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Omega's shepherd part 1

R
rocklovers

Michael Johns awakens in the middle of the night to help deliver a calf. After successfully delivering the calf, he checks on his father and finds that he has passed away peacefully in his sleep. Michael is overcome with grief at the loss of his father, with whom he was very close and who raised him on their family dairy ranch after Michael's mother passed away. Michael cries at his father's bedside, mourning the loss of the man who meant so much to him.

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The White Circle Trilogy: Book 1 OMEGA’S SHEPHERD By JT Brewer white.circle@yahoo.com
This book is a work of fiction. Naming, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Text copyright © 2011 by Judeen and Terry Brewer All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Cover design © 2011 by Christopher D. Brewer 3
Prologue: Hell’s Son The spirit slept. But this sleep brought no repose, only darkness and pain. In Hell, sleep offers no rest. No peace is found there. No comfort. No relief. No escape. Waking or sleeping, the spirit knew only the dark cocoon of its hellish cage, hung in a sunless cavern filled with unbearable stench, smothering despair, and screams -- the lullaby of the damned. Still mannish in shape, even after its long absence from a body of flesh, bone, and blood, the spirit‟s body was ethereal as smoke; little more than a shadow of the splendid physical being it had once been in mortality. Hell is, after all, a spiritual realm where things of corporal nature exist only in memory. Even the web-like shackles that held the spirit bound for centuries were of no mortal make. They were forged not of iron, nor steel, but of something far stronger -- a total domination of will. In Hell, all is relinquished at the Gates. There are no choices, no freedom of will; only submission to the One True Lord. Other than the mad wailing of fellow inmates, the spirit had no sense of anything or anyone outside of itself. It never spoke to nor saw any other being. Regret was its only food, misery its only companion. It did not eat, nor see, nor even breathe. While asleep, its mind sought out its own dark paths, wandering in twisted imaginings. While awake, its thoughts invariably fixated on events producing the most pain, memories of a previous mortality it could relive over and over a thousand, thousand times but never amend. Stripped of all other belongings, the spirit clung passionately to its hatred and fury, but was given no way to wield them, no way to remold the clay of its torment. “I, Qeoc-neh-qiti, once greatest of prophets, the icon of power, am powerless,” it would moan, gnashing at its bonds without hope, and in this despair centuries passed by. Then, into this bleak eternity, at the eve of one more endless day, a summons came. The spirit heard a voice, distant yet distinct, cold as night, hot as a falling star. The voice said, simply, “Come to me.” Its cage fell to the ground like a drop of blood and burst open. The spirit lay dazed, but as air slowly filled its lungs, a resurgence of all its physical senses came rushing back in one electrifying surge. At first the spirit could not, dared not move, but the impossible reality of its new situation became more definite and it began clawing frantically to free itself from the black, spidery webbings that bound its legs and wrists. Astonishingly, for the first time in reply to all its railings against them they had broken, crackling like paper, falling away as ash, and the spirit felt an overpowering sense of liberation as the stranglehold on its will was released. The bonds of endless ages were broken. With a hiss, it slowly, warily uncoiled until it could stand erect. Lifting its head, it opened two flint-like eyes and blinked once or twice. There was no sight in the impenetrable darkness. No matter, it thought. It did not need to see. The One True Master had called and that was enough. Why this was,
the spirit did not know nor question. In Hell, one simply obeyed. It was enough to accept that the Master knew all that needed knowing. When it suited Him, the spirit would be told the reason for his summons. Until then, unthinking acquiescence would show the way. The spirit immediately sensed where to go and began on its way, fear guiding it like a scent trail through a pitch-black labyrinth. It stumbled at first. After a near-millennium of disuse its limbs were annoyingly dysfunctional and movement was incredibly slow. It took some time to coordinate movement, to contemplate the motion of walking then figure out how the appropriate action was to be brought about. Only after some humiliating but progressive trial and error could it make any real progress on its journey, fighting with each movement to gain control over its gangly shufflings. Pausing frequently on its journey, leaning against anything it could find for support, it took time to catch its breath; for, indeed, the simple act of breathing was also a skill it needed to relearn. As strength gradually returned, its excitement also grew. It was being called to duty! This was a good thing, it thought, a very good thing; perhaps the only good thing to be found in all of Hell. The spirit knew the Great One could be generous if He was pleased. There would be a reward for success surely and perhaps, just perhaps, a chance for redemption. In its black heart, the spirit knew its time had come at last. Ω 5
Part I The Search
Chapter 1 A green valley flanked by the jagged mountains of the Salt River Range of western Wyoming lay in slumber beneath a full moon. Lights of small farmhouses and barns twinkled like bright stars among the night-washed fields. All was quiet, except for a few coyotes taken by sudden obsession to howl. Their voices wafted over the pastures and up the hillsides like a poignant, homeless wind looking for company, then disappeared somewhere out of hearing and out of mind. An owl, cocked and ready on its pine-hidden perch, blinked sharp amber eyes, eager to sustain its life by taking another‟s. Beneath its perch padded a skunk, unaware and unconcerned, as skunks are apt to be, about anything but themselves. A red fox, nose low to the ground, ears alert, trotted swiftly along the edge of an alfalfa meadow toward a distant dairy barn, hoping a carelessly-latched gate on the nearby henhouse might provide it with an opportunity. Disappointingly, it found all was secure when it reached its destination. It would have to search elsewhere in this moonlit night for a meal to feed its kits. Suddenly, a loud “mmaaahhh!” emanated from inside the barn. Startled, the fox tucked its tail and scurried off, disappearing behind a mountain of baled hay. A silent figure stood watching beneath the dappled shadows of a small grove of aspen. All is well in this valley, the stranger thought to himself with a wistful smile. The creatures move in their spheres of dominion, as each should. Life abounds, takes, gives, and revels in itself. „Tis a pleasant spot, this -- a comforting place -- rare in this old, gray world. Would that all my pastures were as green. The figure turned as if to go, then paused, cocking his head. Yet, I almost sense … something reaches to me here. What? Who? He stood for some time, still and thoughtful. Hm. My imagination, I expect, he concluded, shaking his head. Off with you, old fool! There are other needs pressing. This is not a night to get distracted from your duties. The moon ducked behind a playful wisp of cloud and, as the light over field and thicket dimmed, the figure beneath the trees vanished as quietly as he had come. Ω Michael Johns awakened suddenly in the middle of the night and sat bolt upright. From the barn fifty feet away, he could hear a cow bawling. He heard his father stir in the bedroom across the hall and call, “Michael?” Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Michael checked the time on the big, wind-up clock at his bedside. Three a.m. A moment later his father called again weakly, “Michael?” Michael already had his boots on. “Go back to sleep, Dad. I'm on my way.” He finished dressing, scrubbed his hands and arms at the kitchen sink, and made it to the barn in less than five minutes. He hated to leave his father alone, even for a few minutes, but both of them 7
understood that when a $5,000 registered dairy cow is ready to calf, and her baby's worth at least another $500 before it hits the ground, a rancher has to be there. She was well into it when Michael arrived, with part of the calf's head crowning. Michael could see right away that the angle of the head wasn't quite right. If he couldn't get the calf twisted around the right way, the mother's strong contractions might damage her defenseless offspring before it was born. Quickly smearing lubricant from fingers to elbows, he knelt beside the straining cow, and gently slid one arm deep into her birth canal. Between every contraction, he worked to turn the young one's body and head. When he was satisfied with the calf‟s position, he waited for the next contraction and pulled the calf forward with all his might, encouraging both animals as he worked. “Push, Becky, you old bucket-kicker,” he said through gritted teeth. “You can do it. Come on, Calf. Don't make your mama and me do all the work. You gotta put out at least a little bit of effort to get into this world! A dark, wet nose appeared. With one hand, Michael cleared out the calf‟s nostrils and with the other, guided the head. Becky loudly announced the coming of the next contraction. Then, suddenly, the head was out, its eyes wide open. They looked right into Michael's, brown-to- brown, spirit-to-spirit, and blinked. Michael could not help but laugh, then braced himself for the next step. Reaching deep into the birth canal, Michael slipped his hands past the calf‟s neck, grabbing its shoulders. He took a great breath and held it, waiting for the next contraction, tightening his stomach, his arms, his back, his legs into one straining halter of muscle, bent on a single purpose -- bringing that calf into mortality, head to tail. With a loud protest and a final, desperate effort from Becky, the calf pumped forward, greased with birth fluids. The calf fell into Michael's arms, plastering him with blood, mucus and afterbirth. His knees buckled under the weight and they both fell backwards in the hay, Michael still holding the newborn. Becky bent her head around with a wild-eyed stare and called her calf. Its body lay heavy on top of Michael's chest for a moment as they both rested from their mutual effort, but it was not long before it began squirming out of his grasp, just missing Michael‟s face as it kicked with its tiny, but sharp, front hoof. “Happy Birthday, Calf! Welcome to the world!” Michael said with a grin, and let it go. Becky was immediately on her feet, gently nosing her offspring. Over the next several minutes, Michael watched the mother lick the newborn clean and the little one struggle to find its footing on wobbly legs. Within ten minutes the calf was up and able to make its way over to its mother's udder. Sitting back in the hay, his arms covered with blood up to the shoulders, Michael wearily, but happily, watched the mother inspect the calf proudly as it butted and slurped at her teat. He would allow them to stay together only a few days and then he would separate them. The calf would be bottle-fed. But for the moment, all three were content to let nature take its course. Seeing birth on the Wyoming ranch was a thing Michael Johns had witnessed time and again, but the miracle of it never diminished. He came to his feet, dusted the hay off his clothes, and began cleaning up the mess around him. When he was finished, he looked at his watch; a half-hour, barely, till the other cows would need milking. Just time enough to clean himself up and make a quick check on his father. Walking through the blackness of a morning not yet dawned, he opened the screen door and went straight to the deep, metal, back-porch sink to scrub clean. He stripped off his shirt and bent under the pump-handle faucet, letting the stream of warm water splash on his face, arms, and chest. The brisk, cold air that tingled his skin afterward and the wholesome smell of soap filled him with
exultation. He had just brought a new life into the world. It was going to be a beautiful morning. His father would be glad to know the birthing had gone well. He pushed open the back door and strode into the kitchen. “Dad,” he called, mounting the stairs up to the bedrooms. “Dad, you should have seen old Becky. She was telling the whole world... ” The words broke off as soon as he looked through the open door to his father's bed. His father‟s eyes were closed, his hands folded peacefully on his chest, but somehow, even through the shadows of the darkened room, Michael knew he was gone. His father's pain was over. Quickly, he walked to the side of the bed, knelt down, and took Robert John's limp hand in his own, holding it tenderly. It was still warm, but completely lifeless. “Oh, Dad, I'm sorry,” Michael choked, realizing that after all the months of constant, loving care, when the final moment came, he hadn‟t been there. “I‟m so sorry I wasn't here to say good-bye.” Tears streamed down his face. He gently stroked his father‟s leathery hands, and tenderly rubbed the square, stubbled cheek. Memories came flooding back, the special times he‟d spent with the man who now lay so still and gaunt upon the bed beside him. Up until the cancer, Robert Johns had been a robust, big-hearted, hard-working, loving parent entirely devoted to three things; his son, his ranch, and enjoying life. He preached his philosophy of life by example: work hard, but when it‟s done, you get to play. In his book, both were equal ingredients in the recipe for happiness. Robert Johns lost his wife when Michael was still a little fellow and spent the rest of his life in her sorely-felt absence determined to provide the best he could for his son. That included giving his all to the hard, day-after-day labor to build up a well-run, profitable dairy ranch his boy would someday inherit. Michael learned at his father‟s side the value of sweat and toil, but also to make every spare minute away from it count just as much. “Ya better like what ya do, son,” he heard his father say a hundred times, “because you‟re gonna spend most your life doin‟ it. But remember,” he would add with a grin, “work‟s the thing we do to support our fun habit.” While growing up, Michael was never far from his father‟s heels and his father, in turn, spent every moment he could spare with his boy. There had been fishing trips every weekend in summer, hunting trips every fall and, in winter, they never missed a chance to take out the snowmobiles. Oh, if Michael had a dollar for every time they rode horses up the canyon to pick chokeberries for jelly and syrup! If he could have a dime for every time they chopped wood, practiced lasso tricks, or roasted wieners over a campfire! How he yearned for one more hike together to some lake hidden high in the peace and solitude of the Salt River Range, to spend the day telling jokes, singing old songs passed down from father to son since the days of Robert‟s grandfather, or just plain lying back against a tree watching the clouds change shape. If there was ever a good life lived, Robert Johns was the man who lived it. Michael, suddenly overcome, put his head in his hands and wept. He cried a long while in that quiet room, mourning a good parent‟s love bitterly lost and feeling keenly the silent, emptiness in the room. Gradually, the sobs subsided. Michael lifted his head and roughly wiped his eyes. “At any rate,” he whispered, looking down at the face he loved so well, “you‟re free now, Dad. It was a long, hard haul, but you're past it now. No more pain. No more grinding your teeth because you can't lend a hand. You look peaceful. You should. You deserve your rest. Go tie up a fly and find a big rainbow waiting for you under the riffles in God‟s river. God knows you earned it.” Michael cleared his throat and attempted a smile, but it caught on the way out and only served to make his mouth twitch. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “Don't worry, Dad. You know I'll be all right. You taught me all I need to know. Whatever happens, whatever I become, if it turns out good, it'll be because of you.” 9
The ache arose again. Michael fought it this time, not willing to give in to the emptiness, the grief the hole in his heart demanded. He had known the end was coming, but God Almighty, he wasn't ready for it yet. This man had been everything to him and there were so many things he still needed to say. But now, the chance for words was gone. Knowing this, Michael continued talking aloud, sure his father would somehow hear. “We made quite a team all these years, didn't we, old man? We can both be right proud of this place. Prettiest little dairy ranch in Star Valley. There are a lot of people besides me who‟d say so.” He hesitated. “I hope you'll understand, Dad, but I have to let it go. This ranch was your life, not mine. I don't know what's out there waiting for me on the other side of these hills, but something in my gut says I'm not supposed to stay here. Now that you‟re gone, it's time to find my own purpose, to figure out why I‟m on this planet.” One last time, Michael pulled the faded Indian blanket up to his father‟s chest and brushed back a few wisps of gray-streaked hair from the forehead that now lay smooth and full of peace, unfurrowed by pain at last. He sat back on his heels, gazing at the man in the bed, trying to comprehend the fact that the ordeal was really over. In the first hours of that yet-unborn day, Michael Johns had held close the face of both life and death. It seemed a long mile of barbed-wire eternity between the two. A ray of sunlight peeked through a crack at the window. Outside, a rooster crowed. Michael rose, strode across the room and threw open the curtains. The young rancher could see the colors of a gentle dawn sky ripening to sunrise. A soft quietness settled over him and, with it, comfort. This was what life was, his father taught him. A lot of stuff you didn't like but were forced to deal with. The alternative, to let life defeat you, was cowardice, and that was unacceptable. His father had lived a full, robust, wonderful life doing what he loved most. There should be no regrets at his passing and Michael knew his father would understand about him leaving the ranch. Robert Johns had worked his whole life to make his life his own. Robert Johns understood about finding dreams. With this thought, Michael lifted his shoulders and took in a deep breath, square to his decision, ready to face whatever consequences his choice would hold for him. The farm and his life here was as good as over. It was time to move on. “Yes…, I hear the cows bawling, Dad,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Don‟t worry. I‟m on it. By the way, I'll call Pete Grover this morning and we'll get the funeral set up. We'll do it simple, the way you'd like.” He started to go, but stopped with his hand on the door and turned back. “Oh, Dad? Be sure to stop by the barn and see Becky's new calf.” He added, smiling. “She's a beauty.” With that, Michael Johns turned and walked out of the room, closing the door on all the certainty he had ever known. Ω Colorado State University is located comfortably in the lap of Fort Collins, a pleasant community in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains some sixty miles north of Denver. The University offers its student body of 28,000 a high standard of academic excellence and a laid-back venue of academic pursuit. Outside of class, there are mountains with plenty of fresh air, hiking and biking trails. The city of Fort Collins, itself, offers good restaurants, bookstores, coffee shops, theaters, art galleries, gardens, museums and three golf courses, basically all the amenities treasured as part of the Colorado lifestyle. In short, hidden from the world at large by the Rocky Mountains that enfold it, Fort Collins is a perfect oyster, and Colorado State University, its pearl.
Most weekends this late during spring term would find the CSU campus quiet and deserted. Some students could perhaps be found studying in the library; there might be an open-air concert in the center green, or a lecture series presented by a visiting academic dignitary; but there were usually relatively few participants. In general, the students found their off-campus week-end options in the warm April weather to be much more stimulating than whatever might be happening on campus. On this otherwise rosy day of daffodils and tulips, the atmosphere inside the boardroom for visiting dignitaries in the Administration building was dim, stifling, and palpably tense. Despite the gracious surroundings of walnut-paneled walls, overstuffed chairs and a highly-polished cherry-wood conference table, the five people seated there were highly agitated, and the conversation going on between them was far from genteel. Bill Hyden, dean of the Department of Agricultural and Biological Sciences, sat at the head of the table, plump and red-faced, drumming his fingers. Across the room from him, standing next to a large, salt-water aquarium, was Dr. Frank Curnow, professor of zoology, running his index finger across the glass, tracing the meandering path of a blue-striped sergeant major fish. Curnow, lean as an asp in his impeccable tweed blazer, bald but for a horseshoe ring of dark hair, wore a crusty frown. "Explain to me exactly,” he said acidly to his colleagues seated across the room, “why the famous James Omega would condescend to come to Colorado State University? To someone like him, we‟re nothing more than a doghouse with flea-bit credentials.” Curnow‟s eyes turned to focus on Annie Groff. She sat to the right of Dean Hyden, her back straight as an arrow, eyes keen as its point and glaring straight back at Curnow. Annie was an impressive woman. At age thirty-five, she held two PhD‟s and was the assistant dean of the department. Annie was as beautiful as she was brilliant, but some, especially Curnow, might say she seemed all the more untouchable because of her perfection. “I agree with Bill,” she said. “If James Omega applies out of the blue for a position on our faculty, then we should be thanking our lucky stars.” “Well, something doesn‟t fit,” Curnow continued crossly, taking her comment as a personal rejection. “If he really wants to get away from the University of Chicago, the man could take his pick of any Ivy League school or even go abroad. Oxford, Edinburgh, you name it. They'd take him faster than a rattlesnake could kiss my butt and no questions asked.” "No self-respecting reptile would lower itself to kiss your butt, Frank," Annie sniped. CSU‟s lanky professor of animal husbandry from Texas, Derkston Long, known to everyone present as Derk, grinned from across the table at Annie and added in his lazy drawl, “Not so, Annie. Frank‟s got snakes waitin‟ in line to kiss his butt!" Annie smiled back. Curnow grunted and rolled his eyes. The last person on the committee was petite, gray-haired Dr. Juliet Marsh. Standing at full height she was little more than four foot ten and was usually a soft-spoken, gracious woman whose grandmotherly appearance belied the nickname her students called her behind her back: “Grandma the Hun.” Curnow viewed her as an oddity: the sort who could smile at you while kicking you in the shins; a sort of chocolate chip cookie made with gravel instead of chips. Oddly, Juliet seemed a bit dreamy on this occasion. She glided into the conversation like some giddy, summer cloud that had no sense the other clouds about it were brooding up a storm. “Oh, but don‟t you think Dr. Omega is good-looking on camera,” she said breathlessly. “He‟s a very handsome man for his age, don‟t you think? And very dignified. I can hardly wait to meet him!” 11
Annie smiled and answered her elderly colleague fondly, “Yes, Juliet. James Omega does have, shall we say, a presence. If he joins our faculty, we may just have to fight over him later.” She glanced at Curnow, a wicked twinkle in her eye. “Please, spare us!” he groaned as he strode to the conference table, yanked out a chair, and plopped into his seat. Curnow took out his Blackberry and tapped open his email. He knew Annie hated his reading email during meetings and a sharp look from her told him he better put it away. He smiled challengingly and called up his first message. "I've already met him once," Annie said casually, purposely turning her back to Curnow. "You have?" Juliet gasped. “Mm-hm.” Annie was slyly watching Curnow‟s reaction out of the corner of her eye. I‟ve heard him lecture several times and was even introduced to him once.” "Well?” Juliet pressed. “What's he like?" Annie reflected. "Impressive. Great speaker. Has the audience eating out of his hand in no time. Of course, if you‟ve watched his Vanishing Eden series on PBS, you already know that.” “Yes, we already know that,” Curnow monkey-echoed under his breath. Juliet took no notice. “He's got to be a marvelous teacher, then! I mean if he's as much at ease in front of a live audience as he is before a TV camera, he‟d be a whiz in a classroom, wouldn‟t he?” She nervously patted at her stiffly-sprayed coiffure. “You‟d hope so,” Derk put in. “But not necessarily. Some people can be as smart as a whip, have four or five degrees hangin‟ on their wall, but you get „em in a classroom and they're borin‟ as a beaker.” His eyes caught Annie‟s and glanced sideways in Curnow‟s direction. Annie caught the jibe but was not about to be diverted from her point. “But Omega‟s not like that, Derk. He‟s the real thing.” Juliet squeezed her arm. “So what is he like, Annie? I mean, as a person.” Annie thought a moment then said, “Well, I know his students at the University of Chicago adored him.” “I heard,” Derk butted in, “some people say he's a bit of an odd duck.” Curnow gave a short, nasty snicker. “Everyone is entitled to their opinion,” Annie went on, “but when we met I found him lucid, articulate, very ... interesting. I must admit, my heart fluttered a bit when he shook my hand." Juliet gasped, “Oh Annie. Lucky you!” “Really,” Curnow muttered, still tapping away at his Blackberry, “isn‟t he a bit elderly for you, Annie?” “There are plenty of women who think age improves a man,” Annie defended herself , “A lot can be said for ... experience.” “That‟s right,” Derk spoke up. “A good stud horse'll keep the mares happy long after he's quit the racetrack.” Annie laughed outright, but Juliet's face turned bright red. She removed her glasses and began wiping them on her sleeve. “Bless me, my glasses keep fogging up. Isn't it hot in here?” Dean Hyden cleared his throat, his face even redder than usual. “We‟re getting sidetracked, people. Let‟s get back to the discussion at hand. In a few moments, James Omega is going to walk through that door. You may ask him any questions you like. When you‟re finished, we will dismiss him while we arrive at our decision. But while you‟re at it, I just want to remind everyone that President Hewitt called me personally this morning on this matter. He‟s delighted by the whole thing and is highly in favor of it. That should be a guide for our decision, I think.” Curnow snapped to attention. "I can see everyone is all in a heat over the great James Omega. But remember one thing, people, before you all go into a molt from your adrenaline rush; the university
is not rich. Our financial resources are limited. Do you want some money-guzzling celebrity to gobble it all up? Guess whose budgets and salary will take the hit?" This produced an awkward hush. “Is that true?” Juliet leaned forward with a look of consternation. “Will someone‟s position be threatened? Will we have to take a cut in pay if Dr. Omega…?” “Juliet, nothin‟ Curnow ever says is exactly true,” Derk reassured her. “He just likes to yell wolf whenever he gets the chance. Pay no attention.” “You‟ll see,” Curnow snapped. “The minute Omega moves in, one of us moves out!” “Calm down, people,” Dean Hyden commanded. “I expect some decorum at these proceedings.” “Frank,” Annie said sternly, “you obviously have reservations about Omega. Let‟s get the wash out in the air to dry. What exactly have you got against him?” Curnow, happy at last to be handed the gavel, cleared his throat. "I just want you to think, people, instead of going all mushy in the cerebellum just because the man‟s a celebrity. Reality check. First of all, what has CSU got to attract a man of Omega‟s caliber?" "Now just a minute, Frank," the Texan responded in an offended tone. "CSU is a damned good school and you know it. In the field of Animal Sciences, we‟re one of the best in the country! We have nothing to be ashamed of.” “Here, here!” Dean Hyden cried. “It certainly appears James Omega thinks CSU's good enough for him. He‟s the one who initiated his application, isn‟t he? Can‟t you understand, Frank, that when a man like this comes knocking at the door, we can hardly look a gift horse in the mouth?” “Specially if he‟s a thoroughbred!” Derk put in. Curnow coughed and looked up from his email. “Omega‟s not a thoroughbred, he‟s an egotist. My word, I can't stand this idol-worship mentality! He's just a biologist, not a demigod! No more dedicated to his profession than you or me. Damn it, people! Why do we have to endure all this theatrical hype?” Annie closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “Frank, you‟re a real peach.” “Now don‟t you give me that high and mighty attitude, Annie,” Curnow sputtered. “As a member of this committee I have the same rights to express my concerns as anybody else. You want to talk about my reservations? Okay, let‟s talk. Let‟s talk about the biggest bug of all on Omega‟s windshield: the mongoose. What about the god-damned mongoose?” Annie shook her head. “That soup is stone cold, Frank. Water under the bridge.” “Well, I think not.“ Curnow‟s eyes flashed, “I think it weighs heavily on this committee to remember two years ago your amazing Dr. James Omega claimed to have genetically-engineered the birth of a red-banded mongoose, re-introducing an animal extinct since 1943.” Annie sighed. “Yes, Frank, everyone here reads the papers and listens to the news just like you do. We all remember the mongoose. What about it?” Curnow‟s lips tightened. “Fraud was implied, I believe. Nasty little word, fraud. I would hate to see CSU find itself in a fix on account of James Omega the way the University of Chicago did, that‟s all.” “What you gettin‟ at, Frank?” Derk asked. Curnow drew himself up. “The scientific community has a keen nose for humbug. The minute the University of Chicago made the announcement of Omega‟s purported achievement, red flags shot up everywhere. Everyone could smell a stink in the air. One just does not bring back an extinct species. Such a feat, as we all know, is impossible.” “It was believed to be impossible,” Annie said pointedly, “until Omega did it.” 13
“Annie, dear,” Curnow answered with a curl of his lip, “there are more than a few very reputable scientists who still think the whole thing was a ruse, myself among them. In my opinion, it was all staged and when Omega‟s bluff was called, it created a scandal. Of course, the University of Chicago tried to cover it up, which is evidence in itself the mongoose was a fake and James Omega is a charlatan.” "That's a low blow and uncalled for!" Annie said, rising to her feet. "The mongoose was a brilliant piece of genetics and you know it. The trial vindicated both Omega and the University of any wrong doing. Omega‟s accusers were proven guilty of perjury and sabotage. Some even admitted to having been bribed to falsify Omega‟s lab books. The real issue here is that you are jealous, aren‟t you, Frank? You‟ve been the big cheese for so long, you‟re afraid Omega is going to come along and outshine you, and you can‟t tolerate the thought!” “What?” Curnow cried, rising to his feet. “I‟m so tired of it, Frank.” Annie cried. “Every time we try to do something to upgrade the department, you shoot it down. If an idea doesn‟t come from you, it‟s no good. If it‟s your project that needs funding, you‟re suddenly everyone‟s friend, but if it‟s somebody else‟s, you veto it without even considering it. Do you know what I think, Frank? I think you‟re a very petty man. Oh, a genius, I admit, but a petty genius.” To everyone‟s surprise, Annie clenched both fists and pounded them on the table. All four committee members jumped in their seats. She faced Curnow, her eyes narrowed, her teeth clenched. ”Well, this is one time I‟m not going to let you sabotage a golden opportunity! James Omega coming here would open doors, not just for our department, but for the whole university. All I can say to you, Frank Curnow, is if you‟re going to let personal prejudice prevent you from making a rational decision concerning the best interest of this institution, then perhaps you should resign from this committee!” The entire room fell to stunned silence. “Oh dear,” Juliet whispered, covering her mouth with her hand. Curnow stood, drop-jawed. He finally sputtered, “If that‟s what you think—if that‟s the way you feel, Annie -- why then, I beg your pardon! I have never harbored any intentions that were for anything other than the good of this department. I‟m stunned. I cannot understand why you would say such things.” “Don‟t get me started…” Annie snapped. “People, please!” Dean Hyden exclaimed. “This henpecking accomplishes nothing. Let‟s all remember our manners here. We are all professionals. Let‟s act that way, shall we? Now everyone, please -- just sit down!” Annie stiffly took her seat and Curnow lowered into his, each looking spitefully at the other. But at least order was restored. The dean drew a long breath and adjusted his tie before he spoke. “To be just, Frank has a perfect right to bring up the mongoose trial. Should Omega come to reside on this faculty, Omega‟s past could at some point become entwined with CSU‟s future. However, as you point out, Annie, it was proven there was no fraud on Omega's part, so Frank‟s point is moot. What we all hope is that what James Omega will bring with him to CSU is his brilliant reputation, not a tarnished past.” “It wasn‟t tarnished in the first place…” Annie insisted beneath her breath. “Just remember I warned you.” Curnow had to have the last word. A telephone resting by the chairman's elbow interrupted the pending altercation. Every member of the committee froze as the room filled with an electrically-charged silence. “Quiet, everyone!” Dean Hyden pleaded, picking up the phone with a shaking hand. "Yes, Mrs. Walker?” he spoke into the mouthpiece. “Thank you, but, no, don‟t just send him in. I'll come out and escort Dr. Omega in myself. Please tell him I'll be right out."
The dean replaced the phone on its cradle, cleared his throat, and faced his colleagues. "Well, he's here. We‟ll postpone the remainder of this discussion until after the interview. Perhaps some of you will change your minds after you meet the man. In any event, we will address all of your concerns before we arrive at a final decision. In the meantime, Frank, Annie, behave! Do not embarrass me!” “Yes, Frank, be nice.” Annie hissed at Curnow before looking up at the dean and folding her arms like a child in Sunday School. She smiled sweetly. “We‟re all ready now, Bill.” “Praise the Lord,” Hyden said, pulling at his tie. “Stay that way. I‟ll be back in a minute.” He pushed away from the table, rose, and hurried from the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Everyone watched him go. In his absence, the people around the long table remained still and pensive, eyeing each other in tight-lipped silence. Everything about James Omega irked Frank Curnow. He would never tell his colleagues on the committee of the indignities he suffered because of James Omega. He would never admit to the humiliation, especially not to Annie Groff, whom he tried so hard to impress over the years. During the course of their day-to-day contact—her office was just down the hall from his -- she never encouraged his personal advances nor applauded his academic prowess. If she wouldn‟t accept him as a suitor, so be it. But couldn‟t she at least give him credit for his brilliant articles and meticulously-researched book series? Perhaps, he reasoned, it was only the subject Annie had an aversion to. He was fascinated by the reptilian world, while Annie‟s head was up in the clouds with her birds. He respected that she was also a published authority in ornithology, specializing in raptors. No question about it, Annie Groff was smart. That was the first thing about her that attracted him. He loved getting in debates with her, loved showing her how much he knew. But for some baffling reason, Annie did not seem to view his intellectualism in the same light he held hers -- a highly- desired, commonly-held trait, which could, if allowed, form the bonds of a stimulating relationship. He could not understand why she didn‟t see that. And, now, there was the threat of a new wedge coming between them. What if Annie became infatuated with James Omega? She was showing all the signs of an adoring fan already. Sickening. Her misplaced adoration provided Curnow another reason for despising the man. But the first and foremost reason for his animosity came back to him now, a bad memory resurfacing just when he thought it had been buried for good. Three years ago, Curnow put his heart, soul and eighteen months of blood, sweat and tears research into writing an article to be published in the prestigious Journal of Herpetology. Just being accepted for publication by this, the top academic periodical in the field, was an honor. Curnow had prepared a three-installment series on lizards of Colorado, which he hoped would be well received and secure his ranking on the top rung of his specialty -- western North American herpetology. Of course, he announced to his CSU colleagues the date the article was coming out, and then waited on pins and needles, spending two sleepless nights sitting up smoking his pipe prior to the article‟s release. Annie teased him over it. “I swear, Frank,” she said. “I bet a snake has an easier time shedding its skin than you‟ve had in getting this article published. You look terrible. Go home, curl up under a nice warm rock and take a nap.” Her flippant remark hurt, but not half as much as what happened later. A copy of the Journal with his article in it finally arrived at his office the following morning. He opened the pages and there it was, in actual print, right before his eyes! A Comparative Study of the Nine Species of Phrynosomatidae Habitating in Colorado: Part One: Patterns of Cell Proliferation, Migration, Maturation, and Synaptogenesis. His hands were shaking. It was one of the proudest moments of his life. He immediately got on the Internet and ordered a full case of the publication, cost 15
charged to the CSU biology department. It would be, of course, a required text for his students to purchase next term. During the course of the day, Curnow proudly showed the article to his colleagues, the most prominent of which were Dean Hyden, Derkston Long, Janet Marsh, and Annie Groff. The first three offered hearty congratulations and praise. Then Annie said, “So, your moment of glory has come at last, Frank I look forward to reading it as soon as I can grab a minute. I‟m sure it‟s brilliant and correct to the smallest detail. But you know me and herpetology, I hope I can stay awake to the end.” He winced and her cheeks reddened. “I‟m sorry, Frank. That was a mean thing to say. God, I‟m such a jerk today. It‟s the moon. The moon made me say it. I‟m so sorry.” His face fell. Seeing this, she repentantly lay a hand on his arm. “I‟m sorry, Frank. That was low. I‟m just jealous that you‟re published again and I‟m not. Honestly, I‟m sure it‟s wonderful. You‟ve worked your tail off and, now, you‟ll finally get some recognition for your effort. Good for you. Can I buy you lunch?” But Curnow was stung to the core. He politely refused and returned to his office in a huff. The next day, he couldn‟t wait to get onto the internet and read the reviews. There were five, all of them brief but positive. Words like „insightful‟ and „well-substantiated data‟ were used. Frank was beaming. He was pleasant to everyone, even his students, for whom he usually spared no rod. Dr. Curnow was proudly adept at criticism and rarely lost an opportunity to remind his students that no matter how smart they thought they were, they knew absolutely nothing. It was, therefore, his job to fill their empty heads with something useful; and shouldn‟t they be grateful for the privilege of being in his accomplished tutorage? If a student showed any lack of humility, such as raising a hand too confidently, or providing an answer too readily, or, heaven help him, contradicting or challenging what his professor taught, Curnow fell on the upstart like a python, squeezing him for further details there was no way he could know, strangling his initiative, choking his zeal, embarrassing him in front of his peers until he shrank back in his chair, limp as a dead goat. Students had to know their place — to listen with rapt attention and take copious notes, as their professor allowed them a sip of his precious waters. But, for three months, during which his two other articles followed the first in publication and circulation, Curnow was as sweet and tolerant of his court of underlings as a King Cobra sitting on eggs. The euphoria lasted until the day that James Omega ruined everything. Curnow was sitting in his office, rereading, for the fourth time, his third article, when Derkston Long suddenly stuck his head in the door and said, “Say Frank. Here‟s something you might be interested in. James Omega put out a new book yesterday, on almost the same topic as your Journal articles. Since it‟s up your alley, I just thought you‟d be interested. The book‟s making a big splash apparently. It must be good. Well, gotta go. Bye.” Curnow sat dumbfounded, staring into space as Long shut the door and the sound of his footsteps disappeared down the hall. He felt as if he had just been slugged in the stomach. It couldn‟t be true. It couldn‟t. Heart racing, he jumped on the Internet and, sure enough, Derk‟s dreaded tale was confirmed. Photos, interviews and critiques flooded the academic community with praise like, „Omega‟s done it again,‟ „James Omega outdoes even himself,‟ and „another masterpiece from a master scientist.‟ The lowest blow was delivered by the chief editor of the same journal in which Curnow‟s series had appeared. That review actually compared his own work to Omega‟s, saying, “While we commend Dr. Frank Curnow on his inexhaustible detail and expert comparative analysis of the lizards of Colorado, Dr. Omega‟s work makes them come alive on the page. Omega writes about these creatures as if he lives with them. After reading The Amazing Snakes and Lizards of the Western High
Country , we of this publication staff are awestruck, being so engagingly reminded of why we all became herpetologists to begin with—that these creatures of scales, horns, claws and teeth are unique organisms that continue to fascinate and delight us. Kudos to Dr. James Omega! Our readership will be happy to know we have already secured rights to a series of interviews over the next four issues with Omega. Look forward to them. We guarantee, you will not be disappointed.” Frank hit the Close button with fury and the computer monitor went blank. This was outrageous! How could this happen? Over the past three months he had received dozens of emails from herpetologists all over the country saying how they admired his breadth of knowledge and asking for more information. He had reveled in the glory and answered every request in depth. His name was out there -- on every herpetologist‟s lips. But now, every ounce of thunder Curnow had rightfully earned from his peers was being stolen by a PBS smart ass whose only redeeming asset as an author was that he could tell a good story. It seemed to Frank Curnow that James Omega had personally purposely targeted him with the sole intent to best him. Omega must have read his articles and realized, thanks to Curnow, that herpetology was the latest biological hot topic and gotten the idea for his book. While Curnow knew, in reality, no one, not even James Omega, could write and get a book published in three months, he overlooked that and took the affront personally. To him, this was nothing less than an insidious attempt to demean a lower-than-dust biology prof at Piddledunk University, while the great James Omega raised himself into the limelight. Curnow was next to tears. Didn‟t the man already have money and popularity and clout in spades? Omega was literally crushing him under his heel, thinking no more of the deed than one would of stepping on an ant. He prayed none of his CSU colleagues would take notice of Omega‟s book. They lived in worlds of their own and, since none of them were much into reptiles, it was unlikely any of them would pick up and buy a copy of it. One thing they must never know was how much this undeserved rivalry hurt him. If the subject should, by chance, come up, he would be quick to downplay it. Annie would probably misinterpret anything Frank said against Omega to defend himself as jealousy. No. He would not bring any of it up in conversation, ever! He would bear his pain in quiet dignity. Curnow did not emerge from his office that day until five minutes before he had to teach a late- afternoon class. He glumly gathered his things and forced himself to go, thinking no farther ahead than to somehow get through the next hour and then go home. When one of his students raised his hand, quoted from Omega‟s new book and asked Curnow what he thought about it, it was the last straw. It took all the self-control he had to keep from screaming. He bit his tongue, schooled his tone, and said evenly, “Beware, people, of humbug science that purports itself as truth, and the man hiding behind the curtain who creates it. You must always be on the lookout for Piltdown Man. Never let yourself be fooled or mislead. True science is facts, backed up by solid research. Not fairytales by Disney, nor bedtime stories by Thorton W. Burgess. Do not believe everything you read. In the world of science, one must tread on solid ground or be laughed into oblivion. Yet, even now, up springs a Wizard of Oz, and his name is James Omega.” With that, Frank Curnow packed his lesson presentation back into his brief case, closed it, and walked out of the auditorium without another word. Now, unbelievably, James Omega himself was coming to CSU, asking for a job. It was ludicrous! Why would a PBS superstar give up all his publicity and prestige at the University of Chicago, to come to little Fort Collins, Colorado, boasting no more than 135,000 residents, and ignobly titled by its student body as “Funtown, U.S.A.?” 17
It didn‟t make sense. Omega already had everything. His PBS series had made him as famous as Carl Sagan, plus he had three or four bestsellers in his hip pocket, not to mention numerous public appearances on the late night shows, and who knew what else in the wings! Why give all that up? There had to be something in it for him. Unless…, unless the man had been discreetly offered his hat at the University of Chicago after the mongoose fiasco and was simply trying to find a place to lie low until the waters settled. That had to be it! Curnow grinned and at once began to lay out a course of action in his mind. He would not embarrass the dean or the department by attacking Omega directly at this interview as he had previously thought to do. No, for the time being, he would be insidiously gracious and polite. He would acquiesce to Annie and the rest, and would not cast a ballot against bringing the Great Wizard aboard CSU‟s ship. But in his heart, he was steeled: James Omega was a man who needed watching and Frank Curnow was the one who would do it. 
