she removed her panties. They were white with purple, green and pink flowers. She slid them down her thighs, away from her genitals that throbbed painfully, and stopped. Inside the cloth crotch Madeline saw two blood stains. The fragile skin of her vagina and anus had been torn and produced two distinct spots. Her heart raced knowing her mother would be angry.
She shuffled over to the tub; her thighs still bound by her panties. Leaning against the side she reached across and turned the hot water handle the exact number of rotations she knew would offer a comforting bath. She did the same with the nearer cold-water handle.
As she watched the tub fill, Madeline occasionally glanced at her panties. She stared at the bloodstains until she lost focus. That’s when she became conscious of a milky white substance that dripped from her crotch and landed between the bloodstains. She had no idea what it was. Her seven-year-old mind raced with possibilities. Without conclusion, she quickly removed her panties, dropped them in the sink with the clothes and turned on its faucet. She didn’t know if there was something leaking from inside her body. “Uncle Jack injured something inside me.” Madeline rationalized. She climbed into the tub and bathed vigorously, paying particular attention to her genitals. Actions were painful, but she scrubbed away evidence of rape. The young girl ran the washcloth across her crotch several times until there were no more signs of blood.
Fear engulfed her as she considered calling Beverly to explain what happened to her body. She decided not to annoy her mother further. She hadn’t the words to explain the rape. Beverly was already angry, and the little girl didn’t wish to stoke her emotional state. That’s when it occurred to her. She needed to rid her consciousness of the evidence of lost innocence before her mother found it.
Without drying off Madeline hopped out of the tub, dripping water all over the bathmat and tile floor, and made her way atop the toilet. Leaning over the sink, she ran her hands vigorously through the water, retrieving her panties. She gripped them tightly and flung the underwear over the edge of the sink, spraying water throughout the bathroom.
Pushing away from the sink, and then stepping off the toilet, she reclaimed the garment from the floor and crawled back inside the tub. Once settled on her bottom, she held the crotch of her panties in her hands, one on each side of the cloth that made up the small strip. Bringing both hands together at the point of one bloodstain, she rubbed vigorously attempting to eliminate it. She repeated this behavior several times, alternately focusing on each of the three visible stains. There came a point she realized her efforts weren’t making the smudges disappear. The young girl tossed the panties out of the tub and onto the floor.
All that made this night horrifying, gave way to normal behavior when Madeline prepared to emerge from the bathroom to get ready for bed. She reached for the chain tethered between the faucet and drain stopper and tugged. When she heard the tell-tale glug of the first burst of water leaving the bath, the girl recalled her mother’s commandment, grabbed the stopper, and replaced it inside the drain.
Madeline grabbed a clean towel, reserved for her brothers, from the rack on the wall at the rear of the tub. She dutifully toweled off the upper part of her body before climbing out and onto the floor. Once finished drying, she reached over the rim of the sink and retrieved her jeans. She shook them above the basin to remove as much water as possible, and then dropped them onto the floor next to her panties.
Beverly shuttled the girl so quickly into the bathroom they failed to retrieve pajamas from her room. Madeline wrapped the towel around her pre-pubescent body as if she were a grown woman possessing that which must be hidden for the sake of modesty. She picked up her soiled clothes and walked to the door. Opening it, she peered around the corner to see if anyone was still in the family room. When she felt the coast was clear, Madeline emerged and ran across the hallway to her room. Only desiring the most direct path to her door, she failed to consider the metal grate above their basement boiler that lay in her path. She cried in pain as her bare feet met the grate.
“Are you okay?” Beverly called.
Madeline gathered herself on the carpeted floor just beyond the grate. “Yeah.” As she grabbed for her feet the towel wrapped around her fell to the floor. She didn’t care. Grabbing it in her hand, and holding her soiled clothes in the other, she ran naked into her room to retrieve her pajamas.
Mature thoughts raced through the seven-year-old’s mind. Devious intentions had no business entering such a pristine being but were present for the sake of self-preservation. She wished and prayed that God would not let her mommy see the stains on her panties. Madeline walked across the house, taking an alternate route through the formal living room to avoid the family room. From there she walked through the kitchen and into the laundry room. As her mother ordered, she dropped her soiled clothes into the washing machine. She was too small to see inside and hoped her mother would place other laundry on top of her clothes without examination. Once her clothes were out of her possession, Madeline absolved herself of all responsibility. Emotional cleansing was not easily accomplished.
Task Force VigilanteThe mindset of a child had been altered that night. Trust was no longer afforded those who should have a child’s best interest at heart. The night’s horror would be repressed, but the subconscious would never be the same. At an age when a little girl should be consumed by the fantastic possibilities contained in the universe, Madeline was forced to recognize the desirous nature of flesh and all its flaws. She had not been given the tools to understand, nor rationalize the abuse she was made to endure. A black seed had been planted that would grow until it became sublime. Once she discovered her place in the world, the beast within would rise up and destroy anything that held the promise of eternal happiness. The seven-year-old girl did not die that night, but her connection to the universe was altered beyond the recognition of an eternal being. Her soul would no longer seek the spark innate in humans. A fallible and limited life based upon her physical appearance and its appeal became her destiny.

