PROLOGUE
1943, Columbia University, New York
It began as an idea, only an idea, but a beautiful one,
dazzling and brilliant in its conception, like a flash of
lightning crossing the heavens and landing on earth.
There was no feeling or attachment to it, no perception
other than seeing the moral rightness of a profound
commitment, an unfettered faith to it, something to which
you could offer sacrifices…
She was quite beautiful, though, that girl in his history
class, a photographer's delight. Her skin had an
exquisite dewy quality to it when the light shone across
her body, as if she were made of alabaster and polished
to a soft sheen. Her long black hair, trailing down to
the small of her back, radiated a kind of blue light,
having an otherworldly, almost ghostly quality to it. Her
dark blue eyes, though, were her best feature, framed by
thick, black lashes. She was a virtual love affair for
the camera.
Thomas happened upon her quite by accident outside that
history class. He already knew her schedule intimately,
knew her quirky little habits when she sat outside the
café in town, her lack of friends, all of it. She
accepted too easily the invitation to go with him – young
girls are always flattered by the prospects of romance.
The jolting idea percolated throughout that first
conversation, while her full, dark lips expressed all the
disappointments in her life closing in on her. Her
thoughts were foolish, silly narcissisms and he knew she
could be easily manipulated with the right words.
For several weeks, they engaged in long talks where he
had to endure her endless soliloquies about her fruitless
life, the recitations of her maudlin poetry, talking
about a brutal darkness within her, the many depressions
and the unsuccessful attempts. He began to doubt that she
even deserved the divine spark she wanted to give up so
easily. She was incapable of seeing the disillusionment
was of her own making. He had been advised by his friend
that she would fail him, that those kissable lips wanted
to prattle in any willing ear, that she couldn’t help but
disembosom every one of her secrets. However, he pressed
on, ignoring his friend's warnings.
She, of course, came upon the plan first. He only
encouraged her to go through with it. A sacrifice would
provide the proof he needed for his thesis, his
manifesto. He never had an appetite for the threat of
death, but in her case it was possible, with her
affectations and woeful exaggerations that bored everyone
into a coma. Then came the histrionics because he stopped
coming to her, stopped feeding her insatiable need and he
knew it was time.
He insisted on procuring the means, saying he wanted to
do it with her. She wanted to cut into her body, and he
couldn't have that. She would ruin everything. That
alabaster skin had to be perfect for the light, for him
to see it escape as she expelled her final breath. He was
the witness, the worshiper of the idea, recording all of
it with his camera. She finally agreed. The day was set,
and he could feel the savage moment descend into their
midst, the exhilaration of anticipating the moment, like
trails of light all around him, falling from the sky, he
finally had a sacrifice for his idea.
He ran from class to class, his trembling hands unable to
write a single note or sit through a lecture. He couldn't
sleep, knowing that they were standing on the edge of a
new but dark continent, the thrill of discovering what
lay within it lighting up his brain. He was like those
intrepid explorers setting sail for the new world, and
finding feral creatures in the form of humans inhabiting
the place, innocent of civilization and, yet, barbarous
killers not having the moral compass of Christendom, or
regard for any life.
It wasn't until the police stormed into his dorm room
that he realized she had changed her mind, and broken
their pact by divulging their scheme to someone else, who
questioned the sanity of their well-crafted plan. He
could easily visualize the scene: she was seated cross-
legged on her cot, her hands flapping about as she
blathered on and on, her extravagant prose filled with
wretched sentiment, and she, with that tortured look on
her face, receiving the pity she so desperately wanted,
while punctuating each sentence with a prolonged bout of
weeping. Then, this friend, her fellow student with no
vision, convinced the girl to not go through with it and,
in terror that Thomas might coax the girl into it again,
rushed off to the professor's office expressing their
horror over the affair. And the professor believed the
tale, knowing that Thomas would make another attempt to
carry out the scheme, and called in the police, demanding
he be arrested and removed from school. They confiscated
his camera, his film, all his equipment, even the first
draft of his thesis, forcing him to promise that he would
never do it again. And he lied to them, a delightful and
convincing lie, filled with regret and sorrow, all tied
up with a ribbon of tears. Everyone willingly purchased
the lie, packaging and all; his parents, the school, even
the police. But not the professor; not him. He had
another sense, that sixth one that could reach into the
soul of another human and yank out the truth.
The professor naturally knew Thomas was capable of future
dark deeds, seeing through the golden lie, even with the
admission of the use of drugs that muddled his mind, the
heroine-cocaine induced frenzy. But the professor was
committed, he wanted Thomas expelled, saying he was a
danger to others and that he should receive the help he
so desperately needed. "The boy is disturbed," he
proclaimed. And people began to be convinced.