Chapter 2 The spirit groped its way blindly through dark tunnels and up stairways where it sensed both sides falling away to bottomless depths. Despite these terrors, it pressed on, sometimes erect, sometimes scrambling on all fours; urged ever onward by the call of its master. The labyrinth it followed echoed with the same sort of shrieks and angry cursing it had heard in its previous quarters; they rang through the depths, anguished hymns of hell‟s cathedrals. From shadowed grottos, the merciless laughter of tormentors mixed with the cries of the tortured. It made the spirit quail to hear them. All too well it remembered what went on in those unholy pits. Mere physical torment was no match for the cruelty inflicted there -- hell‟s fires burned hottest when stoked by grief, regret, jealousy, and wounded pride. The Master‟s fiends were given control over the minds of their captives and took delight in forcing them to relive their most tragic moments of mortality again and again, only to be laughed at and mocked for their pain. Well the tormentors knew their victim‟s sorest wounds and picked at them like ravens. There was no mercy. They inflamed the mind, never letting an injury heal, never letting a memory, ripe with the juices of misery, be forgotten. Anguish was their food and hate, the sweetest honey. Pressing through darkness, the spirit cringed, recalling all too keenly the bitter taste of its own sordid recollections, and hurried on its way. At last, from out of the pervasive blackness, a glow came in the distance, as if radiating from a bed of living coals. The spirit paused, stretching its neck and sniffing the sulphurous air. Amidst the smoke it caught the smell of fear. It was strong here, very strong. It meant the Master was up there somewhere, near to that glow. This, then, was where it must go. Gingerly, it moved forward, testing one step at a time just in case its freedom was all a cruel jest, just in case the floor were to give way and it were to find itself back in that hellish cage with a ring of tormentors bent double in laughter. But surely not, it reassured itself. Its bonds had been loosed. It had been called for, had it not? This could be no joke. But then, in hell, one never knew. There was nothing to do but go on. The spirit shuffled to the end of the tunnel and found itself standing at the mouth of a cavern, hot and red as a kiln. For some time, the spirit could barely look inside the chamber due to the intense brightness and heat emanating from it. But it was able to gradually lower its arm from its eyes and squint to take in the sight of the massive room. It was shaped like the inside of an immense, hollow tower. There seemed to be no ceiling. This then, was the very place it had heard of for so long. The throat to the upper world and the throne room of Satan! With a paralyzing sense of dread, the spirit forced itself to enter. The spirit‟s flint-dark eyes examined the details of the resplendent chamber‟s magnificent decor. Gold-leafed pillars and cornices draped with swags of vivid purple velvets graced walls that rose upward and upward until disappearing in a ring of shadow. Flickering topiaries of brilliant flame burned in huge stone urns and cast shadows that danced like imps at play against gleaming walls. Radiant and unbelievably beautiful mosaics of gems studded the floor while statues of naked dancing fauns and satyrs filled every corner. In the center of the room and, most impressive of all, 19
was a pedestal of carved marble, formed in the likeness of three huge beasts. Upon their muscular backs rested the great Judgment Seat, where a silent, silver-robed figure reclined on silken cushions. At once the spirit dropped to its knees, completely overcome, then fell prostrate to the ground. “Ah, my newly-awakened servant,” a voice came from above. “The Master calls and I obey,” the spirit croaked. “Look at me,” a voice smooth as liquid ore commanded. Ever so slowly the spirit lifted its head. The face it beheld was impassive but exquisitely handsome with eyes sharp and penetrating, like black stars. “How long has it been since your judgment, Spirit?” the Great Master asked. The spirit paused, uncertain. “I forget, Lord.” “Some seven hundred years, I believe.” “Yes, Lord.” The Master nodded. “And after all this time, do the fires of hatred still burn in your breast toward your old enemy, Kokaetalan?” The sound of the name that had haunted it for all the centuries of its torment pierced the spirit‟s ear, burning like poison. “Kokaetalan! My brother,” it hissed with great distaste and spat at the floor. “I see they do.” The True Lord sounded amused. “Good. I have a task for you, servant and, perhaps, if you are faithful, a way to quench those fires.” The silver-robed figure stood, throwing his mantle over his shoulder and slowly descended from the throne. He walked to where the spirit recoiled in apprehension on the floor and stopped, towering over it. “Rise.” The spirit climbed quickly to its feet and waited breathlessly, shoulders hunched in respect, staring at the floor. “ Come,” said the Great One, stretching out his hand.. I have something to show you.” The spirit stared incredulously, hardly believing the True Lord actually wanted to touch him, but the robed figure gestured again, making it clear he meant to take the spirit‟s hand. Gingerly, the spirit complied and weakly grasped the heavily-ringed fingers of its monarch. There was no sensation of touch at their contact, only an electrified charge of submission to power. Instantly, colors in the room began to fade and swirl. The spirit felt itself rising like a column of heat twisting above a furnace, being lifted higher and higher into the air with a dizzying, sickening sensation. It could not hold back a scream. “Hush, fool. I have you,” the molten voice said. “Instead of wailing like a dying goat, you should be singing praises. You have been plucked from the fires and released from captivity! We go to open air and freedom! We go to see my miracle!” Overcome, the spirit could not reply. It stared down, mutely watching the floor drop away. Linked as one they rose together, Lord and servant, light-winged as bats, soaring up, up, through the dark womb of the tower. At its top, a gate of iron teeth guarded the opening, but the Great Lord only laughed and, with a wave of his hand, they passed through jaws and ceiling as easily as moonlight through glass and were gone. Ω
Dr. James Omega stood outside the impressive cherry wood doors to the conference room, straightening his tie and stroking every whisker of his beard in place. He knew full well the outcome of the meeting ahead. Of course, he would be offered the position. Nevertheless, he wanted to make a good first impression on the people with whom he would soon be rubbing shoulders. Dean Hyden, standing beside him, assured him for the tenth time how excited everyone was to meet him and how honored they were to have his application in hand. Omega thanked him, and politely encouraged, “I look forward to meeting the committee. Shall we go in?” “Of course, of course!” Hyden beamed and opened the doors. Every person turned to stare as he entered the room with Dean Hyden whispering something into his ear. Several rose from their seats in unison as if yanked up by a magnet. Despite their eagerness, Omega could sense the intense scrutiny being directed at him from this group as each professor‟s eyes met his. Hopefully, he seemed human enough. He was probably a bit leaner than they expected, most people having told him television puts on pounds. Personally, he liked to think of himself as fit, not scrawny. He had taken care to tie back his shoulder-length, white hair at the nape of his neck with a black satin ribbon. It complemented his gray-streaked beard, which was short and immaculately trimmed. He held his chin high, exuding a poise he hoped demonstrated a keen observance of his surroundings rather than arrogance. He knew himself older than most expected, and was quietly amused as he saw their faces reacting to it. Just what is his age, they were undoubtedly wondering — sixty? A well preserved seventy? On that point, with his trim build, straight posture and the confident stride with which he now approached them, he hoped to keep them guessing. With Dean Hyden at his elbow, Omega approached the front end of the table, nodded to the professors and waited politely for an introduction. Frank Curnow‟s discreet appraisal could find no fault in Omega's outward visage, but he was not one to be taken in by appearances. If anything, Omega's youthful forbearance in old age caused more questions to form in his mind than were there before. The oddest part, the thing he couldn't shake, was that in spite of this man‟s age, whatever that was, Omega was first published only seven years ago. Before that, no one seemed to have heard of the man. Despite his current fame, the man remained an enigma even under the tightly-scrutinized lens of academia‟s microscope. Like a termite, he‟d sneaked in out of nowhere and gnawed his way into the woodwork and had everyone believing he could pull an extinct species out of his hat. But Curnow knew a rabbit was just a rabbit. He would make it his mission to unmask this nefarious intruder. He would be his exterminator. With a forced smile, he turned to greet the university‟s honored guest. “Professor Omega, welcome to Colorado State University,” Dean Hyden began. “May I begin introductions with Dr. Annie Groff, specialist in avian zoology, and our assistant dean.” He gestured across the table. Omega immediately left his place at the Dean‟s side and went straight to the woman‟s chair, sticking out his hand. “Doctor Groff! If I am not mistaken, you and I have already met,” Omega commented with a wide smile, shaking her hand enthusiastically. “Three years ago at the Los Angeles Conference on 'Raptor Migration in the Western Hemisphere,' was it not? And as I recall you presented a magnificent paper on the resurgence of the North American bald eagle. One of my favorite birds, the eagle. I especially loved your insights on their bonding with a mate for life.” 21
The woman‟s eyes opened wide as two full moons and her face beamed just as brightly. “My goodness, Dr. Omega, you do have an excellent memory for the trivial,” she laughed, looking somewhat flustered but pleased. She composed herself and managed a sincere, “Thank you.” The lanky professor at the woman‟s left said with a Texas accent, “Now folks, there's a sight we‟ve never seen before. Annie Groff turnin' to Jello.” Annie reddened with embarrassment. Dean Hyden hurried to continue introductions. “Dr. Derk Long, animal husbandry,” he said gesturing toward the Texan. The two men exchanged a hearty handshake. Omega received a much colder greeting from the next man at the table, an eel-thin man with a hairline in full retreat, introduced to him as Dr. Frank Curnow, zoology, with a specialty in herpetology. “We‟re all quite proud of Frank around here, “ Hyden said eagerly. “He‟s nationally recognized as an authority on snakes and…” “Yes quite, “ Omega interrupted the dean politely. “I know your articles, Dr. Curnow.” “You do?” Curnow said, in genuine surprise. “Yes. I especially like the one on copperheads … in the February issue of Evolutions, as I recall. And your series in The Journal of Herpetology on the lizards of Colorado. Outstanding.” Curnow was apparently astounded beyond words. “It is an honor to meet one of the top herpetologists in the country, Dr. Curnow,” Omega continued with sincere geniality. “I would like nothing better than to discuss some of your findings with you at length over lunch if such an opportunity presents itself.” Curnow reddened around the collar and nodded at the invitation, while Omega smiled inwardly. An air of resentment and suspicion surrounded the man like scales. He marked the instinctive impression in his mind for future reference and turned to the final person at the table. A short, gray-haired woman rose to her feet fairly atwitter with nervousness and shook his hand as if he were the King of England. “Dr. Juliet Marsh,” she introduced herself with quavering voice. “Microbiology.” “Ah, the world of infinitesimal giants,” Omega said, giving her a most complimentary smile. “An invisible realm that virtually overshadows the visible world.” “Why yes,” she murmured. “Quite true. Few people seem to really appreciate the significance of my field, I‟m afraid.” Omega beamed at her. “Then they are fools. I for one, Dr. Marsh, applaud you in so worthy a pursuit — unraveling the unfathomable complexities of the simplest forms of life. A humbling occupation, no doubt. It is a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Marsh. A genuine pleasure.” “Oh my,” Juliet gasped, responding to this attention like a flower to the sun. She dropped into her seat, hand over her heart, misty eyed and breathless. The amenities finally done, James Omega returned to his seat as the other professors adjusted their chairs and shuffled a few papers. This was followed by a few nervous coughs, then silence. For what seemed a very long time, no one in the room spoke. Omega's only noticeable movement was the gradual movement of his eyes as he slowly appraised the individuals about him one by one. They, in turn, could not help staring back. Dean Hyden leaned forward from his chair, propping his elbows on the table. "Well, then, now that we've all been introduced, I, uh, I believe we should proceed. As all of you know, we are conducting this interview in accordance with Dr. Omega's request to be admitted to the Colorado State University faculty in the College of Natural Sciences. You have had sufficient time to study his vitae
and the text of his request and I am certain you are impatient to begin the interview. I will now turn the time over to the committee." "Doctor Omega, I would like to go first if I may,” Annie began without hesitation. “You realize it is very unusual for any university to seriously consider this kind of unsolicited request. We currently have no vacancies in our biology department. Yet, you have come to us asking for a position on our faculty. If you were anyone else, we would have refused your application out of hand. You are, however, a person of incomparable reputation and prominence in the scientific community. We recognize the honor it would be to our school to have you here and feel compelled to seriously consider your request." Omega acknowledged the compliment with a nod of his head. “Thank you.” He liked this woman. She was direct, honest and played the game without guile. Someone it would be wise to have on his side. "We are very proud of our agricultural and natural sciences departments,” she went on. “But, to be honest, Dr. Omega, CSU could never hope to pay you the kind of salary you are currently receiving, nor offer you the amount of financial support for research to which you are accustomed. Because of this unusual circumstance, we need to ask, I mean, we need to understand...” Here Hyden interrupted, obviously worried Annie was not being very diplomatic. “Excuse me, Annie, but what she is asking, Dr. Omega is, could you please tell us why you would want to leave your prestigious position at the University of Chicago to come to ... to, uh, a lesser known school such as ours?" Omega knew the good dean would as soon have dug his own grave and jumped in it as to offend him. He was well aware of how valuable a commodity he was, and Hyden had made it clear by everything he said since they met that he was wanted at CSU. Badly. To the dean's great relief, Omega did not mind the question in the least. He merely stared into space for a moment as if in thought, then responded, "The answer is simple, really, Dean Hyden. First, let me make it clear that I am very impressed with the biological sciences program at CSU and would be proud to be associated with it. But, frankly speaking, the reason for my application is that I need a change of pace." Committee members exchanged glances. Curnow raised an eyebrow. Omega's gaze again moved from one member of the Committee to another as he spoke, this time meeting their eyes as if personalizing his message for each one. "Some people might envy the position I am in,” he said, turning purposefully toward Curnow. “To those, I would say, publicity extracts its toll and fame is a heavy task master. As my reputation has grown, the demands on me have increased tremendously. Indeed, I have been under a very arduous schedule of teaching, in constant demand on the lecture circuit, and there is always the pressure to publish.” “We should suffer such hardship,” Omega heard Curnow snort behind his hand to Derk Long. Omega ignored this and went on. “At the University of Chicago, I felt like I was being forced to constantly parade in the spotlight. My dean was a very good friend, but even he was guilty of applying pressure in his own way. Whenever I complained about the rigmarole eating into my preparation time for classes or into my research, he would say, 'But it is all for the University, James.' His solution was to give me a staff of my own. Trouble is, I found it took up even more time to manage the staff. Call me a fool; I am the sort that would rather do things myself. You may know what I mean.” “I hear ya,” Derk Long put in. “Too many fingers messin' in the pie, you end up with puddin'.” “Yes, Dr. Long, exactly,” Omega said, smiling; but his tone grew earnest. "To make a long story short, at Chicago, there was progressively less time available for me to do what I wanted to do. It 23
was very frustrating. You see, I have set for myself some very significant research objectives and, in case you have not noticed," his eyes twinkled good-humoredly, "I am not getting any younger!" This produced muffled, but polite chuckles around the table. Frank Curnow looked unamused. "To be totally honest,” Omega said, “I am searching for a place where I can get out of the limelight, unwind a bit and concentrate on my research. I believe…, I hope, CSU is the place. I would like to think of it as my new home.” “We all do!” cooed Juliet Marsh. “The question is,” Frank Curnow said dryly, “if this particular home has a budget capable of taking on an addition to the family.” “Frank!” Annie looked like she would like to kick him under the table. She composed herself, interlocked her fingers, and faced Omega. “Excuse this rudeness, Dr. Omega. Dr. Curnow‟s feelings do not represent the rest of us. I‟m sure, when it comes to the budget, we can surely work something…” Omega held up his hand for her to stop. He sat back and crossed his legs. “There is no need to worry, I assure you, Dr. Groff. Please put your minds at ease on that point. I have no intention of letting money become an issue. A modest salary would be acceptable for I am already financially secure. Offer me what you will, I will likely accept it. There are more compelling reasons for my wanting to come here." Annie and Bill Hyden exchanged amazed looks. The committee members released an unconscious, but collective, sigh. There was a noticeable easing of tension in the room, except for Curnow, whose fingers tapped the table. “I must say, we are relieved, but surprised, Dr. Omega,” Bill Hyden said. “But are you sure our facilities will be adequate for your needs?” "Certainly. The research I have in mind does not require elaborate technical support," Omega continued, politely. "A lot of it is done in the field and merely involves the use of a few graduate students and a half dozen laptops to aid in the collection of data. For the rest, CSU has all the data systems capacity and laboratory facilities I require.” Again, shared looks of approval passed around the table. Omega abruptly dropped the smile. The tone of his voice grew more serious as well. “To be blunt, my friends, I sincerely feel bringing my research here to Colorado State can do your school as much good as it will do me. But, now we come to the meat of it. There are, I must mention, some problems to be solved, some delicate webs needing to be strung, shall we say? There are certain stipulations I must insist upon in my contract." “Aha! Here we go. He wants a star on his dressing room door,” Curnow whispered in Juliet Marsh's ear. “Shh!” she commanded, finger to her lips and turned away. "First," James Omega continued, choosing not to notice, "I want a light class load. Rest assured. I do not want to displace anyone from the department,” -- Juliet Marsh looked quite relieved -- “and I need time to work on my projects in relative peace and quiet. This will include, on occasion, short periods of sabbatical leave." "Those types of things can be arranged," Hyden spoke up quickly. "Good. Second, and I consider this item non-negotiable...,” “Name it,” Hyden said. Several committee members leaned slightly forward on their seats. Omega hesitated. “I want the university to provide me with ... protection." A questioning murmur rose and buzzed around the table. Curnow's eyes squinted. "Protection, Dr. Omega?" asked the Chair.
"Protection from publicity,” Omega explained, matter of factly. “I do not want the exposure I suffered in Illinois to continue. In fact, I would prefer no announcement at all of my coming to the University for at least six months." "But Dr. Omega,” Derk Long interjected, among astonished protests from the committee, "what good will it do this institution to have you here if no one knows about it?" "I expect I will be found out, but I would prefer it to be later rather than sooner," Omega clarified. "Just, please, do not advertise it. As soon as word gets around, you will, no doubt, be badgered about it to no end. But I must, even then, be let alone. No interviews. No press releases. I just cannot, you see.... Time is precious to me. More precious than you know." His voice took on an unexpected urgency. He leaned forward. "Honored committee members, when I said I need protection, I meant it literally. I am on the verge of a truly mind-boggling discovery. If I can have some time to work on it in privacy, without a lot of distractions, it can be completed soon. But there are an unscrupulous few who chase me like hounds. They would like to steal my research and defame me. As I told you, fame has its price. In my case, unintentionally, I have made enemies -- mean-spirited, jealous people, who have made it their goal in life to discredit me. Thus far, they have not succeeded. So you see, it is necessary I have protection from them as well as the media. Therefore, I would expect you all to be extremely discreet if any questions about my whereabouts or my work are asked." At this point, everyone around the table was exchanging mystified expressions, including Curnow, who narrowed his eyes and actually set down his Blackberry. "As to Dr. Long's question of what good I can do your institution ... in return for your cooperation, I will make you a promise," Omega said, placing a hand firmly on his breast. "If I can find some reasonable seclusion here and finish my work, when the time comes, I will publish all my findings in the name of Colorado State University. It will be an astounding revelation, I assure you, and well worth your inconvenience. I guarantee it." He leaned back in his chair. “Well then, those are my conditions. Take me or leave me. Oh, by the way… I must have my answer ... today.” For several moments, excited murmurs and head-to-head conferences began around the table. Chairman Hyden called for attention and order, and Omega volunteered himself to submit to any further questions from the committee that might help them in their decision. Frank Curnow took some time to probe hard at the nature of Dr. Omega's research and the length of time required to complete it, but Omega deftly avoided responding in specifics to his questions, indicating only that his research was in genetics, primarily with vertebrates. A minimum of one to two years, he estimated, would be required for the results to be published. Juliet Marsh stuttered out how she appreciated Omega's not wishing to displace any of the faculty. Still, she wanted to know exactly what kind of a class load Omega was expecting. Perhaps he should go one or more terms without teaching if he liked? Actually, Omega responded, he really enjoyed teaching and was looking forward to getting back into the classroom. Was not that the true purpose of science, after all, to pass the torch along? He thought he could be settled in and ready to begin a class by fall term. One class -- he specified seniors -- and, perhaps later, an additional graduate seminar would be about right. Annie said she was putting together a summer lecture series. Did Dr. Omega think he could be a guest speaker for one evening? Would it be an imposition? Omega smiled and thanked her. He would be delighted, would consider it a pleasure. Just keep it small -- CSU student body only. No TV crews,” he added with a wink. Omega answered the remainder of their questions patiently until it seemed they had run full circle and were beating around the bush at the same issues. At length, he said, “My dear colleagues, I 25
sense there are still some unspoken tensions here you are too polite to address. I know my coming here is unusual. I know I have proposed some things that may seem a bit unorthodox. What can I say? I simply ask you to have faith in me. I promise you, I will not let you down.” Frank Curnow cleared his throat. “Just one thing more,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Your name. James Omega is not your real name, is it?” Omega smiled. “Why do you ask? Is something wrong with it?” Curnow smirked. “No, of course not. It‟s just, a name like Omega … I‟ve never heard it before, except maybe in science fiction novels.” Omega‟s smile tightened. “I assure you, Dr. Curnow. There is nothing fictional about me. I am as real as they come. And so is my name.” Bill Hyden coughed loudly and stood. "Ah yes, well then, well then ..., I believe we have sufficiently run Dr. Omega through the gantlet this afternoon. We thank you all, doctors, for coming, and thank you Dr. Omega. You have given us much to think about. Now, if the Committee is ready to terminate this interview, we will excuse Dr. Omega to the waiting room while we attempt to arrive at a decision." The committee members nodded heads to one another in the affirmative. Hyden indicated the door with a gesture of his hand. "Again, thank you very much for coming, Dr. Omega. If you will show yourself to the door, Ms. Walker, my secretary, is waiting for you outside. I will rejoin you shortly in the foyer with our answer." “Of course,” Omega said and, quietly rising from his chair, strode for the door. But he stopped just short of it and turned. “By the way, Dean Hyden,” he said, motioning with his eyes toward the aquarium on the other side of the room, “your poor fish are about to poach.” “What?” the Chairman muttered. “The temperature of the water is too hot.” Hyden walked over to the aquarium and squinted at the tiny thermostat. “Why, you're absolutely right. It's a full five degrees above what it should be! But, how could you know? You couldn't have read the thermostat from across the room.” “I know,” Omega replied with a grin, pulling the door closed behind him as he finished over his shoulder, “because the fish told me.” The heavy brass lock clicked shut and the room stood in silence for a very long moment. “How'd he do that?” Derk Long broke the silence, shaking his head in amazement. “Isn't it bad enough the man thinks he's god without having to demonstrate a psychic connection with fish?” Frank Curnow snapped. “He's a biologist,” Annie commented stiffly. “A very observant one, obviously. He saw how the fish were behaving, that's all.” But, having said this, she pursed her lips and looked strangely at the door through which a very amazing man had just exited. Heads slowly nodded agreement, while an unsettling question mark seemed to float almost tangibly above the faces around the table. Omega certainly had charisma and most of them liked him - - liked him a lot. Still, there was something more to this business than he had been willing to divulge. The Chairman stood, tapping his pen on the tabletop for attention. "Okay, folks. Let's tackle the subject at hand. In spite of the unusual circumstances, sound judgment tells me we should not question our good fortune. James Omega could do great things for our university. A mind like that -- here! He's as much as begging us to take him, asking so little and offering so much in return. I don't need to remind you President Hewitt has taken the effort to call me personally on this matter.
Therefore, as Chair of this committee, I move we accept James Omega's application along with the conditions he requests. All in favor?" Curnow was silent as the others responded in an eager affirmative and he knew when he was licked. If he voted no, he would never hear the end of it, from Hyden, from President Hewitt and especially from the beautiful, hard-nosed Annie Groff. Begrudgingly, his hand joined theirs. "Wonderful! Then the voting's unanimous,” Hyden said, delightedly rubbing his hands. “We will therefore offer Dr. Omega a full professorship in both departments -- natural and agricultural sciences, contingent upon the negotiation of a satisfactory salary, benefit and tenure arrangement. Meeting adjourned.” Ω 27
Chapter 3 Anna Dawn Hamlyn prepared to enter her new Fort Collins apartment, balancing a full- loaded laundry basket of immaculately folded clothes topped with some twenty plastic hangers, plus an open box of sheet music sitting atop that. Biting her lip in concentration, she leaned against the doorjamb and dug into her sling purse with one free hand to retrieve the key she had just been given by the landlord. As she reached for the doorknob, her wire-rimmed glasses tilted sideways and a mischievous lock of red hair fell forward on her face. She blew it away with an impatient “poof,” slipped the key in the lock, pushed open the door with her hip, and battled her way through the doorway. Just after she stepped over the threshold, the heel of her shoe caught on a braided rug she didn't expect and couldn't see, making the entire precarious cargo fall forward. For a moment Anna Dawn successfully counterbalanced, overcorrected, then gravity took over. With a shriek, she went down amidst a cascade of garments, a thunderstorm of hangers and an Avelanche of sheet music. She lay for a moment with her eyes tightly closed, afraid to open them. Other than one elbow shooting sparks hot enough to make her eyes well with tears, she didn't think she was hurt. “Anna Dawn,” she moaned aloud, “you are such a klutz. Amazing. You managed to do this on your first load. Imagine what wondrous feats you can achieve with the next twenty loads waiting for you down in the car!” She readjusted her glasses on her nose, then, groaning with the effort, pulled herself to her feet to begin bringing order to chaos. “You know, you're actually very good at putting things in order, Anna Dawn,” she told herself, cheerfully. “Unfortunately, you're even better at orchestrating disaster. You're a paradox, that‟s what you are -- a Franklin Planner with a confetti aptitude. Lord help you.” Despite the unfortunate introduction to her new home, within two hours Anna Dawn had unpacked her little, overwhelmed Honda Accord, lugging up the stairs to the third-floor apartment seven cardboard boxes, four suitcases, five houseplants and a very large musical instrument case. Within another thirty minutes she unpacked her clothes, arranged them in the closet according to color, put away the dishes, and placed the plants around the apartment according to their individual requirements for sunlight. “Yikes,” she exclaimed, glancing at her watch. “It‟s two-thirty already! I'm due at the Student Employment Office in an hour. Forget everything else, Anna Dawn. Hurry, get in the shower! Oh no. Which box has the shampoo?” An hour later, Anna Dawn was sitting at the Colorado State University Student Employment Center, dressed, pressed and confident, filling out a job application. The personnel advisor sitting across from the neat, confident-appearing, redheaded girl watched her, never guessing the disheveled appearance of this same person sixty minutes earlier. Everything about the applicant‟s grooming and person bespoke an immaculate attention to detail.
The advisor took the finished application from Anna Dawn‟s hands and scanned it quickly, turning it from front to back. “You're from Texas, Ms. Hamlyn?” she asked politely. “Yes, Carpenter, a small town just outside of San Antonio. Anna Dawn gave a nervous laugh. “Remember the Alamo!” “Yes. Indeed. Well, judging by your resume and appearance, you give a very fine first impression,” the advisor said, smiling at her encouragingly. “Thank you,” Anna Dawn blushed. “Where are you staying, if I may ask?” “I found a apartment not far from campus.” “And some nice roommates, I hope?” “No roommates. Just me and Bowlinda.” “Bowlinda?” the advisor questioned. Anna Dawn laughed. “My cello. We‟re best friends.” The advisor nodded. “I see. It says here you type 95 words a minute?” “That's right,” Anna Dawn said. “And what would you consider your other strengths?” “Well, I'm a whiz with a computer. As you can see, I‟ve had secretarial experience. I'm very organized and neat -- you could eat off my desktop -- and I enjoy meeting people.” “Excellent. And your weaknesses?” Anna Dawn hesitated. “Well, I've been told by my roommates I tread a bit too closely to the neatnik edge of sanity.” The personnel advisor smiled. “By the way,” Anna Dawn added, “I'm looking for just a part time position so I can attend school.” “Of course. Most of our employees here are part time for the same reason. What are you studying, Ms. Hamlyn?' “Botany, with a music minor. I'm actually coming here on a music scholarship.” “Well, that's lovely. Now, as to an opening ... as luck would have it, your timing is impeccable. I received a request from the College of Natural Sciences a few days ago for a part time secretary. After reviewing the resumes already on file, I was left wanting. And, then, you walked through the door. You have the manner and personality of a good receptionist and the skills of a good secretary. Besides that, you are studying botany, which means you will fit right into the biological science department. All in all, Ms. Hamlyn, you not only seem the best qualified, but I just have a strong feeling you and this job were made for each other. Will you be available to start on Monday?” Anna Dawn gulped to catch her breath. Life didn't usually hand you a job on a silver platter at the first try. This was a welcome stroke of luck. She paused, reflecting within a split-second, how everything seemed to have fallen in place for her since deciding to come to Colorado State University. It was like one of those fate things … meant to be. Then again, Anna Dawn, checked herself -- she did not believe in fate -- luck maybe -- but not fate. No predetermined path for her feet! No battling against the gods. Free will and choice were two essential elements of her being. Nevertheless, she was not opposed to taking advantage of a lucky break and this job sounded perfect. “Oh yes, m'am,” she said enthusiastically. “I can start tomorrow, if you want me.” “No. Monday will be fine,” the advisor said. “That will give you four days to settle in, get unpacked and get acquainted with the city. I hope you will like Fort Collins.” 29
“It‟s bigger than I expected,” Anna Dawn said. “But I like it. I feel at home here already. With the plains and hills and all, it's not so awfully different from Texas, really.” The advisor folded her hands on her desk and looked kindly at Anna Dawn. “Well then, we will expect you to begin work Monday morning, eight o'clock sharp. You will work in the Science department. Here is a card with Dean Hyden's secretary's name and extension. Report to her in the Hughes Building, fourth floor. I will call her and tell her to be ready to go over the job description with you and take you to your office where you may begin getting things organized. Since summer classes begin in three weeks, I imagine your professor will want you to get right to work.” “That's great, but who, may I ask, will I be working for?” The advisor hesitated. “I was just about to tell you that. Actually, it‟s someone very special. He's new to our faculty this year and a bit of a celebrity, they tell me. His name is Dr. James Omega.” Anna Dawn's purse fell off her lap. She leaned over, picking it up with shaking hands. “Not the Dr. James Omega, the James Omega on PBS?” “The same.” “My gosh. He's a professor here? You're kidding.” “No, I'm not.” Anna Dawn pushed up her glasses. “Wow. I mean, wow! I can't believe it. This is unreal!” “No, Ms. Hamlyn,” the advisor said with a smile. She stood to bend over the table and offer a parting handshake, “this is one hundred percent real, believe me. And now I must mention, there are some very specific instructions I need to give you. Dr. Omega‟s presence on the campus is, for the time being, to remain a secret from the world outside the campus. Dean Hyden said Dr. Omega‟s been terribly harassed by people at his previous post—I suppose that‟s the price you pay for fame—anyway, the Doctor insists on his privacy. Thus, part of your job will be to ward off outsiders, and that goes especially for anyone from the media. Screen all his calls carefully. If they are not directly related to his work here at CSU, do NOT connect any such callers with Omega directly. Do what you must, but DO NOT do or say anything that might reveal the nature of his research or even the fact that he is a member of the faculty here. If anyone outside the university calls for him, say, “One moment, please,” then transfer them to Dean Hyden‟s secretary without further explanation or comment. Do you understand? “Sure. No problem,” Anna Dawn responded, taking on a wide-eyed expression. “Sounds very intriguing.” “It is not your job to be intrigued, Ms. Hamlyn,” the advisor said flatly. “You are to do what Dr. Omega asks you to do and protect his privacy as the situation arises. Do you think you can handle that?” Yes.” Anna Dawn nodded confidently. “Certainly. I can handle that.” “Very well. That is all,” the advisor concluded, placing Anna Dawn‟s application to the side of her desk. Then, as an afterthought she looked up at Anna Dawn and added, “For your sake, I hope he's a nice boss and not, as some celebrities are, a conceited schmerk. Good luck, Ms. Hamlyn.” Anna Dawn smiled slightly, rose from the chair, thanked the secretary, then turned and walked somewhat dazedly out the door and down the hall. “Schmerk?” she questioned, as she tapped the elevator button. “I don‟t think so. Dr. Omega seems so nice on TV. I can‟t imagine he‟s a schmerk.” She stepped inside when the elevator opened. As there was no one but herself in the car, she continued to talk to herself aloud during the ride down to the lobby.
“Well, hey, Aunt Carol, can you believe this?” she beamed to an unseen party. “I‟m really here, at CSU and I‟m going to be James Omega's secretary! The real James Omega! And I‟m supposed to protect him. What do you think that‟s all about? The way I see it, this is either going to be one extremely interesting job, or the total pits. But at least I‟ve got a job. One less thing to worry about. But there‟s still a hundred things to do! Keep an eye on me, will ya? I love you.” That night, a breath of cool wind from the west came up, found the open window in Anna Dawn‟s new kitchen and ruffled the freshly-ironed curtains hanging there. Anna Dawn turned from where she sat at the kitchen table and looked at them. It was as if something was out there, something new and tantalizing, calling to her. She got up, stepped to the window and looked out. Her apartment stood on a little rise and the third floor window allowed her a partial view of the far- spread lights of Fort Collins. In the pale moonlight she could see the outline of low mountains in one direction, rolling plains in the other. From the window, Anna turned and looked across the kitchen into the living room, where Bowlinda the cello was propped in a nearby corner. “How about Pizza, tonight?” she asked her silent, stringed friend. She pulled a Fort Collins phone book off the top of the fridge and began to thumb through the yellow pages. Her finger stopped on the first Pizza Hut she came to. Then her heart caught in her throat. Under her finger was a line of print revealing the Pizza Hut‟s address. “This is too much!” she cried, a little spooked. She turned to her cello. “Bowlinda, you are NOT going to believe this! 1509 Omega Place Plaza! Wow. It‟s like a sign. Everything that‟s meant to be makes a circle, you know. If it‟s right, all the loose ends fit together in the end. I feel good now. In place. I‟m where I‟m supposed to be.” Shaking her head still somewhat amazed, she made the call, ordering a medium, deep-pan mushroom-pepperoni and a root beer, delivery. She put down the receiver and again returned to stand at the window, her thoughts turning over again and again how she had come to be here, all the way to Colorado, to this particular university. Who would have thought her Aunt Carol‟s recent death would bring with it a change in the direction of her life? Who would have thought her old-maid aunt‟s executor would appear from out of nowhere and present Anna Dawn at the gravesite with proceeds from an insurance policy that she didn‟t even know existed. $40,000 wasn‟t a fortune, but enough to get her out of the small university where she was piece-mealing together an Associate degree and into a quality university for her Bachelors. No, not a fortune, but enough to give her a chance. Enough to maybe make a few dreams come true. Still, who would have ever thought she, a Texan, born and bred, would end up here, in the Rockies of Colorado? With her inheritance, she could have chosen to go to college anywhere in her home state. But Anna Dawn wanted a fresh start. It was time for something different. For several weeks over the past months, she had explored the websites of many different colleges, being especially interested to find one where botany and music, her two great loves, could matriculate hand in hand with best advantage to both. She selected seven or eight possibilities and submitted requests for more detailed information. The packets soon arrived. Three things about Colorado State University in Fort Collins, Colorado, immediately caught her eye. One was that a top cellist, retired from the New York Symphony Orchestra, was on the music faculty. The second was that the botany and agricultural departments were ranked among the best in the country. But the clincher was the front cover of CSU‟s packet. It showed, simply, a shot of the Hughes Science Building framed by a hedge of blue 31
French lilacs, her aunt‟s favorite flower. Anna Dawn fairly gawked when she saw it. The lilacs were like Aunt Carol‟s personal stamp of approval. The cellist, the botany program and the lilacs, all put together, fairly shouted at her that Colorado State University was where she was supposed to be for the next two years. Anna Dawn Hamlyn was not one easily swayed nor one to make up her mind quickly. She continued to go over all the other possible choices for several weeks, but the initial feeling about CSU did not subside. In fact, it grew stronger. At last, Anna Dawn concluded there must be a reason she felt so good about this choice and gave in. She applied, was accepted and even given a scholarship. The next thing she knew, she was packed and on her way to Colorado. Now, here she was, settled in with a nice apartment, her studies all paid for and a secretarial job to boot. Who could ask for more? Why then, did Anna Dawn harbor mixed feelings as she gazed out the window at the lights of Fort Collins? Excitement was there, surely, mostly for her forthcoming courses of study. Wouldn‟t it be grand to study cello under a master? And she could hardly wait to delve into the classes on botany! Perhaps, then, it was the new job with James Omega that had her on edge. She didn‟t know why, but there was something disquieting about it; something that set off an uneasy, tingly feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I‟ll be the best secretary he ever had,” she promised herself aloud, convincing herself she had nothing to fear. “After one week, James Omega won‟t know what he ever did without me!” Except for the rustling curtains lifted by the wind, nothing replied to her comment. The apartment was quiet as a grave and the pizza was taking forever. Anna Dawn reached for her cello and pulled a kitchen chair to the small wooden deck set outside a pair of sliding glass doors in the living room. The wind at the window now sought her hair and teased it against her face. Anna Dawn paid it no mind. She settled on the chair and set the instrument in its familiar position between her knees. Gently, lovingly, she wrapped her arms around its body and caressed it with the bow. The cello sang back to her with a low alto voice, responding to every nuance of her fingers. She closed her eyes and let it sing. A new home. A new beginning. She was where she should be. The grief and loneliness of losing Aunt Carol and leaving behind all she had ever known would surely pass with time. She would not allow herself to feel alone any more! She would be happy here! Happiness, after all, was a decision. This was the beginning of a new life, and she would make sure it was everything she wanted! Apart from a little, nagging tingle that erupted whenever she thought about her new boss, everything seemed peaceful and right. Anna Dawn bowed and swayed, her fingers dancing. Her music rose and fell with the night wind at the curtains and floated upward to the stars. Ω Dr. James Omega requested only a modest office. He said he did not want to make waves by pushing anyone out of the offices they were used to and he wished to minimize in any way drawing attention to his arrival at CSU. However, he did insist on an efficient, part-time, secretary and at least one window. “I am used to being out of doors,” he said with a shrug to the woman in the administration office who arranged such things. “Walls make me nervous. I once went a very long time cooped up inside a place with no sunlight getting in at all and, ever since, I..., well, I must have a window.”
“That's no problem, Dr. Omega,” she said with the words from President Hewitt, Give him whatever he asks for! still ringing in her ears from a phone call that morning. “We have a very nice office, with a window overlooking the quad, just waiting for your name on the door.” Omega's first day on the Colorado State campus as an official member of the faculty was one of the last few days of spring term. Carrying only a briefcase, he headed hesitantly along one of the walks that dissected the greens. He found himself caught in an onslaught of students scurrying out of the surrounding buildings in a frantic pace to get to the next class. Omega paused, letting the flood pass as his eyes surveyed the unfamiliar domain. A few students looked at him with a hint of recognition, but either they did not believe their eyes or they were too shy to stop and say anything. Let me see. I am ... here, he thought to himself, pointing to a campus map giving directions on a marquee by the sidewalk. I know I am here because it says, 'You are here,' so indeed, I must be. And in this case, “here” is the building in front of which I am standing..., 'the Lowry Student Center', if one may believe what one reads in this brochure. And my destination is ... yes, there it is! One green down -- the Hughes Center for Biological Sciences! Hurray! Well, off you go, then, old fool. Pick up your feet and hurry along! Omega drew in a breath of anticipation and began a brisk pace toward it, thinking how much he loved biology buildings. He loved the laboratories smelling of chemicals, the foyers displaying prehistoric skeletons, the inevitable menagerie of stuffed animal life and, most of all, the lecture halls filled with students. He felt comfortable in biology buildings, and stimulated, and alive. He had been in many and, just like people, each one seemed to have its own personality. This particular building was cream-colored brick, five stories high with white-framed windows. It looked like it meant business. He had been given a brochure with a floor plan of the place. Laboratories and classrooms composed the basement and first four floors, but the fifth floor, looking down on the rest as if symbolic of the god-like authority that went with it, housed the offices of the natural sciences faculty and administrators. He looked up at the edifice with reverence. James, old boy, welcome to your new home. He paused, taking in the moment, squinting into the bright sun, then squared his shoulders to the task and hurried up the front steps with long, eager strides. He reached out to open the double glass doors just when the campus bells commenced a deep-throated chiming. Pausing to listen, he counted twelve long strokes in all. At the last bong, a few stragglers, now late for their noon classes, buzzed past him like hornets, jostling through the doors and disappearing up the split-entrance marble staircase inside. Ah, my young dream-chasers, Omega thought wistfully. Better hurry or your dreams will leave without you! For a moment longer, he looked after them. I wonder, he reflected with a sigh, where is the dreamer I seek? He entered the building and, giving the elevator only a passing glance, climbed the marble stairs at a brisk pace. There were four sets of stairs, each with twenty-four steps (he counted, taking them two at a time on his way up), but it was actually a short climb for him. He arrived at the top of the fifth floor landing with a spring in his step and even breath, a feat many of the students themselves could not have managed. He found himself looking down a hall on his right, which he followed to its very end until he came to a halt before a heavy, dark-stained wooden door. "515...," he read the stenciled numbers on the door aloud. Moving his eyes to a 3 X 5 card taped below the number, he noted a sign, written neatly with black marker: Dr. James Omega 33
Biology "This must be it," he said, and opened the door. The space that greeted him was divided into two offices, the front being the larger of the two. This room's walls were lined with shelves -- all filled with boxes and stacks of books. A row of gray filing cabinets took up one entire wall. Central in the room was the secretary's reception desk, upon which sat a running computer, a meticulously organized stack of papers and, Omega noticed, a small bouquet of fresh lilacs sitting in a glass of water. The secretary, herself, however, was not to be seen. “Judging from her desk, I believe I got a good one,” he mused aloud. “Lady Joy would approve of her on the basis of the lilacs alone.” In the back corner was a second office, separated from the front area by a door, which was open. From what he could see, it was nicer than the outer room and likely meant to be his own. He caught a glimpse of somebody moving about, so he called out, "Hello? Anybody here?" In response, a young woman bustled out and, seeing him, gave a little gasp and took up a hasty position behind the reception desk. "Dr. Omega…, sir! “ she said, struggling to sound business-like and hide her excitement. “I'm Anna Dawn Hamlyn, your secretary." Omega discreetly looked her over and liked what he saw. She was a petite young woman, with long hair the color of burnished copper plaited into a braid behind her slender neck. She cocked her head at him as she awaited his reply, her blue eyes bright behind a pair of square, wire- rimmed eyeglasses. Perky, intelligent, orderly, and a redhead -- what more could I ask for? "How nice to meet you," Omega said, extending a hand. "There is no need to 'sir' me. You will find I am not much on formalities. I gather I am where I am supposed to be?" “You certainly are. Did you have trouble finding it?” “Not too much.” “I'm new here myself. Don't ask me where anywhere else is or I might get you lost!” “You are new at CSU, then... a freshman?” “No, I‟m a junior. I just transferred here with an associate degree from out of state. Well, anyway ... welcome!” Omega received a most enthusiastic handshake from across the desk. "I've been trying to get things ready for you,” she went on. “I wanted everything to be perfect. I was just now dusting your office and cleaning off your shelves. I hope you'll be satisfied with my work, sir ... I mean … what would you like me to call you?” “James?” “That's a bit of a stretch for me.” Anna Dawn said, shaking her head. “After all, you are famous, as well as my boss.” “Dr. Omega will do then, until you feel more comfortable around me.” He grinned. “Trust me. The famous part will wear off right away.” She seemed to relax a little. “Well, Dr. Omega, this....” she turned and gestured to the back room, "this is your office, in here." He followed her inside. "Very nice,” he said. “Quite cozy." Omega entered the small space and looked around. “I'm sorry it's so small. I'm to tell you a larger office is being painted and will be available for you within a week or two. Your name will be stenciled on the door in gold....”