The Surrency AffairThe Fruit Growers Express began operations on March 18, 1920, in Jacksonville, Florida. A row of warehouses contained within a single building situated alongside rail tracks provided incredible logistical efficiency for the times. Men labored, loading, and unloading refrigerated boxcars. Fruit grown in Florida was shipped all over the nation from the location. Bib overalls and work boots were the uniform for those needing protection from wooden fruit crates containing shiv-like splinters.

Atlantic Coast Line Railroad established the hub in Jacksonville that brought opportunity to an otherwise depressed community. Its influence would be felt until 1986 when purchased by CSX Transportation. The area thrived for decades, but 1936 still proved a struggle for those incapable of employing requisite foresight to see good times ahead.

It had been three years since Roosevelt outlawed private ownership of gold, making physical dollars the only representation of wealth with properties that stimulated tactile senses of security. Those who’d trusted banks lost all in the 1929 stock market crash. By 1936, resilient ones reached a point of recovery through brute strength.

Criminals suffered due to the repeal of prohibition in 1933. Illegal spirits provided men who flaunted the law a means by which to amass wealth. Lucrative revenue streams disappeared, and the void required filling.

Occupying one end of the warehouse complex was a small lunch counter operated by John and Mayme Surrency. The couple had been married for thirty years. John was ten years his wife’s senior and possessed the strength of Joab. He witnessed the struggles that possessed his wife. Resolute was the man to do everything possible to provide her happiness.

Years earlier Mayme had a hysterectomy. Post operation therapy included morphine, to which she became addicted. John witnessed his once stunning wife as she withered beneath external influences. Fleeting blame was rationalized as nothing more than an aging visage. Employed intellect stoked awareness that drugs exacerbated his wife’s decline. It pained him, but he resolved to stand by the commitment he’d made on their wedding day.

November 25, 1936, was the day before Thanksgiving. There was an air of happiness along the warehouse platform. Men busied about their day, looking forward to spending time with extended family for the holiday. In addition to food service, John and Mayme were allowed by the owner of the lunch counter to operate a check cashing business for the workers. Weekly paychecks were normally cashed on Fridays. The holiday pressed the couple to provide not only food and cash, but for Mayme to help with Thanksgiving preparations.

The couple’s daughter Miriam hosted Thanksgiving in her Arlington home on Windermere Drive. The daughter was married to Noble Enge, a man of Norwegian descent. His parents lived next door and were always included in festivities. Miriam’s father-in-law, Nils Enge, was a stoic man who wore a long gray beard. During most family occasions he could be seen wearing a black suit, with gray shirt and tie and a black cowboy hat.

Noble had two brothers. The three operated a successful graphic design studio on East Forsyth. During a time of black and white print, the brothers brought color into the fledgling graphic design profession.

Miriam’s home was plenty large to host everyone. A large lot covered the length of the block, offering room for relatives to mingle outside during cool fall afternoons. Her youngest sister and family would be there. She was also called Mayme. Everyone called her Baby.

Most days John and Mayme spent together operating the food concession and doing that which was necessary to make a living during economically depressed times. The day before Thanksgiving offered the opportunity for Mayme to gather provisions and make the trek to Arlington and Miriam’s house to help set up for the following day. Her daughter had three young children. Theodore Noble, Junior, who everyone referred to as Ted, was nearly eight years old. Polio rendered the boy’s left leg nearly useless, and the only thing that gave his body support was a metal brace wrapped by leather straps. Bess was nearly six years old, and Carol nearly three. Baby and her two-year-old son were at Aunt Miriam’s house. The children loved when their grandmother came for a visit. Anticipation on that day was palpable.

John knew time with family would be good for his wife. There was purpose in her matriarchy. The man understood love conquered all and possessed the power to eradicate her demons. John stood atop the elevated platform, wearing a soiled apron, and waved goodbye to his wife as she set off on errands, and then to their daughter’s home.

Mayme drove from work over the Saint Johns River Bridge into San Marco. Although she preferred the personal attention of her grocer in Springfield, time was of the essence.