The girl left school that same night, rightly feeling the
humiliation of her stupidity. And two days later, she was
a thousand miles away from him, away from those who knew,
and there, she finally succeeded, drawing a line up each
arm with a razor. And he was not there to record it. A
complete waste.
And he was about to be saved. Money was spread thickly by
his attorney and he was freed from the police
investigation. But the professor vowed to not stop, for
he was a missionary of the truth. He was advised by his
friend that the die was cast, that he was right to
protect himself, to lie and remain in school. How his
friend knew that she would betray him was a puzzle, but
then he understood people, could see inside them and know
what they would do. He was a splendid hunter.
As Thomas sat in his dorm room, he happened upon another
resplendent idea.
CHAPTER 1
22 years later
May 1965, Manhattan…
Esther pushed on the dough with the heels of her palms,
her mind in a reverie while the embryonic mass on her oak
kitchen table began to take form. She was taking her
time, her mind more focused on the baby, the eight month
old child in her womb, than her bread, her thoughts
flicking from one name to another, still unable to
settle. Her eye was suddenly drawn to the window above
her stone sink. Something dark overshadowed the sun,
which was shivering through the leaves on the tree
outside her brownstone. It was fast approaching, rushing
directly toward the pane. The glass cracked with a loud
snap and the object disappeared, the sun rainbowing
through the fissures. Her body shuddered and she loosed a
small shriek, her hand flying instinctively to her
swollen belly.
A wavy lock of her auburn hair fell over one green eye.
She brushed it away with the back of her floured hand and
sighed. That tiny voice in the back of her head scratched
across her brain, sending a frisson of fear spiking up
her spine. She drew in a deep breath, swallowing hard on
the sudden fright and blew the air out in one long
exhalation, willing her heart to slow. She eyed the
cracked window and sighed again.
Just when the remodeling was nearing its end. Now this…
She waddled to the door, her pregnant belly leading the
way, and stepped outside to the landing before the stairs
leading up to the sidewalk in front of her brownstone.
Once upon a time, the door leading out of the kitchen to
the steps outside was the entrance the help used, and for
deliveries. This relegated the cook and the staff to the
basement, where all the meals were cooked, food stored,
and the laundry done with efficiency. Her parents had
kept the door, using the landing at the bottom of the
steps to keep their trash bins, but also opening the
kitchen inside to the entrance by the front door, with
steps leading up to that level, opening access from the
kitchen to the rest of the house, rather than taking the
old lift to just get a glass of water or cook a meal.
Esther liked the kitchen, enjoyed sitting in it and
having her morning and evening coffee in the space. She
and Mac increased the size of the opening to the foyer,
and dedicated one end of the room for breakfast or lunch,
sometimes dinner if they didn't feel like eating in the
dining room. To keep the kitchen from feeling basement-
like and claustrophobic, they raised the ceiling to see
above the sidewalk, allowing more light to filter into
the room from the front of the house. The only room above
the kitchen was her father's study on the second floor,
affording plenty of space to raise the ceiling
significantly. And the window above the sink, once a
series of small rectangular panes peeking out at street
level, were opened into one large one, stretching
gracefully up the wall so you could see anyone
approaching the steps as you glanced up from the sink.
The warm spring day enveloped her, chasing the cold
fright away with its affable embrace. She glanced up the
stairs and spied a blackbird, laying on the edge of a
step, a rivulet of blood trickling over the creature's
smooth, black beak. Its head was flung backward and its
mouth opened, as if it were about to cry out, to shout a
warning, but its body's momentum had already sealed its
fate. She sucked in a little startled air at the sight of
it, that frigid alarm stabbing its icicles back into her
body. Even the high seventies temperature was unable to
evaporate the icy feeling from continuing its course.
A shadow fell across the front of her building as she
eyed the poor dead thing. She glanced up at the tree and
the sky. A cloud had moved in front of the sun, blotting
it out, but then, it slid away, scattering the white puff
into spidery threads.
“It's just a bird,” she declared. “A poor dead bird.” She
sighed again, trying to catch her breath, which was
becoming more and more difficult as the baby grew within
her.
And the day had begun so beautifully; no shadows, just
the morning sun drifting through their bedroom windows
with dust motes dancing in the shafts of light. She and
Mac had eaten their breakfast on the patio, and they had
laughed over how difficult it was for her to drive
because her belly was so big. Even Tilda, their
housekeeper, with her apron tied around her ample waist
and graying blonde hair tamed atop her head in a tight
bun, had joined in, her usual stoic Finnish personality
lifted into a jovial mood. The morning proffered a sun-
speckled day, literally dripping with the honey of family
and laughter.