"No, no. This is fine, really. I like it,” Omega said, walking to the back of the desk. He settled into the brown leather swivel chair. “Very compact. And exceptionally neat, thanks to you. You have done a great job in getting it ready for me, Miss Hamlyn.” His secretary cleared her throat. “Actually, I prefer Ms. Hamlyn to Miss Hamlyn. But I'm not much on formalities either. Why don't you just call me Anna Dawn?” She‟s not afraid to clarify what she wants, a useful trait in a secretary, Omega thought approvingly. “Certainly, Anna Dawn. I am sure we will get along just fine.” “Well, then," the young woman said, backing toward the door, "I'll be at my desk if you need anything." He watched her leave, shutting the door behind her. In a few moments, sounds of a vigorous typing commenced. Anna Dawn. Lovely girl. No doubt we will soon be friends. Omega put his briefcase on the floor, leaned back in the chair, hands behind his back, and slowly appraised his new quarters. Spartanly furnished with only a desk, swivel chair, one floor to ceiling bookcase and two guest chairs, the office had little to offer except for the required window. But that was all right. It was a welcome relief from the flashy, over-dressed suite he gratefully left behind in Chicago. All he really wanted, what he hungered for, was privacy; some time and space to concentrate on the great task before him, the purpose that compelled him to come to Colorado State University. Yes, he liked his new office very much. It was perfect. Unconsciously, he began humming a little of the tune, "Be it ever so humble...,” a contented smile spreading on his face. He thought back to the interview with the Selection Committee. His fore-knowledge of the committee‟s decision was based on much experience and insight into the minds of professional educators. In the winding labyrinth of his many paths, he had changed jobs frequently and been interviewed by people much like these. He liked Derk Long and Juliet Marsh, and Annie Groff was a special pleasure. Frank Curnow, however, would be one to keep his eyes on. It wasn't difficult to see shrewdness in the man, nor sense his distrust. Omega learned from experience to tread lightly around such people. Snakes like this had bitten him before. For the past seven years, the world had beaten a path to James Omega's door and the University of Chicago wanted the world to go away impressed. But here, he hoped, it would be different. He had his fill of show and trivialities. Here, in this little Colorado town, in this office, in this simple space, was more than enough room for his needs. Besides, he had his window, which, to his delight, was round, much like a porthole. Omega rose and went to the circular window to look out. It provided a perfect, lens-eye view of the busy ramblings of students below. Better still, above the campus rooftops stretched a big, bright sky, uncluttered with smog and skyscrapers and, in the distance off to the west was a line of low mountains. Yes, it would do. It would do nicely. He wasn't planning to spend much time in his office, anyway. He would be out in nature as always and, when he was on campus, most of his attention would be centered on his students -- one, in particular, although he did not yet know who that one was. The old biologist rose and, leaning his elbows on the windowsill, looked down upon the campus. Students filed along both sides of the sidewalks, moving in opposite directions. Like ants on a scent trail, Omega mused. He touched the window glass with his finger, as if tracing their movements. But it is I who must find and follow the trail now -- I who am the seeker. And I must find him quickly! All my labors depend on it. Ω 35
Omega's shepherd part 1
Chapter 4 From the torrid darkness of Hell into the cool darkness of a clear Earthen night, the spirit creature so recently dispossessed from its seven hundred year prison held desperately to the hand of its powerful Master. They flew beneath a curtain of stars over desert and mountain, through clouds pearly in moonlight and above a black ocean with foamy crests rising and falling below, all in the midst of a heartbeat, all in the space of a thought. In this flight, sense of direction and true passage of time was confused, but the spirit sensed they had covered a vast distance and perhaps, passed into another age. Looking down, it could see strange buildings, higher than could be imagined, seeming to challenge the sky itself. Palatial structures were crowded shoulder to shoulder and lit with thousands of square eyes, while around their feet scurried small hard-shelled beasts, also with lighted eyes and bright red, blinking tails. The beasts were charging madly along a grid of pathways in seeming chaos and the shade could make no sense of it. Their bleating sounds grew louder as the spirit and its Master came nearer the ground. It was dizzying. Fascinating, but too much to take in. The spirit squinted in confusion and tried to hold its free hand over its ear to block out their insistent braying. Gratefully, within a short time, the Great One brought them to rest on solid ground at last. The spirit wavered shakily a moment or two, testing the feel of the hard gray surface beneath its feet, trying to find its bearings. Gawking around, it saw that they were in a dark walkway between two enormous domed buildings, the perfection of which could not be fathomed. Hard as stone cliffs and taller than trees, they must be the home of gods. “San Francisco, California, to answer your question,” the Master answered coolly, releasing his handhold on his servant. “To be more precise, we are between two import warehouses by the docks.” The Lord‟s lips twisted at the corners. “Impressed?” The spirit nodded, though it did not understand a word. Warehouses? Docks? San Fran … something. “Please, Master, why have we come here?” “I have something for you,” the Master spoke. “A great gift. A miracle. Look, over there, against the wall. Tell me what you see.” The Great One pointed to an indistinguishable heap on the ground a short distance away. The spirit gave its master a questioning glance then crept forward, crab-like, squinting into the shadows. On the ground, a male human body lay face-up. Its eyes were open, staring. It did not move. “Too late to help, I fear, Lord,” the spirit said regretfully. “I think this one is dead.” The One True Lord laughed, but without mirth. “You amuse me, Spirit. This is it, my gift, my great miracle. This is your body now. I give it to you.” The spirit stared in disbelief. This limp body of cold but otherwise flawless flesh … was to be his? In eagerness, the spirit cowed over the prize like a vulture over a carcass. 37
Upon examination, the spirit noted the body was, except for being dead, quite splendid. In spite of the strange, restrictive clothing, one could tell the muscular build was lean, the skin of handsome, tanned complexion and the hair, black, thick and glossy. The face itself, though macabre with its staring eyes, was still quite comely with sensual lips and an arrogant jaw. It was obvious this man, whoever he was, had cut an imposing figure in life. “It is truly mine, Lord?” the spirit asked, kneeling down and running trembling fingers the length of the well-formed torso, touching the strange garments, pawing the clay-cold hands. “You are giving this body to me?” “Yes,” the molten voice answered. “The mortal who last inhabited it was one of my servants. He obviously doesn't need it anymore. It is therefore free to be used and use it you will, presently.” The Great One cocked his head, admiring the body approvingly from a distance. “It is beautiful, isn't it? That‟s important, you know. Beauty is an essential element in this world. Always has been. People love it. They defer to it. Fools that they are, they even trust it. Knowing that, I have taken great pains to assure the gift I give you will present every advantage. In your new capacity, you shall have wealth, status and respect, and you shall be beautiful.” “I do not know how to thank my Lord,” the spirit replied with appropriate appreciation. “But what do you wish me…?” “And you shall be powerful,” the True Lord went on, ignoring the question. “There are a few tricks I can teach you on that regard, oh yes. You will be briefed on them when I feel you are ready.” “As you say, Lord. But what…?” “This body is my miracle,” the Great One continued, still disregarding the spirit‟s contribution to the conversation, “my great work. I have remade it for you. Oh, the artistry of it! I have taken sand and created porcelain!” The spirit nodded mutely. “I shall pour you into this body, Spirit, as lead into a mold,” the Master said, slowly circling the lifeless, staring form on the ground. “You shall be reborn, remade in the likeness I have prepared for you. You shall walk again as flesh. You shall breathe. You shall speak. You shall even make love. Is it not marvelous? Is it not the most wonderful thing you have ever seen?” “Certainly, Lord,” the spirit agreed eagerly. “I only wonder…” The True Lord suddenly frowned, looking put off. He stroked his chin. “Unfortunately, my creation is not without certain shortcomings.” “No, no,” the spirit interjected. “It is perfect!” But the Master‟s dissatisfaction settled upon him even more deeply and he shook his head. “Oh, I have assuredly improved the thing since it was vacated. It can now readily repair itself after most injuries, making it next to immortal. But the restoration process required certain … adaptations, shall we say, which have diminished some of its temporal functions. Its senses are a bit ... dulled, I‟m afraid. The essence of taste, touch, pain, pleasure and so forth are there, but without the intensity you may remember from your mortality.” He clicked his tongue. “I'm truly sorry about that. It could not be helped. But no mind. Other than that, the body will function fully well as any other mortal body would. There may even be some residual memories, which could be helpful.” “It is more than I deserve, Lord,” the spirit cried, overcome. “More than I could ever hope for. If you will allow me to venture, I suppose you have some marvelous reason in mind, some mission for giving me this body?”
The Great One turned to face his servant, touching a long-nailed finger to His lips, the corners of which pulled into a facsimile of a pleasant smile. “Why, Spirit. Do you think I offer you this gift selfishly, for my own gratification? I give it to you to bring you joy. It is my wish that all men might have joy, that all might find peace, as all may through faith and obedience to me.” “Of course, Lord. I only meant…” “Hush, and listen! You are in part correct. There is a task for you to perform to merit this great honor.” The spirit bowed low. “Anything, master! My soul is yours to command.” The Master folded his arms and looked down his nose at the subservient gesture. “Of course it is. And in case you should be inclined to forget it, you are about to experience a brief reminder. Lest pride of your newly exalted station dim your memory, let this be a lesson of the power of your Master and a reminder of where your loyalty lies.” The tone of the Great Lord‟s voice sent a foreboding chill down the spirit‟s back. It looked up apprehensively. “I will enter you now,” the Great Lord said, “to touch you with my power and enlighten your mind. Give me permission.” “Permission, Lord? How am I to give permission to you?” The Master‟s dark eyes flashed. “Give me permission, dolt, before I smite you to ash!” The spirit fell to its knees, trembling. “Granted, of course, of course. Anything you ask…” “Thank you.” A searing pain suddenly stabbed into the spirit's mind with an agony of heat and stifling power. It could not be endured! The spirit collapsed, writhing on the ground. Its breath came in painful gasps. Its brain felt as if it were melting, like copper at the forge and into this chaos came a roaring wind through a honeycombed grotto. “What you are experiencing, Servant,” the voice which was the wind said, “is called the Binding. This discomfort you feel now is caused by my spirit occupying the same space as yours, my mind speaking directly to yours, my essence controlling your will. You are very honored, spirit, to be touched so intimately by the Master Himself.” The spirit twisted in agony, holding its head, helpless to resist or think a thought of its own. The voice came again. “You are to have this same power when you are ready, and a mighty weapon it is. Even so, Binding is only one of the things I will teach you.” The force that controlled the spirit was domination beyond its wildest dreams. Even through its pain the words of the master sank in. It, too, was to have this power! Suddenly, a hunger to wield it almost overcame the terror, and the feeling burned in its bowels like a hot ember. How it wanted to be able to do this! Someday, it promised itself, it would. “I feel your desire, Servant, ripe and hot as a sire with a whore. Sweet, is it not? Such thirst for power is good. It motivates us to perform our duty; knowing when all is done, we will obtain our reward. But you must know there are rules concerning these powers and you must learn them well. Foremost in the Binding is this; you cannot go where you are not invited. Obtain permission any way you like, but there must be, however obtained, permission granted. Remember that! It is important!” “I will remember, Lord,” the spirit whimpered. “Please, now, please release me!” The Master ignored the entreaty. “You must not take this lightly! There are certain inscrutable Laws we must all obey. Yes, even I. My kingdom is a realm of order and for a reason. Without law, there is chaos and, with chaos, there is no obedience and, if there is no obedience, there is no power. Therefore, you shall be taught the Laws, which pertain to your powers and will 39
be expected to obey them. Know this, if you bend a Law, you will suffer a corrective punishment. If you break a Law, you will be cut off and destroyed. The man who last wore this body broke a law. Do you understand?” By now the distraught spirit could barely function, but somehow forced itself to respond. “I understand, Lord. Please, please…” “Know this also,” the Master continued increasing rather than slacking his vise over his captive‟s will, “this body is not to be abused. You will take very good care of it.” “Yes, of course, Lord. Please release me.” The Great Lord hid a chuckle of amusement with a cough. “Patience. This skin will fit you better and better the longer you wear it. And after you‟ve become adjusted to it and are ready for more, I will visit you again. I will teach you how to exit and enter this mortal frame at will. It is, after all, merely a physical apparatus with which to work in a physical world. Think of this body as a vehicle, my son, a miraculous vehicle.” The Great One paused, tapping his chin. “Think of it as … a Lamborghini. Yes, that‟s it! Think of it as a Lamborghini.” The spirit quailed, confused. “A what, Lord?” “Never mind,” the Master huffed. “Just remember, this is no small gift you are being given. Take care of it. Appreciate it.” “Of course, Lord, of course.” “Good. Well then, now that that‟s settled, let's put you in the driver‟s seat and take it for a ride, shall we?”  Anna Dawn Hamlyn opened the door on her second day of work at the Hughes Science Center, to find the room filled with the smell of fresh paint. A sound of something metal grating against the floor was coming from Omega's office. “Dr. Omega?” she queried, dropping her purse on the computer desk and stepping questioningly toward the commotion. “Is that you? Is everything all right?” “Anna Dawn, yes it is me, no need for concern,” his voice came out the door, sounding almost apologetic. She poked her head in and couldn't believe what she saw: the renowned Dr. James Omega, perched atop a six-foot ladder, painting the tiny office white! “What ... are ... you ... doing?” she stuttered. “The walls were gray. I like white,” he explained over his shoulder as he stretched to hit a corner, just so. He stopped to rub his nose with his sleeve. “Perhaps you can tell me, Anna Dawn, why is it your nose starts to itch the very moment you cannot scratch it? There must be some scientific explanation.” Anna Dawn put her hands on her hips. “There is; the Universal Law of Prickly Nose Hairs - - basically the same thing that makes you sneeze just when a boy you particularly wanted to impress is puckering up to kiss you good night. You do realize we have work crews to do that. Professors don't paint walls.” Omega cocked an eyebrow. “Then either I am not a professor or these are not walls. Even more likely,” he pointed to his paint-spattered oxford shirt, “I am not painting them, but myself. What is his name?” Anna Dawn looked perplexed. “Who?”
“The boy you sneezed on whom you wanted to impress..., if you do not mind my asking.” “Oh. He doesn't exist. Just an imaginary friend. By that I mean there are currently no men in my life. Don't you remember I told you they are preparing another office for you? I'm sure they'll paint it whatever color you prefer.” Omega shook his head. “I do not need, nor do I want, another office. This will do nicely, especially now that I have some ownership in it. As to the other, I do not believe you for a moment. Surely, an attractive girl like you has a whole string of young men lined up at her door.” Anna Dawn folded her arms and leaned her hip against the door. “This is beginning to sound like an interrogation coming from someone I have only just met.” “Ah,” Omega rubbed his nose on his sleeve again. “I am sorry. I have a tendency to skip preliminaries with people I like and get right to the 'up close and personal' stage. It is a fault I am working on. Forgive me.” She thought about that. “You're forgiven. Now get down ... please. A man your age should not be on a ladder. If you're not happy with the color of this office, I'll just call maintenance and put in a work order.” Omega smiled, but refilling his brush, turned his back on her to begin anew. “If I wait for a work order to come through, I will have to wait for eternity. Look at this. Look what I have accomplished, all by myself. Two walls in thirty minutes.” She looked at him oddly, but admiringly. It was plain he was not about to budge and this was one argument she was not going to win. “Not bad,” she said, conceding defeat, and walked away. She had not yet reached her desk when his voice called after her, “And I would not talk about my age, if I were you.” She froze in her tracks, biting her lip. Had she insulted him? Oh boy. That would not be good. Not on the second day of work. Her face reappeared at his door “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude.” He grinned down at her. “No, you mistake me. You are not rude at all, just concerned about my safety, which I think is sweet. No, I meant, if you do choose to talk about my age, you might be mistaken, and I would hate to have to humble you at this early point in our relationship by pointing out your ineptitude.” She blinked hard, twice. Was that a challenge? Nobody challenged Anna Dawn Hamlyn without a fight on his hands. Although it was risky, although it went against her better judgment, some red-headed-linked gene fired off in her brain and she took the bait. “So you think I can't guess how old you are?” He returned to his work with a shrug. She thought of saying sixty-five, but reconsidered. Better play it safe and flatter him. “Sixty,” she said. “Honestly, now, you can do better than that.” “Sixty-four.” “Do I really look sixty-four?” he asked with a snort. “Come on. Give me your best shot.” She moved her lower jaw back and forth, calculating. Would he get angry if she went too high? Would it get them off to a bad start, leading to something that would keep coming up again and again like the proverbial pebble in the shoe? She had worked for other bosses who would do that sort of thing and find ways to get back. On the other hand, Omega didn't seem the vindictive type. He was most likely playing a sort of game with her. There was a hint of a twinkle in his eye that she had noticed, and it was that twinkle she was going to bank on. Here goes, she thought. Honesty. 41
“Seventy.” “Nope.” “Seventy-five?” “Not the last time I checked.” “Eighty??” Omega dropped his arm, resting the paintbrush on the top of the ladder. “Tell you what. Let us say that years are a relatively unimportant assessment of age. Age should be measured in wisdom gained, not in gray hairs. So, I prefer to think I am just getting started. ” Anna Dawn thought a moment and then cocked her head. “I think I could concede to that.” “Very well,” he said, smiling. “We will consider it settled. Please excuse me, Ms. Hamlyn. I have work to do.” “Certainly,” she said, somewhat unsure what had just transpired between them. She turned to go, then hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. “I, I didn't offend you, did I, Professor?” He stopped and looked at her in a way that made her feel like she had never felt before, in a way that made her feel like he was a father and she, a daughter. It was a look of gentleness and sincerity that evoked a foreign longing inside her. “Anna Dawn,” he said, in a voice soft and kind, “you could never, nor would you ever, hurt my feelings. In the brief time I have known you, you have done just the opposite.” She hadn't expected that. It was sort of like a hug. Not knowing what to say or how to feel, she turned to go. “By the way, there is something for you on your desk,” Omega said resuming his work. “Nothing big. Just a thank you for the nice welcome yesterday, the clean office and all. I appreciated it.” “Thank you.” A myriad of thoughts were clicking through her mind as she left Omega and closed the door to his office behind her. This was one strange, hard-to-read, but very intriguing, person she worked for. Maybe all celebrities seem a little odd to the rest of us, she figured. Within fifteen minutes, he had made her feel curious, protective, piqued, tender and angry ... just like a father would. Or, at least, how she imagined a father would. The thought brought back an old emptiness not felt for a long time, a yearning to know what it would be like to have had parents -- to have argued with them, teased them, hugged them, loved them. She dismissed the feelings as quickly as they appeared. It did no good to dwell on what could never be. She walked briskly back to her desk. What she found when she got there, wrapped in a cone of newspaper, was a sprig of wild, dawn-pink roses. Ω Michael Johns gave one last hard twist on the barbed wire fence with the pinchers, making sure the splice was good and tight. The young rancher gave it a sound tap to test the knot's mettle. The wire squeaked in protest, but accepted the adjustment without slippage. He stood back, pushed up the brim of his western-style straw hat and wiped his brow with a dusty denim sleeve. Wrinkling up his well-tanned face, he appraised the two rejoined wires with a practiced eye. “Looks good,” he
grunted over his shoulder to his horse, “tight as newlyweds on their honeymoon. Not that I'd know. Not that I'll ever know at the rate I'm going.” A cloud of dust down the road caught his attention. A black pickup truck was coming toward him. Pete Grover, he thought. Wants to settle up. He stood, removing stained leather gloves and wiping sweaty hands on his jeans, ready to offer one to the man who got out of the truck and walked toward him. “Michael.” “Pete.” The man met the young rancher‟s outstretched hand with a firm shake. “Doin‟ okay?” he asked. “Getting by,” Michael replied. “Thanks for the nice job on the funeral, Pete. It was just what Dad would have wanted.” “Nothing's too good for my old pal, Robert Johns,” the man said with a nod of the head that passed as a compliment between them. “I'm ready to make good today, Pete. Just sold Becky and her calf.” “I think we should hold off on that for a bit, Michael. I've come to make you an offer on this ranch, if you're willin' to take one.” Michael pulled off his bandana and wiped his brow. The surprised look on his face remained. “If you're going to get all serious on me, Pete, maybe we'd better go sit under the trees and talk.” Pete nodded. They moved to a grove of cottonwoods next to a meandering pasture stream and planted themselves down on a hillock of clover. “I know you want to get back to college,” Grover began. “You put in, what? Three years at Laramie?” “That's right. I only came home because Dad needed me. To be truthful, I‟m aching to get back.” “I know you're smart, Michael. You won that award an' all and your dad was always so proud of you, gettin' straight A's. It just seems to make sense that a young man like you with a dream in his pocket to be goin‟ somewhere else wouldn't want to stay and work a ranch all on his own.” “Guess you got me pegged,” Michael grinned, hesitantly. “What are you offering? The ranch is in good shape and on prime land. It ought to be worth something.” “I'm thinkin', with the mortgage, operatin‟ loan and your dad's medical expenses, you're in a deep pile o' debt.” “You'd be right on that one.” “And dairy ranchin' is a risky business. Most are holdin' their own only 'cause of the worth of the land, not the milk and butter.” Michael pulled up a weed stalk and put it between his teeth. “Right again. Although, this ranch is better off than most. Still, you're right. It's not the easiest way to bring down a buck.” “And you got a second mortgage on the place…. ” Michael slapped his gloves across his open palm, a look of puzzlement on his face. “How'd you know about that? You been snooping? Are you up to something, Pete?” The man wrapped his arms around his knees and looked at the ground. “Okay. So let's just say I'm doin' this because I owe Robert Johns a lot more than money can ever repay, not because I'm dyin' to get in the cow business. Sorry. Morticians shouldn't use that phrase lightly. It's a jinx.” Michael grunted. “You're beating around the bush, Pete. What are you trying to say?” Grover turned and looked Michael in the eye. “Michael, you don't know this, but after I lost Laurie, when I was down and out, bankrupt and on the verge of jumpin' off Palisade dam, your 43
father came to see me. Without bein' asked, he went and took out a second mortgage on this place and gave the money to me.” Michael didn't flinch. “Well, Pete, I suppose that'd have something to do with the fact you risked your own life to pull him out of the collapsed Marine barracks in Lebanon, wouldn't it?” “Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it was just because we were friends. Anyway, now's my chance to get even. That second mortgage is really my debt to pay, not yours. I'm doin' okay now and I'm in a position to put things square. I made this same offer to Robert, but he wouldn't have any of it. Now he's gone and I figure, if Robert Johns' boy is half the man his father was, if he's got something he sets his mind to do, he'll do it and he'll see the wisdom in this deal. I'm givin' you a chance to get back to your schoolin' and not have to look back. I'll give you $900,000 for the ranch. I know that's no fortune by the time you pay off your debts, but it should be enough to pay tuition and livin‟ expenses for a while; maybe, even, get you a Master‟s degree. My boys don‟t want to go into the mortuary business and they‟ve been workin‟ weekends here for so long that they love the ranch almost as much as you. So, they get a permanent change of lifestyle, which they sure as hell wouldn't mind, and you get to start sleepin' in past four in the morning. What do you say?” At first Michael said nothing. He just stared out over the fields toward the farmhouse and thought. He finally stood up, so did the man, and they faced each other. Michael put his hands on his hips. “I‟d say, Pete, old friend, you just bought me a dream and yourself a headache. But, hey, what can I say? Thanks.” They grasped and shook hands, the older man's free hand gripping the young rancher's shoulder. “It's my pleasure, Michael.” “Don't be too fast to say that,” Michael said, out of the side of his mouth. “The land‟s pretty, but what you're really getting out of this is a herd of 300 cows, four teats each. Sure hope you know how to use a milking machine.” Ω
Chapter 5 After only a single week, Omega caused another stir in the calm, ordered waters of his secretary's life. He realized he had overstepped his bounds before and kept a polite, professional distance between them for a few days. But he could not keep it up. She was going to be a part of his life now and there was no sense wasting time treading water. Time passed too swiftly. He was over two hours late this particular Monday morning. She was already at her desk, typing away like a hen pecking at a June bug when he came bursting in through the outer door, walking backwards, lugging behind him a load of heavy boxes on a wheeled cart and holding in his teeth a plastic Home Depot bag containing an electric drill, a rubber mallet, wood glue and a sack of assorted metal fasteners. Anna Dawn's eyes widened in disbelief as she watched him drag the paraphernalia past her toward his office. “Beth not to ask,” he said, passing her with a Cheshire grin, his diction slurred by the plastic bag. He ambled on without another word, shutting his office door behind him. Within a few moments, sounds of drilling and pounding were rattling the walls like an earthquake. He knew she would be curious, but, if he was any judge of character, she was not going to give in, out of principle. He was right. For three hours, he hammered, glued and drilled in total privacy. Finally he emerged from the small, very-white office, victorious. “Wahla!” he announced, beaming with pride as he dusted off his pants. “Want to see?” “Let me guess,” she said, giving nonchalance her best shot. “A built in entertainment center?” “Sadly, I am not much for television. Try again.” She stopped her typing. “How can that be? You're on television! You're Mr. “Save the Animals”, himself, for goodness sake.” He was brushing dust from the top of his head. “Want my autograph?” “Just on my paycheck.” Her typing resumed. “Aw, come on. Guess.” The typing continued. “I thought you wanted this syllabus typed by the end of the week.” “This will only take a second.” “Professor….,” “Ms. Hamlyn, stop what you are doing and come in here! Right now!” She froze, looking at him over the top of her glasses, polite insubordination written all over her face. “You just want me to come in there and gush all over whatever it is you've done, all the while knowing I'm the one who will have to clean it up.” “Certainly not!” Omega beckoned impatiently. “Gush or not, as you wish. Just come see!” “Oh, all right.” Anna Dawn pushed back her chair and followed him into the room. “You know you've probably made a huge mess in there ... with who knows what, all over the place. Bad enough, I cleaned up after your paint job, I'll be hanged if I'm going to....” 45
“Look.” With a sigh, she walked in. “Shelves!” he said, “What do you think?” She peered past him. A set of finished oak-stained shelves, five levels high, stretched the length of one wall behind the desk. Anna Dawn took off her glasses and wiped them on her crisply-ironed shirttail. “Keep this up, Professor,” she muttered from the side of her mouth, “and they'll fire you from your day job and write you up full-time on the maintenance crew.” “That good, huh?” She nodded, approvingly. “Surprisingly good. For someone your age.” “Please, not age again!” He grunted disapproval and plopped down in his leather chair, a little cloud of shredded packaging material powdering the air around him. “I do have purpose behind this madness, you know.” “Uh-huh. What?” A gleam shone in his eye. He rubbed his hands eagerly. “I have some ... things ... that will be arriving any day now. Knickknacks, you might call them, very old and very special. They deserve a place of honor.” “Oh?” “You will see, when they arrive.” “Fine, be secretive. But I'm warning you, Dr. Omega, dusting knickknacks is not in my job description!” She folded her arms, with a mock pout. “No dusting will be expected.” “I want that in writing.” She turned to leave. He rose from his chair. “Wait, Anna Dawn, I have something for you.” She stopped, looking uncomfortable. “You don't have to give me things, Dr. Omega. The roses were great, but I don't think.… ” He interrupted, "Anna Dawn, someone told me you were a botany major when you are not busy being my secretary." "That's right,” she answered, warily. “I‟ve scheduled all morning classes during fall term and will work here afternoons." "Well, then, from one scientist to another, have a look at these.” He pulled on his desk drawer, withdrew a rolled up newspaper and spread it open on his desk. It was filled with tiny, blue wildflowers. Her mouth opened slightly, like a fish not quite sure if it should take the worm or worry about a hook. He smiled at her happily, sure she must like them; sure he had chosen well. “You see, Anna Dawn,” he explained, simply, “I like to go for walks on the weekends and I found these by the roadside yesterday evening. When I saw them, I wondered if my little botanist, Ms. Hamlyn, could identify them for me? What do you think?” She leaned in for a closer look. “Pretty.… ” He offered them to her. “Here. Take them. Smell. They are quite fragrant." She put them to her nose and inhaled. "Yes, very sweet, like honey." "Well?" Omega looked at her intently, waiting for an answer. “Well ... what?” “What are they? You are a botanist?”
She examined the flowers more closely over the top of her glasses. "I don't think I'm familiar with this particular plant," she admitted, avoiding his penetrating gaze. “I need my field guide.” His gaze softened. "Not to worry, Anna Dawn. The world is full of questions wanting answers, is it not?" She pursed her lips. “You're putting me on the spot, on purpose. Why?” “Being put on the spot is good for us, sometimes,” Omega smiled kindly. "We all need challenges, hills to climb. A good student is not necessarily the one who has all the answers, but the one with the questions." She relaxed a little, recovering her nerve. “Are you lecturing me, Dr. Omega? Should I be taking notes?” He liked that and laughed. "No, no. I just thought it could be a little ... thing ... between us. I find the flowers, you identify them. Could be fun.” She nodded, “Yes. It could be.” “So, perhaps you could just tell me what they are later, when you have time to find out." "Be glad to," she said, handing them back to him. “It's very nice of you, to think of me.” "Oh, please keep them. I picked them for you." She looked at him, not quite sure of the whole deal. His eyes twinkled. “I am not flirting with you, Ms. Hamlyn, if that is what is bothering you. I am a happily married man. Believe me, I am merely being nice and trying to get to know you a little better.” She smiled, with a tilt of her head. “In that case, I'll have to be careful around you. I'm not one to give myself away, not without a fight.” “I never for one moment thought you would be,” he answered. Anna Dawn was thoughtful a moment. “I haven‟t met your wife,” she ventured cautiously. “You don't talk about her.” Omega's eyes lit up. “Johanna? Oh, she is wonderful. A brilliant woman. I consider her a great scientist in her own right. Insightful, resourceful, brave and very dear.” “I'd like to meet her sometime.” “I hope you may. But it may be a while. She is in Africa right now.” “Africa?!” “Yes. Working on one of our projects.” He sighed. “I do not see her very often these days. We are both so busy. I miss her.” For a moment, he stared off into space, then cleared his throat, bringing himself back. “You seem a bit lonely yourself, Anna Dawn. Am I wrong?” Anna Dawn hesitated. “I live alone, if that's what you mean.” “Partly. I guess what I am asking is, where are your family? Who are the important people in your life?” She reddened. “My, how we do pry, Professor!” “Forgive me. I am only saying, you can talk to me if there is no one else to listen. I understand what it is to be lonely, Anna Dawn.” She bit her lower lip and said softly, “I‟ve been orphaned since I was three. Car accident. Killed my parents and my baby brother. I was raised by my Aunt Carol, my father's sister. She just passed away last winter. She was all the family I had. So, you see,” she forced a smile, “after all these years, I'm an orphan again.” For a moment, she waited, as if deciding whether to say more, then, he could tell from her face, she smelled the hook. That would be all the fishing he would get done today. “I'll look for 47
something to put these in,” she said, gathering up the newspaper and blue flowers and starting for the door. Omega was wise enough to know now was not the time to press her more, so he simply called to her as she walked out, "By the way, Ms. Hamlyn, I notice your eyes are the same color as the flowers.” He held up both hands in a gesture of self defense. “Not flirting, not flirting -- just an interesting coincidence. Have a nice morning." Anna Dawn returned to her desk. For a long moment, she examined the wildflowers, her fingers strangely trembling. How was she supposed to react to things like this? If he made her so uncomfortable, why the devil did she like him so much? Maybe she was being silly, reading things into their banter that was all perfectly innocent. What was there to fear, really? That somebody was being nice, was actually attempting to care about her? She had been alone so long, independent and self-directed…; no one else to have to plan for, or worry about. This whole idea of permitting a personal relationship to develop between them - - a “thing” he had called it -- rubbed like a new pair of jeans. But, then, she had never known a father, so how could she know what to expect from a man? Worse, she had never known a mother, so how could she know how a woman effectively interacts with a man, whatever his role? And beyond that, it had to be admitted, her new boss was an entirely different animal altogether from anyone she had ever met, from either sex. How one was to appropriately respond to him was anybody's guess. An instruction manual had not been written on the likes of Dr. James Omega. To be truthful, she didn't think he meant anything unseemly by his attentions. But she couldn't get over the feeling he was after something. Did he sense her aloneness and was just trying to be a friend? Hard to say. Reflectively, she stared at the cheerful bouquet in her hands. Found them by the roadside, did he? she thought. The wild roses from the previous week probably came from his walks, too. James Omega seems to have a knack for finding things others pass by, whether it's flowers or ... me. The question is, do I like being found? As she fingered the tiny blossoms, she felt a small shiver of delighted discovery -- each delicate blue flower had a perfect, white star in the center. Boxes began arriving that afternoon. Anna Dawn was sitting at her desk, looking over the fall class schedule when the UPS courier came through the door with two packages, one roughly the size of a microwave oven and the second the size of a shoebox. “M'am,” he said, “some parcels for a Dr. J. Omega?” “Yes,” she said. “You may leave them here. He's out of the office, but I'll sign for him.” “Fine. Where do you want them put?” “Over there, by his door.” She pointed to his office. “What are they?” The courier shrugged. “I don't look inside 'em, M'am, I just deliver 'em. But most of 'em say 'Handle with Care.' Were you expecting something fragile?” Anna Dawn shrugged. “I don't know. He just said he had some, uh, things that were coming. I'm guessing these are what he meant.” “Okay, then. The delivery is insured. If there's any damage, he can fill out a form for reimbursement. I'll be back” As soon as he left, Anna Dawn allowed herself to walk over and peek at the labels. Neither box had anything to give away what was inside. She bit her lower lip. No, Anna Dawn. Whatever
it is and, with Dr. Omega, it could be anything, you are not going to let your curiosity get the better of you. We do not open our boss' mail. Who knows what he has in there ... lurking. He did say they were old and very special. Stop it! You're not going to think about it. You'll find out soon enough. Get back to work.” She stalked back to her desk, picked up the schedule, and began flipping through pages. A grunt caught her attention. She looked up. The courier had returned with three boxes, this time on a hand truck, one carton just a bit smaller than the other two. He left them beside the first two and exited. The sixth box was the largest so far; more the size a large desktop computer set with speakers and monitor might fit into. For the courier, it was a single trip in and of itself. After several more appearances, the courier leaned wearily against the counter by Dawn's desk, wiped his brow and blew air out his cheeks in relief. “That's the lot, M'am.” “Thank you,” she said. “Can I get you a drink of water or something?” “No ma'm, just your signature.” He offered her the clipboard. “There you go,” she said with a sympathetic smile. When Omega returned, there were seventeen boxes of varying dimensions awaiting him outside his office door. Anna Dawn looked up as he came in. “Merry Christmas.” Omega's eyes lit up. “Oh good! Wonderful! They are here! Would you help me unpack them, Ms. Hamlyn?” She didn't show it, but if he hadn't invited her, if she had to wait another five minutes to see what the boxes contained, she would have popped. She had no idea what to expect, but she was sure it would be something amazing and she was right. Omega opened the first box, reached deep into the Styrofoam peanuts that filled it, and withdrew ... a bird carved of wood. Its plumage was painted powder pink and lavender with a white breast and it was seated on a branch, head back and beak open, in a pose of singing as if it were beckoning with all its heart for the sun to rise. Omega stared at it fondly a moment, then turned to Anna Dawn. “Spring's Herald,” he said. “Lovely, is she not?” “Yes,” Anna Dawn agreed. “I don't think I've ever seen anything like it. What did you call it?” “Spring's Herald.” “That's an unusual name.” “I enjoy giving animals my own little nicknames. It is more fun than Latin.” He placed the bird on the center row of his newly-made shelves. “Spring's Herald is, or was, a real bird -- a member of the lark family. You have not seen anything like her because she and her kind have not been on the planet for a very, very long time. She is extinct now, and a sad thing it is. Her song was..., that is..., was reputed to be ... quite beautiful.” The next box held a real stuffed squirrel in an air-tight glass case, or at least, Anna Dawn guessed that it was a squirrel. Then, again, truthfully, it didn't look quite right. “What is this?” she queried. “It looks something like a squirrel, but it‟s yellow.” Omega took it from her and gave it a place of honor beside the lark. “Good guess. It is a member of the lemur family, actually, a pomatuu ... a golden pomatuu at that; 'Toe-sleeper,' I like to call him. From South America.” “Is it extinct, too?” Omega nodded. “Every box you see here contains a creature that is no more.” Anna Dawn looked astounded. “How did you get all these?” 49
“It is a collection I have been making for many, many years. These animals are very precious. Many of them are the only proof that they ever existed. Not only are they all extinct, but a few of them are also extremely old. Anna Dawn shook her head in disbelief, “So how old can they be? I mean, dead animals turn to dust in a few years, unless they are mummified, and mummies could never look this good.” Omega's eyes twinkled. “Let us just say, I know some people who are very good at what they do. The point is, Anna Dawn, you are looking at a very valuable collection. It is the only one of its kind in the world. Now, will you help me get the rest of these out of their prisons and up on the shelf? I tend to think of them as my pets, you see, and I do not like them to be cooped up any longer than necessary.” She bit her lip and pushed up her glasses on her nose. Right. Your pets. Oh, boy. For the next hour, it was like some bizarre birthday party, opening presents. The specimens ranged from reptiles to fish to insects with a bit of everything in between, the majority being mammals and birds. When they were done at last, Omega stood back, admiring the display. “Now it feels like my office,” he said. “Dr. Omega?” Anna Dawn asked. “Is there ever going to come a day when you cease to surprise me? I'm asking, because if there is, just let me know and I'll call in sick and stay home. What I'm trying to say is, I'm getting addicted.” Omega looked puzzled. “To what?” “To you,” she said, and walked out, leaving it at that. Ω The man awoke with a dull headache and the sprinkle of a cold rain hitting against his face and skin like small bullets. He brought himself to his elbows, shook his head and looked dazedly around. He was in an alley, lying on a crumpled pile of newspaper. The filth of decaying garbage assaulted his nostrils. His clothes were soaked through; his white shirt, stained with his own blood, was made transparent by the rain growing heavier by the minute. Get up! Stand up before you drown, he thought in a language that seemed both familiar and foreign. Somehow, he understood the meaning, but it was as if he was creating words as he used them, as if when they formed in his mind, he was using them for the first time. He staggered to his feet, shivering. Weakly, he leaned against a brick wall to regain his bearings. Looking upward into the weeping sky, he blinked into the rain and covered his face with his arm. “Where am I?” he muttered aloud. “How did I get here?” Even as he spoke, he knew. Hazy memories, fog-like images, crept around the corners of his mind. Garrin Cross. That was his name. He had been attacked from behind. The last thing he remembered was a plastic bag being thrown over his head. “Who? Why?” he asked, frowning, fighting to sort it out. One answer seemed to make sense, and a name. Chang. One of Chang's hired thugs. It had to be. Angrily, he fought to force the scattered remnants of memory to take form, to stick.
I was to meet him here, he remembered. We were supposed to seal the deal. When I drove up, he was over here by the alley. I walked toward him ... then ... someone came from behind and before I could react, or even draw my gun, somebody hit me and then ... the bag … and … I died. I … died?! A shouted curse from Cross's lips dashed against the surrounding brick walls and was blown to shreds by the wind. He shook his fist at nothing but a face in his mind. “Chang! Traitor! How could you do this to me! You'll pay for it, you Chinese son of a whore!” He stopped in mid-sentence. But ... I'm alive, he puzzled. He slowly took a deep breath and blew it out quickly. No problem breathing now. He held his hands in front of his face, wriggling his fingers as his curse was slowly replaced by laughter. “Look at me! I'm alive. I'm alive!” For a moment, all was confusion as two memories fought each other, neither making sense. The man held his head and closed his eyes, straining to knit the two ends of a broken rope together. I am Garrin Cross. But I am not Garrin Cross. I am Qeoc-neh-qiti, high priest of the Brothers of the Moon, given this body, given a new life as Garrin Cross. Yes. It was starting to come together, the elements of his existence swirling, coalescing into a sphere he could grasp. I am here to serve the One True Lord. He has given me rebirth. I am here to become this man, this Garrin Cross, to assume his identity, to enter his world. There is a mission for me, but I must wait until I am told.... I must master this body, this double language in my brain, and learn to live with power in this new life, before I can serve Him. Only then will he come to me. Only then will I serve the purpose of my re-creation. Garrin Cross lifted his head and looked around. At the end of the alley he saw a portion of a derelict building with a loading dock and, parked near it, a sleek, black automobile. “That‟s my car,” he said aloud, the memory of the machine forming in his mind. “It‟s called a, a Porsche. That‟s right. That‟s my Porsche.” He staggered toward it, half-running, at the same time reaching into his pocket for the metal and plastic thing, called a key, that he knew would make it work. Following instinct that guided him even as he made the movement, he pressed a button on the key's monitor pad and the door latch clicked. With an instinctual movement, as if he had done it a thousand times before, he slipped behind the wheel. For a moment he sat in the machine, wondering what to do next. Coaxing the memories of its function to manifest, he found he knew to put the key into the ignition and, thus, started the motor. A second curse expressed his amazement. “Good. Very good. It's working. Now, I am supposed to make this thing move.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I damned-sure hope I know how.” He did. His left hand automatically switched on the headlights and wipers, his right hand took the wheel and his foot pressed the gas. The car surged forward into the storm. He drove, following the images and recollections that entered his brain, sloshing at first through dimly-lit, deserted back streets, then moving on through neighborhoods of tightly-woven, busier streets and finally joining a frantic, coursing torrent of automobiles, trucks and buses that was the interstate. He careened a bit unsteadily from lane to lane until he caught the hang of it. A few cars swerved and honked, spraying water on his windshield in their wake, but he finally settled into the lane that felt right and stayed there. I‟m remembering. It‟s coming back. That ramp, up ahead is Highway 101, he instructed himself, reading a long, green sign as he drove under it. I take this and my exit should be coming up in twenty minutes after that. 51
Sure enough, at the prescribed time he saw the exit he was looking for and turned onto the ramp; leaving the nightmare of the freeway with a soft mutter of gratitude under his breath. Another half hour of driving, remembering turns as he came to them, landmarks as he saw them, found him in an up-scale residential area. He squinted and scowled through mists of rain to make out the road signs. Coastal Pine Drive. My house is this way..., he confirmed, turning off the main street onto a two-lane, winding road that slowly climbed its way up the thickly-wooded, eastern slope of the San Rafael mountains. Peering through mist and a foggy windshield at the dark, blurry outlines of houses and trees, he finally recognizing a gated driveway, leading to a Spanish-style mansion set well back off the road, its lawns mostly obscured by a dense fortress of scrub oak and pine. He pulled to a stop in front of the gate, pushed a button on a remote control he recalled being located in the dashboard -- it was right where his memory told him it was -- and the gate swung open. He drove forward, up the brick-paved drive, and stopped in front of the expansive, red-tiled and stucco hideaway villa. As he approached, two black dogs, lulling under a covered porch, sprang to attention, ears forward, noses pointed toward the car and its occupant. Cross got out of the car and whistled. Both dogs came running, jumping and whimpering, deliriously vying for their master's attention. Cross rubbed their ears and scratched their chins. “Miss me, boys?” he asked. The dogs responded in the affirmative with wagging tails and happy barks. With the same remote control that opened the gates, Cross keyed in a digital code that opened the front door and stepped into the warmth of a spacious entry hall. He looked in amazement at the luxuriant furnishings, massive fireplace, carefully-detailed architecture and gilt- framed artwork that decorated the place. It was an odd sensation, seeing each thing, each possession for the first time, yet knowing it intimately at first sight. Straight ahead rose a fabulous, carved railing and an ascending, Mexican-tiled staircase. He hurried up it to the bedroom and shower he knew were waiting on the second floor. There, he threw open the bedroom doors, stripped off his sopping tie and shirt, and headed straight to the bathroom to turn on a steaming stream of hot water in the shower. No sooner had he done so than he heard a movement and soft cry behind him. “Garrin?” He turned to see a slender, stunningly-beautiful, dark-haired woman dressed in translucent white lingerie hurrying toward him, her arms outstretched. She came to him and kissed him hard, pulling him close to her as her arms passionately embraced him. “Oh Garrin,” she breathed, pressing her head against his chest. “I've been so worried.” A name came to him. Alicia. Alicia Elizando. The woman continued with trembling voice, “When you took off like that this morning ... I was afraid you weren't coming back. Where did you go? And what..., look at you!” She drew back, noticing for the first time his hair, skin and remaining clothes were soaking wet. “What on earth? Your head! It's bleeding!” She pulled him to the sink, held a hand cloth under cold water and dabbed at the gash on the side of his head with a shaking hand. “Garrin, what in the world happened?” “I'm all right, Alicia,” he answered, taking the cloth from her hand. “Don't fuss over me. I need a shower, badly. Then we can talk.” She backed away. “Certainly. Of course. I..., I'll wait for you on the patio. I'm just ... so glad you're home.” He could sense she was offended and hurt. “I didn't mean to be curt, kitten. I'm just ... well, it's been a rotten day.” He brushed her cheek with his hand. “Get me a brandy, will you?”