Excitement abounded as the woman filled her car with items she and John could contribute to a bountiful Thanksgiving for children and grandchildren. Times had been hard for so long, and the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel was coming into view. Anticipation of the joy experienced with family pushed any thought of morphine from the woman’s consciousness. Visions of grandchildren’s cherub-like faces drew back the corners of her mouth and manifested a grin felt genuinely within her soul. For all of her troubles, Mayme understood her daughters, and grandchildren, represented her thriving contribution to the human race. Evil’s grip might not loosen control upon her, but her family was alive, well, and most importantly, happy.

Mayme’s circuitous route took her from San Marco east on Highway 90, and then to Chaseville Road south for a quarter mile, and then onto the northern section of the road. Once over the Chaseville Bridge, she maneuvered the ninety-degree curve that set her path straight to Windermere Drive. Better economic times afforded her and John the opportunity to purchase a new 1936 Ford 4 door Sedan. In the backseat was a fresh turkey, a bag of cranberries for sauce, and two fresh loaves of bread: one to be used for dressing. Flour and eggs provided the raw materials for rolls and pie crusts. Mayme’s heart was full.

Two-year-old Carol was the first grandchild to meet Mayme at her car upon arrival. There was purpose on the toddler’s face as she walked quickly on unsteady legs to the driver’s door. She held her tiny hands fist like, as if pulling herself closer to her grandmother. Taking caution to not knock her granddaughter over, the old woman opened the door slowly. Once the little countenance appeared in the gap, she picked her from the ground and quickly placed the little girl in her lap. Carol babbled incessantly sharing all of her new words with her grandmother.

Moments later she looked to see Bess and Ted emerge from the house. The two, more mature children, approached the car in a more controlled manner. Ted moved almost business-like, dragging his left leg along with him.
After all requisite hugs were given, Mayme looked up to see her daughter standing in the doorway, holding the screen door open and standing in its gap. “Do you need any help?” she called to her mother.

“I think Ted and I can handle it.”

“Okay,” Miriam replied before disappearing inside the house.

After Ted gave a muted hug with one arm and leaned in with his shoulder, he opened the back door of the car and grabbed bags for the trek inside.

“I’ll get the eggs, Ted.” It was the day before Thanksgiving. Grocers would have run out of fresh eggs. She didn’t wish to risk their celebration on a mishap.

Mayme walked slowly down the sidewalk holding the tray of eggs as Bess and Carol danced about her legs like gnats vying for attention. She walked all the way inside the house, through the living room and into the kitchen at the rear of the home. Placing the eggs on the table, she then reached with her free hands and embraced both girls. She pressed them into her legs with a hand on each girl’s back. Boundless affection was returned by each granddaughter squeezing Mayme’s legs as tightly as little arms allowed.
Without noticing, Miriam walked into the kitchen and alerted her mother to the first Thanksgiving tragedy. “Baby dropped the pumpkin pies on the floor. We have no pie for Thanksgiving.”
Mayme shot a quick look at her daughter. From inside the living room, she heard her youngest daughter’s voice. “Mama, I didn’t drop them. I put them on the washing machine to cool and decided to get some laundry done. The shaking of the machine pushed them right off onto the floor. It’s not my fault,” she proclaimed, as tears welled in her eyes. “I swear my life is like the dark hinges of hell.”

“Don’t worry, Baby. I can run by the farmer’s market and get another pumpkin. I’ll make the pie tonight at home and bring it in the morning.” Mayme reassured her daughter everything was going to be alright.

With granddaughters still attached to her legs, Mayme leaned into a hug with Miriam and then Baby, who’d entered the room. “I’ve got to go pick up your father at the bank and get him back to the lunch counter to cash the guys’ checks.”

“Okay, mama,” both women replied, before Baby offered a bit of advice. “You drive that fancy new Ford safely, okay?”

“I will,” Mayme responded before turning to leave the house.

As she entered the living room at the front of the home, she saw Ted had taken up a seat next to his Norwegian grandfather. “Bye, Ted.” She shifted her gaze to the old, bearded man who spoke little English. Feeling the need to speak loudly so the man could understand her, Mayme called to the old man, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Enge.”

The old man responded with a wave of his hand as he sat with a crossword puzzle in his lap, and a pencil in his hand. Miriam helped her father-in-law with the game as a means of learning English.

Mayme exited the house, walked down the sidewalk, and loaded into her new Ford. Although John waited for her at the bank just across the river, the fact that Jacksonville only had one bridge made the route time consuming. She glanced at the underside of her left wrist where she kept her watch. Making John wait wasn’t top of mind, it was the men who worked at the Fruit Growers Express who counted on them to cash checks. She raced to get there before the 12:30 lunch break ended.