She raised the lid on the trash can and fished for a
saltine cracker box she knew she had just thrown out,
along with the front page from yesterday's New York
Times, declaring interest rates had risen again. She
trudged up a few steps, covered the dead thing with the
pages and wrapped the creature in its paper shroud,
making her hands look sooty from the black print. Two
more blackbirds descended and perched on the curlicues of
the wrought iron on her fence running along the sidewalk,
watching her, cocking their heads to eye what she was
doing with their friend.
“Sorry for your loss,” she said to the dark beings, as
they examined her movements with curiosity. Then they
suddenly took flight and disappeared into the sun
drenched sky.
Sliding the feathered beast into the cracker box, she
happened to glance up, noticing a man standing across the
street staring at her. He smiled and bowed a little,
tipping his hat, when some oranges he held in a paper bag
escaped and ran away along the sidewalk and into the
gutter. He leaned over, gathering the fruits, stuffing
them back in the bag and smiled at her again. She smiled
back. A bicyclist whizzed by and the man's attention was
caught by the flash of color, his head jerking in its
trajectory. She glanced up and down the street, an odd
feeling possessing her, the same one she couldn't seem to
shake in the last few days. But only the two of them were
out on the street at this early Friday hour.
Where is this feeling coming from? she thought.
She shuffled across the kitchen toward the breakfast area
which led to the patio, feeling a tad wistful. She opened
the door, then struggled to bend over in order to set the
bird on the terracotta tiles, but found it too difficult.
Finally, she bent her knees, squatting, feeling like a
Sumo wrestler holding onto the door frame, and set the
box to the side. Later, she and Mac would bury the
creature, laugh about the visual, and call someone to
replace the window. She rose smoothly and gave a cursory
glance to the frame to see if she left a black mark from
her ink stained hands. There was a hand print, wrapped
around the wood, all her fingers and her thumb imprinted
in perfect whorls and lines, like a child's hand pressed
in clay. Her mind flashed to her son Freddie's hand print
pressed into a round piece of clay when he was five years
old. She hung it proudly on the livingroom wall. She
missed him.
Closing the door to the backyard, she maneuvered to the
sink, washed her hands, and wiped them dry with a kitchen
towel draped over a metal hanger above the sink. For a
moment she had forgotten how much she loved being home
again, back in her brownstone after an absence of several
years. Running away to Los Angeles to heal and leaving
all the bad memories behind seemed like a good idea at
the time. It took their return to New York to rediscover
her good ones, all those memories that had been buried
under all the pain resurfacing, and she was happy. No,
she was content: a great deal better than happiness,
which can be fleeting.
She glanced back at the door frame and back to her dough.
“No more interruptions, please,” she declared to the
kitchen. “At least not until I'm finished kneading my
bread.” The black mark would have to wait. Anyway, Tilda
would undoubtedly notice it and scrub it away.
The baby kicked at her insides, like it was engaged in a
game. She pushed the fingers of her left hand into the
sticky lump of dough and sprinkled flour with her other
over the mass. It yielded to her touch, responding with
each push of the heels of her hands and her fingers,
drawing the lump forward in a fold. This was one of her
favorite moments of the day. The act of making something
so elemental had meaning and purpose for her. Everything
else she did around her house paled in the light of
baking bread. She would form it and let it rise, then
bake it, the smell of yeast filling the house with its
delicious fragrance.
Then, a voice scratched in the back of her head, just
loud enough for her to hear, though its scrape of sound
was as thin as a cobweb. It said, “So, it begins.”
The doorbell rang three times. Then rang three more times
in rapid succession. She startled, her heart leaping then
pounding in her chest, her baby reacting again, kicking
her violently. The black dead creature came to mind; the
first sign the day wouldn't end well.
She sighed. “It has to be the McManus gang.” She glanced
at the clock on the wall. It was eight in the morning.
“They're early.” She could feel the baby push on her
diaphragm with both feet. “I realize you're anxious to
come out and meet Mommy and Daddy, little one, but you
still have to spend more time in there. Just make
yourself comfortable. Relax.”
The dough was nearly the perfect consistency for shaping
it into a round before placing it in her linen-lined
basket for rising.
Ding dong. Ding dong. Ding dong. The bell chimed in rapid
succession.
She sighed again. “Mac, would you please get that,” she
called out. “My hands are all sticky.” The dough began to
firm as she pushed her knuckles into it and folded the
mixture onto itself, then turned it to press and fold
again. The voice etched a thin line across the back of
her head, again. “Tilda's at the market,” she said with
her voice raised.
Ding dong. Ding dong. Ding dong.
“Mac, are you out there?” Her forehead wrinkled, her eyes
scanning the doorway. She hadn't seen him in the
backyard. Unless, he was in the shed, potting a plant or
making something out of wood. He might be upstairs in the
study, immersing his fertile mind in her father's old
papers.