She turned to go, wiping her cheek. He grabbed her wrist. “Alicia, you're crying.” It gave him an odd pleasure to see it. “I was worried,” she explained, flushing. “But you're home now. Everything's all right.” “Yes.” “I'll get the brandy. Don't keep me waiting too long.” He smiled at her, a dark ember lighting within that he had not felt for a very long time. “No, pet. Not long.” He watched her leave the room, her negligee gossamer about her body as she moved, her long hair shining like an ebony mane down her back. “Beautiful woman,” he whispered as a tapestry of memories of her flooded into his brain. “And I own her, body and soul.” Garrin Cross ducked gingerly into the shower and began to scrub everywhere, eagerly washing away the grime and filthy smell of garbage and blood. He had just lathered his hair and was letting the hot water rinse the suds down his back when he heard the bathroom door open a crack and a man's voice call out through the steam. “I can't believe you went by yourself this morning, boss. That was very, very foolish. How did it go?” Cross turned off the water. “Hand me a towel and I'll tell you.” The man obliged and stood waiting outside as Cross toweled off. A few moments later, Cross emerged, wearing a white terry cloth robe, slicking back his dark hair with a silver comb. His eyes, in one quick sweep, took in the tall, blond Swede standing by the door with every bulging muscle in his great arms taught, his jaw set like iron. He remembered this man as soon as he laid eyes on him. Erik Holtz, his bodyguard. “He tried to kill me, Erik.” “Chang?” Cross nodded and turned sideways to a gilded mirror above an ornate, ash wood dressing table. He pushed back his hair, revealing a bruised gash. “Pretty, isn't it?” “You shouldn't have gone without me,” the Swede said, his accent thick with disapproval. “I thought everything was set,” Cross explained, the recollection of events re-forming faster on command now, playing one by one in his mind. “I thought everything would be okay. Chang called at six a.m., gave me an address, and said, 'Come alone or the deal's off. I'll expect you within the hour.' I hesitated at first, but then I figured too much was at stake for him to do anything to mess it up. When I got there, nobody was around. Then I looked and saw him waiting by some buildings, so I got out and walked over there....” “Hell's hounds, Cross. Don't you recognize a set up when you see one?” the Swede growled. “I'm not a total idiot, Erik. I wasn't unarmed. I thought I could handle it. As I got closer, I could see it was he. He smiled and held out his hand to shake and I reached out to take it. Right then, as he held on to my hand, one of his cutthroats came up from behind and hit me over the head. I vaguely remember these big octopus hands throwing a plastic bag over my face and I struggled to breathe. They held me down on the ground until everything went black” The Swede looked shocked. Frowning, he bent forward to look into Cross‟ face. “You say they covered your head with a plastic bag?” “That's right.” “Then how are you still alive?” 53
Cross's rubbed his face with his palm and grinned. “That's a good question, my friend. I‟m thinking he removed the bag to look at my dead face, but removed it too soon. The bag was not on my head when I woke up” The Swede shook his head. Cross could tell he didn't quite buy it. “And then what happened?” “I woke up in an alley, soaking wet, with a headache and a bloody skull, but otherwise, none the worse for wear.” “Well, you're one lucky son of the devil,” Erik grunted. “I can't believe professionals like Chang‟s henchmen would be so sloppy. If it'd been me, you'd be dead.” “Comforting,” Cross replied, hardly amused. “I believe I can trust you to make things right?” The Swede looked pleased. “I was hoping you'd ask. Don't worry, I'll find out who did it. The incompetent creep's as good as dead.” “Chang, too.” At this, the Swede fell silent. “I know it won't be easy. He wears bodyguards like a sultan wears jewels.” The big Swede's gray eyes flashed. “That's why you were smart to hire me, Cross. You know I can do whatever you need done. Chang's history.” The Swede turned to leave. Cross held out his hand, signaling him to stop. “I just want you to know, Erik, I appreciate your skill,” he said, his dark eyes narrowing, looking straight into the other man's, “and your loyalty. I know the risk you'll be taking. I also expect Chang will try to make you a better offer.” “Don't worry,” the Swede said, allowing no emotion to enter his voice. “I don't believe in making things complicated. I only work for one man at a time.” “Good. That's what I wanted to hear. You can trust me to make it worth your while. Tonight?” The Swede shook his head. “This kind of thing takes a bit of time to do right. I need to find out his daily routine, where he‟ll be when and with whom. With his security, it may take a while. But don‟t worry….” Holtz reacted to Cross‟ disapproving frown, “I‟ll get the job done and done right. I'm assuming you want more than just a hit, you want a message sent, to anyone else who may be contemplating messing with you in the future. Am I on target?” “You read me like a book.” “Best stay home until it's over. No sense taking chances. If he were to discover you‟re still alive, he could try again. For added protection, we should increase security around the property; put in a gatehouse and guard.” “Fine,” Cross said with a shrug. “Whatever you think best.” The bodyguard turned to go. Cross again put out a hand to stop him, his handsome features contorted with an ugly snarl. “Oh, and Erik ... make him suffer.” The Swede paused, his thin lips showing only the slightest trace of a smile. “You can count on it,” he said, and left the room without looking back. Cross took time to locate a box of Cuban cigars and lit one before he strolled outside to the patio. Overhead, a thin quarter moon fought against currents of choking clouds, still threatening rain. A chilly breeze, sweet with the smell of Pacific salt, teased the heavy wine-red draperies at the open glass doorway. He breathed it in deeply, savoring the scent and power of darkness. Silhouetted against the pale sky was the figure of a slender woman, her back turned toward him, her raven hair blowing in the wind. He advanced to where she stood rubbing her arms and shivering and watched her from behind.
“You're cold, pet,” he purred in her ear. “Come inside and let me warm you.” She startled, then turned to face him, her eyes wet with tears. “Oh Garrin, I was thinking ... if ever I should lose you..., ” she started to cry. He held her against him, stroking her hair. “Now, now, kitten, I will never leave you, and I will never, ever let you go. You can be certain of that.” She looked into his face, blinking and smiling, and he wiped her tears with his fingertip. “Let's go inside,” he coaxed. “I feel like it's been an eternity since I felt the way I'm feeling now, here in your arms. Let's go inside and see what happens.” “Yes,” she whispered, pulling him by the hand, “let's.” Ω 55
Chapter 6 The Johns' old blue Ford truck kicked up a cloud of dust behind it as it rattled down the road leading from the farmhouse toward the highway. As soon as he hit pavement, Michael rolled both windows down and fiddled with the radio dial until he found a country station that he liked. Music with a solid beat and homey lyrics, the warmth of early summer‟s sunshine on his bare arm, the wind in his hair, all helped take his thoughts away from missing his father, selling a ranch that was the only home he had ever known, and the uncertainty of the future he now faced. Around him, Star Valley, Wyoming spread out like a well-worn quilt, a patchwork of green and yellow pasture squares knotted on each corner with a white sideboard farmhouse here and a ramshackle barn there, the whole effect stitched together with barbed wire and fence posts. Star Valley was, in fact, two valleys joined in the shape of a peanut. The valleys, known as the upper and lower valleys, were in the minds of the locals the most beautiful place on earth. Few outsiders, once having seen their unspoiled grandeur, would dispute them. The dirt road Michael was driving on from his ranch soon joined Highway 89, which ran straight through both valleys, due north to south. He passed Star Valley‟s famous cheese factory on the outskirts of a little horse rail of a town called Thayne, then drove on through the Narrows, where the Salt River flowed lazily between green banks of willow and cattail. Here, where the valley was cinched in like the waist on a bridal gown, a deer suddenly darted across the highway, narrowly escaping Michael‟s truck. He slammed on his brakes and swore. Glad for the deer as well as himself, Michael muttered a short prayer of thanks and sped on his way. The narrows opened and the upper valley opened before him in all its bucolic postcard perfection. The morning sun's glare on his dusty windshield forced Michael to squint as he viewed the approaching town of Afton, some ten miles distant, tucked against the western skirt of the Salt River Range. The whole familiar sweep of it was easily taken in by one glance of his eyes. This time he almost resented the beauty of it. For all but three years of his life, he had wakened, worked and slept within the bosom of this valley, a place he must now leave for good. The parting would be bittersweet at best, the result of a wedge driven between himself and the people here when he was eighteen years old. The loss of his father and the ranch were merely a final blow. There was nothing to keep him here now. In his mind, he told himself, he was likely looking at these fields, these farms and Star Hill, which bore the valley‟s high school symbol, a star formed of white, painted boulders, for the last time. He passed the tiny hamlet of Grover and drove by more farms until he reached the outskirts of town. To a worldly traveler, there probably wasn‟t a lot to commend Afton, Wyoming. But to Michael, this place was one fond memory after another. Except for one. And that memory, of his darkest hour, he quickly pushed from his mind. Today, Michael Johns would think only of the future. The town began now in proper. Michael drove past a string of small businesses, the dentist, the insurance agent, a Pizza Hut, then on past the town‟s only two gas stations, a car dealership, and
then the Frosty River—a drive-in where he and his friends had demolished many a greasy cheeseburger and thick chocolate malt after a Braves‟ football game. Streets lined with a hodge- podge style of houses, built anywhere from the 1930‟s to present, side by side. Even so, pride of ownership was evident. The yards were kept well. Backyard gardens of vegetables and raspberry bushes spoke of a self-reliant people who loved their little spot on earth. The homes may be humble, but dear. Michael felt an ache in his gut. A part of him longed to stay in this place, so familiar that had he been struck blind, he could still have navigated every street. But a restlessness stirred inside he could not ignore. It whispered in his ear like an insistent fly. There‟s more than this for you, Michael Johns. Time to go. Time to go. He drove down the eight-block length of Main Street, grinning as he passed under one of the town‟s more charming features, a worn, elk-horn arch erected right across the highway. It was said some veterans returning from the Korean War had nothing to do when they got back to the Valley and thought an elk-horn arch would be just the thing to attract tourists. It had stood there ever since, looking down on all the rodeo and homecoming parades, observing the changes in automobiles that passed beneath it, mutely taking note of all the comings and going of the town folk at their shopping. Michael grinned. If that old arch could write a book, what tales it could tell. Moving on, Michael cast nostalgic sidelong glances at more small buildings standing shoulder to shoulder, businesses that had been passed down from parent to child for generations -- a furniture store, a pharmacy, grocery store, a jewelers and, last of all, the newspaper office. He had been in every one of them, knew every item stacked on every shelf. And everyone behind every counter knew his name and he theirs. Leave it behind, the fly buzzed in his ear. Time to go. At the end of the block he turned left, drove two streets east past the town park, up to a tidy, yellow, gabled house, which had been converted into the Lincoln County Library. Here he parked the truck, hopped out, and started up the walk. Turning his head, he noticed an elderly couple sitting in rockers on the porch of the house next door. “Hello there, Robert John's boy,” a silver-haired man called out cheerily, but the man's wife leaned over and pulled his sleeve. “Hush you!” she whispered. “Don't you talk to him, Samuel! That's the boy what stirred up all that trouble.” Michael clearly heard her words, but pretended he didn't. “Shistt, woman!” the man hissed back. “That boy's pa is Robert Johns, one of the earth's cream, I tell you. If his boy's a little headstrong, well then, I expect we all got a fault or two.” The old man waved and called out again, beckoning for Michael to come nearer. “Hey, son! How's your pa doing these days?” Michael stopped on the sidewalk, but didn't go over. No use wearing out a welcome when there wasn't any to begin with. “Buried him three weeks ago, sir.” “Oh, I'm right sorry to hear it. He was a fine man, your pa.” “That he was.” “Cancer's a hard way to go.” “Yes sir, it is.” “Well, good luck to you, young man..., what's your name?” “Michael.” “Good luck to you, Michael.” “Thank you.” “Samu-el!” his wife hissed again. “Leave him be!” 57
Michael walked over to a yellow climbing rose trailing over a trellis above the library porch. He plucked off a blossom, walked over and presented it to the old woman. “My compliments, M'am,” he smiled. “Hope you have a good day.” Then he turned and walked into the library, without a backward glance. “Well, I never!” the woman snorted the moment he was gone. “Did you see the brazenness of that young puppy? Vandalizing Liona's roses right in broad daylight!” The old man reached over, took her hand with the flower in it, and pulled it toward his nose for a deep, long sniff. “Darn nice of him, wasn't it?” The woman glared at him. “Nice?” “Yes, nice. That boy's all right now, ain't he?” The old woman sat back with a huff, rocking hard. “Not necessarily. They say you can't always see insanity plain out, Samuel.” “He ain't insane, Amelia,” the man retorted. “You been list'nin' to too many rumors.” She snorted, smoothing the crocheted afghan over her knees. “All's I know is that nobody in his right mind would do what he did and that's a fact. An‟ you mark my words, that young man is goin‟ ta destroy everythin‟ good that happens around him.” The man hit his knees with his hands. “Oh, for heaven's sake! All that's been near four years ago, Amelia! He was just a high school boy. So he made a mistake. He thought he was in the right. Why can't you forgive and forget?” “I can forgive, cause I'm a good, Christian woman,” the old woman answered tartly, rocking her chair until it squeaked in protest. “But there's some folks that'll never forget.” The old man shook his head. “Where there's no forgettin', there's no forgivin',” he said. The woman's jaw dropped. “Well, I never!” she choked, gathered herself and her blanket up and stormed into the house. For a long time, the old man sat and rocked by himself. “She's right though,” he said softly to himself. “Some folks'll never forget.” The elderly librarian was sitting at her desk, reading, her back to Michael as he entered. She was dressed in a navy blue, cotton-print dress with a doily collar. This would be the way he would always remember her, Michael thought -- twinkly, gingersnap eyes and a doily collar. As she did not look up when he came in, Michael tiptoed up behind her and put his hands over her eyes. “Gracious!” she gasped, dropping her book to the floor. Michael leaned down and whispered menacingly in her ear, “This is a stick up, ma‟am! Hand over your rubber stamps and paper clips or I'll be forced to use my voice in a loud and unruly manner.” The woman laughed then and reached up to grasp his strong young hands with her frail, bent, arthritic fingers. “Michael Johns, you scoundrel! You about gave me a heart attack.” “Ah, Mrs. Crandall, how'd you know it was me?” Michael asked innocently as he removed his hands, picked up the book for her, and sat himself down atop her desk. Bright eyes, framed with sagging eyelids and crow's-feet wrinkles, frowned up at him with mock disapproval through a pair of square, rimless glasses. “Who else would it be but my favorite student? I see your behavior has not improved since you graduated.” Her voice was stern, but her whole face suddenly broke into a warm smile. “I am awfully glad to see you, Michael!”
Michael looked deeply into those sweet, wrinkled eyes he knew and trusted so well. He wondered at the strong prompting he felt that morning to come talk to her. Perhaps it was that Mrs. Crandall had been his champion and sounding board ever since he had her for Sophomore English and Literature at Star Valley High. No matter what the subject of conversation, whether it was grades or fishing or Shakespeare or baseball, she always loved to visit with him during lunch or after school. After he graduated and left for Laramie to attend the University of Wyoming, she wrote him letters and often phoned him on holidays. In many ways, Michael looked upon Mrs. Crandall as a surrogate mother. So it made sense that he would want to see her after all that happened the past three weeks. But the prompting he felt this morning to see her was something more. It wasn‟t a casual thing, but a pressing need. From the moment he opened his eyes, her face popped into his head and along with it, a desire to talk with her. The feeling nagged at him through breakfast and followed him around through chores like a toothache, until at last, he felt he was almost yanked out of the farmhouse by his earlobe and dragged by the seat of his britches out to the truck. He didn‟t even know what he was supposed to talk to her about, but talk to her he must. So it was, on this fair morning, Michael Johns found himself standing before her, somewhat confused, but nevertheless anxious to see her. She smiled at him and said softly, “I heard the funeral was very nice, Michael. I‟m sorry I wasn‟t able to attend. I was visiting a friend out of town and did not hear of it until I returned just the other day.” “I felt you there—in spirit,” Michael said, squeezing her hand. “It was a longer time coming than he would have wished. He hated feeling useless or a burden. Of course, he never was a burden.” “I know it was tough on you to leave college and come home and run the ranch while he was getting treatments in Utah.” “No‟m. It was an honor.” Michael said. “I was glad he agreed to come home at the end and die in his own bed.” Mrs. Crandall sniffed, reached for a tissue and dabbed her nose and eyes. “I want you to know I admired your father very much, Michael. A kinder, more generous man I‟ve never met. He suffered with great patience all those months.” Michael nodded. “I‟m really going to miss him.” She patted his hand affectionately. “Of course you will. He was a fine, fine man ... and so are you. What are your plans now? Going to stay and work the ranch or go back to school?” “Pete Grover made me an offer on the ranch and I took it. I intend to go back to the University for fall term.” She clasped her hands, in relief. “Oh good, good. You should. You're such a good student, Michael. You have a wonderful mind. I know you'll go far.” Michael looked down at the floor, swinging his legs. “I hope so. I want to make Dad proud of me, ...and you, too.” He looked up at her and grinned. “You're my favorite teacher, you know.” She shook a finger at his nose, smiling. “Well, you‟d better do well or it reflects on me, then! I have great hopes for you.” “Thanks. I'll try hard not to disappoint you. I owe you big time for helping me get my scholarship.” “You deserved it.” “Maybe. But I couldn't have done it without you.” The librarian blushed, pulled a tissue from a box on her desk, and dabbed her eyes. There was an awkward silence. 59
Embarrassed, Michael decided it was time to change the subject. “Say, Mrs. Crandall, I wonder, do you have anything I could read?” She sniffed and smiled. “I believe I might.” Her hand gestured toward the shelves surrounding them. “This is a library, you know.” “Thought a good book might take my mind off things while I'm hanging around waiting for school to start. Does the library subscribe to any current scientific journals or magazines?” “You always did have a thirst for knowledge, Michael. It's one of the things I liked best about you. But I'm afraid we have a very limited number of scientific publications. Probably nothing up to your caliber, anyway. Maybe a National Geographic or two.…” “That's better than what I've been reading, “Michael hopped off her desk to take her elbow and help her up. “All Dad kept around was Readers Digest.” “Oh dear, we can surely do better than that.” She tapped the pencil on her desk in thought. “I know! How about a good novel? Science Fiction?” Michael shook his head. “Don't think that's quite my style. Sorry.” She peered at him over her glasses. “Something dashing then...; an adventure story. The Three Musketeers?” “I don't think so.” “It has some juicy parts....” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Definitely not, then.” “Why not. Too mushy?” “No. It's just hard to read about a banquet when you're starving.” “What?” Mrs. Crandall dropped back down in her chair. “Michael, you don't have a girlfriend? A strong, good-looking, brilliant boy like you?” “Please!” Michael interrupted her, reddening. “No. I don't. Yet.” “Why not?” He shrugged. “Haven't met the right one I suppose. Plus, I haven't had much time for looking. But when I find her, you'll be the first one to get an invite to the wedding, okay?” “Only if you don't take too long,” she said sternly. “I'm not going to live forever, you know. You listen to me and settle down, young man, or one day you'll wake up and all your chances will be gone.” The librarian suddenly brightened, “By the way, I have some interest in science myself, you know.” “That doesn't surprise me. Since high school, I've looked up to you as the ultimate authority on just about every subject.” “Well, aren't you a dear?” she laughed delightedly. “You know, Michael, now that I'm retired from teaching, I like to travel a little now and again. It so happens I have an old friend who works over at Colorado State University in the administration office. Two months ago, she called me up and asked if I would like to take a refresher course being offered there in library science. She invited me to come out and stay with her for a while at Fort Collins. Sounded like fun, so I accepted and, in fact, I just got back a few days ago.” “Then the science you are referring to is library science?” “No, no, silly boy! Just listen. While I was there, my friend and I had time on our hands in the evenings, so we started attending a summer lecture series. And one of these lectures was on biology. That's your specialty, isn't it, Michael?” “I'm beginning to wonder,” Michael replied. “What do you mean? Isn't that your major?” Mrs. Crandall stared at him. “It is, if I ever get back to it.
“Of course, you'll get back to it! Don't let me hear you talk like that!” Michael pulled a chair over to the desk and plopped down. “Oh, don't mind me. I 'm just feeling a little unsure about what I really want right now. But, go on—please. You were saying you went to a lecture on biology and...?” “And, I was enthralled! Simply enthralled!” she exclaimed, clapping her wrinkled, bent hands for emphasis. “The professor giving the lecture was one of the most fascinating men I've ever heard. The way he talked, you'd think biology was the most amazing subject in the whole world. Held us all spellbound for two solid hours. Now, I say if a man can keep me glued to my chair for two hours talking about worms and snakes and prairie dogs, he's something extraordinary.” Michael chuckled. “I'd say so. What was his name, do you remember?” The librarian looked up. “I'll never forget his name, in fact, because it was so different -- It was Omega. Dr. James Omega.” Michael straightened up, eyes wide open. “James Omega? At Colorado State? I thought he was at Chicago.” “You sound like you know him.” “Not, ah..., personally, “ Michael stammered. “But he is someone special to me. Kind of an inspiration, you might say. Well, you see, I read one of his books back in High School and it made me first think of going into biology as a career. He's quite famous, you know.” “Really?” “Yes, he's been on television and written some of the most wonderful stuff on endangered animals I've ever read.” “That sounds pretty passionate for someone who claims he's uncertain about his major.” Michael put his chin on his hand. “Oh, it's not that I don't love biology. It's just that it hasn't been quite what I thought it would be. But, you don‟t have time to listen to my worries.” Mrs. Crandall settled back into her chair and smiled that warm, gentle smile he loved. “Michael Johns, for you, I have all the time in the world.” He hesitated, then began. “I just don't know quite what to do.” She said nothing, just listened. “I love animals, you know that. For a long time, I thought I wanted to be a vet. Then I read a book by Omega, “A Biologist‟s Notebook: Animal Societies and How They Interact.” I was hooked. Wow, I thought, I wanted to learn more about all that. By the time I graduated, I had read everything by Omega I could get my hands on and I knew that biology was the direction I wanted to go. To be honest, though, my three years at the University of Wyoming were disappointing.” He paused. She still said nothing. “Oh, there were fine professors there and plenty to learn. It was just all textbooks and formaldehyde. I kept thinking I was ready to take it to another level -- I wanted to see and understand animals the way James Omega did. Man, I can't believe you got to hear him lecture! I'd give my best saddle to…” “Michael,” Mrs. Crandall said, very, very softly. “What?” “Why don't you transfer to CSU?” There was silence. Michael stared at her. “You could, you know.” A grin slowly spread across Michael's face. “I guess I could, couldn't I? But I can hardly believe Omega is at Fort Collins. Are you sure he wasn't just visiting?” 61
“Just a minute.” The librarian opened the side drawer of her desk, shuffled a few papers and pulled out a brochure. “Here it is, the pamphlet for the lecture series. See? There's his picture. You read what it says.” Michael picked it up, a tingle going through him as he stared at the face of the man he idolized only a slim horsehair less than his father. “Dr. James Omega, our featured speaker, is the newest member of CSU's Faculty,” he read aloud, “and will begin teaching classes this fall in the Department of Natural Sciences.” Michael's voice was filled with disbelief. “Holy cow.” “Well?” Michael straightened, looking toward the door. “I knew I was supposed to come see you today. This is why. Now I know what to do.” He bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Mrs. Crandall, you have just shown me the way. Again. Like you always do. God bless you.” Crooked fingers patted his hand. “God bless you, Michael Johns. I see in you great things.” “I‟ll try like heck to not disappoint you,” he grinned. “Guess I better get crackin‟ if I‟m going to get an application to CSU in time for fall semester. Bye, Mrs. Crandall, and thanks again.” Grinning like a schoolboy, Michael Johns threw his former teacher a farewell kiss and charged out the door. Ω “Eritrichium nanum!” Anna Dawn greeted Omega triumphantly as he walked through the door at 8 o‟clock Monday morning his third week at Colorado State University. “Beg pardon?” he said, setting his briefcase down beside her computer desk. “The blue wildflowers ... Eritrichium nanum. Family, Boranginaceae. Common name, Alpine Forget-Me-Nots. Genus name, erion, comes from the Greek word for “wool”, and trichose, meaning “hair,” referring to the soft, wooly hairs on the leaves. Satisfied?” Omega grinned at her. “Very. Good work, Ms. Hamlyn. You have proven yourself a worthy opponent. Now, how well will you do with these...?” He opened his briefcase, unrolled a newspaper, and handed her a spray of creamy white blossoms. “The gauntlet has again been thrown.” He turned and walked into his office. Anna Dawn, he thought, seemed to enjoy this little ritual of his bringing her flowers for identification as much as he did. He was glad he thought of it. And he was glad for her. She was a blessing -- just the secretary he hoped for. That was important. She would soon be trustee to several things of a delicate nature and, not only cooperation, but discretion from his secretary would be essential. His last secretary betrayed him and he could not let that happen again. Anna Dawn Hamlyn had a straightforward manner and an honest and pretty, face. He felt already he could depend on her and he hoped it would be mutual, that she would come to trust him as well. Trust was akin to loyalty and loyalty was a binding virtue. He believed without question it was meant to be; that this particular girl being here at this place and time was no accident. If there was anything Omega had learned, it was to trust in the higher-powers to arrange important things. Not a very scientific philosophy, but one, which had proven itself true to him over and over again. In much the same vein, he trusted the intuition that led him to this new university. He could have chosen from any in the world, and logic might have brought him to a more prestigious location; but he was not concerned about his own career. Not hardly. He was on a quest for someone he must find, a very special, unique soul, who probably had no idea of his true calling,
…yet. Such a search took faith. Omega knew when one goes looking for a single shell on a beach of thousands, one had better trust in something more reliable than logic. So I follow my gut and this is where I end up -- Fort Collins, Colorado, for goodness sake! Who would have thought? He chuckled softly, shaking his head. He leaned his elbows on his desk and let his eyes wander back and forth over his beloved knickknacks and reflected. Quite a leap from Chicago to Fort Collins, from celebrity to this humble swivel chair. James Omega has shown he can dance in the spotlight, now we will see if he can exit gracefully off the stage. One season wanes, another waxes. You do not miss the hoopla. It is so peaceful here. It has all come round for the best so far, right, old man? Being here feels right. You have to trust in that. You have to trust that you have been led where you are supposed to be. He pushed back his chair, stood, and moved once more to his precious window. His fingertips drummed on the window ledge as he peered down, watching the buildings below swallow the students in gulps. Except for Anna Dawn's keys snapping away in the next room, the office was perfectly peaceful and silent. The afternoon sun beamed in soft rays through scattered clouds above, its position in the sky almost directly overhead. Soon it would move southward, summer would pass and the precious days would keep marching onward, unabated. The master-clock is ticking. Time, precious time, is slipping through my fingers. I must find him!“ He struck the desktop with his hand in frustration. “This is the right place to look, I know it, I know it!” he spoke aloud, trying to reassure himself. „All that is needful, shall be given,' he thought, that is the promise. Ah, but what a test! I feel as if I stand in the vortex of a rising storm, holding my breath, waiting for the cyclone of events to sweep my way. I cannot run from them, nor control them. I can only play my humble part as best I can. And for now, in this decision to be here, I must stand firm! I have followed the call. I am where I should be. Surely, he cannot be far away.” Omega drew in his breath and held it a long time in pensive thought. There were heavy stakes in this game he was playing. Where much was to be gained, much was at risk. The enemies would be out hunting for him, soon enough. Like bloodhounds, they had his scent in their noses and weren't about to give up the chase. He had bought himself a little time with this move, but he would be found out sooner or later and then they would be after him again. A sudden anxiety rose like a cold hunger in his stomach. He splayed his hands against the glass, pressing its silicon chill against his palms as if trying to reach desperately through it, to touch someone below, beyond his grasp. He pressed his forehead to the window, fighting to keep down the anxiety that rose like bile to his throat. The greatest danger of this game was not going to be for him. Please, dear Maker, bring him here, quickly, he prayed. Let me find him before they do. Ω Alicia Elizando opened her eyes, turned and saw the bed was empty -- Garrin had already left. She could hear water running in the bathroom. She lifted the sheet and sat up, when a pain on her cheek drew her attention. She touched her face gingerly with her fingers and winced. The flesh was hot, tender to the touch. She walked to the mirror above the dresser and stared at herself more closely. The left side of her face was swollen, the cheek turning a greenish blue. She pulled back with a short gasp. Looking around, she found a partially melted bucket of ice next to the bar in the bedroom. Taking two cubes in her hand, she wrapped them in a napkin 63
and held them gently to her face. The pain made her eyes tear, but it was not unbearable. She grit her teeth and walked out of the room toward the patio balcony, continuing to hold the ice pack to her skin. The rays of a warm California sun filtering through the late morning fog touched her face like a caress. She stood there on the flagstones, face upturned, eyes closed, soaking in the comfort of it. A voice from a lounge chair in the far corner of the patio startled her. “Good morning, Alicia. It's ten thirty. You two slept late.” Her hand jerked, dropping with the icepack to her side. She turned sharply, her free hand instinctively covering the bodice of her negligee as she spoke. “Erik. I didn't see you there.” He stood and came toward her. “What's the matter with your face?” She turned away, raising her hand to shield the bruise behind the icepack. “Let me see....” Erik insisted, his voice firm, with uncharacteristic tenderness. He moved her hand away and stared at the bruise for a long moment. “I sincerely hope you ran into a bedpost, not what I'm thinking,” he said. “Garrin's never hurt me before,” Alicia answered, her eyes showing the betrayal. “It was my fault.” “Why? What did you do?” She threw the dripping napkin angrily on the ground. The ice cubes cracked and scattered. “Last night, he ... he was very tense. I knew something was upsetting him, but he wouldn't tell me what. I tried to comfort him, to please him....” Erik stood away at the remark, his glacial eyes downcast. “As only you can, I'm sure. Then what?” “I, I just made him mad, that's all,” Alicia snapped back, clenching her fists. “I tried. I tried hard. But he couldn't get what he wanted. Finally, he exploded. He slapped me across the face and then...” She turned her back to the Swede, her voice shaking. “He got very ... mean. He's never done that before, Erik. It scared me.” She could feel him standing there, staring a hole in her back with those hard gray eyes of his. When she turned around, he dropped his hand, as if he had been thinking of touching her shoulder. “He's had a lot on his mind lately,” the Swede said gruffly. “Sometimes a man does things he regrets when he's tense.” Alicia shook her head with a frown. “He's been upset before and never taken it out on me,” she said sourly. “He wasn't himself.” “Alicia...,” the bodyguard cut himself off. Whatever he wanted to say went unsaid, and his features hardened, regaining again, their usual, unreadable visage. “Go get cleaned up. I'll run down to the kitchen and tell them to bring breakfast up to the patio this morning.” She turned to go, then stopped. “Erik,” she whispered, “don't say anything to Garrin. Don't tell him I talked to you about it at all. Please.” His voice was colder than she expected. “I would never, not for a million dollars, get in the middle of what goes on between my boss and his woman. You don't need to worry. I never talked to you. I never saw the bruise. Good morning, Alicia. Expect breakfast in a half hour.” Without a further word, the big man turned on his heel and exited through a side hall adjoining the patio. “Thank you,” she called softly after him, but the door had already closed and he was gone. For a long moment, Alicia stood, wondering what to do next. Should she pretend nothing happened? Should she pout and make Garrin feel guilty? Should she give him the silent treatment,
just enough that he would know she was angry and hurt, more deeply than the bruise on her face? She finally decided to play it cool and see how his mood played out at breakfast. During the three years she had known him, he had spoiled her, petted her, indulged her, but he never, ever abused her. Surely, this was a one-time thing. Surely, it didn't mean he was tired of her or that she couldn't satisfy him. Stop it! Don't go there, she told herself. Mustn't think such things. Thinking it makes it come true. Hurry. Make yourself beautiful before he sees you. Maybe he'll apologize. Maybe he'll want to make up. You have to be ready. You have to be beautiful. Hurriedly, she ran to the closet to select something lovely to wear, tight pants, a blouse that showed off her best features. In her rush, she passed the mirror and paused once more to look at her cheek. Not too bad, she thought. It'll go away in a few days. Foundation and blush will cover it till then. One thought nagged at the back of her mind, a question she didn't really want answered. Why had Erik looked at her like that? But there was no time to worry about that now. Garrin would be coming out of the bathroom soon, expecting breakfast, and her. She hurried off to her own room and a shower. When she saw him next, she would be smiling and perfect. She would be everything he wanted her to be and more. Ω 65
Chapter 7 The early sun climbed into a rosy dawn sky above Star Valley, Wyoming. Everything at the dairy ranch was in order, the cows were milked, the sheep, pigs and chickens fed. The barn was cleaned and stocked with hay, the house spic and span. Michael Johns had the blue truck packed and ready to go and the engine idling as he shook hands at the door of the farmhouse with Pete Grover. “See you're chompin' at the bit,” the mortician turned dairy rancher said. “Right anxious to get away from these here cows, ain't ya.” Michael popped a stick of gum in his mouth. “No sense hanging around here. It's three weeks until fall term begins. I need to line up an apartment, make sure my registration and schedule are all ship-shape and check out the lay of the land. You know, get to know my way around town ... check out the local fishing streams…” “And the fillies,” Grover put in with a knowing wink. Michael snapped his gum and looked down at his boots. “Yeah, maybe.” Grover delivered a sound clap to Michael's back. “Well, good luck, Michael. Don't worry about things here. I'm a fast learner, I have three sons to do most of the work and you‟ve done a good job of showing us how the place runs. You go catch up with that dream of yours.” “Thanks, Pete. Say, if you get a chance, drop in to the library and tell Mrs. Crandall I'll call as soon as I get settled, will you?” “Sure.” “See ya.” Michael started down the porch steps. Grover slid his hands into his rear pockets. “I'd be downright surprised, but I hope so.” Michael paused and said over his shoulder, “You never know. Take good care of Scout. I might come back for him someday.” He walked the distance to the truck, got in, and slammed the door. The two men waved and Michael gunned the engine, leaving a cloud of dust swirling behind him as he headed down the dirt road for the highway, the first mile toward whatever lay on the other side of those mountains. It excited him to think of going to CSU and taking a class from James Omega. Due to a great G.P.A. at Laramie and an impressive track record of volunteer conservation work, his application to the school was accepted immediately. It seemed a bit odd to have something go so smoothly. A bit odd and danged unusual. Most of the gains he made in life came with heavy cost and no small effort. Just like what his father used to say: “Most times, life's like tryin' to plow with a broken harrow. But never mind. You do it anyway. It's gotta be done, and the field's not goin' to plow itself.” So, this is it, he thought as he headed south through the valley, perhaps for the last time. Everything he passed had a memory attached. But he had memories enough to last awhile, he
figured, good and bad. Now, he needed to make some new ones. He was at a turning point from which he hoped to mark the true beginning of his life. Somehow, he knew it would be just that. It was a good two-hour drive from Star Valley down to Evanston and another two and a half east to Rock Springs across a lot of wide-open nothing with little to look at—just an occasional hawk on a telephone pole, a warren of prairie dogs, or an antelope or two. There were a few flat- browed buttes standing buckskin bare, silent sentinels of a quietly hostile and lonely land. Other than that, mile after mile of dull rolling swells and washes were the only scenery. But Michael loved it. For a man Wyoming born and bred, nothing was more exhilarating than miles and miles of big sky stretching overhead, meeting at last a horizon far beyond a mortal's reach. Here was freedom. Here was a connection to one's place on the planet. Here was room to breathe. Southward, a bank of gray storm clouds gathered, looming like haughty, angry lords, summoned to battle. He noticed and frowned a little, knowing how quickly a summer thunderstorm could come from nowhere on these plains and wreck havoc. By the time he reached Laramie, he was getting stiff and tired. He stopped for a shake and burger at a local drive-through and took time to check his watch. Four o'clock and he estimated he still had about another two to three hours to go to get to Fort Collins. He stretched his arms over his head and twisted his back. Funny, he mused, letting a low moan express his discomfort, how he could ride Old Scout around all day and not feel a thing, but sit on the padded seat of a truck for half a day and he could feel every bone poking into every muscle of his body. “Not much better than riding a sharp-spined mule bareback,” he sighed loudly, mounting the seat again. “Oh, well, back to it.” Driving past the University of Wyoming on the way out of Laramie without stopping gave him a peculiar feeling. After three years, he had a strong feeling of kinship to the college and he felt somewhat like a traitor, an unfaithful lover, deserting it for another. He'd had some good times there, sitting in the bleachers at a football game with his face painted yellow and brown, rooting for the Cowboys. He remembered his roommates with fondness, and the girls he dated -- they were sweet, but there was no one so far he wanted to put his brand on. That was all right. He wasn't in a hurry. He also enjoyed most of his classes, though something always seemed to be missing. At the time, he figured it must be his own fault -- maybe he had a rotten attitude, or was just being idealistic, expecting biology to be this grand thing, when what it really amounted to was a lot of memorization and hours of dusty-jacketed textbook reading. Will it be different at CSU, he wondered? A strange tickle in his stomach rose with the question. There was that feeling again. He asked himself for the hundredth time, was he really doing the right thing, basing a major decision like this on gut instinct? Life taught Michael Johns to believe in reasons; it was his father who taught him to believe in dreams. The former was much easier to throw a rope on, and Michael would have loved to back up his choice with a good, solid, down-to-earth reason why he felt so compelled to change horses mid-stream. It wasn't until the Wyoming state line was well behind him and he was on the last lonely stretch of highway to Fort Collins, that he recalled how Laramie was as far east and south as he had ever been, except for a few months volunteer work in Louisiana. From here on, it was all new country -- a new state he had never been to, a new town, a brave, new beginning. He suddenly felt rather heroic. The long, late August evening wore on. The wind was picking up and the sky was ever growing darker. A little on again, off again, skiff of rain made the road slippery in spots. Michael frowned, turning on the wipers. Just one more thing to wear on his nerves. Another hour passed. The rain scattered and returned, as if the cloud lords couldn't make up their minds whether to war or just bluster. Michael knew he was getting close now, only about 67
twenty miles, he estimated, short of his destination. Not a bit too soon, he thought. It had been a long drive. He was concentrating on rain slicks and wind gusts with half his brain and deep in thought as to what he wanted that brave, new beginning of his to be with the other half, when two things happened simultaneously. If he had been fresh and alert, he probably could have dealt with either one without mishap. But as it was, both his mind and physical reflexes were functioning pretty much on autopilot, neither capable of a judicious, immediate response. As he came over a rise, passing a clump of trees, a streak of feathers came from nowhere into his line of vision -- a hawk, right in line with his windshield. He hit the brakes and swerved hard to the right to avoid an almost certain collision. To his amazement, within the same second, an old man appeared right in front of him, standing just off the side of the road, waving his hands frantically as Michael's truck made a beeline straight for him. The hawk hit the windshield. Michael cringed and overcorrected to the left to avoid hitting the old man and the blue pickup went skidding sideways then backwards across the slippery highway, over the muddy edge and down an embankment. At the bottom the truck hit soft earth and began to roll upward to one side, stopped just shy of the roll‟s crest, then thudded back down on all four wheels. The rocks were still settling from a miniature landslide as Michael, hands trembling but with a vice-like grip on the steering wheel, heard a voice coming from above, back up on the shoulder of the road. “Are you all right, young man?” it called, shrilly. “Are you hurt?” Michael, still reeling, shook his head to clear it. It took him a moment to answer, to register he was indeed all right -- he was still alive and he hadn't hit the old man, thank God. Still shaking, he managed to roll down his window and turn off the engine. “I, I guess so,” he answered weakly. “Yes, I'm all right.” Then again, not exactly all right. There was no telling what damage the truck had received.. “What? I cannot hear you,” the voice said. “Wait. I am coming down.” In his rear view mirror, he could see the man starting down the slippery bank. He seemed rather spry for someone his age. It was only a fleeting thought and Michael's brain was still rather scrambled. He closed his eyes, rested his head on the steering wheel, and fought to regain his composure. A strong hand gripped him on the shoulder through the open window. “You look unharmed, boy,” the voice said with a tone of relief. “No broken bones, no head injury, no whiplash?” “I don't think so,” Michael muttered, not raising his head. “Good. Then I must go check on the bird.” Sounds of shuffling feet up the embankment. Michael jerked his head around just in time to see the figure disappear over the top of the embankment. “Go check on the bird?” he said, incredulously. “What in tarnation are you thinking, Grandpa? Here I am, stuck in mud up to my hubcaps, a good twenty miles from civilization and, hey, I almost ran you down -- you could be DEAD right now -- and you‟re worried about the bird?!” Slowly, Michael pushed open the door and pulled himself from the cab. He stood a moment, getting his feet to hold him, and scratched his head. He looked up to the road and shrugged. “So, Michael, let's go see how the bird's doing, shall we? What else have you got to do right now?” He made his way unsteadily up the slick, rocky bank until he gained footing on the asphalt of the highway. His boots were sticky and clotted with mud. From where he was, he could see the old man, his back to Michael. He was across the road, down on one knee, bending over what must
be the bird -- or what was left of it. A pang of regret stabbed Michael's conscience. Hawks held a special allure, the essence of freedom. He loved watching them soar, seeing them sitting on a telephone wire or on a high tree branch back at the ranch, surveying their kingdom. They seemed regal, somehow, the royalty of birds. There had been no avoiding hitting this one. It was a real shame. Michael walked slowly across the highway toward where the man kneeled, not really wanting to see the damage he had done -- the sight of it could hardly be pleasant. But as he approached, the man, whose complete attention was on what lay on the ground before him, held out his hand without looking around, motioning for Michael to hurry. “It is alive,” Michael heard him say, though he hardly could believe it. “Amazingly, you just grazed it. Broken wing is all. It can be fixed.” Michael was close now, trying to peer over the old man's bent shoulders to see. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved kacki-green sweatshirt. A ponytail of white hair, tied behind his neck with a leather thong, stuck out behind a brown leather hat. Rain was dripping off the brim. “Fortunately I know a man who rehabilitates injured raptors,” the man was saying breathlessly, speaking softly and calmly. “He can help once we get it stabilized. Meanwhile, it falls to us to do the first aid. Perhaps you would be good enough to give me a hand here....” “Sure, sure. What do you want me to....” “We need to cover its eyes, so it will stop struggling. Have you got anything ... a handkerchief, a strip of cloth, anything for a makeshift hood?” Michael could see the bird was in great distress, flapping, pecking and clawing at the old man who was trying, unsuccessfully, to calm it. “My bandana. In my truck.” “That will do. Please, get it. Quickly.” Michael ran across the highway, made it down to the truck with only a few slips and scrapes, then hurried back up, waving the bandana. “Here you go,” he said, panting. The old man reached behind him and took the handkerchief. He grunted. “This is much too big. Could you tear it into strips?” “Tear it? This is my new bandana.” The old man was still fighting gingerly with the bird, trying to restrain it without getting bitten or sliced by the small, razor-sharp talons. His next words had a distinct edge of impatience. “This is a peregrine falcon, boy. An endangered species, as you may know.” “Of course I...” “It is worth a hundred of your bandanas. Now, if you would be so kind as to tear me off a strip ... ouch! Tear me off a strip the right size to make a blindfold for this poor, suffering creature which YOU injured....” “Hey, I didn't mean to, I couldn't help....” “... preferably before my hands are MINCEMEAT, I would greatly appreciate it.” Michael was speechless. He simply bit his lip and said nothing. Removing his pocketknife from his back pocket, he cut a slit on the hem of the bandana and pulled. Repeating this, he soon had three strips, meeting the specifications as instructed. He handed them over the old man's shoulder. “Here.” “Good. Now if you could just help me hold her, while I tie it on....” “Hold her. Right.” Michael kneeled down next to the man, who was cautiously restraining the bird's talons by holding its ankles with his left hand and gripping its flailing good wing with his 69
right. As Michael replaced the old man's hands with his own, the hawk screamed. Hurriedly, the man took one of the strips of bandana and tied it around the bird's head. For the first time, Michael caught a glimpse of the old man's face. His eyes grew wide, his breath caught in his throat. “What is the matter, boy? Are you sure you are all right?” the man said with genuine concern, turning his face and looking squarely at Michael for the first time. “I'm fine. Help the bird,” Michael said lamely. The man turned back to the hawk. “I intend to. Just hold her a moment more and I will have it,” the man said, his hands working now with confidence and skill. “Poor thing is really hurting. After the hood is on, she should calm down. Then we have to apply a splint.” “A splint? You know how to do that?” “Yes. Find me a flat stick, about eight to ten inches long, if you can.” “Gotcha.” Michael, heart pounding, hurried off and returned shortly with a wooden ruler. “I'm a student,” he said. “This was in my school stuff.” “Very fortunate. Now, come here and I will show you what to do.” Together, the two of them worked side by side, Michael listening to and following directions like a nurse in an operating room, as the man secured the broken wing to the ruler with the two remaining strips of bandana. Even as the man said, the bird quieted almost instantly when her eyes were covered, although her talons still struck out with lightning reflexes whenever she felt so inclined. In all, it took about twenty minutes to complete the task to the man's satisfaction. Michael became so engrossed, he hardly noticed the rain begin afresh, pattering persistently on his bare neck until it trickled down his shirt. Even then, riveted to the task at hand, he paid it little attention. At last, the man said, “Done!” and they both leaned back on their heels, with a joint sigh of satisfaction. “That should hold her until I can get her to my friend. I think she will be all right.” The man patted Michael's shoulder. “Well done, boy! You could make a fine veterinarian someday if you keep this up.” Michael laughed. “Actually, I want to be a biologist ... like you, Dr. Omega.” The man turned sharply and looked Michael up and down in a quick assessment. “You know who I am, then?” “Oh, yes. I definitely know who you are.” A slight smile spread across the man's face. “You think so, do you?” “I'm on my way to CSU for fall term,” Michael explained. “With the intention to take a class from you, if I can.” “I see. Not many people know I teach there. How do you?” Michael motioned toward the falcon with a jut of his chin. “A little bird told me,” he said, grinning. Omega frowned. “No seriously. I wish to know.” “A friend, my former high school teacher, attended a lecture you gave earlier this summer. She told me you were here.” “Ah yes. The western deserts seminar. I see.” Omega's face and tone of voice changed slightly, showing a subtle wariness. “That was a select audience. Less than a hundred people were there. My being at the seminar was a last minute decision. It was not advertised. So, the chances of this friend of yours attending and hearing me speak were small.” “Lucky for her. Lucky for me,” Michael said guilelessly. “Sometimes things that are meant to be have a way of working out.”