As she approached Barnett Bank, she saw her husband standing outside talking with the bank president. Maneuvering the car into an empty space in front of the men, she waved.
The president returned the gesture. He knew time was short and they needed to get back to the warehouse.

Mayme slid across the front seat, allowing her husband to drive them back to work. They exchanged a pleasant kiss before John turned and looked over his right shoulder while backing out of the space. “Did everything go okay at Miriam’s?”

“Perfectly. Well, except for Baby.”

The man looked at his wife. “What did she do now?”

His wife smiled. “She placed the pumpkin pies on the washing machine in order for them to cool, and then did a load of laundry. The vibration of the machine sent the pies onto the floor.” She paused. “Oh, and we need to stop and get a pumpkin on the way home.”

John leaned toward his wife, turned the steering wheel in the same direction using the hand-over-hand technique and smiled. “Sometimes I think that girl is cursed,” and then chuckled.

The couple retraced a path they’d driven hundreds of times over their seventeen years at the Grower’s Express. As the man straightened the vehicle’s path on Kings Road, he noticed a car blocking the street ahead. He slowed the vehicle’s speed and came to a stop yards from the car. Inside he saw two, young, black men. “I’ll see if they need help,” John told his wife.

Inside the supposedly stalled car were Alvin Tyler and James Baker, the latter drove the car. Between them was a .45 caliber pistol. Intent on robbing the couple, the men had been told John would be carrying at least two hundred dollars. Baker’s nerves got the better of him and pleaded with his acquaintance to not go through with it. “Let me just drive away. We can’t do this.”

Tyler barked his response as he reached for the gun between the two. “I’ll take care of this. They say this man is a scared man. He’ll be easy to rob.”

“Don’t do it, man.” Baker pled.

His accomplice sat silently holding the gun in his lap.

John approached the car with a smile. “You fellas need some help?”

Without conscience, Tyler stepped out of the car and approached Mr. Surrency. When the men were close enough to shake hands, the young man brandished the gun which he’d been holding behind his back. Without thought, John lunged at the man and began punching him. A cut opened on the left eye of the young man, who pushed toward his victim. When his momentum carried John to the ground, the young man swung the butt of his gun toward the man’s head. Defensively, the old man was able to grab the wrist of his assailant just enough to slow its progress. Nevertheless, a blow was struck that stung the old man. Feeling at a disadvantage Surrency gathered himself and crawled, before standing, and hurrying back to his car. There he had a weapon of his own.

The old man felt nervously under the driver’s seat until he sensed the familiar form of his .38 caliber weapon. Tyler chased after him. John fell into his seat and faced the assailant as he approached.

Baker emerged from the assailant’s car in order to retrieve his accomplice and leave before things got worse. Mayme saw the second man approaching to seemingly assault her husband. She got out of the car, made her way around the front, and began pulling Baker away from the altercation.

Before John was able to aim and fire, Tyler unloaded five bullets into the man’s chest and torso. Mayme and Baker heard the gunfire and turned to witness the murder. The woman saw her husband bleeding profusely from several wounds. Stepping back away from the scene, Mayme stumbled and fell into the roadside ditch. Without remorse, Tyler walked around the front of the car while reloading his pistol. He faced the fifty-three-year-old woman. She looked at him stoically, unafraid of what was to come. The robber turned murderer raised his gun and shot twice. The first bullet pierced her abdomen and lodged next to her spine. The second missed her body but was caught in the fabric of her dress.

As the reality of the carnage set into the psyches of the young men, they quickly ran back to their car. Once inside, they drove speedily, but only to the end of the road. Slamming on the brakes and becoming engulfed in a cloud of dust from the dirt road. The two men bounced out of their car and ran toward an open field. Jumping the fence, they scurried across the pasture. Baker possessed more speed and easily beat the assassin to an awaiting getaway car on the far side of the field.

Tyler made it to the car and found his accomplice lying on the floor of the backseat. A white man was driving and implored the second assailant to get in so they could leave the crime scene. The second man jumped across the backseat and lay flat. The driver sped away and the back door slammed shut under the influence of the cavitating car that swerved along the dirt road.

When the trio felt safely away from the scene, the two men sat up in the back seat. Tyler admitted to the driver, “you said that man was a scared man. He’s got more guts than any man I ever see’d. You know I had to shoot him. I think I killed him.”

Seemingly without concern for their lost loot, the driver replied, “what of it; let the motherfucker die.”