No answer.
She could hear whoever it was beat on the door with a
heavy determined fist. Her heart stepped up its pace.
“Just a moment,” she called. She wasn't even sure they
could hear her up the steps and through that thick oak
front door all the way from the kitchen. She wiped her
hands briskly on a towel, drew in a breath, and declared,
“Pregnant lady on the move.”
She trudged up the steps, then walked through to the
foyer and opened the door. "This better be good because
I'm right in the middle of baking," she blurted.
There were two men in dark blue suits standing on her
stoop with a deadly serious look plastered on their
faces. The thought flashed through her mind, FBI.
“Esther Charlemagne?” asked the man standing closest to
her.
“Yes.” Her heart sprung from its spot and began a quick
staccato pulse. She could feel the baby kick and twist
nervously, as though her child could sense something was
dreadfully wrong. Her hand flew to the spot, shielding
the tiny being growing within her.
“I'm Agent Todd and this is Agent Lawrence.” He flashed a
wallet with a shield and his identification card. The
other man followed his lead and unfolded his credentials
for her to see.
“What's this about? I haven't been associated with the
Bureau for years.” She eyed each one to be sure they were
authentic and not some bizarre fake.
“Your life is in danger. We've come to take you to a safe
house,” Agent Lawrence announced with dispassion.
The voice in the back of Esther's head spoke again,
burning like a blue flame, unwilling to be snuffed out
until its incendiary message immolated her. For three
days it had charred a cork screw of warnings that her
newlywed joy was to be interrupted by something terrible
lurking outside her beautiful brownstone home, and here
it was, its harbinger standing at her door.
She shuddered. That prescient voice she inherited from
her mother was always right. It did not serve to ignore
it when it spoke. The bird, the voice, were all sent to
warn her. She drew up from her memory the face of evil,
the face of the man who had haunted her for five years,
the face of the man she believed was dead, who had
finally receded to the dark corner of her remembrances,
and into that hole reserved for all the bad things in the
world she wanted to forget. She reached for the frame,
her head reeling from the vision.
“Oh, my god. He's alive. Isn't he?”
She watched that look of agreement flash across their
eyes. It was true. How she hoped he was dead, longed for
it, lit candle after candle in the chapel, all in the
hope that he was somewhere at the bottom of the ocean,
his bones picked clean by the fish.
“Ma'am, you have to pack now. There's no time to waste,”
Agent Todd said.
Esther glanced over her shoulder into her living room
when a strand of flour covered hair wormed its way
forward and fell across her face. She turned her head and
looked at the serious faces of the FBI agents standing on
her front porch, their male potency flowing from their
carefully cropped heads and down their dark blue suits
into those shiny black shoes fixed to the cement outside
her wide door. They meant to take her against her will,
if necessary, for in their company were two New York
policemen, standing at the bottom of the steps by a
sleek, black Lincoln, guns prominently displayed on their
hips, at the ready to throw her in the backseat of that
cold limousine. It was happening. She could feel the
moment clothe round her like a scorching hate, forcing
her to breathe its Stygian, poisonous air. He was here,
coming back to make good on his promise to kill her, all
that anger toward her burbling over the heat of the years
until it boiled over, devising the perfect plot.
She had once been a woman who captured men twice her
size, whose dead eye helped her win shooting contests
when she was on the New York City police force, but she
had exhausted that avenue, it was finished, dead. That
self-sufficient woman paled into obscurity when she took
joy in wall papering the baby's room and baking bread.
Mac's child in her round belly made her vulnerable,
fragile against the suffocating, unseen force lying in
wait somewhere out there, biding his time, feeding off
the terror in the mere mention of his presence, of his
name. Even standing in the doorway made her a perfect
target. She had trouble walking, sitting, standing and
sleeping without a pillow between her legs and one behind
her back. She wasn't capable of protecting herself. She
needed Mac, ached for his arms to envelope her, to make
her feel safe. Her body shuddered, and she leaned her
back against the door frame, both arms cradling the baby.
Throwing her head back, she loosed a terrified howl,
“Mac!”
He jumped down the stairs, his long legs clearing the
distance from the third floor attic to the first in
seconds. Arriving at her side, breathless, his blue-black
eyes probing her face, assessing the scene, his wavy
black hair falling across his forehead raised in a panic,
the look on his face screamed that he knew what was
happening.
“Mac,” she said in a tiny, quivering voice, raising her
eyes to gaze into his. “He's here.” Her eyes rolled back,
her knees buckling. Mac caught her just as she began to
crumple to the floor, her belly nearly dwarfing her five-
foot-five body.
“There's no time to lose,” Agent Todd said. “We have to
leave, now.”