Omega eyed Michael strangely. “Yes. That is true. I had hoped, however, it would take a while longer before I was pegged….” His voice trailed off. Michael had no idea what he meant by that, but, obviously, the man was troubled. Omega expelled a breath through pursed lips. “Well ... I should not be surprised. I expected the news to get around sooner or later.” Then it began to click. “I'm sorry,” Michael said. “I imagine a popular public figure like you gets badgered all the time by nobodies like me. I didn't mean to upset you.” Omega's face softened. He put a hand on Michael's shoulder. “My boy, you are certainly not a nobody! You just saved a peregrine falcon. That places you pretty high on my good guys list!” They both stood, slapping the mud off their jeans as best they could and straightening their backs with mutual groans. Omega was the first to offer a hand. “You know my name, young man. What is yours?” “Michael Johns, sir. Very pleased to meet you.” They shook, heartily. “The pleasure is mine.” “Sorry, I almost killed you.” “That was my fault, not yours.” Omega stooped, slowly lifting the bird in his arms. “We have to get this bird some help now. She is hurting.” “Yes, but there's one little problem....” Michael thumbed in the direction of the truck. Just as he did so, a charging eighteen-wheeled rig barreled around the bend. It blew its horn at them as it went by, the driver staring at them through his windshield. Almost immediately the brake lights went on and the big truck pulled to the side of the road, flashing its emergency blinkers. After a brief explanation, which seemed to interest the trucker greatly -- especially the part about the falcon, a tow chain and winch were produced, attached to the pickup and, in amazingly short order, Michael's truck was being yanked up the slippery bank and deposited safely back on the road, the only apparent damage being one bent fender. With a wave of his hand, the trucker pulled away, shaking his head, muttering something under his breath that Michael barely caught, something about how he thought he'd seen it all. “Truckers. Gotta love 'em,” Michael said, meaning it. “More than once I've followed behind a rig like that in a blizzard and been right glad to my dogteeth it was there in front of me, plowing the road.” It was then, for the first time, Michael stopped to think about a few things. “You're a good ways from town, Professor. What brought you clear out here all alone, anyway?” Omega stood rocking the falcon in his arm, just as would a mother with a baby. “Field work. Research. You perhaps know I specialize in endangered species. Well, there was a pair of peregrines I have been keeping my eye on, their nest is not far from here ... and I came out to check on them. They mate for life, you know. I was just in the middle of a conversation with this one about it when....” “Wait. You say you were talking to the falcon?” Omega smiled wryly. “Only in a manner of speaking. Anyway, I was distracted and it was distracted, and it suddenly spied a ground squirrel. It dived straight for it without another thought in its head and flew right into your path. Raptors are apt to do that, you know. They have amazing eyesight, but a terrible case of tunnel vision, and tunnel mind, for that matter. They see food, focus, and go for it like an arrow, often to their deaths if they are by a highway, just as this one almost did.” 71
“You, too,” Michael reminded him. “You came pretty close yourself to being road kill. You scared me to death!” Omega shrugged it off. “It was thoughtless of me to step onto the road and I am sorry -- about your truck, about the delay, about the scare, about everything.” Michael shrugged. “Hey. No problem. The drive was getting boring. And, anyway, I'm really glad I got to meet you ... see you at work and everything. It was great.” Omega laughed outright. “Glad you think so.” “So, where's your vehicle?” Michael asked, looking around. Omega hesitated. “Oh, I have no vehicle. I do not drive.” Michael was dumbfounded. “But, how did you get out here in the middle of nowhere? Thumb a ride?” “Not exactly,” Omega seemed to be hedging. “I am quite a hiker.” Michael ran his fingers through his hair. “I'd say you are.” “But now, since you are here,” Omega went on without a blink, “and since it is raining, I would appreciate a ride into town, if it would not be too much trouble.” “Not to mention the falcon needs attention as soon as possible,” Michael added. “Quite right.” “Well, what are we waiting for? Hop in.” Michael was in biologist heaven all the way to Fort Collins. He kept wanting to hit himself over the head with a rail post to bring himself back to reality. Could this really be happening? Was the one and only Dr. James Omega himself really sitting beside him, the two of them chatting away like old friends -- Omega talking about how amazing falcons were and Michael explaining how he loved animals and wanted to learn all he could about them. He was careful to not get too “groupy” on Omega. If he said, for example, that Omega was his life's inspiration, his reason for turning his whole life around and transferring to CSU, or that he felt drawn to him by some inexplicable cosmic force, that would have been a bit much, pretty embarrassing for them both. So Michael constrained himself, remarking he really enjoyed the “Vanishing Eden” television series and had actually read all of Omega's books. He figured that was enough -- -a pretty good, not too sappy compliment, while staying within the bounds of good taste. The rain all but cleared by the time they reached town. Omega asked to be let out at the CSU parking lot nearest the Clarke Building. Michael wondered at first why Omega would not have asked to be dropped off at his home, but then concluded he was probably going directly to his office to telephone his friend and get help for the bird. Omega came around to Michael's side of the cab and reached through Michael's open window to say farewell with a handshake. “I look forward to seeing you in my class, Michael Johns. I will never forget your help with the falcon today.” Michael gave a quick nod of his head to say thank you. “Let me know how she does.” “Of course. Good-bye.” “Bye.” Michael drove away, leaving Omega waving from the curb. “Man alive, what a day!” he said, spanking the steering wheel with his palms. “Can you believe it? James Omega! Right there, he sat right by me! Holy cow. Holy cow.” The young rancher drove down the street and around the corner on his way to the motel where he had reserved a room for the night, never looking back. He did not see James Omega stand for a long time staring after him, pondering whether the boy was friend or foe. He did not see the
worried look in the old man‟s eyes, or the grim set of his mouth. And he did not see him, cradling the bird in his arms, turn and walk hurriedly away from the University for a good block before disappearing from view behind a clump of trees. Ω 73
Chapter 8 It was the first day of fall semester and students were scurrying by the thousands across the campus greens, filtering into the various campus buildings where their classes were located. Omega stood watching them from his small, but lofty, porthole. “Anna Dawn,” he called through the door. “Did you purchase the item I asked for?” “Yes, I'll bring it right in,” the reply came and in a few moments, Anna Dawn Hamlyn stepped through the door, laying an empty, 2-quart glass pitcher on Omega's desk. “Here you go,” she said, a little breathlessly. She has been bustling around all morning, Omega mused, running here and there, like a cat missing a kitten. She has a case of first-day fever like the rest of them. It made her face flush in a most becoming way. “I've got to hurry or I'll be late for my first class. I'll be back to work from one to five this afternoon. Professor? I don't understand why it was so important that it be a glass pitcher,” she said, straightening. “Couldn‟t be esthetics. You teach biology, not home ec, right? So, is Martha Stewart attending your class?” Omega shot her a faux look of disapproval. “You have a certain wit, Ms. Hamlyn,” he said wryly, “that may get you into trouble one day.” It came easily now, this tête-à-tête between them. Omega's efforts were paying off. The summer had ripened their relationship into a comfortable, friendly one. “That may be true,” she answered. “But I still want to know. 'Not Tupperware, my dear,' you said, 'or Rubbermaid.'” Dawn imitated his voice. “'It has to be glass.' So I'm asking again, why glass?” Omega's eyes twinkled in a certain way when he had a secret and they were twinkling now. “Because, oh inquisitive one, of the tinkle.” Anna Dawn put her hands on her hips. “The tinkle? What is that supposed to mean?” Omega held up the pitcher, examining it. “It must tinkle, loudly, when I fill it with ice cubes and water. Plastic does not tinkle.” “I suppose not.” “It must tinkle at the precise moment I want it to tinkle.” He shook a finger at her. “Never underestimate the power of audio stimuli on the psyche, Anna Dawn. Sensory impressions are the most dynamic channels of learning we have and one of a teacher's most powerful tools. I have a point to make today, this first, all-important, day of class and a tinkle plays a very big part in it.” Anna Dawn held up her hands, conceding defeat. “Okay, okay. You're the one with the doctorate degree. I respect that. I acknowledge you must know what you're doing. If you say a glass pitcher is indispensable in an upper-level Honors biology class, who am I to question?” She appeared ready to leave, then paused. “By the way, that last bouquet of Monday flowers you gave me, the little pink ones, really had me guessing for a while. I figured it out but it took some effort.” “Good for you. Well?” “Lathyrus littoralis, or, the Silky Beach Pea. Pretty little things. But what puzzles me, Professor, is their habitat.”
“Oh?” “It seems they only grow on sand dunes along the Pacific Coast -- anywhere from Washington state down to central California -- and nowhere else. Now, I know you like to hike, Dr. Omega, but I think it highly unlikely you tromped all the way over to the Pacific Coast and back over the weekend. So, if I may ask, just how did you manage to get me a batch of fresh flowers that grow 1400 miles away?” She stood there, arms folded, awaiting an answer. The biologist only laughed and turned away. He began packing his briefcase in preparation to go to class. “Ah, the inquisition comes, at last,” he said merrily over his shoulder. “There are many explanations I could give. I could, perhaps, tell you I raised them from seed. I could tell you I am the member of a wildflower garden club that mails me unusual plants every month. I could even tell you I own my own jet and can fly wherever I wish on the weekends. But,” he wagged the finger again, “I will not tell you any of those things, because they are not true.” Anna Dawn looked at him quite suspiciously, wearing that 'here he goes again,' expression she used whenever Omega pulled out another of the seemingly inexhaustible supply of tricks he kept up his sleeve. “Drat it, Professor, you're being deliberately elusive. Something's rotten in the state of Ft. Collins, or I'm a fool.” She frowned, tapping her foot. “I think you're hiding something.” Suddenly Omega stopped to face her. “There are still a few things about me you have yet to learn, Anna Dawn. Someday, I will tell you everything you want to know. When the time is right, I will tell you all my little secrets. But not just yet.” She grew quiet at that remark, her beautiful blue eyes showing her puzzlement. “All your secrets, Dr. Omega? Nothing too mind-boggling, I hope?” Omega snapped shut his briefcase. “You might be surprised, my dear. You might be surprised. So, how do I look? Is my tie straight?” She nodded. “You look very nice. Good luck with your first day of class.” “Thank you. You, too. How did your schedule turn out? Did you get the classes you wanted?” “Pretty much and some will be a challenge. The one I'm most worried about is Microbiology 358, taught by Dr. Marsh.” Omega slipped on his suit coat. “Juliet Marsh is a lamb. You will love her.” Anna Dawn picked up the class list from the desk and handed it to him. “Not according to the scuttlebutt I've picked up. They say at first glance she looks and acts like your very own sweet little grandma, but when she grades, all that sugar and spice turns into vinegar. Her tests are supposed to be your worst nightmare.” Omega's eyebrows raised. “Really? Juliet Marsh? Who would have thought? Anyway, I am sure you have nothing to worry about, Anna Dawn. If you are the same kind of student as you are secretary, you will do wonderfully in any event.” Anna Dawn's cheek flushed. “Why, thank you. That's very nice of you.” He liked to see her smile. If only he had had a daughter of his own ... Omega cleared his throat. “Well, I must away. There are eager minds waiting.” “Eager minds that don't yet know who their teacher is,” Anna Dawn reminded him. “In the class schedule it merely lists the instructor of your class as 'faculty.' I'd like to be there to see the look on their faces when James Omega walks in.” “Ah, yes. Well, hopefully they will not all get up and leave.” “Fat chance,” she smiled, handing him a plastic bag also sitting on the desk, filled with little foil pouches. “Not when they find out they get treats. Now, off you go. You said you wanted to be early.” 75
“Right.” He started out the door. “Wait!” she cried. “Don't forget your precious pitcher!” He took it from her and paused. “Thank you, Anna Dawn. Thank you for all you do for me. Someday, I hope I get the opportunity to pay you back.” “There's nothing to pay back, but....” a mischievous sparkle lit Anna Dawn's eyes, “just help me get through Dr. Marsh's class,” she said. “Microbiology really isn't my thing. I could use any suggestions you have to give on the final project. If I get an A on that, I'll consider you my own personal miracle-worker.” “Not to worry, my dear,” the old biologist said on his way out the door. “I have been known to work a miracle or two.” Ω Michael Johns hurried down the twelve concrete steps in front of his small rental home. It sat on the top of a moderate-sized hill and, in order to descend to the street below, one took the stairs. It was not a matter of choice. He quite liked the little frame house on Pineview Street and felt lucky to get it. Housing was at a premium when the college students returned to town. They came like a tide held back a full summer, eager to sweep in and occupy every shelter with a bed and toilet, no matter how dilapidated. He had tried through a good part of the summer by phone and on the Internet to find a suitable apartment without success. Then, with unbelievable luck, Michael happened upon a FOR RENT sign posted in the window of the house, high above the street and virtually out of sight. Calling the phone number given on the sign, he was told the house belonged to an elderly gentleman who had been placed in a rest home just two days before. His sister was going to try to fix it up and sell it as soon as possible. She hadn't even placed a newspaper ad yet. Michael immediately offered to fix it up for her if she would discount his rent, an agreement was made right there on the phone and both parties hung up feeling fortune was smiling on them. He took the steps three at a stride, his backpack bouncing against his shoulder blades like a loose saddle. Here it was, the first day of classes and he was just one flip of an egg away from being late. He threw open the door and hit the seat of the blue truck coming from a full run, landing with a precision only years of practice can bring. When he turned over the engine, a cloud of black regurgitated from the exhaust pipe. Rats, he thought, I'm burning oil! Oh well. It'll have to wait. No time to fix it now. His nerves tightened. He hastily grabbed his class schedule to check once more the room number of his first class, then gunned the engine and tore off down the street, leaving a three-foot peel-out smudge on the pavement and a vapor of dirty smoke diffusing into the air. Omega arrived thirty minutes early at what would soon be his classroom. The amphitheater was still empty. He hid the glass pitcher, freshly filled with water and ice cubes, behind the podium and hurriedly wound his way back and forth across every row in the room, placing a foil bag on the armrest between each folding seat. Turning to a table in front of the podium, he opened his briefcase and lay out his notes. A box containing copies of the class syllabus, typed and organized to perfection by Anna Dawn, was already there on the table, ready to distribute.
He walked to the computer/media console and turned it on. Within minutes he had his PowerPoint presentation up and ready, awaiting his command. He checked the overhead projector and the microphone. All was in order. For a moment, he stood silently, gazing out at all the empty seats. Today, the students who filled those seats were in for a bit of a surprise. One by one, they began streaming in. Omega quickly left the room before he was spotted and waited in an adjoining storage room for his entrance. At exactly nine o'clock, Dr. James Omega opened the door to the lecture hall and walked to the front of the classroom. He stood behind the podium, looking up at the students seated before him in the amphitheater and tapped the microphone lightly with his pencil. “Let us begin now, shall we?” Chatter hushed to an immediate silence. Slowly, whispers behind hands, pointing fingers and nudging elbows revealed the students' gradual recognition of who stood before them. Their reaction was one of stunned amazement. Omega's eyes scanned the audience. Immediately, he recognized three faces -- Dean Hyden, Derk Long and Annie Groff were seated in the back row. They waved and smiled as a show of support. He acknowledged their presence with a respectful nod. Of course, they would not miss James Omega's first public performance on their turf if their lives depended on it. He noted Frank Curnow was not with them. “May I get some help to pass these out?” he asked, walking over to the box on the table. Several students eagerly volunteered. “You, you, and you....” he said, pointing. “Thank you. Make sure there is one for everyone. No one gets overlooked in this class.” The distribution of the syllabus gave him a moment to collect his thoughts. He found he was much more nervous than usual. It wasn't the teaching, or even that he was being so blatantly evaluated by his peers -- he had performed under much more intense scrutiny. It was because a hope, a desperate hope, that his someone might just be there, seated right in front of him, sitting in one of those chairs. That singular hope pushed all else into secondary importance. He held his breath. Slowly, his eyes passed over every face, one by one. Many looked back at him, smiling shyly. He gave them a reassuring nod, all the while keening for some spark of intuitive recognition. There was none. No fire of confirmation. Yet. With a sigh, he rotated his shoulders and adjusted his tie, trying to let the disappointment go. Maybe in next term's class. The search was not over. He could not think about it now. There was work to do. His eyes brightened to a sparkle. “Good morning. I am Dr. James Omega and this is Biology 451, Evolving Ecosystems of the Twenty-First Century,” he said in a friendly tone. The students exchanged looks, smiles spreading around the room in a chain reaction. So, it was him, not a look-alike. Amused, Omega saw it register, watched them sit up straighter to make a good impression, noted them eyeing him like a mongoose eyes a cobra -- alert, intent, sizing him up, ready to spar. “May I suggest you check your class schedules and make sure you are in the right place?” He cocked an eyebrow at the crowd, waiting. As always on the first day of class, there were a few students, undoubtedly freshmen, who, greatly embarrassed, rose and clattered conspicuously from the hall, followed by snickers from the upperclassmen. As they filed out, Omega's eyes followed them to the door, where he noticed another student entering. He looked flustered, arriving late, an apologetic frown written across his face. The bird boy, Omega thought, recognizing him. Late to class. What was his name? Michael something, I think. 77
For a moment, he reflected on the incident that had introduced them. It was that the boy had recognized him so readily that unnerved Omega. That and his story of how he knew Omega was teaching at CSU. It seemed suspicious that anyone besides a spy for the enemies would have tracked him down so quickly and, yet, a warm reassurance spread over Omega at seeing him again, not a feeling of dread or warning. The feeling was comforting. Perhaps the boy's story was legitimate, but enemies had come before in seemingly innocent guise. At any rate, there was no time to dwell on it now. He had a class to teach. Omega let Michael get settled in on the back row, then cleared his throat. “Well, now that we are all here...,“ he winked and grinned in Michaels direction -- Michael reddened and saluted back with his pencil. “And if you are sure you all belong here, and I am fairly certain I do, why not begin?” Everyone seemed to simultaneously ease back into their seats, ready for the show. Omega said, “To answer the question I see in your eyes, yes, I am who you think I am. I must tell you I am delighted to be standing here today at this excellent university as the newest member of the Natural Sciences faculty.” He shot a glance up at the dean and his colleagues. “Hopefully I will earn my keep and they will let me stay.” At this, the audience broke into polite applause. Omega held up his hands. “Well, thank you! That is very kind of you. Now, I know some of you may feel a bit unsettled, being in a class with a public personality as your instructor, but let me assure you, I am not here to make you uncomfortable. Let us not put up the illusion of celebrity on a pedestal, like a wall between us. Make no mistake about it, you are the important ones here today. We are here together, at this place and time, to edify and instruct each other. I want there to be a bond between us, beyond teacher and student. I will, in fact, be very disappointed if we do not finish up this course as good friends.” Oh, yes, James Omega knew how to tame a mongoose. He held up a finger, pointing it in their direction. “And do not think that I may not have time for you in my busy schedule. You, my young friends, are more important to me than any television show or book tour. I want to get to know you, every single one of you, on a personal as well as academic basis. I offer you an open invitation right now to come up to my office as often as you wish, whether it is to discuss an assignment, argue a point of view, or just have a good long chat about your family dog. You can e-mail or phone me at any time at the numbers on the cover of your syllabus. Please, please do not think of me as some beyond-your-reach celebrity from PBS. I am your teacher. I am here to help you any way I can.” He paused, assessing the effect he was having on the audience. The students were as still in their seats as a bed of sleeping clams. “Now then,” Omega went on. “We are here to study biology -- the study of life! What a grand adventure we shall have! You may have noticed a bag of peanuts by your chairs. These are a small welcome gift from me. If your first morning of fall semester went anything like mine, you are probably feeling a little nutty....” A chuckle from his listeners. “Yet, look at us. Somehow, we all made it here and that calls for a celebration. During this first lesson, let us all pop out of our shells, so to speak, and get acquainted. At the least, I thought a little tangible positive reinforcement might be in order. That should please the behaviorists in the crowd.” The audience laughed outright at that one.
Omega took a place behind the podium and flipped on the overhead screen. “Please, open your bag and enjoy the peanuts as we talk. Let us begin our class with this seemingly simple question -- how many animals can you name that eat peanuts?” Within a few minutes, everyone in the room was engaged in discussing and debating peanutivores, all the while unconsciously popping the roasted, salty treats into their mouths. Omega augmented the discussion with several PowerPoint visuals on variables of why certain animals might prefer peanuts in their diet -- availability of the food source, the shape of mouth, teeth, appendages, its type of stomach and so forth. He asked, would a circus elephant, for example, a creature readily associated with peanuts, really eat peanuts in its natural environment? The entire discussion was delightful, but one might argue, somewhat deficient of substance. That was all right. The point he intended to make had nothing to do with peanuts or elephants. Omega subtly noted, after about fifteen minutes, the audience had finished most of their treats. He watched their faces carefully now, especially their eyes. The telltale signs he was looking for would appear there first. On and on through the discussion he led them, blithely unaware of the devious trick he designed for them. As students were encouraged to talk, Omega, an astute observer of physical behavior, began to see the very looks he was anticipating -- the beginnings of thirst. Eyes started to squint and blink, caused, Omega knew very well, by a lack of moisture in the eyeball's vitreous humor. Students licked their lips, cleared their throats and swallowed; all in an unconscious attempt to alleviate the dryness of tongue and esophagus highly salted peanuts so effectively induce. Another ten minutes should do the trick, Omega thought. By then they will kill for a drink. He purposely launched off into an overview of the text, syllabus and course objectives -- an instructional segment as dry as the Utah Salt Flats, by intentional design. Throughout, the students' suffering increased, discomfort becoming torture, evidences of genuine thirst written on every face. They squirmed and coughed, barely able to concentrate on a word the professor said. Now was the time. Omega quietly stopped his lecture in mid-sentence and pulled out a glass pitcher of sparkling, crystal-clear ice water. Every eye in the room riveted toward it. “Excuse me,” he said apologetically. “My throat is a little dry. Please, pardon me.” He took out a glass and set it beside the pitcher. He could see the students staring at him, mouths slightly open, tongues lolling out over crusted lips. This was a teaching moment. Taking his time, he filled the glass with water, deliberately close to the microphone. Sure enough, the ice cubes tinkled right on cue and the amplified water sloshed into the glass with the gurgling resonance of a virginal Rocky Mountain spring. From the audience, utter silence. “Cheers,” Omega said, seemingly oblivious to their agony. With several loud, gusty gulps, he drained the glass to the last drop and set it down with a lip-smacking sigh. An audible groan swelled through the ranks. “What?” He looked at them innocently. “Oh, I am sorry! Are you thirsty?” The students glared at him. Not funny. This bordered on student abuse. “Oh, I see, I see,” the master teacher said, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. “Could it be those peanuts, those harmless little salted peanuts, are making you wish right now you had never been born? Or maybe you are wishing James Omega had never been born?” Lips quivered. Some students looked ready to mutiny and make a mad bolt for the nearest drinking fountain. “I understand that to receive credit you must sit in those seats and listen to me talk for a full hour....” Repressed gnashing of teeth. Did the man have no mercy? 79
“But, if you will forgive me my cruel, little joke, for it was done in the interest of teaching you something of infinite value and, if you will allow me to speak for only another few minutes, I will excuse you early so you can all make a beeline for the drinking fountain. Deal?” Disgruntled submission. No one in the audience was in the mood, or the position, to disagree. “Very well,” their teacher said, “with your thirst, we begin the real lesson for today. This water,” he said holding up the pitcher, “is knowledge, the most precious substance we have on Earth. If you would obtain it, you must thirst for it, with all your might, mind and strength. It is not often easily won. It is a thing, when you have it, to be savored, every single drop. Never, ever take it for granted.” Slowly, with great dignity, he bowed to them. The students' faces showed their surprise. James Omega, an internationally recognized scientist, bowing to them? “You are students, my young friends. I revere you, for to be a true student is a great thing. You are the seekers of knowledge ... a holy quest! But here is the question.... What will you do with your knowledge, once you have it?” He took the pitcher and poured water into his cupped palm, letting it dribble through his fingers. “If you have no glass, no container, no shape for it to assume, knowledge is useless. It goes where it wills, not where you will it. It gives you no power.” Taking up the glass again, he filled it to the brim. “The glass, is your purpose; crafted in your image, it is your own, special, unique niche, your contribution to the world. If you have the glass firmly in your hand -- a goal, a direction, a shape, into which your knowledge can flow, then you can begin to really do something. Then all these classes and tests and research papers take on meaning -- they become a springboard to your power, your tool for change. And it is the using of this power, the power to make a positive difference, a personal power that only you can wield, that will quench your thirst. “You came to this class today for knowledge. It is my task to fill your glass and I intend to do so. But into what glass will you pour it? How will you quench your thirst? That is for you to decide. You must find your passion and, once you find it, never let it go.” He stopped, slowly looking into the eyes of each of his captives. “When I look around this room, I see more than just the faces of a few honor biology students, I see the faces of the next generation of saviors. Yes, saviors. Saviors of the natural world. “These are perilous days for the plants and animals of our planet. Species are disappearing to the point of extinction at a rate unparalleled in any other era of the earth's history. There have been mass extinctions before, but never for the unjustifiable reasons that are happening now. For the first time, this planet's incredible biological diversity is threatened to dwindle past the point of recovery. My friends, it is predicted that the last tiger will be extinct from the wild by the year 2040. Think of that! Think of a world without the elephant, the cheetah, the vulture, the wolf, or the panda. You are not only on the brink of losing all these wonderful animals so well known and revered, but hundreds, thousands of more species you do not even know about. Plants are vanishing as well and, with them, the ecosystem they support. What was once a beautiful, complex planetary organism is all starting to cave in, like a black hole. “Look at this....” Opening his briefcase, Omega withdrew a small box, about the size a watch might be kept in. He opened it, gently tipped its contents in his hand and held it up for all to see. Necks craned and eyes squinted to get a better view of the tiny, sun-colored object not much bigger than a walnut in his open palm.
“This little fellow, when it was alive, was one of the most beautiful, little amphibians science has ever seen -- the Golden Toad of Brazil. It used to thrive in the rainforests of the Amazon. Now it resides in this box in my office. Here, you may handle it. Pass it around.” He handed the mummified toad to the closest student, who gazed at it in wonder. “Take a good look my friend. You will never see another. The golden toads are gone. The last one was seen in 1989. Hold it. Admire it. Its like will never be among us again, except as a two- dimensional image in a book. If you feel sorry for it, well you should -- but multiply your sorrow by a thousand. No, by ten thousand. That is the sorrow I feel -- for every animal pushed to extinction before its time. The golden toad is no different from the tiger or cheetah. It is only one of many species that will meet its doom in your very own lifetime. Unless..., unless people like you come along and make some changes. “Listen to me, my friends. This is my battle cry and you will hear it from me again and again. If you think the discomfort of salt on your tongue is painful, it is nothing compared to the bitterness, the emptiness, the bleakness of a barren Earth. You must not let this happen. You are the chosen ones. The saviors. I believe, deep in my soul, everyone here feels a fire of desire to help. I know you do, or you would not be sitting here, honor students majoring in biology. As I said, biology is the study of life, of living things. To be a biologist is to be a disciple of life, a champion of it. “There is a fight out there needing champions. A battle of life and death, but it is also a battle of ethics, a war of intellect, a battle of politics and priorities. And it is all over this central question: is mankind smart enough to co-exist with other life forms, or will he dominate, incarcerate and, eventually, eliminate the complete global ecosystem? Once man was given the Garden of Eden. If things do not change, he will end up with Hell.” Omega paused. His fingers ached, gripping the podium, so tightly his knuckles turned white. It was hard to stop. There was so much he wanted to tell them. How important they were. How much depended on them. But that was a heavy dose of medicine, best given one precious drop at a time, and he had a whole term to do it. For now, the point had been made, the door thrown open, the challenge issued. How he loved this moment, this thing called teaching, this awakening of minds. The importance of it never failed to excite him, or humble him. Its outcome could perhaps re-stabilize the fulcrum of the mighty pendulum, swinging so dangerously off balance. “Students,” he went on, softly, “remember the thirst you have felt this day. Let its discomfort remain in your memory long after you have slaked it.” His voice was earnest now, entreating. “Please remember it. Each and every time you drink a glass of water, remember it. Thirst for knowledge as you have thirsted for water today. Savor it. Prize it. Do not let it slip between your fingers, unused. Find the right glass for it, your special purpose, and take your stand. Make your mark. Let the world be better because you are in it. You are the ones who can make the difference between Eden and hell. You are the saviors. Now, go get your drink. Dismissed.” No one budged. This was a surprise. Omega expected every student to jump and make a dash for the nearest exit, but they didn't. The entire audience sat still, completely and utterly quiet. Then, one student on the back row began to applaud. He stood and clapped and others joined in, until the entire amphitheater of people was on its feet, clapping and whistling. Omega looked startled, a hint of wetness forming on the lids of his eyes. He glanced around and found his three faculty colleagues enthusiastically joining in the applause, broad grins on their faces. He also peered into the back row, focusing on the student who began the applause, narrowing his eyes. The bird boy. Michael Somebody. They made eye contact. To his surprise, a 81
sudden jolt ran through him, electric, confirming, so strong it took his breath away. Was this it? The sign he had been praying for? It was all he could do to maintain his demeanor, gripping the podium to support his trembling knees. The students filed out slowly, a great many stopping on their way, in spite of their thirst, to say 'Thank you,' 'Great lecture,' 'I'm going to love this class!' 'I can't believe it's you!” and the like. Omega returned their compliments with grins and nods, but right now, he wanted only one thing, to speak to the bird boy on the back row. But his adoring audience surrounded him, demanding his attention. Michael did not come down to the front, but merely waited at the back until the room was mostly empty. To Omega‟s disappointment, when they made eye contact one last time, the young man simply waved and walked out. Omega held out his hand. “Wait.…Michael…. ” But the lad was gone. How he would like to have stopped him, run after him, done anything to engage in conversation with him. But Dean Hyden, Derk Long and Annie Groff were there now, offering congratulations, blocking his path. “Excellent presentation,” Hyden said, pounding him repeatedly on the back. “Well done, James!” “Thank you.” Omega said, thinking, Next class. It is all right. He will be back. I will see him again next class. With shaking hands, he gathered his papers and turned off the console panel. Annie Groff noticed what she took for first-day jitters. “There, there, James,” she said, patting his arm. “It's over and you did a superb job. I'm surprised to see you, of all people, so nervous.” “I just wanted to make a good impression on you, Annie,” he said as explanation. “Well, you did. Your words were very ... moving.” “You had me in tears, I'll tell ya,” Derk Long sniffled, melodramatically wiping his eyes on his sleeve, then laughed. “Seriously, James, you were great. My hat's off to you!” Annie Groff cocked her head to one side, as if puzzled. “Where on earth did you get a golden toad, James?” Omega hesitated. “I collect specimens of endangered species.” She eyed him suspiciously. “Ah. I see. And here I thought that was illegal.” “No, no,” he assured her. “I would never take the life of a living creature, nor break any laws, I assure you! However, I do manage, with no small effort and certain connections, to acquire a specimen here and there ... after it is dead of natural causes, of course, …for scientific research.” “Oh.” Groff looked immensely relieved. Omega finished packing his papers and clicked his briefcase shut. “You shall have to come and see my collection. I am keeping it in my office at present,” Omega said, inferring the invitation extended to all present. “I believe I could boast it is quite unique and extremely valuable. Eventually, I would like to put it on exhibit here at the university, with Dean Hyden's permission, and the assurance of adequate security, of course.” “Of course!” Dean Hyden beamed. “What a coup that will be! A prized collection of James Omega on exhibit, here at little old CSU. Very generous of you, Doctor!” Derk Long clapped his hand on Omega's shoulder. “We're heading over to the Lowry Center cafeteria for lunch, James. Join us?” Omega nodded. “Love to. Thank you.” Together, the group of teachers moved up the aisle of the amphitheater, heading for the exit. “I especially loved the metaphor of the water,” Annie added. “Very effective. It'll stick.” “Thank you.” Omega held the door for her and the others.
“You‟re quite the teacher, James,” Hyden said, exiting. “Kept them on the edge of their seats the entire hour. What‟s your secret?” Omega shrugged. “It is all in the tinkle, Bill. All in the tinkle.” With no small satisfaction of a first-day‟s job well done, Dr. James Omega smiled to himself, flicked off the lights, pulled the door closed, and walked away. Ω 83
Chapter 9 The darkness of night spread across the sky outside the Spanish-hacienda mansion like a floating phantom's veil. A few stars, escaping the thickening tendrils of fog, peered in through the windows, where two figures hunched before a flickering fire. Inside, the chime of an ornate clock standing in the corner of the luxurious, formal sitting room struck the hour eleven. Garrin Cross sat in a black leather chair, rolling a smoldering cigar between his thumb and forefinger, eyeing the muscular blond bodyguard seated across from him. “So, it's done, then?” he asked. “Yes. And done well.” The Swede's Arian gray eyes shone like ice under moonlight. “How?” “You want the details?” “Yes. Every last one.” The Swede looked amused. “That's not like you, Cross. You‟re usually a bit, pardon me for saying so, squeamish.” Cross sucked the cigar, caressing it with his lips. “Not this time. This time, I was killed! Well, almost killed,” he corrected. “He fully intended to kill me. Yes, Erik. I want to know exactly what happened to the maggot.” The bodyguard hesitated. “You seem changed since that night, Cross. I can't put my finger on it, but you're different.” “A brush with death can do that to a person,” Cross snapped, narrowing his eyes. “It makes one wiser. Less trusting. Definitely less squeamish. Now, go on. Tell me. Tell me everything.” The Swede shrugged. “All right. I suppose you ought to know what you're paying for.” As Cross listened intently to Erik's account of Yo Chang‟s agonizing death, he lay back and closed his eyes, savoring the feelings of pleasure it awakened in him. To think he had ordered another man's murder and it was carried out with no question or argument. That is power. That is pure power. “I took out the bodyguards, too. Four of them. And Chang's wife and daughter.” Cross sat up, opening his eyes. “Wife and daughter?” Erik frowned. “They were witnesses. I couldn't leave them alive.” “What about the bodies?” “At the bottom of the Bay. They won‟t be coming back up.” “I understand. No loose ends. Well done.” Cross withdrew a well-stuffed envelope from his smoking jacket and pushed it across the coffee table. “This is for your trouble.” The Swede picked it up and placed it, without opening it, in his front jacket pocket. “Thank you.” Cross stood and walked to the immense fireplace, his dark eyes reflecting the glowing firelight. “There are other matters to attend to, now that Chang's out of the picture. I need to pay a visit to a certain senator from California.” “Bob Westland,” Erik said. “Exactly.” Cross paused, considering. “How long have you worked for me now, Erik?”
“Two years, doing the odd job here and there. Almost six months fulltime.” “Yes, well, I believe it's time you were brought more in on what's going on. You've proven yourself trustworthy more than once. And I need another person who can back me up when the time comes. Not just follow orders, but actually make some decisions, if need be. You understand?” The Swede nodded. “I'd like that.” “So would I. I realize I can't be everywhere at once. I need a man like you. Someone with a brain, as well as brawn. And loyalty ... that's key.” A nod of agreement. “Understood.” Cross continued. “The man you just killed was Westland's toughest competition.” “Chang was in politics?” That brought an unexpectedly hearty laugh. “Hardly. The other way around. The politician is into crime. Behind the skirts of his office on Capital Hill, our upright Senator Westland runs a very profitable side-business in black market African goods, selling mostly to Asian markets. Stuff like ancient African artifacts, animal hides, elephant tusks and rhino horns. Westland finances the poachers and I move the merchandise. It's a tricky business ... you have to have a nose for it. By that I mean, you've got to have an inborn instinct who you can trust and who you can't ... an instinct I possess, which is why I know I can trust you.” “I appreciate that.” Cross tapped the ash from his cigar into the fireplace. “Anyway, Westland depends on me to get his African goods sold for the right price, quickly, and with the proper amount of ... discretion. I have contacts all around the East -- Singapore, Hong Kong, Taiwan, Manila, Seoul and Ho Chi Minh City -- places where this particular sort of contraband is most marketable. Private collectors and Asian apothecaries make up the bulk of people I work with.” “What about opium?” Erik asked coolly. Cross grunted. “Uh-uh. Not in the picture. I avoid that messy business like the plague. Very nasty characters in that line of work. And the law. Big bucks are going into enforcement against drug runners nowadays. It's getting harder all the time for those folks to make a decent living and keep themselves out of jail or, even, just stay alive. Deal drugs? No thank you, very much.” In the firelight, Cross's eyes narrowed. “Poaching has all the advantages and none of the disadvantages of running drugs. Yes, there are some occasional hassles with local park rangers, but they are, in general, easily bribed. Westland secretly recruits a fair number of park rangers into his poaching ranks. Simply makes it more profitable for them to hunt the animals than protect them. Plus, there aren't many rangers to begin with. The reserves are poorly-funded and sloppily-run. Certainly not efficient enough to protect such a vast area of hunting grounds.” “And your end of it -- dumping the goods? Is that an easy ride, too?” Cross smiled. “Easy? Yes and no. You must understand, my friend, our line of work has existed in the Orient for centuries. The people I work with have been smugglers and dealers in contraband for generations. To them it is a fine art. No, more than that, a proud family tradition. As long as you provide quality goods and the price is right and you have honor -- -that means they know, if you ever got caught, you would die rather than sing -- you can rest assured the lines will stay open and all will be well. And profitable. Very much an 'I scratch your back, you scratch mine' sort of arrangement. As long as you follow the rules, yes, it‟s easy. If you don‟t, your head may end up on somebody‟s wall someday.” “I see.” The Swede sat back and folded his hands. “How did Chang figure into all this?” 85
The angles of Cross's face, outlined in the fire's glow, suddenly hardened. “Yes, let's talk about Chang. Everything was going very well, for both Westland and me, until he came along. He seemed to come from out of nowhere. Took him less than eight months to get his own business up and going, threatening our sources, underbidding us and, in some cases, pirating our goods. Chang was aggressive and smart. His attempt to undercut Westland almost succeeded. He might have, if he hadn't been stupid and tried to kill me. I guess Chang figured he could inflict the most damage to Westland by taking out his dealer.” “Foolish man.” Erik said. “Not so foolish.” Cross rolled his cigar back and forth between thumb and finger, the movement subtly betraying his anger. “If he had pulled it off and really killed me, Westland would have had no choice but to go to him as my replacement, paying triple the price I charged.” “I see.” Cross shot Erik a sharp look. “I've definitely got to pay the good senator a visit. I'll schedule an appointment with him next week.” “Am I coming?” Cross turned, nodding his head. “Yes, but just for show. No need for muscle, yet. Not unless the good senator refuses my demand for a higher percentage. With this attempt on my life, things just got a lot more risky. I think I deserve a compensatory consideration. The Senator had better agree. I think he will, after the favor we've done him by eliminating his competition. Plus, I'm sweetening my pitch with a subtle, but very powerful, means of persuasion ... Alicia.” The bodyguard grunted. “Then the poor man doesn't have a chance.” Cross turned on him, using the cigar as a pointer to emphasize his words. “If you want to play with the big boys; if you want all the chips on the table to end up in your pile, you find and hire the best -- like Alicia ... and like yourself, Erik.” Erik did not voice but nodded a thank you. Cross continued, “I pay you both well enough for me to expect premium results in return. You, Erik, never disappoint. And Alicia has proven herself very useful in the past.” He hesitated. “But...,” “But?” Cross's fingers ran back and forth over the mantle's sharp rim. “Lately, I've been getting the feeling she's losing her edge. She seems less focused, even dissatisfied. Under the terms of our original agreement, she was willing to do whatever I asked her to do and, in return, she got whatever she wanted from me. A simple contract, yet it worked well enough for both of us. Now, over the last few weeks, she seems ... I don't know ... possessive? I think she wants more of me than I can give.” The Swede sat, frowning down at the floor, “You're a dolt, Cross. Can't you see? She's in love with you.” Cross looked up sharply, then turned toward the Swede, one hand poised motionless, holding the cigar, the other braced on the mantle. He made a dark figure silhouetted against the fire, the tip of his cigar glowing like a tiny red eye. “Poor girl,” he said, tapping ashes into the fire with a flick of his finger. “But I suppose that's not so bad a thing, as long as she doesn't expect me to love her back.” He released a shrewd laugh and the Swede, with a sardonic, sideways smile, shook his head and joined him. Cross's cell phone rang, a jarring interruption of this shared moment of private confessions. Cross took it from his pocket, flipped open the cover and placed it to his ear. “Yes.”
He waited a moment, then said, “Yes. I understand. No problem. Next Thursday at one o'clock will be fine.” He listened a moment longer, then added, “Right. I'll be there,” ending the conversation by snapping the phone shut with a click. Thoughtfully, he stood staring at the fire, then turned toward Erik with a sideways grin. “Guess who that was.” Erik shrugged. “Who?” “Bob Westland. Calling me first. It seems news travels fast.” In the dark shadows atop the Mexican-tiled staircase, Alicia pressed her back against the wall and covered her mouth with her hand. She had envisioned making her entrance down the stairs, melting into the darkened sitting room like a taste of warm, fluid chocolate, shooing the Swede out with a wave of her imperious hand, and seducing her dark master in front of the fireplace with all the skill at her command. She had opened the bedroom door silently, to take him by surprise and stood on the landing. She did not mean to overhear a conversation concerning things she did not want to know about, but she did, beginning with someone named Bob Westland and ending with words and laughter that struck her like a knife. For a long time, she stayed there, her hand stifling the sobs, her eyes spilling tears. She could never have him then, she realized, not his love at any rate; which was the one thing she wanted, the one thing beyond her reach. She clamped her teeth hard together, swallowing a sob, trying to get a grip. Was Garrin Cross worth all this pain? She hadn't always loved him, she thought bitterly. At first, he was merely a fascination, then an opportunity, a chance to escape the grind of coming up with rent for little more than a hovel a few blocks from the Berkeley campus, scrimping from the grocery money to somehow squeeze out tuition for an art class here and there. That was her only choice then; eat or take classes. When you never know when the next painting will sell, and you're always just scraping by, you do what you can to survive. She discovered there was a fairly regular income to be made by selling her body, which she did; but the clientele were usually college boys. Bright, but often younger and poorer than she was. Still it paid the bills, if at the expense of self respect -- a small price to pay to stay in school. Then, by sheer luck and chance, she met Garrin and all that changed. Alicia slumped down in shadows of the hallway landing and wept, remembering. She saw herself as she was on that rainy Sunday afternoon when they first met. She set up her paintings under a store awning, instead of her usual spot on the curb, and sat on a step a short distance away. There she waited, like a lost kitten, wearing tight jean shorts and a body-hugging pale blue top, smoking pot, hoping for a customer -- either for her art or her body, she didn't much care which -- when a limousine drove by, then circled the block and drove by again. She looked up into the darkened, rain-streaked windows as it passed, smiled and waved, thinking, “I can't see who's in there, but he's gotta be rich. I wonder, what would it be like to be rich and ride in a car like that?” To her surprise, the limo pulled to the curb. A moment later a man got out and walked toward her. She well remembered that first time she set eyes on Garrin Cross. He was beautiful, so very beautiful, and elegant, and suave. Her heart nearly flew from her chest. He stopped, admired her artwork, and asked how much she wanted for them. He liked the one of a cougar killing a deer. The big cat's claws raked deeply into bleeding buckskin shoulders, its teeth sunk deeply into a haunch. The roe's head was turned upward, staring over its shoulder at its attacker. What he liked best, the man said, were the deer's eyes -- wild, wide and terrified, yet dulled, as if resigned to its fate; as if it understood struggle was useless, the end was near. 87
“Submission to absolute power,” he said, “its a very potent thing. Very ... arousing. How much?” “Fifty,” she said. He gave her two hundred. She stared at it, unbelieving. He held out his hand. “Come with me.” She looked up at him, her head tilted a little to the side, her breath catching in her throat. The words were neither a question nor a command, but their inference was irresistible. It was the first time she had felt the full potency of power. The man was dripping with it. “Sure,” she said, her voice shaking. “Where?” He looked over her street, her world, and said simply, “Away from here. And if I like you, you'll never have to come back.” “Yes,” she said, and followed him back to the car. A new life began for her in that moment -- fine things, travel, excitement and lustful passion. Since that day, Garrin fed her, clothed her and thrilled her. Then he trained her and used her. No matter. He did, in a way, need her and, as time passed, she realized she was in love with him. It hurt her then, after she realized her feelings for him, to be asked by him to pleasure his clients. She was icing on the cake, the reward for a good deal. At first, she rather enjoyed the effect she was able to have on these wealthy, influential men. It was part of her new life, a kind of heady power, and the immorality of it didn't matter. But later, when her heart told her she was in love, it did. Garrin mattered. His love mattered, like the beating of her heart, like the breathing of her lungs. She never wanted to leave him. More than anything, she wanted him to reciprocate those feelings. She once thought she could make him love her. Tonight, overhearing his talk with Erik, she knew it was all an illusion. The laughter she heard below was a slap across the face, a blow of reality to her hopes. Silently, she straightened and quietly slipped back through the door into the bedroom. She did not turn on the light, but felt her way in the dark to her dresser and opened the top drawer. There were pills inside, pills that made the hurt go away. She shook four into her palm, padded to the lightless bathroom and fumbled in the dark for the drinking glass. She turned on the faucet, filled the glass with cold water and swallowed the pills. For a long time, she held her hands under the cold, running water, her thoughts playing with alternatives and finalities until, at last, her mind began to cloud. She turned off the water and stumbled to the bed, collapsing into a pile of satin pillows, soon stained with tears. “If I push him,” she choked, “he'll detest me. I see that now. But, what shall I do? What can I do?” She turned her face into the bedding and tried to cry her grief away. After a while, her sobs slowed, smothered by a creeping drowsiness. This doubly frustrated her because, although she initially took the drugs to bring forgetfulness, the answer to her question was just starting to come, dim but hopeful, like a distant harbor light glimmering through a chilling mist. Her mind swam toward it. “All right, then,” she mumbled, struggling against the ever-deepening desire to sleep, “I'll back off. I have to. And I've got to be strong ... can't let him see how much he's killing me. As long as I'm useful, he won't send me away. And I know how to be useful.” The last thought she had was, “I'll find a way. I'll find a way to reach him. I can't go back to what I was. There's no other life for me. Somehow, I'll find a way to stay.” She reached up and fumbled with a delicate gold chain around her neck, rubbing the diamond pendant between her fingers like a child with a blanket until sleep came at last.
Ω James Omega sat cross-legged on a Montana mountaintop, back propped against the stump of a fallen fir tree. Squinting his eyes, he gazed out at a sunset that appeared, as Montana sunsets so often do, to set the horizon on fire. While the lights on the heavenly stage gradually changed from chaotic orange to somber lavender, his hand idly stroked the ears of a red fox. The fox did not appear to notice the dazzling light show. It just lay splayed across Omega‟s lap, eyes half-closed in contentment, docile as a lapdog. Omega loved to watch the rising and the setting of the sun, and he made it a point to see both as often as possible. In them, he could experience the motion of Earth turning beneath him and observe the heaven dancing bright with her gypsy shawls around a solar bonfire. This never failed to inspire him, nor to quiet his mind when he was worried or perplexed. The old biologist also loved the big sky country of Montana, with a special fondness for the Gallatin River Valley. He chose to be here this particular evening because he had not visited the area for some time. No better spot, he thought, to refresh the soul and clear the mind. He scratched between the fox's shoulders. It responded with a stretch and a sort of appreciative purr. He gave it an affectionate pat on its rump. “Off with you now,” he said. “You have a family to feed, while I have much to think about and must be left alone to do it.” The fox bounded, soft-pawed, to the ground and, with only a brief backward glance, disappeared into the woods. Omega, watching it leave, rubbed his beard. Michael Johns, he thought. What to do about Michael Johns? That was the bird boy's name. Yes, he quite remembered it now. A week had passed since the peanut lecture and the electric shock he felt on making eye contact with Michael. Surely the feeling was an affirmation. Surely, the Shepherd had been found! At that moment, Omega had wanted nothing more than to rush over and throw his arms around the boy. Tell him that he was just the person he wanted most to see in the whole wide world. Tell him that you had a mission for him. An opportunity to do something amazing, beyond his wildest dreams! Omega chuckled. Probably a darned good thing he did not get to do that. Putting himself in the boy‟s place, the old man imagined how he would feel if some wild-eyed professor, whom he had only known a day, came over and gave him a big hug. At best, it would have been very strange and awkward. Completely inappropriate. You would think your professor was … well, any number of things came to mind. None of them favorable. No, there was a time and place for everything. The telling must be done very carefully. It must be arranged in detail and executed with patience and a certain amount of cunning. Although there was a tremendous pressure to hurry, the acquisition of the Shepherd for his fold was a task which would take time. Then, he paused. Was he getting ahead of himself? Was this boy really the one? In his fervor, was he jumping to conclusions over a chance meeting beside a remote highway? Think, old fool. Think! he warned himself. Where were the signs? If Michael Johns was the truly the one he sought, there would certainly be signs. The old man picked up a stick and idly traced patterns in the ground as he thought over their first meeting on that rainy afternoon. That he and the hawk and Michael Johns were all in the same place at the same time, that they should—literally—run into each other like that, had to be more than mere coincidence. After all, it could have been anyone who had hit the hawk, but it was a boy on his way to CSU, with the specific, expressed desire to become Omega‟s student. He recalled 89
Michael‟s comments about discovering how Omega was at Ft. Collins through a former high school teacher and how he had decided, on the spot, to transfer to CSU. That scenario, as Michael told it, had also seemed strangely contrived. That Mrs. Crandall just happened to hear Omega lecture, that she just happened to mention it to Michael, who had just happened to want to see her that morning, although he did not know why, couldn‟t all have just happened out of the blue. These were signs! Omega felt strongly he had been led to CSU and ,just as strongly, that Michael had been led to him. The powers that forge spirit to spirit had brought them together. The electrifying jolt he felt in the lecture room was a divine confirmation. . But what of Michael Johns? Did the lad have any inkling that this series of events was guiding him toward his eternal destiny? Not likely. Yet, the lad admitted he felt a prompting, a feeling in his gut, and had acted upon it. That, Omega was certain, showed he was in touch with the spiritual threads, ignorant of them though he may be. That he had already taken that first step of faith, boded well. Omega threw down the stick, rose to his feet, eagerly rubbing his hands. His heart was pounding. It must be him! It must! For several moments, he paced back and forth kicking leaves, fairly dancing a jig. A squirrel from an overhead branch, scolded. Omega looked up at it, feeling sheepish. Forgive me, whisk-tail, he sent. I must seem a bit crazy to you. But I cannot help it! I am very happy at the moment. Very, very happy! And the great James Omega, world-renowned scientist held in the highest esteem by millions, reputed as one of the greatest intellects of the age among the scientific community, threw his arms out wide and spun around and around like a schoolgirl in a new Sunday petticoat, laughing, until he finally collapsed on the ground on a carpet of leaves. The squirrel, now thoroughly vexed, gave the last word, a long, sharp, berating trill, then scampered off through the branches to a safer part of the forest where there were no crazy two- legged creatures creating havoc in the underglade. For a time, Omega sat in silence on the mould, slowly composing his thoughts. He rubbed his forehead. There was so much to plan, now that the person desperately sought for so long was found. Firstly, how should he approach the young man and inform him of his destiny? How could he tell this innocent farm boy what he now needed to know without scaring him off? This was no Boy Scout outing he would be signing up for. It was an ordeal. Oh yes, a great honor, but an ordeal nonetheless, fraught with danger and hardship. Well Omega knew, if he were in the lad‟s shoes, he would think the whole thing was, well, as a rancher would put it, the excrement of a cow. I will begin by making him my friend, Omega decided. I will be his mentor and, in time, his confidant. Before I can tell him anything, he must trust me. And I must trust him, Omega added as a note to himself. I must know the raw materials of soul I am starting with. I need to assess the lad‟s capabilities -- intellectual, emotional and spiritual -- as well as his strength of commitment, his intuition and his openness of mind. Can he accept new ideas? That is essential! If I am to mold this boy into my elect protégé, I need to know his strengths, his weaknesses. I need to know him as a son. I expect, if the boy is the Shepherd, he will come already equipped with the basic values in place, Omega reasoned. The Maker will have prepared him and shaped him, given him a worthy share of life experiences to toughen him, to build his character. The Maker does that well. If Michael is the Shepherd, he will already know the value of hard work and enjoy it. He will understand the necessity of getting a thing done, no matter what it takes to do it. And he will be honest. Once he gives his word, he will fulfill his oath or die. Reliability. Fortitude. These are the virtues I expect to find in Michael Johns.
And now, it all would fall to him, Omega realized, to take this uncut jewel and hone it to perfection. It was his responsibility to show the lad who he was and what he was meant to do, to set his feet on a marvelous, perilous journey, from which he would never return. It was to be his burden, and his joy, to hand the Shepherd his staff. This mission would certainly prove as daunting for the teacher as for student. Nevertheless, Omega could not help feeling a surge of exhilaration at the thought. There must be tests. In addition to his education in biological science, Omega must guide other aspects of Michael‟s development, just as important. How well could Michael handle decision-making and leadership roles, for instance? Omega eagerly planned to provide the lad with several rigorous opportunities to do just that. If the boy passed muster, as Omega believed he would, then the serious training would begin. Now that would be when the real fun began! Omega grinned, but at the same time, felt a surge of urgency. There was so much to do and so little time! The old man rose to his feet and looked upward. Night now draped the heavens in a silk of dark indigo and the first stars were forming in its folds: Venus, his favorite planet, ruby Arcturus, haughty, silver Vega, bright, blue Deneb, and ice-white Altair—twinkled down at him as he stared back in awe. The last three stars formed a huge arrowhead pointing southward. He recognized it at once as the Summer Triangle. It was one of his favorite constellations. But James Omega knew it by another name, taught him in his youth. Heaven's Compass, it was called by his people, for it aimed directly at the center of the galaxy, the throne of God, the heart of spiritual creation. His eyes moved to another constellation at the point of the Triangle. Set with Altair, its alpha star, as its shining avian eye, a mighty thunderbird spread a wingspan of a thousand light years across the heavenly expanse. Aquila, Omega whispered reverently, staring at the breath-taking sight. To the Greeks—the great eagle, messenger of Zeus. To the Anasazi, Itto-ak-sii, the wise Hawk lord, protector of the brave of heart. But, to me, thou art Michael the Archangel. Michael, the valiant, who led the costly fight that defeated Satan and cast him from grace. Great was the victory of that feat! But alas! For the souls who joined the Fallen One and were lost with him forever, great was the sorrow. For a long moment, the old biologist's eyes lingered on the stellar image, admiring the form of the mightiest cherubim of all, wings unfurled, ever the watchman over the sons and daughters of Earth, ever the foe of evil. Omega shivered. A sudden fog creeping silently up the mountain was slowly engulfing the grove where Omega stood. One by one, the stars were swallowed and winked out. Ah, Great Angel, Omega whispered, as an unwelcome foreboding stirred in his heart, I hold in my hands another Michael-- destined to take his place as one of the great ones. I fear the powers of evil will be no less a foe to him than to thee. He will have no less a battle of wits, virtue and courage to try his soul. Either he will succeed, and the Plan goes forward, or fail, and all I have worked for these many years is lost. There are no guarantees he will win. O Michael, Great Soul! For so long I have sought him and, now that he is here, I worry. I worry. When his time comes, when the wolves attack, will my young shepherd be victorious as thou, or will he die as suddenly as an exploding star, bright, bright, bright … but gone? A brief flash of glory, then … nothing. Huddling his arms against his body to ward off the fog‟s chill, James Omega stood in cold forest solitude, head bowed. It had all seemed so right when the stars were shining above him. He had felt the thrill of great hope and anticipation. Everything seemed to be falling in place. His long-sought prize was real and within his grasp. His plan was being guided by Maker‟s hand. But, now, darkness obscured heaven‟s light and the reality of what lay before him sank in. Well he knew, whenever goodness put up a tender shoot, the heavy foot of evil would rise to smash it. He 91
must secure his treasure, test him, train him and arm him before the enemy found out. All must be done efficiently, correctly and expeditiously. Omega gave a parting glance skyward, hoping for one last view of the stars. There was nothing but fog and darkness. He reminded himself, even though he couldn‟t see them, the stellar pillars were still there, strong, bright, everlasting. This gave him some solace. But in his heart he knew the truth. Make no mistake about it. As soon as the identity of the Shepherd became known, the wolves would come. Ω You are invited to continue reading in Book 1 of the White Circle Trilogy: Omega’s Shepherd

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Omega's shepherd part 1

  • 1. 1
  • 2. The White Circle Trilogy: Book 1 OMEGA’S SHEPHERD By JT Brewer white.circle@yahoo.com
  • 3. This book is a work of fiction. Naming, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Text copyright © 2011 by Judeen and Terry Brewer All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Cover design © 2011 by Christopher D. Brewer 3
  • 4. Prologue: Hell’s Son The spirit slept. But this sleep brought no repose, only darkness and pain. In Hell, sleep offers no rest. No peace is found there. No comfort. No relief. No escape. Waking or sleeping, the spirit knew only the dark cocoon of its hellish cage, hung in a sunless cavern filled with unbearable stench, smothering despair, and screams -- the lullaby of the damned. Still mannish in shape, even after its long absence from a body of flesh, bone, and blood, the spirit‟s body was ethereal as smoke; little more than a shadow of the splendid physical being it had once been in mortality. Hell is, after all, a spiritual realm where things of corporal nature exist only in memory. Even the web-like shackles that held the spirit bound for centuries were of no mortal make. They were forged not of iron, nor steel, but of something far stronger -- a total domination of will. In Hell, all is relinquished at the Gates. There are no choices, no freedom of will; only submission to the One True Lord. Other than the mad wailing of fellow inmates, the spirit had no sense of anything or anyone outside of itself. It never spoke to nor saw any other being. Regret was its only food, misery its only companion. It did not eat, nor see, nor even breathe. While asleep, its mind sought out its own dark paths, wandering in twisted imaginings. While awake, its thoughts invariably fixated on events producing the most pain, memories of a previous mortality it could relive over and over a thousand, thousand times but never amend. Stripped of all other belongings, the spirit clung passionately to its hatred and fury, but was given no way to wield them, no way to remold the clay of its torment. “I, Qeoc-neh-qiti, once greatest of prophets, the icon of power, am powerless,” it would moan, gnashing at its bonds without hope, and in this despair centuries passed by. Then, into this bleak eternity, at the eve of one more endless day, a summons came. The spirit heard a voice, distant yet distinct, cold as night, hot as a falling star. The voice said, simply, “Come to me.” Its cage fell to the ground like a drop of blood and burst open. The spirit lay dazed, but as air slowly filled its lungs, a resurgence of all its physical senses came rushing back in one electrifying surge. At first the spirit could not, dared not move, but the impossible reality of its new situation became more definite and it began clawing frantically to free itself from the black, spidery webbings that bound its legs and wrists. Astonishingly, for the first time in reply to all its railings against them they had broken, crackling like paper, falling away as ash, and the spirit felt an overpowering sense of liberation as the stranglehold on its will was released. The bonds of endless ages were broken. With a hiss, it slowly, warily uncoiled until it could stand erect. Lifting its head, it opened two flint-like eyes and blinked once or twice. There was no sight in the impenetrable darkness. No matter, it thought. It did not need to see. The One True Master had called and that was enough. Why this was,
  • 5. the spirit did not know nor question. In Hell, one simply obeyed. It was enough to accept that the Master knew all that needed knowing. When it suited Him, the spirit would be told the reason for his summons. Until then, unthinking acquiescence would show the way. The spirit immediately sensed where to go and began on its way, fear guiding it like a scent trail through a pitch-black labyrinth. It stumbled at first. After a near-millennium of disuse its limbs were annoyingly dysfunctional and movement was incredibly slow. It took some time to coordinate movement, to contemplate the motion of walking then figure out how the appropriate action was to be brought about. Only after some humiliating but progressive trial and error could it make any real progress on its journey, fighting with each movement to gain control over its gangly shufflings. Pausing frequently on its journey, leaning against anything it could find for support, it took time to catch its breath; for, indeed, the simple act of breathing was also a skill it needed to relearn. As strength gradually returned, its excitement also grew. It was being called to duty! This was a good thing, it thought, a very good thing; perhaps the only good thing to be found in all of Hell. The spirit knew the Great One could be generous if He was pleased. There would be a reward for success surely and perhaps, just perhaps, a chance for redemption. In its black heart, the spirit knew its time had come at last. Ω 5
  • 7. Chapter 1 A green valley flanked by the jagged mountains of the Salt River Range of western Wyoming lay in slumber beneath a full moon. Lights of small farmhouses and barns twinkled like bright stars among the night-washed fields. All was quiet, except for a few coyotes taken by sudden obsession to howl. Their voices wafted over the pastures and up the hillsides like a poignant, homeless wind looking for company, then disappeared somewhere out of hearing and out of mind. An owl, cocked and ready on its pine-hidden perch, blinked sharp amber eyes, eager to sustain its life by taking another‟s. Beneath its perch padded a skunk, unaware and unconcerned, as skunks are apt to be, about anything but themselves. A red fox, nose low to the ground, ears alert, trotted swiftly along the edge of an alfalfa meadow toward a distant dairy barn, hoping a carelessly-latched gate on the nearby henhouse might provide it with an opportunity. Disappointingly, it found all was secure when it reached its destination. It would have to search elsewhere in this moonlit night for a meal to feed its kits. Suddenly, a loud “mmaaahhh!” emanated from inside the barn. Startled, the fox tucked its tail and scurried off, disappearing behind a mountain of baled hay. A silent figure stood watching beneath the dappled shadows of a small grove of aspen. All is well in this valley, the stranger thought to himself with a wistful smile. The creatures move in their spheres of dominion, as each should. Life abounds, takes, gives, and revels in itself. „Tis a pleasant spot, this -- a comforting place -- rare in this old, gray world. Would that all my pastures were as green. The figure turned as if to go, then paused, cocking his head. Yet, I almost sense … something reaches to me here. What? Who? He stood for some time, still and thoughtful. Hm. My imagination, I expect, he concluded, shaking his head. Off with you, old fool! There are other needs pressing. This is not a night to get distracted from your duties. The moon ducked behind a playful wisp of cloud and, as the light over field and thicket dimmed, the figure beneath the trees vanished as quietly as he had come. Ω Michael Johns awakened suddenly in the middle of the night and sat bolt upright. From the barn fifty feet away, he could hear a cow bawling. He heard his father stir in the bedroom across the hall and call, “Michael?” Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Michael checked the time on the big, wind-up clock at his bedside. Three a.m. A moment later his father called again weakly, “Michael?” Michael already had his boots on. “Go back to sleep, Dad. I'm on my way.” He finished dressing, scrubbed his hands and arms at the kitchen sink, and made it to the barn in less than five minutes. He hated to leave his father alone, even for a few minutes, but both of them 7
  • 8. understood that when a $5,000 registered dairy cow is ready to calf, and her baby's worth at least another $500 before it hits the ground, a rancher has to be there. She was well into it when Michael arrived, with part of the calf's head crowning. Michael could see right away that the angle of the head wasn't quite right. If he couldn't get the calf twisted around the right way, the mother's strong contractions might damage her defenseless offspring before it was born. Quickly smearing lubricant from fingers to elbows, he knelt beside the straining cow, and gently slid one arm deep into her birth canal. Between every contraction, he worked to turn the young one's body and head. When he was satisfied with the calf‟s position, he waited for the next contraction and pulled the calf forward with all his might, encouraging both animals as he worked. “Push, Becky, you old bucket-kicker,” he said through gritted teeth. “You can do it. Come on, Calf. Don't make your mama and me do all the work. You gotta put out at least a little bit of effort to get into this world! A dark, wet nose appeared. With one hand, Michael cleared out the calf‟s nostrils and with the other, guided the head. Becky loudly announced the coming of the next contraction. Then, suddenly, the head was out, its eyes wide open. They looked right into Michael's, brown-to- brown, spirit-to-spirit, and blinked. Michael could not help but laugh, then braced himself for the next step. Reaching deep into the birth canal, Michael slipped his hands past the calf‟s neck, grabbing its shoulders. He took a great breath and held it, waiting for the next contraction, tightening his stomach, his arms, his back, his legs into one straining halter of muscle, bent on a single purpose -- bringing that calf into mortality, head to tail. With a loud protest and a final, desperate effort from Becky, the calf pumped forward, greased with birth fluids. The calf fell into Michael's arms, plastering him with blood, mucus and afterbirth. His knees buckled under the weight and they both fell backwards in the hay, Michael still holding the newborn. Becky bent her head around with a wild-eyed stare and called her calf. Its body lay heavy on top of Michael's chest for a moment as they both rested from their mutual effort, but it was not long before it began squirming out of his grasp, just missing Michael‟s face as it kicked with its tiny, but sharp, front hoof. “Happy Birthday, Calf! Welcome to the world!” Michael said with a grin, and let it go. Becky was immediately on her feet, gently nosing her offspring. Over the next several minutes, Michael watched the mother lick the newborn clean and the little one struggle to find its footing on wobbly legs. Within ten minutes the calf was up and able to make its way over to its mother's udder. Sitting back in the hay, his arms covered with blood up to the shoulders, Michael wearily, but happily, watched the mother inspect the calf proudly as it butted and slurped at her teat. He would allow them to stay together only a few days and then he would separate them. The calf would be bottle-fed. But for the moment, all three were content to let nature take its course. Seeing birth on the Wyoming ranch was a thing Michael Johns had witnessed time and again, but the miracle of it never diminished. He came to his feet, dusted the hay off his clothes, and began cleaning up the mess around him. When he was finished, he looked at his watch; a half-hour, barely, till the other cows would need milking. Just time enough to clean himself up and make a quick check on his father. Walking through the blackness of a morning not yet dawned, he opened the screen door and went straight to the deep, metal, back-porch sink to scrub clean. He stripped off his shirt and bent under the pump-handle faucet, letting the stream of warm water splash on his face, arms, and chest. The brisk, cold air that tingled his skin afterward and the wholesome smell of soap filled him with
  • 9. exultation. He had just brought a new life into the world. It was going to be a beautiful morning. His father would be glad to know the birthing had gone well. He pushed open the back door and strode into the kitchen. “Dad,” he called, mounting the stairs up to the bedrooms. “Dad, you should have seen old Becky. She was telling the whole world... ” The words broke off as soon as he looked through the open door to his father's bed. His father‟s eyes were closed, his hands folded peacefully on his chest, but somehow, even through the shadows of the darkened room, Michael knew he was gone. His father's pain was over. Quickly, he walked to the side of the bed, knelt down, and took Robert John's limp hand in his own, holding it tenderly. It was still warm, but completely lifeless. “Oh, Dad, I'm sorry,” Michael choked, realizing that after all the months of constant, loving care, when the final moment came, he hadn‟t been there. “I‟m so sorry I wasn't here to say good-bye.” Tears streamed down his face. He gently stroked his father‟s leathery hands, and tenderly rubbed the square, stubbled cheek. Memories came flooding back, the special times he‟d spent with the man who now lay so still and gaunt upon the bed beside him. Up until the cancer, Robert Johns had been a robust, big-hearted, hard-working, loving parent entirely devoted to three things; his son, his ranch, and enjoying life. He preached his philosophy of life by example: work hard, but when it‟s done, you get to play. In his book, both were equal ingredients in the recipe for happiness. Robert Johns lost his wife when Michael was still a little fellow and spent the rest of his life in her sorely-felt absence determined to provide the best he could for his son. That included giving his all to the hard, day-after-day labor to build up a well-run, profitable dairy ranch his boy would someday inherit. Michael learned at his father‟s side the value of sweat and toil, but also to make every spare minute away from it count just as much. “Ya better like what ya do, son,” he heard his father say a hundred times, “because you‟re gonna spend most your life doin‟ it. But remember,” he would add with a grin, “work‟s the thing we do to support our fun habit.” While growing up, Michael was never far from his father‟s heels and his father, in turn, spent every moment he could spare with his boy. There had been fishing trips every weekend in summer, hunting trips every fall and, in winter, they never missed a chance to take out the snowmobiles. Oh, if Michael had a dollar for every time they rode horses up the canyon to pick chokeberries for jelly and syrup! If he could have a dime for every time they chopped wood, practiced lasso tricks, or roasted wieners over a campfire! How he yearned for one more hike together to some lake hidden high in the peace and solitude of the Salt River Range, to spend the day telling jokes, singing old songs passed down from father to son since the days of Robert‟s grandfather, or just plain lying back against a tree watching the clouds change shape. If there was ever a good life lived, Robert Johns was the man who lived it. Michael, suddenly overcome, put his head in his hands and wept. He cried a long while in that quiet room, mourning a good parent‟s love bitterly lost and feeling keenly the silent, emptiness in the room. Gradually, the sobs subsided. Michael lifted his head and roughly wiped his eyes. “At any rate,” he whispered, looking down at the face he loved so well, “you‟re free now, Dad. It was a long, hard haul, but you're past it now. No more pain. No more grinding your teeth because you can't lend a hand. You look peaceful. You should. You deserve your rest. Go tie up a fly and find a big rainbow waiting for you under the riffles in God‟s river. God knows you earned it.” Michael cleared his throat and attempted a smile, but it caught on the way out and only served to make his mouth twitch. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “Don't worry, Dad. You know I'll be all right. You taught me all I need to know. Whatever happens, whatever I become, if it turns out good, it'll be because of you.” 9
  • 10. The ache arose again. Michael fought it this time, not willing to give in to the emptiness, the grief the hole in his heart demanded. He had known the end was coming, but God Almighty, he wasn't ready for it yet. This man had been everything to him and there were so many things he still needed to say. But now, the chance for words was gone. Knowing this, Michael continued talking aloud, sure his father would somehow hear. “We made quite a team all these years, didn't we, old man? We can both be right proud of this place. Prettiest little dairy ranch in Star Valley. There are a lot of people besides me who‟d say so.” He hesitated. “I hope you'll understand, Dad, but I have to let it go. This ranch was your life, not mine. I don't know what's out there waiting for me on the other side of these hills, but something in my gut says I'm not supposed to stay here. Now that you‟re gone, it's time to find my own purpose, to figure out why I‟m on this planet.” One last time, Michael pulled the faded Indian blanket up to his father‟s chest and brushed back a few wisps of gray-streaked hair from the forehead that now lay smooth and full of peace, unfurrowed by pain at last. He sat back on his heels, gazing at the man in the bed, trying to comprehend the fact that the ordeal was really over. In the first hours of that yet-unborn day, Michael Johns had held close the face of both life and death. It seemed a long mile of barbed-wire eternity between the two. A ray of sunlight peeked through a crack at the window. Outside, a rooster crowed. Michael rose, strode across the room and threw open the curtains. The young rancher could see the colors of a gentle dawn sky ripening to sunrise. A soft quietness settled over him and, with it, comfort. This was what life was, his father taught him. A lot of stuff you didn't like but were forced to deal with. The alternative, to let life defeat you, was cowardice, and that was unacceptable. His father had lived a full, robust, wonderful life doing what he loved most. There should be no regrets at his passing and Michael knew his father would understand about him leaving the ranch. Robert Johns had worked his whole life to make his life his own. Robert Johns understood about finding dreams. With this thought, Michael lifted his shoulders and took in a deep breath, square to his decision, ready to face whatever consequences his choice would hold for him. The farm and his life here was as good as over. It was time to move on. “Yes…, I hear the cows bawling, Dad,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Don‟t worry. I‟m on it. By the way, I'll call Pete Grover this morning and we'll get the funeral set up. We'll do it simple, the way you'd like.” He started to go, but stopped with his hand on the door and turned back. “Oh, Dad? Be sure to stop by the barn and see Becky's new calf.” He added, smiling. “She's a beauty.” With that, Michael Johns turned and walked out of the room, closing the door on all the certainty he had ever known. Ω Colorado State University is located comfortably in the lap of Fort Collins, a pleasant community in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains some sixty miles north of Denver. The University offers its student body of 28,000 a high standard of academic excellence and a laid-back venue of academic pursuit. Outside of class, there are mountains with plenty of fresh air, hiking and biking trails. The city of Fort Collins, itself, offers good restaurants, bookstores, coffee shops, theaters, art galleries, gardens, museums and three golf courses, basically all the amenities treasured as part of the Colorado lifestyle. In short, hidden from the world at large by the Rocky Mountains that enfold it, Fort Collins is a perfect oyster, and Colorado State University, its pearl.
  • 11. Most weekends this late during spring term would find the CSU campus quiet and deserted. Some students could perhaps be found studying in the library; there might be an open-air concert in the center green, or a lecture series presented by a visiting academic dignitary; but there were usually relatively few participants. In general, the students found their off-campus week-end options in the warm April weather to be much more stimulating than whatever might be happening on campus. On this otherwise rosy day of daffodils and tulips, the atmosphere inside the boardroom for visiting dignitaries in the Administration building was dim, stifling, and palpably tense. Despite the gracious surroundings of walnut-paneled walls, overstuffed chairs and a highly-polished cherry-wood conference table, the five people seated there were highly agitated, and the conversation going on between them was far from genteel. Bill Hyden, dean of the Department of Agricultural and Biological Sciences, sat at the head of the table, plump and red-faced, drumming his fingers. Across the room from him, standing next to a large, salt-water aquarium, was Dr. Frank Curnow, professor of zoology, running his index finger across the glass, tracing the meandering path of a blue-striped sergeant major fish. Curnow, lean as an asp in his impeccable tweed blazer, bald but for a horseshoe ring of dark hair, wore a crusty frown. "Explain to me exactly,” he said acidly to his colleagues seated across the room, “why the famous James Omega would condescend to come to Colorado State University? To someone like him, we‟re nothing more than a doghouse with flea-bit credentials.” Curnow‟s eyes turned to focus on Annie Groff. She sat to the right of Dean Hyden, her back straight as an arrow, eyes keen as its point and glaring straight back at Curnow. Annie was an impressive woman. At age thirty-five, she held two PhD‟s and was the assistant dean of the department. Annie was as beautiful as she was brilliant, but some, especially Curnow, might say she seemed all the more untouchable because of her perfection. “I agree with Bill,” she said. “If James Omega applies out of the blue for a position on our faculty, then we should be thanking our lucky stars.” “Well, something doesn‟t fit,” Curnow continued crossly, taking her comment as a personal rejection. “If he really wants to get away from the University of Chicago, the man could take his pick of any Ivy League school or even go abroad. Oxford, Edinburgh, you name it. They'd take him faster than a rattlesnake could kiss my butt and no questions asked.” "No self-respecting reptile would lower itself to kiss your butt, Frank," Annie sniped. CSU‟s lanky professor of animal husbandry from Texas, Derkston Long, known to everyone present as Derk, grinned from across the table at Annie and added in his lazy drawl, “Not so, Annie. Frank‟s got snakes waitin‟ in line to kiss his butt!" Annie smiled back. Curnow grunted and rolled his eyes. The last person on the committee was petite, gray-haired Dr. Juliet Marsh. Standing at full height she was little more than four foot ten and was usually a soft-spoken, gracious woman whose grandmotherly appearance belied the nickname her students called her behind her back: “Grandma the Hun.” Curnow viewed her as an oddity: the sort who could smile at you while kicking you in the shins; a sort of chocolate chip cookie made with gravel instead of chips. Oddly, Juliet seemed a bit dreamy on this occasion. She glided into the conversation like some giddy, summer cloud that had no sense the other clouds about it were brooding up a storm. “Oh, but don‟t you think Dr. Omega is good-looking on camera,” she said breathlessly. “He‟s a very handsome man for his age, don‟t you think? And very dignified. I can hardly wait to meet him!” 11
  • 12. Annie smiled and answered her elderly colleague fondly, “Yes, Juliet. James Omega does have, shall we say, a presence. If he joins our faculty, we may just have to fight over him later.” She glanced at Curnow, a wicked twinkle in her eye. “Please, spare us!” he groaned as he strode to the conference table, yanked out a chair, and plopped into his seat. Curnow took out his Blackberry and tapped open his email. He knew Annie hated his reading email during meetings and a sharp look from her told him he better put it away. He smiled challengingly and called up his first message. "I've already met him once," Annie said casually, purposely turning her back to Curnow. "You have?" Juliet gasped. “Mm-hm.” Annie was slyly watching Curnow‟s reaction out of the corner of her eye. I‟ve heard him lecture several times and was even introduced to him once.” "Well?” Juliet pressed. “What's he like?" Annie reflected. "Impressive. Great speaker. Has the audience eating out of his hand in no time. Of course, if you‟ve watched his Vanishing Eden series on PBS, you already know that.” “Yes, we already know that,” Curnow monkey-echoed under his breath. Juliet took no notice. “He's got to be a marvelous teacher, then! I mean if he's as much at ease in front of a live audience as he is before a TV camera, he‟d be a whiz in a classroom, wouldn‟t he?” She nervously patted at her stiffly-sprayed coiffure. “You‟d hope so,” Derk put in. “But not necessarily. Some people can be as smart as a whip, have four or five degrees hangin‟ on their wall, but you get „em in a classroom and they're borin‟ as a beaker.” His eyes caught Annie‟s and glanced sideways in Curnow‟s direction. Annie caught the jibe but was not about to be diverted from her point. “But Omega‟s not like that, Derk. He‟s the real thing.” Juliet squeezed her arm. “So what is he like, Annie? I mean, as a person.” Annie thought a moment then said, “Well, I know his students at the University of Chicago adored him.” “I heard,” Derk butted in, “some people say he's a bit of an odd duck.” Curnow gave a short, nasty snicker. “Everyone is entitled to their opinion,” Annie went on, “but when we met I found him lucid, articulate, very ... interesting. I must admit, my heart fluttered a bit when he shook my hand." Juliet gasped, “Oh Annie. Lucky you!” “Really,” Curnow muttered, still tapping away at his Blackberry, “isn‟t he a bit elderly for you, Annie?” “There are plenty of women who think age improves a man,” Annie defended herself , “A lot can be said for ... experience.” “That‟s right,” Derk spoke up. “A good stud horse'll keep the mares happy long after he's quit the racetrack.” Annie laughed outright, but Juliet's face turned bright red. She removed her glasses and began wiping them on her sleeve. “Bless me, my glasses keep fogging up. Isn't it hot in here?” Dean Hyden cleared his throat, his face even redder than usual. “We‟re getting sidetracked, people. Let‟s get back to the discussion at hand. In a few moments, James Omega is going to walk through that door. You may ask him any questions you like. When you‟re finished, we will dismiss him while we arrive at our decision. But while you‟re at it, I just want to remind everyone that President Hewitt called me personally this morning on this matter. He‟s delighted by the whole thing and is highly in favor of it. That should be a guide for our decision, I think.” Curnow snapped to attention. "I can see everyone is all in a heat over the great James Omega. But remember one thing, people, before you all go into a molt from your adrenaline rush; the university
  • 13. is not rich. Our financial resources are limited. Do you want some money-guzzling celebrity to gobble it all up? Guess whose budgets and salary will take the hit?" This produced an awkward hush. “Is that true?” Juliet leaned forward with a look of consternation. “Will someone‟s position be threatened? Will we have to take a cut in pay if Dr. Omega…?” “Juliet, nothin‟ Curnow ever says is exactly true,” Derk reassured her. “He just likes to yell wolf whenever he gets the chance. Pay no attention.” “You‟ll see,” Curnow snapped. “The minute Omega moves in, one of us moves out!” “Calm down, people,” Dean Hyden commanded. “I expect some decorum at these proceedings.” “Frank,” Annie said sternly, “you obviously have reservations about Omega. Let‟s get the wash out in the air to dry. What exactly have you got against him?” Curnow, happy at last to be handed the gavel, cleared his throat. "I just want you to think, people, instead of going all mushy in the cerebellum just because the man‟s a celebrity. Reality check. First of all, what has CSU got to attract a man of Omega‟s caliber?" "Now just a minute, Frank," the Texan responded in an offended tone. "CSU is a damned good school and you know it. In the field of Animal Sciences, we‟re one of the best in the country! We have nothing to be ashamed of.” “Here, here!” Dean Hyden cried. “It certainly appears James Omega thinks CSU's good enough for him. He‟s the one who initiated his application, isn‟t he? Can‟t you understand, Frank, that when a man like this comes knocking at the door, we can hardly look a gift horse in the mouth?” “Specially if he‟s a thoroughbred!” Derk put in. Curnow coughed and looked up from his email. “Omega‟s not a thoroughbred, he‟s an egotist. My word, I can't stand this idol-worship mentality! He's just a biologist, not a demigod! No more dedicated to his profession than you or me. Damn it, people! Why do we have to endure all this theatrical hype?” Annie closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “Frank, you‟re a real peach.” “Now don‟t you give me that high and mighty attitude, Annie,” Curnow sputtered. “As a member of this committee I have the same rights to express my concerns as anybody else. You want to talk about my reservations? Okay, let‟s talk. Let‟s talk about the biggest bug of all on Omega‟s windshield: the mongoose. What about the god-damned mongoose?” Annie shook her head. “That soup is stone cold, Frank. Water under the bridge.” “Well, I think not.“ Curnow‟s eyes flashed, “I think it weighs heavily on this committee to remember two years ago your amazing Dr. James Omega claimed to have genetically-engineered the birth of a red-banded mongoose, re-introducing an animal extinct since 1943.” Annie sighed. “Yes, Frank, everyone here reads the papers and listens to the news just like you do. We all remember the mongoose. What about it?” Curnow‟s lips tightened. “Fraud was implied, I believe. Nasty little word, fraud. I would hate to see CSU find itself in a fix on account of James Omega the way the University of Chicago did, that‟s all.” “What you gettin‟ at, Frank?” Derk asked. Curnow drew himself up. “The scientific community has a keen nose for humbug. The minute the University of Chicago made the announcement of Omega‟s purported achievement, red flags shot up everywhere. Everyone could smell a stink in the air. One just does not bring back an extinct species. Such a feat, as we all know, is impossible.” “It was believed to be impossible,” Annie said pointedly, “until Omega did it.” 13
  • 14. “Annie, dear,” Curnow answered with a curl of his lip, “there are more than a few very reputable scientists who still think the whole thing was a ruse, myself among them. In my opinion, it was all staged and when Omega‟s bluff was called, it created a scandal. Of course, the University of Chicago tried to cover it up, which is evidence in itself the mongoose was a fake and James Omega is a charlatan.” "That's a low blow and uncalled for!" Annie said, rising to her feet. "The mongoose was a brilliant piece of genetics and you know it. The trial vindicated both Omega and the University of any wrong doing. Omega‟s accusers were proven guilty of perjury and sabotage. Some even admitted to having been bribed to falsify Omega‟s lab books. The real issue here is that you are jealous, aren‟t you, Frank? You‟ve been the big cheese for so long, you‟re afraid Omega is going to come along and outshine you, and you can‟t tolerate the thought!” “What?” Curnow cried, rising to his feet. “I‟m so tired of it, Frank.” Annie cried. “Every time we try to do something to upgrade the department, you shoot it down. If an idea doesn‟t come from you, it‟s no good. If it‟s your project that needs funding, you‟re suddenly everyone‟s friend, but if it‟s somebody else‟s, you veto it without even considering it. Do you know what I think, Frank? I think you‟re a very petty man. Oh, a genius, I admit, but a petty genius.” To everyone‟s surprise, Annie clenched both fists and pounded them on the table. All four committee members jumped in their seats. She faced Curnow, her eyes narrowed, her teeth clenched. ”Well, this is one time I‟m not going to let you sabotage a golden opportunity! James Omega coming here would open doors, not just for our department, but for the whole university. All I can say to you, Frank Curnow, is if you‟re going to let personal prejudice prevent you from making a rational decision concerning the best interest of this institution, then perhaps you should resign from this committee!” The entire room fell to stunned silence. “Oh dear,” Juliet whispered, covering her mouth with her hand. Curnow stood, drop-jawed. He finally sputtered, “If that‟s what you think—if that‟s the way you feel, Annie -- why then, I beg your pardon! I have never harbored any intentions that were for anything other than the good of this department. I‟m stunned. I cannot understand why you would say such things.” “Don‟t get me started…” Annie snapped. “People, please!” Dean Hyden exclaimed. “This henpecking accomplishes nothing. Let‟s all remember our manners here. We are all professionals. Let‟s act that way, shall we? Now everyone, please -- just sit down!” Annie stiffly took her seat and Curnow lowered into his, each looking spitefully at the other. But at least order was restored. The dean drew a long breath and adjusted his tie before he spoke. “To be just, Frank has a perfect right to bring up the mongoose trial. Should Omega come to reside on this faculty, Omega‟s past could at some point become entwined with CSU‟s future. However, as you point out, Annie, it was proven there was no fraud on Omega's part, so Frank‟s point is moot. What we all hope is that what James Omega will bring with him to CSU is his brilliant reputation, not a tarnished past.” “It wasn‟t tarnished in the first place…” Annie insisted beneath her breath. “Just remember I warned you.” Curnow had to have the last word. A telephone resting by the chairman's elbow interrupted the pending altercation. Every member of the committee froze as the room filled with an electrically-charged silence. “Quiet, everyone!” Dean Hyden pleaded, picking up the phone with a shaking hand. "Yes, Mrs. Walker?” he spoke into the mouthpiece. “Thank you, but, no, don‟t just send him in. I'll come out and escort Dr. Omega in myself. Please tell him I'll be right out."
  • 15. The dean replaced the phone on its cradle, cleared his throat, and faced his colleagues. "Well, he's here. We‟ll postpone the remainder of this discussion until after the interview. Perhaps some of you will change your minds after you meet the man. In any event, we will address all of your concerns before we arrive at a final decision. In the meantime, Frank, Annie, behave! Do not embarrass me!” “Yes, Frank, be nice.” Annie hissed at Curnow before looking up at the dean and folding her arms like a child in Sunday School. She smiled sweetly. “We‟re all ready now, Bill.” “Praise the Lord,” Hyden said, pulling at his tie. “Stay that way. I‟ll be back in a minute.” He pushed away from the table, rose, and hurried from the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Everyone watched him go. In his absence, the people around the long table remained still and pensive, eyeing each other in tight-lipped silence. Everything about James Omega irked Frank Curnow. He would never tell his colleagues on the committee of the indignities he suffered because of James Omega. He would never admit to the humiliation, especially not to Annie Groff, whom he tried so hard to impress over the years. During the course of their day-to-day contact—her office was just down the hall from his -- she never encouraged his personal advances nor applauded his academic prowess. If she wouldn‟t accept him as a suitor, so be it. But couldn‟t she at least give him credit for his brilliant articles and meticulously-researched book series? Perhaps, he reasoned, it was only the subject Annie had an aversion to. He was fascinated by the reptilian world, while Annie‟s head was up in the clouds with her birds. He respected that she was also a published authority in ornithology, specializing in raptors. No question about it, Annie Groff was smart. That was the first thing about her that attracted him. He loved getting in debates with her, loved showing her how much he knew. But for some baffling reason, Annie did not seem to view his intellectualism in the same light he held hers -- a highly- desired, commonly-held trait, which could, if allowed, form the bonds of a stimulating relationship. He could not understand why she didn‟t see that. And, now, there was the threat of a new wedge coming between them. What if Annie became infatuated with James Omega? She was showing all the signs of an adoring fan already. Sickening. Her misplaced adoration provided Curnow another reason for despising the man. But the first and foremost reason for his animosity came back to him now, a bad memory resurfacing just when he thought it had been buried for good. Three years ago, Curnow put his heart, soul and eighteen months of blood, sweat and tears research into writing an article to be published in the prestigious Journal of Herpetology. Just being accepted for publication by this, the top academic periodical in the field, was an honor. Curnow had prepared a three-installment series on lizards of Colorado, which he hoped would be well received and secure his ranking on the top rung of his specialty -- western North American herpetology. Of course, he announced to his CSU colleagues the date the article was coming out, and then waited on pins and needles, spending two sleepless nights sitting up smoking his pipe prior to the article‟s release. Annie teased him over it. “I swear, Frank,” she said. “I bet a snake has an easier time shedding its skin than you‟ve had in getting this article published. You look terrible. Go home, curl up under a nice warm rock and take a nap.” Her flippant remark hurt, but not half as much as what happened later. A copy of the Journal with his article in it finally arrived at his office the following morning. He opened the pages and there it was, in actual print, right before his eyes! A Comparative Study of the Nine Species of Phrynosomatidae Habitating in Colorado: Part One: Patterns of Cell Proliferation, Migration, Maturation, and Synaptogenesis. His hands were shaking. It was one of the proudest moments of his life. He immediately got on the Internet and ordered a full case of the publication, cost 15
  • 16. charged to the CSU biology department. It would be, of course, a required text for his students to purchase next term. During the course of the day, Curnow proudly showed the article to his colleagues, the most prominent of which were Dean Hyden, Derkston Long, Janet Marsh, and Annie Groff. The first three offered hearty congratulations and praise. Then Annie said, “So, your moment of glory has come at last, Frank I look forward to reading it as soon as I can grab a minute. I‟m sure it‟s brilliant and correct to the smallest detail. But you know me and herpetology, I hope I can stay awake to the end.” He winced and her cheeks reddened. “I‟m sorry, Frank. That was a mean thing to say. God, I‟m such a jerk today. It‟s the moon. The moon made me say it. I‟m so sorry.” His face fell. Seeing this, she repentantly lay a hand on his arm. “I‟m sorry, Frank. That was low. I‟m just jealous that you‟re published again and I‟m not. Honestly, I‟m sure it‟s wonderful. You‟ve worked your tail off and, now, you‟ll finally get some recognition for your effort. Good for you. Can I buy you lunch?” But Curnow was stung to the core. He politely refused and returned to his office in a huff. The next day, he couldn‟t wait to get onto the internet and read the reviews. There were five, all of them brief but positive. Words like „insightful‟ and „well-substantiated data‟ were used. Frank was beaming. He was pleasant to everyone, even his students, for whom he usually spared no rod. Dr. Curnow was proudly adept at criticism and rarely lost an opportunity to remind his students that no matter how smart they thought they were, they knew absolutely nothing. It was, therefore, his job to fill their empty heads with something useful; and shouldn‟t they be grateful for the privilege of being in his accomplished tutorage? If a student showed any lack of humility, such as raising a hand too confidently, or providing an answer too readily, or, heaven help him, contradicting or challenging what his professor taught, Curnow fell on the upstart like a python, squeezing him for further details there was no way he could know, strangling his initiative, choking his zeal, embarrassing him in front of his peers until he shrank back in his chair, limp as a dead goat. Students had to know their place — to listen with rapt attention and take copious notes, as their professor allowed them a sip of his precious waters. But, for three months, during which his two other articles followed the first in publication and circulation, Curnow was as sweet and tolerant of his court of underlings as a King Cobra sitting on eggs. The euphoria lasted until the day that James Omega ruined everything. Curnow was sitting in his office, rereading, for the fourth time, his third article, when Derkston Long suddenly stuck his head in the door and said, “Say Frank. Here‟s something you might be interested in. James Omega put out a new book yesterday, on almost the same topic as your Journal articles. Since it‟s up your alley, I just thought you‟d be interested. The book‟s making a big splash apparently. It must be good. Well, gotta go. Bye.” Curnow sat dumbfounded, staring into space as Long shut the door and the sound of his footsteps disappeared down the hall. He felt as if he had just been slugged in the stomach. It couldn‟t be true. It couldn‟t. Heart racing, he jumped on the Internet and, sure enough, Derk‟s dreaded tale was confirmed. Photos, interviews and critiques flooded the academic community with praise like, „Omega‟s done it again,‟ „James Omega outdoes even himself,‟ and „another masterpiece from a master scientist.‟ The lowest blow was delivered by the chief editor of the same journal in which Curnow‟s series had appeared. That review actually compared his own work to Omega‟s, saying, “While we commend Dr. Frank Curnow on his inexhaustible detail and expert comparative analysis of the lizards of Colorado, Dr. Omega‟s work makes them come alive on the page. Omega writes about these creatures as if he lives with them. After reading The Amazing Snakes and Lizards of the Western High
  • 17. Country , we of this publication staff are awestruck, being so engagingly reminded of why we all became herpetologists to begin with—that these creatures of scales, horns, claws and teeth are unique organisms that continue to fascinate and delight us. Kudos to Dr. James Omega! Our readership will be happy to know we have already secured rights to a series of interviews over the next four issues with Omega. Look forward to them. We guarantee, you will not be disappointed.” Frank hit the Close button with fury and the computer monitor went blank. This was outrageous! How could this happen? Over the past three months he had received dozens of emails from herpetologists all over the country saying how they admired his breadth of knowledge and asking for more information. He had reveled in the glory and answered every request in depth. His name was out there -- on every herpetologist‟s lips. But now, every ounce of thunder Curnow had rightfully earned from his peers was being stolen by a PBS smart ass whose only redeeming asset as an author was that he could tell a good story. It seemed to Frank Curnow that James Omega had personally purposely targeted him with the sole intent to best him. Omega must have read his articles and realized, thanks to Curnow, that herpetology was the latest biological hot topic and gotten the idea for his book. While Curnow knew, in reality, no one, not even James Omega, could write and get a book published in three months, he overlooked that and took the affront personally. To him, this was nothing less than an insidious attempt to demean a lower-than-dust biology prof at Piddledunk University, while the great James Omega raised himself into the limelight. Curnow was next to tears. Didn‟t the man already have money and popularity and clout in spades? Omega was literally crushing him under his heel, thinking no more of the deed than one would of stepping on an ant. He prayed none of his CSU colleagues would take notice of Omega‟s book. They lived in worlds of their own and, since none of them were much into reptiles, it was unlikely any of them would pick up and buy a copy of it. One thing they must never know was how much this undeserved rivalry hurt him. If the subject should, by chance, come up, he would be quick to downplay it. Annie would probably misinterpret anything Frank said against Omega to defend himself as jealousy. No. He would not bring any of it up in conversation, ever! He would bear his pain in quiet dignity. Curnow did not emerge from his office that day until five minutes before he had to teach a late- afternoon class. He glumly gathered his things and forced himself to go, thinking no farther ahead than to somehow get through the next hour and then go home. When one of his students raised his hand, quoted from Omega‟s new book and asked Curnow what he thought about it, it was the last straw. It took all the self-control he had to keep from screaming. He bit his tongue, schooled his tone, and said evenly, “Beware, people, of humbug science that purports itself as truth, and the man hiding behind the curtain who creates it. You must always be on the lookout for Piltdown Man. Never let yourself be fooled or mislead. True science is facts, backed up by solid research. Not fairytales by Disney, nor bedtime stories by Thorton W. Burgess. Do not believe everything you read. In the world of science, one must tread on solid ground or be laughed into oblivion. Yet, even now, up springs a Wizard of Oz, and his name is James Omega.” With that, Frank Curnow packed his lesson presentation back into his brief case, closed it, and walked out of the auditorium without another word. Now, unbelievably, James Omega himself was coming to CSU, asking for a job. It was ludicrous! Why would a PBS superstar give up all his publicity and prestige at the University of Chicago, to come to little Fort Collins, Colorado, boasting no more than 135,000 residents, and ignobly titled by its student body as “Funtown, U.S.A.?” 17
  • 18. It didn‟t make sense. Omega already had everything. His PBS series had made him as famous as Carl Sagan, plus he had three or four bestsellers in his hip pocket, not to mention numerous public appearances on the late night shows, and who knew what else in the wings! Why give all that up? There had to be something in it for him. Unless…, unless the man had been discreetly offered his hat at the University of Chicago after the mongoose fiasco and was simply trying to find a place to lie low until the waters settled. That had to be it! Curnow grinned and at once began to lay out a course of action in his mind. He would not embarrass the dean or the department by attacking Omega directly at this interview as he had previously thought to do. No, for the time being, he would be insidiously gracious and polite. He would acquiesce to Annie and the rest, and would not cast a ballot against bringing the Great Wizard aboard CSU‟s ship. But in his heart, he was steeled: James Omega was a man who needed watching and Frank Curnow was the one who would do it. 
  • 19. Chapter 2 The spirit groped its way blindly through dark tunnels and up stairways where it sensed both sides falling away to bottomless depths. Despite these terrors, it pressed on, sometimes erect, sometimes scrambling on all fours; urged ever onward by the call of its master. The labyrinth it followed echoed with the same sort of shrieks and angry cursing it had heard in its previous quarters; they rang through the depths, anguished hymns of hell‟s cathedrals. From shadowed grottos, the merciless laughter of tormentors mixed with the cries of the tortured. It made the spirit quail to hear them. All too well it remembered what went on in those unholy pits. Mere physical torment was no match for the cruelty inflicted there -- hell‟s fires burned hottest when stoked by grief, regret, jealousy, and wounded pride. The Master‟s fiends were given control over the minds of their captives and took delight in forcing them to relive their most tragic moments of mortality again and again, only to be laughed at and mocked for their pain. Well the tormentors knew their victim‟s sorest wounds and picked at them like ravens. There was no mercy. They inflamed the mind, never letting an injury heal, never letting a memory, ripe with the juices of misery, be forgotten. Anguish was their food and hate, the sweetest honey. Pressing through darkness, the spirit cringed, recalling all too keenly the bitter taste of its own sordid recollections, and hurried on its way. At last, from out of the pervasive blackness, a glow came in the distance, as if radiating from a bed of living coals. The spirit paused, stretching its neck and sniffing the sulphurous air. Amidst the smoke it caught the smell of fear. It was strong here, very strong. It meant the Master was up there somewhere, near to that glow. This, then, was where it must go. Gingerly, it moved forward, testing one step at a time just in case its freedom was all a cruel jest, just in case the floor were to give way and it were to find itself back in that hellish cage with a ring of tormentors bent double in laughter. But surely not, it reassured itself. Its bonds had been loosed. It had been called for, had it not? This could be no joke. But then, in hell, one never knew. There was nothing to do but go on. The spirit shuffled to the end of the tunnel and found itself standing at the mouth of a cavern, hot and red as a kiln. For some time, the spirit could barely look inside the chamber due to the intense brightness and heat emanating from it. But it was able to gradually lower its arm from its eyes and squint to take in the sight of the massive room. It was shaped like the inside of an immense, hollow tower. There seemed to be no ceiling. This then, was the very place it had heard of for so long. The throat to the upper world and the throne room of Satan! With a paralyzing sense of dread, the spirit forced itself to enter. The spirit‟s flint-dark eyes examined the details of the resplendent chamber‟s magnificent decor. Gold-leafed pillars and cornices draped with swags of vivid purple velvets graced walls that rose upward and upward until disappearing in a ring of shadow. Flickering topiaries of brilliant flame burned in huge stone urns and cast shadows that danced like imps at play against gleaming walls. Radiant and unbelievably beautiful mosaics of gems studded the floor while statues of naked dancing fauns and satyrs filled every corner. In the center of the room and, most impressive of all, 19
  • 20. was a pedestal of carved marble, formed in the likeness of three huge beasts. Upon their muscular backs rested the great Judgment Seat, where a silent, silver-robed figure reclined on silken cushions. At once the spirit dropped to its knees, completely overcome, then fell prostrate to the ground. “Ah, my newly-awakened servant,” a voice came from above. “The Master calls and I obey,” the spirit croaked. “Look at me,” a voice smooth as liquid ore commanded. Ever so slowly the spirit lifted its head. The face it beheld was impassive but exquisitely handsome with eyes sharp and penetrating, like black stars. “How long has it been since your judgment, Spirit?” the Great Master asked. The spirit paused, uncertain. “I forget, Lord.” “Some seven hundred years, I believe.” “Yes, Lord.” The Master nodded. “And after all this time, do the fires of hatred still burn in your breast toward your old enemy, Kokaetalan?” The sound of the name that had haunted it for all the centuries of its torment pierced the spirit‟s ear, burning like poison. “Kokaetalan! My brother,” it hissed with great distaste and spat at the floor. “I see they do.” The True Lord sounded amused. “Good. I have a task for you, servant and, perhaps, if you are faithful, a way to quench those fires.” The silver-robed figure stood, throwing his mantle over his shoulder and slowly descended from the throne. He walked to where the spirit recoiled in apprehension on the floor and stopped, towering over it. “Rise.” The spirit climbed quickly to its feet and waited breathlessly, shoulders hunched in respect, staring at the floor. “ Come,” said the Great One, stretching out his hand.. I have something to show you.” The spirit stared incredulously, hardly believing the True Lord actually wanted to touch him, but the robed figure gestured again, making it clear he meant to take the spirit‟s hand. Gingerly, the spirit complied and weakly grasped the heavily-ringed fingers of its monarch. There was no sensation of touch at their contact, only an electrified charge of submission to power. Instantly, colors in the room began to fade and swirl. The spirit felt itself rising like a column of heat twisting above a furnace, being lifted higher and higher into the air with a dizzying, sickening sensation. It could not hold back a scream. “Hush, fool. I have you,” the molten voice said. “Instead of wailing like a dying goat, you should be singing praises. You have been plucked from the fires and released from captivity! We go to open air and freedom! We go to see my miracle!” Overcome, the spirit could not reply. It stared down, mutely watching the floor drop away. Linked as one they rose together, Lord and servant, light-winged as bats, soaring up, up, through the dark womb of the tower. At its top, a gate of iron teeth guarded the opening, but the Great Lord only laughed and, with a wave of his hand, they passed through jaws and ceiling as easily as moonlight through glass and were gone. Ω
  • 21. Dr. James Omega stood outside the impressive cherry wood doors to the conference room, straightening his tie and stroking every whisker of his beard in place. He knew full well the outcome of the meeting ahead. Of course, he would be offered the position. Nevertheless, he wanted to make a good first impression on the people with whom he would soon be rubbing shoulders. Dean Hyden, standing beside him, assured him for the tenth time how excited everyone was to meet him and how honored they were to have his application in hand. Omega thanked him, and politely encouraged, “I look forward to meeting the committee. Shall we go in?” “Of course, of course!” Hyden beamed and opened the doors. Every person turned to stare as he entered the room with Dean Hyden whispering something into his ear. Several rose from their seats in unison as if yanked up by a magnet. Despite their eagerness, Omega could sense the intense scrutiny being directed at him from this group as each professor‟s eyes met his. Hopefully, he seemed human enough. He was probably a bit leaner than they expected, most people having told him television puts on pounds. Personally, he liked to think of himself as fit, not scrawny. He had taken care to tie back his shoulder-length, white hair at the nape of his neck with a black satin ribbon. It complemented his gray-streaked beard, which was short and immaculately trimmed. He held his chin high, exuding a poise he hoped demonstrated a keen observance of his surroundings rather than arrogance. He knew himself older than most expected, and was quietly amused as he saw their faces reacting to it. Just what is his age, they were undoubtedly wondering — sixty? A well preserved seventy? On that point, with his trim build, straight posture and the confident stride with which he now approached them, he hoped to keep them guessing. With Dean Hyden at his elbow, Omega approached the front end of the table, nodded to the professors and waited politely for an introduction. Frank Curnow‟s discreet appraisal could find no fault in Omega's outward visage, but he was not one to be taken in by appearances. If anything, Omega's youthful forbearance in old age caused more questions to form in his mind than were there before. The oddest part, the thing he couldn't shake, was that in spite of this man‟s age, whatever that was, Omega was first published only seven years ago. Before that, no one seemed to have heard of the man. Despite his current fame, the man remained an enigma even under the tightly-scrutinized lens of academia‟s microscope. Like a termite, he‟d sneaked in out of nowhere and gnawed his way into the woodwork and had everyone believing he could pull an extinct species out of his hat. But Curnow knew a rabbit was just a rabbit. He would make it his mission to unmask this nefarious intruder. He would be his exterminator. With a forced smile, he turned to greet the university‟s honored guest. “Professor Omega, welcome to Colorado State University,” Dean Hyden began. “May I begin introductions with Dr. Annie Groff, specialist in avian zoology, and our assistant dean.” He gestured across the table. Omega immediately left his place at the Dean‟s side and went straight to the woman‟s chair, sticking out his hand. “Doctor Groff! If I am not mistaken, you and I have already met,” Omega commented with a wide smile, shaking her hand enthusiastically. “Three years ago at the Los Angeles Conference on 'Raptor Migration in the Western Hemisphere,' was it not? And as I recall you presented a magnificent paper on the resurgence of the North American bald eagle. One of my favorite birds, the eagle. I especially loved your insights on their bonding with a mate for life.” 21
  • 22. The woman‟s eyes opened wide as two full moons and her face beamed just as brightly. “My goodness, Dr. Omega, you do have an excellent memory for the trivial,” she laughed, looking somewhat flustered but pleased. She composed herself and managed a sincere, “Thank you.” The lanky professor at the woman‟s left said with a Texas accent, “Now folks, there's a sight we‟ve never seen before. Annie Groff turnin' to Jello.” Annie reddened with embarrassment. Dean Hyden hurried to continue introductions. “Dr. Derk Long, animal husbandry,” he said gesturing toward the Texan. The two men exchanged a hearty handshake. Omega received a much colder greeting from the next man at the table, an eel-thin man with a hairline in full retreat, introduced to him as Dr. Frank Curnow, zoology, with a specialty in herpetology. “We‟re all quite proud of Frank around here, “ Hyden said eagerly. “He‟s nationally recognized as an authority on snakes and…” “Yes quite, “ Omega interrupted the dean politely. “I know your articles, Dr. Curnow.” “You do?” Curnow said, in genuine surprise. “Yes. I especially like the one on copperheads … in the February issue of Evolutions, as I recall. And your series in The Journal of Herpetology on the lizards of Colorado. Outstanding.” Curnow was apparently astounded beyond words. “It is an honor to meet one of the top herpetologists in the country, Dr. Curnow,” Omega continued with sincere geniality. “I would like nothing better than to discuss some of your findings with you at length over lunch if such an opportunity presents itself.” Curnow reddened around the collar and nodded at the invitation, while Omega smiled inwardly. An air of resentment and suspicion surrounded the man like scales. He marked the instinctive impression in his mind for future reference and turned to the final person at the table. A short, gray-haired woman rose to her feet fairly atwitter with nervousness and shook his hand as if he were the King of England. “Dr. Juliet Marsh,” she introduced herself with quavering voice. “Microbiology.” “Ah, the world of infinitesimal giants,” Omega said, giving her a most complimentary smile. “An invisible realm that virtually overshadows the visible world.” “Why yes,” she murmured. “Quite true. Few people seem to really appreciate the significance of my field, I‟m afraid.” Omega beamed at her. “Then they are fools. I for one, Dr. Marsh, applaud you in so worthy a pursuit — unraveling the unfathomable complexities of the simplest forms of life. A humbling occupation, no doubt. It is a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Marsh. A genuine pleasure.” “Oh my,” Juliet gasped, responding to this attention like a flower to the sun. She dropped into her seat, hand over her heart, misty eyed and breathless. The amenities finally done, James Omega returned to his seat as the other professors adjusted their chairs and shuffled a few papers. This was followed by a few nervous coughs, then silence. For what seemed a very long time, no one in the room spoke. Omega's only noticeable movement was the gradual movement of his eyes as he slowly appraised the individuals about him one by one. They, in turn, could not help staring back. Dean Hyden leaned forward from his chair, propping his elbows on the table. "Well, then, now that we've all been introduced, I, uh, I believe we should proceed. As all of you know, we are conducting this interview in accordance with Dr. Omega's request to be admitted to the Colorado State University faculty in the College of Natural Sciences. You have had sufficient time to study his vitae
  • 23. and the text of his request and I am certain you are impatient to begin the interview. I will now turn the time over to the committee." "Doctor Omega, I would like to go first if I may,” Annie began without hesitation. “You realize it is very unusual for any university to seriously consider this kind of unsolicited request. We currently have no vacancies in our biology department. Yet, you have come to us asking for a position on our faculty. If you were anyone else, we would have refused your application out of hand. You are, however, a person of incomparable reputation and prominence in the scientific community. We recognize the honor it would be to our school to have you here and feel compelled to seriously consider your request." Omega acknowledged the compliment with a nod of his head. “Thank you.” He liked this woman. She was direct, honest and played the game without guile. Someone it would be wise to have on his side. "We are very proud of our agricultural and natural sciences departments,” she went on. “But, to be honest, Dr. Omega, CSU could never hope to pay you the kind of salary you are currently receiving, nor offer you the amount of financial support for research to which you are accustomed. Because of this unusual circumstance, we need to ask, I mean, we need to understand...” Here Hyden interrupted, obviously worried Annie was not being very diplomatic. “Excuse me, Annie, but what she is asking, Dr. Omega is, could you please tell us why you would want to leave your prestigious position at the University of Chicago to come to ... to, uh, a lesser known school such as ours?" Omega knew the good dean would as soon have dug his own grave and jumped in it as to offend him. He was well aware of how valuable a commodity he was, and Hyden had made it clear by everything he said since they met that he was wanted at CSU. Badly. To the dean's great relief, Omega did not mind the question in the least. He merely stared into space for a moment as if in thought, then responded, "The answer is simple, really, Dean Hyden. First, let me make it clear that I am very impressed with the biological sciences program at CSU and would be proud to be associated with it. But, frankly speaking, the reason for my application is that I need a change of pace." Committee members exchanged glances. Curnow raised an eyebrow. Omega's gaze again moved from one member of the Committee to another as he spoke, this time meeting their eyes as if personalizing his message for each one. "Some people might envy the position I am in,” he said, turning purposefully toward Curnow. “To those, I would say, publicity extracts its toll and fame is a heavy task master. As my reputation has grown, the demands on me have increased tremendously. Indeed, I have been under a very arduous schedule of teaching, in constant demand on the lecture circuit, and there is always the pressure to publish.” “We should suffer such hardship,” Omega heard Curnow snort behind his hand to Derk Long. Omega ignored this and went on. “At the University of Chicago, I felt like I was being forced to constantly parade in the spotlight. My dean was a very good friend, but even he was guilty of applying pressure in his own way. Whenever I complained about the rigmarole eating into my preparation time for classes or into my research, he would say, 'But it is all for the University, James.' His solution was to give me a staff of my own. Trouble is, I found it took up even more time to manage the staff. Call me a fool; I am the sort that would rather do things myself. You may know what I mean.” “I hear ya,” Derk Long put in. “Too many fingers messin' in the pie, you end up with puddin'.” “Yes, Dr. Long, exactly,” Omega said, smiling; but his tone grew earnest. "To make a long story short, at Chicago, there was progressively less time available for me to do what I wanted to do. It 23
  • 24. was very frustrating. You see, I have set for myself some very significant research objectives and, in case you have not noticed," his eyes twinkled good-humoredly, "I am not getting any younger!" This produced muffled, but polite chuckles around the table. Frank Curnow looked unamused. "To be totally honest,” Omega said, “I am searching for a place where I can get out of the limelight, unwind a bit and concentrate on my research. I believe…, I hope, CSU is the place. I would like to think of it as my new home.” “We all do!” cooed Juliet Marsh. “The question is,” Frank Curnow said dryly, “if this particular home has a budget capable of taking on an addition to the family.” “Frank!” Annie looked like she would like to kick him under the table. She composed herself, interlocked her fingers, and faced Omega. “Excuse this rudeness, Dr. Omega. Dr. Curnow‟s feelings do not represent the rest of us. I‟m sure, when it comes to the budget, we can surely work something…” Omega held up his hand for her to stop. He sat back and crossed his legs. “There is no need to worry, I assure you, Dr. Groff. Please put your minds at ease on that point. I have no intention of letting money become an issue. A modest salary would be acceptable for I am already financially secure. Offer me what you will, I will likely accept it. There are more compelling reasons for my wanting to come here." Annie and Bill Hyden exchanged amazed looks. The committee members released an unconscious, but collective, sigh. There was a noticeable easing of tension in the room, except for Curnow, whose fingers tapped the table. “I must say, we are relieved, but surprised, Dr. Omega,” Bill Hyden said. “But are you sure our facilities will be adequate for your needs?” "Certainly. The research I have in mind does not require elaborate technical support," Omega continued, politely. "A lot of it is done in the field and merely involves the use of a few graduate students and a half dozen laptops to aid in the collection of data. For the rest, CSU has all the data systems capacity and laboratory facilities I require.” Again, shared looks of approval passed around the table. Omega abruptly dropped the smile. The tone of his voice grew more serious as well. “To be blunt, my friends, I sincerely feel bringing my research here to Colorado State can do your school as much good as it will do me. But, now we come to the meat of it. There are, I must mention, some problems to be solved, some delicate webs needing to be strung, shall we say? There are certain stipulations I must insist upon in my contract." “Aha! Here we go. He wants a star on his dressing room door,” Curnow whispered in Juliet Marsh's ear. “Shh!” she commanded, finger to her lips and turned away. "First," James Omega continued, choosing not to notice, "I want a light class load. Rest assured. I do not want to displace anyone from the department,” -- Juliet Marsh looked quite relieved -- “and I need time to work on my projects in relative peace and quiet. This will include, on occasion, short periods of sabbatical leave." "Those types of things can be arranged," Hyden spoke up quickly. "Good. Second, and I consider this item non-negotiable...,” “Name it,” Hyden said. Several committee members leaned slightly forward on their seats. Omega hesitated. “I want the university to provide me with ... protection." A questioning murmur rose and buzzed around the table. Curnow's eyes squinted. "Protection, Dr. Omega?" asked the Chair.
  • 25. "Protection from publicity,” Omega explained, matter of factly. “I do not want the exposure I suffered in Illinois to continue. In fact, I would prefer no announcement at all of my coming to the University for at least six months." "But Dr. Omega,” Derk Long interjected, among astonished protests from the committee, "what good will it do this institution to have you here if no one knows about it?" "I expect I will be found out, but I would prefer it to be later rather than sooner," Omega clarified. "Just, please, do not advertise it. As soon as word gets around, you will, no doubt, be badgered about it to no end. But I must, even then, be let alone. No interviews. No press releases. I just cannot, you see.... Time is precious to me. More precious than you know." His voice took on an unexpected urgency. He leaned forward. "Honored committee members, when I said I need protection, I meant it literally. I am on the verge of a truly mind-boggling discovery. If I can have some time to work on it in privacy, without a lot of distractions, it can be completed soon. But there are an unscrupulous few who chase me like hounds. They would like to steal my research and defame me. As I told you, fame has its price. In my case, unintentionally, I have made enemies -- mean-spirited, jealous people, who have made it their goal in life to discredit me. Thus far, they have not succeeded. So you see, it is necessary I have protection from them as well as the media. Therefore, I would expect you all to be extremely discreet if any questions about my whereabouts or my work are asked." At this point, everyone around the table was exchanging mystified expressions, including Curnow, who narrowed his eyes and actually set down his Blackberry. "As to Dr. Long's question of what good I can do your institution ... in return for your cooperation, I will make you a promise," Omega said, placing a hand firmly on his breast. "If I can find some reasonable seclusion here and finish my work, when the time comes, I will publish all my findings in the name of Colorado State University. It will be an astounding revelation, I assure you, and well worth your inconvenience. I guarantee it." He leaned back in his chair. “Well then, those are my conditions. Take me or leave me. Oh, by the way… I must have my answer ... today.” For several moments, excited murmurs and head-to-head conferences began around the table. Chairman Hyden called for attention and order, and Omega volunteered himself to submit to any further questions from the committee that might help them in their decision. Frank Curnow took some time to probe hard at the nature of Dr. Omega's research and the length of time required to complete it, but Omega deftly avoided responding in specifics to his questions, indicating only that his research was in genetics, primarily with vertebrates. A minimum of one to two years, he estimated, would be required for the results to be published. Juliet Marsh stuttered out how she appreciated Omega's not wishing to displace any of the faculty. Still, she wanted to know exactly what kind of a class load Omega was expecting. Perhaps he should go one or more terms without teaching if he liked? Actually, Omega responded, he really enjoyed teaching and was looking forward to getting back into the classroom. Was not that the true purpose of science, after all, to pass the torch along? He thought he could be settled in and ready to begin a class by fall term. One class -- he specified seniors -- and, perhaps later, an additional graduate seminar would be about right. Annie said she was putting together a summer lecture series. Did Dr. Omega think he could be a guest speaker for one evening? Would it be an imposition? Omega smiled and thanked her. He would be delighted, would consider it a pleasure. Just keep it small -- CSU student body only. No TV crews,” he added with a wink. Omega answered the remainder of their questions patiently until it seemed they had run full circle and were beating around the bush at the same issues. At length, he said, “My dear colleagues, I 25
  • 26. sense there are still some unspoken tensions here you are too polite to address. I know my coming here is unusual. I know I have proposed some things that may seem a bit unorthodox. What can I say? I simply ask you to have faith in me. I promise you, I will not let you down.” Frank Curnow cleared his throat. “Just one thing more,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Your name. James Omega is not your real name, is it?” Omega smiled. “Why do you ask? Is something wrong with it?” Curnow smirked. “No, of course not. It‟s just, a name like Omega … I‟ve never heard it before, except maybe in science fiction novels.” Omega‟s smile tightened. “I assure you, Dr. Curnow. There is nothing fictional about me. I am as real as they come. And so is my name.” Bill Hyden coughed loudly and stood. "Ah yes, well then, well then ..., I believe we have sufficiently run Dr. Omega through the gantlet this afternoon. We thank you all, doctors, for coming, and thank you Dr. Omega. You have given us much to think about. Now, if the Committee is ready to terminate this interview, we will excuse Dr. Omega to the waiting room while we attempt to arrive at a decision." The committee members nodded heads to one another in the affirmative. Hyden indicated the door with a gesture of his hand. "Again, thank you very much for coming, Dr. Omega. If you will show yourself to the door, Ms. Walker, my secretary, is waiting for you outside. I will rejoin you shortly in the foyer with our answer." “Of course,” Omega said and, quietly rising from his chair, strode for the door. But he stopped just short of it and turned. “By the way, Dean Hyden,” he said, motioning with his eyes toward the aquarium on the other side of the room, “your poor fish are about to poach.” “What?” the Chairman muttered. “The temperature of the water is too hot.” Hyden walked over to the aquarium and squinted at the tiny thermostat. “Why, you're absolutely right. It's a full five degrees above what it should be! But, how could you know? You couldn't have read the thermostat from across the room.” “I know,” Omega replied with a grin, pulling the door closed behind him as he finished over his shoulder, “because the fish told me.” The heavy brass lock clicked shut and the room stood in silence for a very long moment. “How'd he do that?” Derk Long broke the silence, shaking his head in amazement. “Isn't it bad enough the man thinks he's god without having to demonstrate a psychic connection with fish?” Frank Curnow snapped. “He's a biologist,” Annie commented stiffly. “A very observant one, obviously. He saw how the fish were behaving, that's all.” But, having said this, she pursed her lips and looked strangely at the door through which a very amazing man had just exited. Heads slowly nodded agreement, while an unsettling question mark seemed to float almost tangibly above the faces around the table. Omega certainly had charisma and most of them liked him - - liked him a lot. Still, there was something more to this business than he had been willing to divulge. The Chairman stood, tapping his pen on the tabletop for attention. "Okay, folks. Let's tackle the subject at hand. In spite of the unusual circumstances, sound judgment tells me we should not question our good fortune. James Omega could do great things for our university. A mind like that -- here! He's as much as begging us to take him, asking so little and offering so much in return. I don't need to remind you President Hewitt has taken the effort to call me personally on this matter.
  • 27. Therefore, as Chair of this committee, I move we accept James Omega's application along with the conditions he requests. All in favor?" Curnow was silent as the others responded in an eager affirmative and he knew when he was licked. If he voted no, he would never hear the end of it, from Hyden, from President Hewitt and especially from the beautiful, hard-nosed Annie Groff. Begrudgingly, his hand joined theirs. "Wonderful! Then the voting's unanimous,” Hyden said, delightedly rubbing his hands. “We will therefore offer Dr. Omega a full professorship in both departments -- natural and agricultural sciences, contingent upon the negotiation of a satisfactory salary, benefit and tenure arrangement. Meeting adjourned.” Ω 27
  • 28. Chapter 3 Anna Dawn Hamlyn prepared to enter her new Fort Collins apartment, balancing a full- loaded laundry basket of immaculately folded clothes topped with some twenty plastic hangers, plus an open box of sheet music sitting atop that. Biting her lip in concentration, she leaned against the doorjamb and dug into her sling purse with one free hand to retrieve the key she had just been given by the landlord. As she reached for the doorknob, her wire-rimmed glasses tilted sideways and a mischievous lock of red hair fell forward on her face. She blew it away with an impatient “poof,” slipped the key in the lock, pushed open the door with her hip, and battled her way through the doorway. Just after she stepped over the threshold, the heel of her shoe caught on a braided rug she didn't expect and couldn't see, making the entire precarious cargo fall forward. For a moment Anna Dawn successfully counterbalanced, overcorrected, then gravity took over. With a shriek, she went down amidst a cascade of garments, a thunderstorm of hangers and an Avelanche of sheet music. She lay for a moment with her eyes tightly closed, afraid to open them. Other than one elbow shooting sparks hot enough to make her eyes well with tears, she didn't think she was hurt. “Anna Dawn,” she moaned aloud, “you are such a klutz. Amazing. You managed to do this on your first load. Imagine what wondrous feats you can achieve with the next twenty loads waiting for you down in the car!” She readjusted her glasses on her nose, then, groaning with the effort, pulled herself to her feet to begin bringing order to chaos. “You know, you're actually very good at putting things in order, Anna Dawn,” she told herself, cheerfully. “Unfortunately, you're even better at orchestrating disaster. You're a paradox, that‟s what you are -- a Franklin Planner with a confetti aptitude. Lord help you.” Despite the unfortunate introduction to her new home, within two hours Anna Dawn had unpacked her little, overwhelmed Honda Accord, lugging up the stairs to the third-floor apartment seven cardboard boxes, four suitcases, five houseplants and a very large musical instrument case. Within another thirty minutes she unpacked her clothes, arranged them in the closet according to color, put away the dishes, and placed the plants around the apartment according to their individual requirements for sunlight. “Yikes,” she exclaimed, glancing at her watch. “It‟s two-thirty already! I'm due at the Student Employment Office in an hour. Forget everything else, Anna Dawn. Hurry, get in the shower! Oh no. Which box has the shampoo?” An hour later, Anna Dawn was sitting at the Colorado State University Student Employment Center, dressed, pressed and confident, filling out a job application. The personnel advisor sitting across from the neat, confident-appearing, redheaded girl watched her, never guessing the disheveled appearance of this same person sixty minutes earlier. Everything about the applicant‟s grooming and person bespoke an immaculate attention to detail.
  • 29. The advisor took the finished application from Anna Dawn‟s hands and scanned it quickly, turning it from front to back. “You're from Texas, Ms. Hamlyn?” she asked politely. “Yes, Carpenter, a small town just outside of San Antonio. Anna Dawn gave a nervous laugh. “Remember the Alamo!” “Yes. Indeed. Well, judging by your resume and appearance, you give a very fine first impression,” the advisor said, smiling at her encouragingly. “Thank you,” Anna Dawn blushed. “Where are you staying, if I may ask?” “I found a apartment not far from campus.” “And some nice roommates, I hope?” “No roommates. Just me and Bowlinda.” “Bowlinda?” the advisor questioned. Anna Dawn laughed. “My cello. We‟re best friends.” The advisor nodded. “I see. It says here you type 95 words a minute?” “That's right,” Anna Dawn said. “And what would you consider your other strengths?” “Well, I'm a whiz with a computer. As you can see, I‟ve had secretarial experience. I'm very organized and neat -- you could eat off my desktop -- and I enjoy meeting people.” “Excellent. And your weaknesses?” Anna Dawn hesitated. “Well, I've been told by my roommates I tread a bit too closely to the neatnik edge of sanity.” The personnel advisor smiled. “By the way,” Anna Dawn added, “I'm looking for just a part time position so I can attend school.” “Of course. Most of our employees here are part time for the same reason. What are you studying, Ms. Hamlyn?' “Botany, with a music minor. I'm actually coming here on a music scholarship.” “Well, that's lovely. Now, as to an opening ... as luck would have it, your timing is impeccable. I received a request from the College of Natural Sciences a few days ago for a part time secretary. After reviewing the resumes already on file, I was left wanting. And, then, you walked through the door. You have the manner and personality of a good receptionist and the skills of a good secretary. Besides that, you are studying botany, which means you will fit right into the biological science department. All in all, Ms. Hamlyn, you not only seem the best qualified, but I just have a strong feeling you and this job were made for each other. Will you be available to start on Monday?” Anna Dawn gulped to catch her breath. Life didn't usually hand you a job on a silver platter at the first try. This was a welcome stroke of luck. She paused, reflecting within a split-second, how everything seemed to have fallen in place for her since deciding to come to Colorado State University. It was like one of those fate things … meant to be. Then again, Anna Dawn, checked herself -- she did not believe in fate -- luck maybe -- but not fate. No predetermined path for her feet! No battling against the gods. Free will and choice were two essential elements of her being. Nevertheless, she was not opposed to taking advantage of a lucky break and this job sounded perfect. “Oh yes, m'am,” she said enthusiastically. “I can start tomorrow, if you want me.” “No. Monday will be fine,” the advisor said. “That will give you four days to settle in, get unpacked and get acquainted with the city. I hope you will like Fort Collins.” 29
  • 30. “It‟s bigger than I expected,” Anna Dawn said. “But I like it. I feel at home here already. With the plains and hills and all, it's not so awfully different from Texas, really.” The advisor folded her hands on her desk and looked kindly at Anna Dawn. “Well then, we will expect you to begin work Monday morning, eight o'clock sharp. You will work in the Science department. Here is a card with Dean Hyden's secretary's name and extension. Report to her in the Hughes Building, fourth floor. I will call her and tell her to be ready to go over the job description with you and take you to your office where you may begin getting things organized. Since summer classes begin in three weeks, I imagine your professor will want you to get right to work.” “That's great, but who, may I ask, will I be working for?” The advisor hesitated. “I was just about to tell you that. Actually, it‟s someone very special. He's new to our faculty this year and a bit of a celebrity, they tell me. His name is Dr. James Omega.” Anna Dawn's purse fell off her lap. She leaned over, picking it up with shaking hands. “Not the Dr. James Omega, the James Omega on PBS?” “The same.” “My gosh. He's a professor here? You're kidding.” “No, I'm not.” Anna Dawn pushed up her glasses. “Wow. I mean, wow! I can't believe it. This is unreal!” “No, Ms. Hamlyn,” the advisor said with a smile. She stood to bend over the table and offer a parting handshake, “this is one hundred percent real, believe me. And now I must mention, there are some very specific instructions I need to give you. Dr. Omega‟s presence on the campus is, for the time being, to remain a secret from the world outside the campus. Dean Hyden said Dr. Omega‟s been terribly harassed by people at his previous post—I suppose that‟s the price you pay for fame—anyway, the Doctor insists on his privacy. Thus, part of your job will be to ward off outsiders, and that goes especially for anyone from the media. Screen all his calls carefully. If they are not directly related to his work here at CSU, do NOT connect any such callers with Omega directly. Do what you must, but DO NOT do or say anything that might reveal the nature of his research or even the fact that he is a member of the faculty here. If anyone outside the university calls for him, say, “One moment, please,” then transfer them to Dean Hyden‟s secretary without further explanation or comment. Do you understand? “Sure. No problem,” Anna Dawn responded, taking on a wide-eyed expression. “Sounds very intriguing.” “It is not your job to be intrigued, Ms. Hamlyn,” the advisor said flatly. “You are to do what Dr. Omega asks you to do and protect his privacy as the situation arises. Do you think you can handle that?” Yes.” Anna Dawn nodded confidently. “Certainly. I can handle that.” “Very well. That is all,” the advisor concluded, placing Anna Dawn‟s application to the side of her desk. Then, as an afterthought she looked up at Anna Dawn and added, “For your sake, I hope he's a nice boss and not, as some celebrities are, a conceited schmerk. Good luck, Ms. Hamlyn.” Anna Dawn smiled slightly, rose from the chair, thanked the secretary, then turned and walked somewhat dazedly out the door and down the hall. “Schmerk?” she questioned, as she tapped the elevator button. “I don‟t think so. Dr. Omega seems so nice on TV. I can‟t imagine he‟s a schmerk.” She stepped inside when the elevator opened. As there was no one but herself in the car, she continued to talk to herself aloud during the ride down to the lobby.
  • 31. “Well, hey, Aunt Carol, can you believe this?” she beamed to an unseen party. “I‟m really here, at CSU and I‟m going to be James Omega's secretary! The real James Omega! And I‟m supposed to protect him. What do you think that‟s all about? The way I see it, this is either going to be one extremely interesting job, or the total pits. But at least I‟ve got a job. One less thing to worry about. But there‟s still a hundred things to do! Keep an eye on me, will ya? I love you.” That night, a breath of cool wind from the west came up, found the open window in Anna Dawn‟s new kitchen and ruffled the freshly-ironed curtains hanging there. Anna Dawn turned from where she sat at the kitchen table and looked at them. It was as if something was out there, something new and tantalizing, calling to her. She got up, stepped to the window and looked out. Her apartment stood on a little rise and the third floor window allowed her a partial view of the far- spread lights of Fort Collins. In the pale moonlight she could see the outline of low mountains in one direction, rolling plains in the other. From the window, Anna turned and looked across the kitchen into the living room, where Bowlinda the cello was propped in a nearby corner. “How about Pizza, tonight?” she asked her silent, stringed friend. She pulled a Fort Collins phone book off the top of the fridge and began to thumb through the yellow pages. Her finger stopped on the first Pizza Hut she came to. Then her heart caught in her throat. Under her finger was a line of print revealing the Pizza Hut‟s address. “This is too much!” she cried, a little spooked. She turned to her cello. “Bowlinda, you are NOT going to believe this! 1509 Omega Place Plaza! Wow. It‟s like a sign. Everything that‟s meant to be makes a circle, you know. If it‟s right, all the loose ends fit together in the end. I feel good now. In place. I‟m where I‟m supposed to be.” Shaking her head still somewhat amazed, she made the call, ordering a medium, deep-pan mushroom-pepperoni and a root beer, delivery. She put down the receiver and again returned to stand at the window, her thoughts turning over again and again how she had come to be here, all the way to Colorado, to this particular university. Who would have thought her Aunt Carol‟s recent death would bring with it a change in the direction of her life? Who would have thought her old-maid aunt‟s executor would appear from out of nowhere and present Anna Dawn at the gravesite with proceeds from an insurance policy that she didn‟t even know existed. $40,000 wasn‟t a fortune, but enough to get her out of the small university where she was piece-mealing together an Associate degree and into a quality university for her Bachelors. No, not a fortune, but enough to give her a chance. Enough to maybe make a few dreams come true. Still, who would have ever thought she, a Texan, born and bred, would end up here, in the Rockies of Colorado? With her inheritance, she could have chosen to go to college anywhere in her home state. But Anna Dawn wanted a fresh start. It was time for something different. For several weeks over the past months, she had explored the websites of many different colleges, being especially interested to find one where botany and music, her two great loves, could matriculate hand in hand with best advantage to both. She selected seven or eight possibilities and submitted requests for more detailed information. The packets soon arrived. Three things about Colorado State University in Fort Collins, Colorado, immediately caught her eye. One was that a top cellist, retired from the New York Symphony Orchestra, was on the music faculty. The second was that the botany and agricultural departments were ranked among the best in the country. But the clincher was the front cover of CSU‟s packet. It showed, simply, a shot of the Hughes Science Building framed by a hedge of blue 31
  • 32. French lilacs, her aunt‟s favorite flower. Anna Dawn fairly gawked when she saw it. The lilacs were like Aunt Carol‟s personal stamp of approval. The cellist, the botany program and the lilacs, all put together, fairly shouted at her that Colorado State University was where she was supposed to be for the next two years. Anna Dawn Hamlyn was not one easily swayed nor one to make up her mind quickly. She continued to go over all the other possible choices for several weeks, but the initial feeling about CSU did not subside. In fact, it grew stronger. At last, Anna Dawn concluded there must be a reason she felt so good about this choice and gave in. She applied, was accepted and even given a scholarship. The next thing she knew, she was packed and on her way to Colorado. Now, here she was, settled in with a nice apartment, her studies all paid for and a secretarial job to boot. Who could ask for more? Why then, did Anna Dawn harbor mixed feelings as she gazed out the window at the lights of Fort Collins? Excitement was there, surely, mostly for her forthcoming courses of study. Wouldn‟t it be grand to study cello under a master? And she could hardly wait to delve into the classes on botany! Perhaps, then, it was the new job with James Omega that had her on edge. She didn‟t know why, but there was something disquieting about it; something that set off an uneasy, tingly feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I‟ll be the best secretary he ever had,” she promised herself aloud, convincing herself she had nothing to fear. “After one week, James Omega won‟t know what he ever did without me!” Except for the rustling curtains lifted by the wind, nothing replied to her comment. The apartment was quiet as a grave and the pizza was taking forever. Anna Dawn reached for her cello and pulled a kitchen chair to the small wooden deck set outside a pair of sliding glass doors in the living room. The wind at the window now sought her hair and teased it against her face. Anna Dawn paid it no mind. She settled on the chair and set the instrument in its familiar position between her knees. Gently, lovingly, she wrapped her arms around its body and caressed it with the bow. The cello sang back to her with a low alto voice, responding to every nuance of her fingers. She closed her eyes and let it sing. A new home. A new beginning. She was where she should be. The grief and loneliness of losing Aunt Carol and leaving behind all she had ever known would surely pass with time. She would not allow herself to feel alone any more! She would be happy here! Happiness, after all, was a decision. This was the beginning of a new life, and she would make sure it was everything she wanted! Apart from a little, nagging tingle that erupted whenever she thought about her new boss, everything seemed peaceful and right. Anna Dawn bowed and swayed, her fingers dancing. Her music rose and fell with the night wind at the curtains and floated upward to the stars. Ω Dr. James Omega requested only a modest office. He said he did not want to make waves by pushing anyone out of the offices they were used to and he wished to minimize in any way drawing attention to his arrival at CSU. However, he did insist on an efficient, part-time, secretary and at least one window. “I am used to being out of doors,” he said with a shrug to the woman in the administration office who arranged such things. “Walls make me nervous. I once went a very long time cooped up inside a place with no sunlight getting in at all and, ever since, I..., well, I must have a window.”
  • 33. “That's no problem, Dr. Omega,” she said with the words from President Hewitt, Give him whatever he asks for! still ringing in her ears from a phone call that morning. “We have a very nice office, with a window overlooking the quad, just waiting for your name on the door.” Omega's first day on the Colorado State campus as an official member of the faculty was one of the last few days of spring term. Carrying only a briefcase, he headed hesitantly along one of the walks that dissected the greens. He found himself caught in an onslaught of students scurrying out of the surrounding buildings in a frantic pace to get to the next class. Omega paused, letting the flood pass as his eyes surveyed the unfamiliar domain. A few students looked at him with a hint of recognition, but either they did not believe their eyes or they were too shy to stop and say anything. Let me see. I am ... here, he thought to himself, pointing to a campus map giving directions on a marquee by the sidewalk. I know I am here because it says, 'You are here,' so indeed, I must be. And in this case, “here” is the building in front of which I am standing..., 'the Lowry Student Center', if one may believe what one reads in this brochure. And my destination is ... yes, there it is! One green down -- the Hughes Center for Biological Sciences! Hurray! Well, off you go, then, old fool. Pick up your feet and hurry along! Omega drew in a breath of anticipation and began a brisk pace toward it, thinking how much he loved biology buildings. He loved the laboratories smelling of chemicals, the foyers displaying prehistoric skeletons, the inevitable menagerie of stuffed animal life and, most of all, the lecture halls filled with students. He felt comfortable in biology buildings, and stimulated, and alive. He had been in many and, just like people, each one seemed to have its own personality. This particular building was cream-colored brick, five stories high with white-framed windows. It looked like it meant business. He had been given a brochure with a floor plan of the place. Laboratories and classrooms composed the basement and first four floors, but the fifth floor, looking down on the rest as if symbolic of the god-like authority that went with it, housed the offices of the natural sciences faculty and administrators. He looked up at the edifice with reverence. James, old boy, welcome to your new home. He paused, taking in the moment, squinting into the bright sun, then squared his shoulders to the task and hurried up the front steps with long, eager strides. He reached out to open the double glass doors just when the campus bells commenced a deep-throated chiming. Pausing to listen, he counted twelve long strokes in all. At the last bong, a few stragglers, now late for their noon classes, buzzed past him like hornets, jostling through the doors and disappearing up the split-entrance marble staircase inside. Ah, my young dream-chasers, Omega thought wistfully. Better hurry or your dreams will leave without you! For a moment longer, he looked after them. I wonder, he reflected with a sigh, where is the dreamer I seek? He entered the building and, giving the elevator only a passing glance, climbed the marble stairs at a brisk pace. There were four sets of stairs, each with twenty-four steps (he counted, taking them two at a time on his way up), but it was actually a short climb for him. He arrived at the top of the fifth floor landing with a spring in his step and even breath, a feat many of the students themselves could not have managed. He found himself looking down a hall on his right, which he followed to its very end until he came to a halt before a heavy, dark-stained wooden door. "515...," he read the stenciled numbers on the door aloud. Moving his eyes to a 3 X 5 card taped below the number, he noted a sign, written neatly with black marker: Dr. James Omega 33
  • 34. Biology "This must be it," he said, and opened the door. The space that greeted him was divided into two offices, the front being the larger of the two. This room's walls were lined with shelves -- all filled with boxes and stacks of books. A row of gray filing cabinets took up one entire wall. Central in the room was the secretary's reception desk, upon which sat a running computer, a meticulously organized stack of papers and, Omega noticed, a small bouquet of fresh lilacs sitting in a glass of water. The secretary, herself, however, was not to be seen. “Judging from her desk, I believe I got a good one,” he mused aloud. “Lady Joy would approve of her on the basis of the lilacs alone.” In the back corner was a second office, separated from the front area by a door, which was open. From what he could see, it was nicer than the outer room and likely meant to be his own. He caught a glimpse of somebody moving about, so he called out, "Hello? Anybody here?" In response, a young woman bustled out and, seeing him, gave a little gasp and took up a hasty position behind the reception desk. "Dr. Omega…, sir! “ she said, struggling to sound business-like and hide her excitement. “I'm Anna Dawn Hamlyn, your secretary." Omega discreetly looked her over and liked what he saw. She was a petite young woman, with long hair the color of burnished copper plaited into a braid behind her slender neck. She cocked her head at him as she awaited his reply, her blue eyes bright behind a pair of square, wire- rimmed eyeglasses. Perky, intelligent, orderly, and a redhead -- what more could I ask for? "How nice to meet you," Omega said, extending a hand. "There is no need to 'sir' me. You will find I am not much on formalities. I gather I am where I am supposed to be?" “You certainly are. Did you have trouble finding it?” “Not too much.” “I'm new here myself. Don't ask me where anywhere else is or I might get you lost!” “You are new at CSU, then... a freshman?” “No, I‟m a junior. I just transferred here with an associate degree from out of state. Well, anyway ... welcome!” Omega received a most enthusiastic handshake from across the desk. "I've been trying to get things ready for you,” she went on. “I wanted everything to be perfect. I was just now dusting your office and cleaning off your shelves. I hope you'll be satisfied with my work, sir ... I mean … what would you like me to call you?” “James?” “That's a bit of a stretch for me.” Anna Dawn said, shaking her head. “After all, you are famous, as well as my boss.” “Dr. Omega will do then, until you feel more comfortable around me.” He grinned. “Trust me. The famous part will wear off right away.” She seemed to relax a little. “Well, Dr. Omega, this....” she turned and gestured to the back room, "this is your office, in here." He followed her inside. "Very nice,” he said. “Quite cozy." Omega entered the small space and looked around. “I'm sorry it's so small. I'm to tell you a larger office is being painted and will be available for you within a week or two. Your name will be stenciled on the door in gold....”
  • 35. "No, no. This is fine, really. I like it,” Omega said, walking to the back of the desk. He settled into the brown leather swivel chair. “Very compact. And exceptionally neat, thanks to you. You have done a great job in getting it ready for me, Miss Hamlyn.” His secretary cleared her throat. “Actually, I prefer Ms. Hamlyn to Miss Hamlyn. But I'm not much on formalities either. Why don't you just call me Anna Dawn?” She‟s not afraid to clarify what she wants, a useful trait in a secretary, Omega thought approvingly. “Certainly, Anna Dawn. I am sure we will get along just fine.” “Well, then," the young woman said, backing toward the door, "I'll be at my desk if you need anything." He watched her leave, shutting the door behind her. In a few moments, sounds of a vigorous typing commenced. Anna Dawn. Lovely girl. No doubt we will soon be friends. Omega put his briefcase on the floor, leaned back in the chair, hands behind his back, and slowly appraised his new quarters. Spartanly furnished with only a desk, swivel chair, one floor to ceiling bookcase and two guest chairs, the office had little to offer except for the required window. But that was all right. It was a welcome relief from the flashy, over-dressed suite he gratefully left behind in Chicago. All he really wanted, what he hungered for, was privacy; some time and space to concentrate on the great task before him, the purpose that compelled him to come to Colorado State University. Yes, he liked his new office very much. It was perfect. Unconsciously, he began humming a little of the tune, "Be it ever so humble...,” a contented smile spreading on his face. He thought back to the interview with the Selection Committee. His fore-knowledge of the committee‟s decision was based on much experience and insight into the minds of professional educators. In the winding labyrinth of his many paths, he had changed jobs frequently and been interviewed by people much like these. He liked Derk Long and Juliet Marsh, and Annie Groff was a special pleasure. Frank Curnow, however, would be one to keep his eyes on. It wasn't difficult to see shrewdness in the man, nor sense his distrust. Omega learned from experience to tread lightly around such people. Snakes like this had bitten him before. For the past seven years, the world had beaten a path to James Omega's door and the University of Chicago wanted the world to go away impressed. But here, he hoped, it would be different. He had his fill of show and trivialities. Here, in this little Colorado town, in this office, in this simple space, was more than enough room for his needs. Besides, he had his window, which, to his delight, was round, much like a porthole. Omega rose and went to the circular window to look out. It provided a perfect, lens-eye view of the busy ramblings of students below. Better still, above the campus rooftops stretched a big, bright sky, uncluttered with smog and skyscrapers and, in the distance off to the west was a line of low mountains. Yes, it would do. It would do nicely. He wasn't planning to spend much time in his office, anyway. He would be out in nature as always and, when he was on campus, most of his attention would be centered on his students -- one, in particular, although he did not yet know who that one was. The old biologist rose and, leaning his elbows on the windowsill, looked down upon the campus. Students filed along both sides of the sidewalks, moving in opposite directions. Like ants on a scent trail, Omega mused. He touched the window glass with his finger, as if tracing their movements. But it is I who must find and follow the trail now -- I who am the seeker. And I must find him quickly! All my labors depend on it. Ω 35
  • 37. Chapter 4 From the torrid darkness of Hell into the cool darkness of a clear Earthen night, the spirit creature so recently dispossessed from its seven hundred year prison held desperately to the hand of its powerful Master. They flew beneath a curtain of stars over desert and mountain, through clouds pearly in moonlight and above a black ocean with foamy crests rising and falling below, all in the midst of a heartbeat, all in the space of a thought. In this flight, sense of direction and true passage of time was confused, but the spirit sensed they had covered a vast distance and perhaps, passed into another age. Looking down, it could see strange buildings, higher than could be imagined, seeming to challenge the sky itself. Palatial structures were crowded shoulder to shoulder and lit with thousands of square eyes, while around their feet scurried small hard-shelled beasts, also with lighted eyes and bright red, blinking tails. The beasts were charging madly along a grid of pathways in seeming chaos and the shade could make no sense of it. Their bleating sounds grew louder as the spirit and its Master came nearer the ground. It was dizzying. Fascinating, but too much to take in. The spirit squinted in confusion and tried to hold its free hand over its ear to block out their insistent braying. Gratefully, within a short time, the Great One brought them to rest on solid ground at last. The spirit wavered shakily a moment or two, testing the feel of the hard gray surface beneath its feet, trying to find its bearings. Gawking around, it saw that they were in a dark walkway between two enormous domed buildings, the perfection of which could not be fathomed. Hard as stone cliffs and taller than trees, they must be the home of gods. “San Francisco, California, to answer your question,” the Master answered coolly, releasing his handhold on his servant. “To be more precise, we are between two import warehouses by the docks.” The Lord‟s lips twisted at the corners. “Impressed?” The spirit nodded, though it did not understand a word. Warehouses? Docks? San Fran … something. “Please, Master, why have we come here?” “I have something for you,” the Master spoke. “A great gift. A miracle. Look, over there, against the wall. Tell me what you see.” The Great One pointed to an indistinguishable heap on the ground a short distance away. The spirit gave its master a questioning glance then crept forward, crab-like, squinting into the shadows. On the ground, a male human body lay face-up. Its eyes were open, staring. It did not move. “Too late to help, I fear, Lord,” the spirit said regretfully. “I think this one is dead.” The One True Lord laughed, but without mirth. “You amuse me, Spirit. This is it, my gift, my great miracle. This is your body now. I give it to you.” The spirit stared in disbelief. This limp body of cold but otherwise flawless flesh … was to be his? In eagerness, the spirit cowed over the prize like a vulture over a carcass. 37
  • 38. Upon examination, the spirit noted the body was, except for being dead, quite splendid. In spite of the strange, restrictive clothing, one could tell the muscular build was lean, the skin of handsome, tanned complexion and the hair, black, thick and glossy. The face itself, though macabre with its staring eyes, was still quite comely with sensual lips and an arrogant jaw. It was obvious this man, whoever he was, had cut an imposing figure in life. “It is truly mine, Lord?” the spirit asked, kneeling down and running trembling fingers the length of the well-formed torso, touching the strange garments, pawing the clay-cold hands. “You are giving this body to me?” “Yes,” the molten voice answered. “The mortal who last inhabited it was one of my servants. He obviously doesn't need it anymore. It is therefore free to be used and use it you will, presently.” The Great One cocked his head, admiring the body approvingly from a distance. “It is beautiful, isn't it? That‟s important, you know. Beauty is an essential element in this world. Always has been. People love it. They defer to it. Fools that they are, they even trust it. Knowing that, I have taken great pains to assure the gift I give you will present every advantage. In your new capacity, you shall have wealth, status and respect, and you shall be beautiful.” “I do not know how to thank my Lord,” the spirit replied with appropriate appreciation. “But what do you wish me…?” “And you shall be powerful,” the True Lord went on, ignoring the question. “There are a few tricks I can teach you on that regard, oh yes. You will be briefed on them when I feel you are ready.” “As you say, Lord. But what…?” “This body is my miracle,” the Great One continued, still disregarding the spirit‟s contribution to the conversation, “my great work. I have remade it for you. Oh, the artistry of it! I have taken sand and created porcelain!” The spirit nodded mutely. “I shall pour you into this body, Spirit, as lead into a mold,” the Master said, slowly circling the lifeless, staring form on the ground. “You shall be reborn, remade in the likeness I have prepared for you. You shall walk again as flesh. You shall breathe. You shall speak. You shall even make love. Is it not marvelous? Is it not the most wonderful thing you have ever seen?” “Certainly, Lord,” the spirit agreed eagerly. “I only wonder…” The True Lord suddenly frowned, looking put off. He stroked his chin. “Unfortunately, my creation is not without certain shortcomings.” “No, no,” the spirit interjected. “It is perfect!” But the Master‟s dissatisfaction settled upon him even more deeply and he shook his head. “Oh, I have assuredly improved the thing since it was vacated. It can now readily repair itself after most injuries, making it next to immortal. But the restoration process required certain … adaptations, shall we say, which have diminished some of its temporal functions. Its senses are a bit ... dulled, I‟m afraid. The essence of taste, touch, pain, pleasure and so forth are there, but without the intensity you may remember from your mortality.” He clicked his tongue. “I'm truly sorry about that. It could not be helped. But no mind. Other than that, the body will function fully well as any other mortal body would. There may even be some residual memories, which could be helpful.” “It is more than I deserve, Lord,” the spirit cried, overcome. “More than I could ever hope for. If you will allow me to venture, I suppose you have some marvelous reason in mind, some mission for giving me this body?”
  • 39. The Great One turned to face his servant, touching a long-nailed finger to His lips, the corners of which pulled into a facsimile of a pleasant smile. “Why, Spirit. Do you think I offer you this gift selfishly, for my own gratification? I give it to you to bring you joy. It is my wish that all men might have joy, that all might find peace, as all may through faith and obedience to me.” “Of course, Lord. I only meant…” “Hush, and listen! You are in part correct. There is a task for you to perform to merit this great honor.” The spirit bowed low. “Anything, master! My soul is yours to command.” The Master folded his arms and looked down his nose at the subservient gesture. “Of course it is. And in case you should be inclined to forget it, you are about to experience a brief reminder. Lest pride of your newly exalted station dim your memory, let this be a lesson of the power of your Master and a reminder of where your loyalty lies.” The tone of the Great Lord‟s voice sent a foreboding chill down the spirit‟s back. It looked up apprehensively. “I will enter you now,” the Great Lord said, “to touch you with my power and enlighten your mind. Give me permission.” “Permission, Lord? How am I to give permission to you?” The Master‟s dark eyes flashed. “Give me permission, dolt, before I smite you to ash!” The spirit fell to its knees, trembling. “Granted, of course, of course. Anything you ask…” “Thank you.” A searing pain suddenly stabbed into the spirit's mind with an agony of heat and stifling power. It could not be endured! The spirit collapsed, writhing on the ground. Its breath came in painful gasps. Its brain felt as if it were melting, like copper at the forge and into this chaos came a roaring wind through a honeycombed grotto. “What you are experiencing, Servant,” the voice which was the wind said, “is called the Binding. This discomfort you feel now is caused by my spirit occupying the same space as yours, my mind speaking directly to yours, my essence controlling your will. You are very honored, spirit, to be touched so intimately by the Master Himself.” The spirit twisted in agony, holding its head, helpless to resist or think a thought of its own. The voice came again. “You are to have this same power when you are ready, and a mighty weapon it is. Even so, Binding is only one of the things I will teach you.” The force that controlled the spirit was domination beyond its wildest dreams. Even through its pain the words of the master sank in. It, too, was to have this power! Suddenly, a hunger to wield it almost overcame the terror, and the feeling burned in its bowels like a hot ember. How it wanted to be able to do this! Someday, it promised itself, it would. “I feel your desire, Servant, ripe and hot as a sire with a whore. Sweet, is it not? Such thirst for power is good. It motivates us to perform our duty; knowing when all is done, we will obtain our reward. But you must know there are rules concerning these powers and you must learn them well. Foremost in the Binding is this; you cannot go where you are not invited. Obtain permission any way you like, but there must be, however obtained, permission granted. Remember that! It is important!” “I will remember, Lord,” the spirit whimpered. “Please, now, please release me!” The Master ignored the entreaty. “You must not take this lightly! There are certain inscrutable Laws we must all obey. Yes, even I. My kingdom is a realm of order and for a reason. Without law, there is chaos and, with chaos, there is no obedience and, if there is no obedience, there is no power. Therefore, you shall be taught the Laws, which pertain to your powers and will 39
  • 40. be expected to obey them. Know this, if you bend a Law, you will suffer a corrective punishment. If you break a Law, you will be cut off and destroyed. The man who last wore this body broke a law. Do you understand?” By now the distraught spirit could barely function, but somehow forced itself to respond. “I understand, Lord. Please, please…” “Know this also,” the Master continued increasing rather than slacking his vise over his captive‟s will, “this body is not to be abused. You will take very good care of it.” “Yes, of course, Lord. Please release me.” The Great Lord hid a chuckle of amusement with a cough. “Patience. This skin will fit you better and better the longer you wear it. And after you‟ve become adjusted to it and are ready for more, I will visit you again. I will teach you how to exit and enter this mortal frame at will. It is, after all, merely a physical apparatus with which to work in a physical world. Think of this body as a vehicle, my son, a miraculous vehicle.” The Great One paused, tapping his chin. “Think of it as … a Lamborghini. Yes, that‟s it! Think of it as a Lamborghini.” The spirit quailed, confused. “A what, Lord?” “Never mind,” the Master huffed. “Just remember, this is no small gift you are being given. Take care of it. Appreciate it.” “Of course, Lord, of course.” “Good. Well then, now that that‟s settled, let's put you in the driver‟s seat and take it for a ride, shall we?”  Anna Dawn Hamlyn opened the door on her second day of work at the Hughes Science Center, to find the room filled with the smell of fresh paint. A sound of something metal grating against the floor was coming from Omega's office. “Dr. Omega?” she queried, dropping her purse on the computer desk and stepping questioningly toward the commotion. “Is that you? Is everything all right?” “Anna Dawn, yes it is me, no need for concern,” his voice came out the door, sounding almost apologetic. She poked her head in and couldn't believe what she saw: the renowned Dr. James Omega, perched atop a six-foot ladder, painting the tiny office white! “What ... are ... you ... doing?” she stuttered. “The walls were gray. I like white,” he explained over his shoulder as he stretched to hit a corner, just so. He stopped to rub his nose with his sleeve. “Perhaps you can tell me, Anna Dawn, why is it your nose starts to itch the very moment you cannot scratch it? There must be some scientific explanation.” Anna Dawn put her hands on her hips. “There is; the Universal Law of Prickly Nose Hairs - - basically the same thing that makes you sneeze just when a boy you particularly wanted to impress is puckering up to kiss you good night. You do realize we have work crews to do that. Professors don't paint walls.” Omega cocked an eyebrow. “Then either I am not a professor or these are not walls. Even more likely,” he pointed to his paint-spattered oxford shirt, “I am not painting them, but myself. What is his name?” Anna Dawn looked perplexed. “Who?”
  • 41. “The boy you sneezed on whom you wanted to impress..., if you do not mind my asking.” “Oh. He doesn't exist. Just an imaginary friend. By that I mean there are currently no men in my life. Don't you remember I told you they are preparing another office for you? I'm sure they'll paint it whatever color you prefer.” Omega shook his head. “I do not need, nor do I want, another office. This will do nicely, especially now that I have some ownership in it. As to the other, I do not believe you for a moment. Surely, an attractive girl like you has a whole string of young men lined up at her door.” Anna Dawn folded her arms and leaned her hip against the door. “This is beginning to sound like an interrogation coming from someone I have only just met.” “Ah,” Omega rubbed his nose on his sleeve again. “I am sorry. I have a tendency to skip preliminaries with people I like and get right to the 'up close and personal' stage. It is a fault I am working on. Forgive me.” She thought about that. “You're forgiven. Now get down ... please. A man your age should not be on a ladder. If you're not happy with the color of this office, I'll just call maintenance and put in a work order.” Omega smiled, but refilling his brush, turned his back on her to begin anew. “If I wait for a work order to come through, I will have to wait for eternity. Look at this. Look what I have accomplished, all by myself. Two walls in thirty minutes.” She looked at him oddly, but admiringly. It was plain he was not about to budge and this was one argument she was not going to win. “Not bad,” she said, conceding defeat, and walked away. She had not yet reached her desk when his voice called after her, “And I would not talk about my age, if I were you.” She froze in her tracks, biting her lip. Had she insulted him? Oh boy. That would not be good. Not on the second day of work. Her face reappeared at his door “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude.” He grinned down at her. “No, you mistake me. You are not rude at all, just concerned about my safety, which I think is sweet. No, I meant, if you do choose to talk about my age, you might be mistaken, and I would hate to have to humble you at this early point in our relationship by pointing out your ineptitude.” She blinked hard, twice. Was that a challenge? Nobody challenged Anna Dawn Hamlyn without a fight on his hands. Although it was risky, although it went against her better judgment, some red-headed-linked gene fired off in her brain and she took the bait. “So you think I can't guess how old you are?” He returned to his work with a shrug. She thought of saying sixty-five, but reconsidered. Better play it safe and flatter him. “Sixty,” she said. “Honestly, now, you can do better than that.” “Sixty-four.” “Do I really look sixty-four?” he asked with a snort. “Come on. Give me your best shot.” She moved her lower jaw back and forth, calculating. Would he get angry if she went too high? Would it get them off to a bad start, leading to something that would keep coming up again and again like the proverbial pebble in the shoe? She had worked for other bosses who would do that sort of thing and find ways to get back. On the other hand, Omega didn't seem the vindictive type. He was most likely playing a sort of game with her. There was a hint of a twinkle in his eye that she had noticed, and it was that twinkle she was going to bank on. Here goes, she thought. Honesty. 41
  • 42. “Seventy.” “Nope.” “Seventy-five?” “Not the last time I checked.” “Eighty??” Omega dropped his arm, resting the paintbrush on the top of the ladder. “Tell you what. Let us say that years are a relatively unimportant assessment of age. Age should be measured in wisdom gained, not in gray hairs. So, I prefer to think I am just getting started. ” Anna Dawn thought a moment and then cocked her head. “I think I could concede to that.” “Very well,” he said, smiling. “We will consider it settled. Please excuse me, Ms. Hamlyn. I have work to do.” “Certainly,” she said, somewhat unsure what had just transpired between them. She turned to go, then hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. “I, I didn't offend you, did I, Professor?” He stopped and looked at her in a way that made her feel like she had never felt before, in a way that made her feel like he was a father and she, a daughter. It was a look of gentleness and sincerity that evoked a foreign longing inside her. “Anna Dawn,” he said, in a voice soft and kind, “you could never, nor would you ever, hurt my feelings. In the brief time I have known you, you have done just the opposite.” She hadn't expected that. It was sort of like a hug. Not knowing what to say or how to feel, she turned to go. “By the way, there is something for you on your desk,” Omega said resuming his work. “Nothing big. Just a thank you for the nice welcome yesterday, the clean office and all. I appreciated it.” “Thank you.” A myriad of thoughts were clicking through her mind as she left Omega and closed the door to his office behind her. This was one strange, hard-to-read, but very intriguing, person she worked for. Maybe all celebrities seem a little odd to the rest of us, she figured. Within fifteen minutes, he had made her feel curious, protective, piqued, tender and angry ... just like a father would. Or, at least, how she imagined a father would. The thought brought back an old emptiness not felt for a long time, a yearning to know what it would be like to have had parents -- to have argued with them, teased them, hugged them, loved them. She dismissed the feelings as quickly as they appeared. It did no good to dwell on what could never be. She walked briskly back to her desk. What she found when she got there, wrapped in a cone of newspaper, was a sprig of wild, dawn-pink roses. Ω Michael Johns gave one last hard twist on the barbed wire fence with the pinchers, making sure the splice was good and tight. The young rancher gave it a sound tap to test the knot's mettle. The wire squeaked in protest, but accepted the adjustment without slippage. He stood back, pushed up the brim of his western-style straw hat and wiped his brow with a dusty denim sleeve. Wrinkling up his well-tanned face, he appraised the two rejoined wires with a practiced eye. “Looks good,” he
  • 43. grunted over his shoulder to his horse, “tight as newlyweds on their honeymoon. Not that I'd know. Not that I'll ever know at the rate I'm going.” A cloud of dust down the road caught his attention. A black pickup truck was coming toward him. Pete Grover, he thought. Wants to settle up. He stood, removing stained leather gloves and wiping sweaty hands on his jeans, ready to offer one to the man who got out of the truck and walked toward him. “Michael.” “Pete.” The man met the young rancher‟s outstretched hand with a firm shake. “Doin‟ okay?” he asked. “Getting by,” Michael replied. “Thanks for the nice job on the funeral, Pete. It was just what Dad would have wanted.” “Nothing's too good for my old pal, Robert Johns,” the man said with a nod of the head that passed as a compliment between them. “I'm ready to make good today, Pete. Just sold Becky and her calf.” “I think we should hold off on that for a bit, Michael. I've come to make you an offer on this ranch, if you're willin' to take one.” Michael pulled off his bandana and wiped his brow. The surprised look on his face remained. “If you're going to get all serious on me, Pete, maybe we'd better go sit under the trees and talk.” Pete nodded. They moved to a grove of cottonwoods next to a meandering pasture stream and planted themselves down on a hillock of clover. “I know you want to get back to college,” Grover began. “You put in, what? Three years at Laramie?” “That's right. I only came home because Dad needed me. To be truthful, I‟m aching to get back.” “I know you're smart, Michael. You won that award an' all and your dad was always so proud of you, gettin' straight A's. It just seems to make sense that a young man like you with a dream in his pocket to be goin‟ somewhere else wouldn't want to stay and work a ranch all on his own.” “Guess you got me pegged,” Michael grinned, hesitantly. “What are you offering? The ranch is in good shape and on prime land. It ought to be worth something.” “I'm thinkin', with the mortgage, operatin‟ loan and your dad's medical expenses, you're in a deep pile o' debt.” “You'd be right on that one.” “And dairy ranchin' is a risky business. Most are holdin' their own only 'cause of the worth of the land, not the milk and butter.” Michael pulled up a weed stalk and put it between his teeth. “Right again. Although, this ranch is better off than most. Still, you're right. It's not the easiest way to bring down a buck.” “And you got a second mortgage on the place…. ” Michael slapped his gloves across his open palm, a look of puzzlement on his face. “How'd you know about that? You been snooping? Are you up to something, Pete?” The man wrapped his arms around his knees and looked at the ground. “Okay. So let's just say I'm doin' this because I owe Robert Johns a lot more than money can ever repay, not because I'm dyin' to get in the cow business. Sorry. Morticians shouldn't use that phrase lightly. It's a jinx.” Michael grunted. “You're beating around the bush, Pete. What are you trying to say?” Grover turned and looked Michael in the eye. “Michael, you don't know this, but after I lost Laurie, when I was down and out, bankrupt and on the verge of jumpin' off Palisade dam, your 43
  • 44. father came to see me. Without bein' asked, he went and took out a second mortgage on this place and gave the money to me.” Michael didn't flinch. “Well, Pete, I suppose that'd have something to do with the fact you risked your own life to pull him out of the collapsed Marine barracks in Lebanon, wouldn't it?” “Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it was just because we were friends. Anyway, now's my chance to get even. That second mortgage is really my debt to pay, not yours. I'm doin' okay now and I'm in a position to put things square. I made this same offer to Robert, but he wouldn't have any of it. Now he's gone and I figure, if Robert Johns' boy is half the man his father was, if he's got something he sets his mind to do, he'll do it and he'll see the wisdom in this deal. I'm givin' you a chance to get back to your schoolin' and not have to look back. I'll give you $900,000 for the ranch. I know that's no fortune by the time you pay off your debts, but it should be enough to pay tuition and livin‟ expenses for a while; maybe, even, get you a Master‟s degree. My boys don‟t want to go into the mortuary business and they‟ve been workin‟ weekends here for so long that they love the ranch almost as much as you. So, they get a permanent change of lifestyle, which they sure as hell wouldn't mind, and you get to start sleepin' in past four in the morning. What do you say?” At first Michael said nothing. He just stared out over the fields toward the farmhouse and thought. He finally stood up, so did the man, and they faced each other. Michael put his hands on his hips. “I‟d say, Pete, old friend, you just bought me a dream and yourself a headache. But, hey, what can I say? Thanks.” They grasped and shook hands, the older man's free hand gripping the young rancher's shoulder. “It's my pleasure, Michael.” “Don't be too fast to say that,” Michael said, out of the side of his mouth. “The land‟s pretty, but what you're really getting out of this is a herd of 300 cows, four teats each. Sure hope you know how to use a milking machine.” Ω
  • 45. Chapter 5 After only a single week, Omega caused another stir in the calm, ordered waters of his secretary's life. He realized he had overstepped his bounds before and kept a polite, professional distance between them for a few days. But he could not keep it up. She was going to be a part of his life now and there was no sense wasting time treading water. Time passed too swiftly. He was over two hours late this particular Monday morning. She was already at her desk, typing away like a hen pecking at a June bug when he came bursting in through the outer door, walking backwards, lugging behind him a load of heavy boxes on a wheeled cart and holding in his teeth a plastic Home Depot bag containing an electric drill, a rubber mallet, wood glue and a sack of assorted metal fasteners. Anna Dawn's eyes widened in disbelief as she watched him drag the paraphernalia past her toward his office. “Beth not to ask,” he said, passing her with a Cheshire grin, his diction slurred by the plastic bag. He ambled on without another word, shutting his office door behind him. Within a few moments, sounds of drilling and pounding were rattling the walls like an earthquake. He knew she would be curious, but, if he was any judge of character, she was not going to give in, out of principle. He was right. For three hours, he hammered, glued and drilled in total privacy. Finally he emerged from the small, very-white office, victorious. “Wahla!” he announced, beaming with pride as he dusted off his pants. “Want to see?” “Let me guess,” she said, giving nonchalance her best shot. “A built in entertainment center?” “Sadly, I am not much for television. Try again.” She stopped her typing. “How can that be? You're on television! You're Mr. “Save the Animals”, himself, for goodness sake.” He was brushing dust from the top of his head. “Want my autograph?” “Just on my paycheck.” Her typing resumed. “Aw, come on. Guess.” The typing continued. “I thought you wanted this syllabus typed by the end of the week.” “This will only take a second.” “Professor….,” “Ms. Hamlyn, stop what you are doing and come in here! Right now!” She froze, looking at him over the top of her glasses, polite insubordination written all over her face. “You just want me to come in there and gush all over whatever it is you've done, all the while knowing I'm the one who will have to clean it up.” “Certainly not!” Omega beckoned impatiently. “Gush or not, as you wish. Just come see!” “Oh, all right.” Anna Dawn pushed back her chair and followed him into the room. “You know you've probably made a huge mess in there ... with who knows what, all over the place. Bad enough, I cleaned up after your paint job, I'll be hanged if I'm going to....” 45
  • 46. “Look.” With a sigh, she walked in. “Shelves!” he said, “What do you think?” She peered past him. A set of finished oak-stained shelves, five levels high, stretched the length of one wall behind the desk. Anna Dawn took off her glasses and wiped them on her crisply-ironed shirttail. “Keep this up, Professor,” she muttered from the side of her mouth, “and they'll fire you from your day job and write you up full-time on the maintenance crew.” “That good, huh?” She nodded, approvingly. “Surprisingly good. For someone your age.” “Please, not age again!” He grunted disapproval and plopped down in his leather chair, a little cloud of shredded packaging material powdering the air around him. “I do have purpose behind this madness, you know.” “Uh-huh. What?” A gleam shone in his eye. He rubbed his hands eagerly. “I have some ... things ... that will be arriving any day now. Knickknacks, you might call them, very old and very special. They deserve a place of honor.” “Oh?” “You will see, when they arrive.” “Fine, be secretive. But I'm warning you, Dr. Omega, dusting knickknacks is not in my job description!” She folded her arms, with a mock pout. “No dusting will be expected.” “I want that in writing.” She turned to leave. He rose from his chair. “Wait, Anna Dawn, I have something for you.” She stopped, looking uncomfortable. “You don't have to give me things, Dr. Omega. The roses were great, but I don't think.… ” He interrupted, "Anna Dawn, someone told me you were a botany major when you are not busy being my secretary." "That's right,” she answered, warily. “I‟ve scheduled all morning classes during fall term and will work here afternoons." "Well, then, from one scientist to another, have a look at these.” He pulled on his desk drawer, withdrew a rolled up newspaper and spread it open on his desk. It was filled with tiny, blue wildflowers. Her mouth opened slightly, like a fish not quite sure if it should take the worm or worry about a hook. He smiled at her happily, sure she must like them; sure he had chosen well. “You see, Anna Dawn,” he explained, simply, “I like to go for walks on the weekends and I found these by the roadside yesterday evening. When I saw them, I wondered if my little botanist, Ms. Hamlyn, could identify them for me? What do you think?” She leaned in for a closer look. “Pretty.… ” He offered them to her. “Here. Take them. Smell. They are quite fragrant." She put them to her nose and inhaled. "Yes, very sweet, like honey." "Well?" Omega looked at her intently, waiting for an answer. “Well ... what?” “What are they? You are a botanist?”
  • 47. She examined the flowers more closely over the top of her glasses. "I don't think I'm familiar with this particular plant," she admitted, avoiding his penetrating gaze. “I need my field guide.” His gaze softened. "Not to worry, Anna Dawn. The world is full of questions wanting answers, is it not?" She pursed her lips. “You're putting me on the spot, on purpose. Why?” “Being put on the spot is good for us, sometimes,” Omega smiled kindly. "We all need challenges, hills to climb. A good student is not necessarily the one who has all the answers, but the one with the questions." She relaxed a little, recovering her nerve. “Are you lecturing me, Dr. Omega? Should I be taking notes?” He liked that and laughed. "No, no. I just thought it could be a little ... thing ... between us. I find the flowers, you identify them. Could be fun.” She nodded, “Yes. It could be.” “So, perhaps you could just tell me what they are later, when you have time to find out." "Be glad to," she said, handing them back to him. “It's very nice of you, to think of me.” "Oh, please keep them. I picked them for you." She looked at him, not quite sure of the whole deal. His eyes twinkled. “I am not flirting with you, Ms. Hamlyn, if that is what is bothering you. I am a happily married man. Believe me, I am merely being nice and trying to get to know you a little better.” She smiled, with a tilt of her head. “In that case, I'll have to be careful around you. I'm not one to give myself away, not without a fight.” “I never for one moment thought you would be,” he answered. Anna Dawn was thoughtful a moment. “I haven‟t met your wife,” she ventured cautiously. “You don't talk about her.” Omega's eyes lit up. “Johanna? Oh, she is wonderful. A brilliant woman. I consider her a great scientist in her own right. Insightful, resourceful, brave and very dear.” “I'd like to meet her sometime.” “I hope you may. But it may be a while. She is in Africa right now.” “Africa?!” “Yes. Working on one of our projects.” He sighed. “I do not see her very often these days. We are both so busy. I miss her.” For a moment, he stared off into space, then cleared his throat, bringing himself back. “You seem a bit lonely yourself, Anna Dawn. Am I wrong?” Anna Dawn hesitated. “I live alone, if that's what you mean.” “Partly. I guess what I am asking is, where are your family? Who are the important people in your life?” She reddened. “My, how we do pry, Professor!” “Forgive me. I am only saying, you can talk to me if there is no one else to listen. I understand what it is to be lonely, Anna Dawn.” She bit her lower lip and said softly, “I‟ve been orphaned since I was three. Car accident. Killed my parents and my baby brother. I was raised by my Aunt Carol, my father's sister. She just passed away last winter. She was all the family I had. So, you see,” she forced a smile, “after all these years, I'm an orphan again.” For a moment, she waited, as if deciding whether to say more, then, he could tell from her face, she smelled the hook. That would be all the fishing he would get done today. “I'll look for 47
  • 48. something to put these in,” she said, gathering up the newspaper and blue flowers and starting for the door. Omega was wise enough to know now was not the time to press her more, so he simply called to her as she walked out, "By the way, Ms. Hamlyn, I notice your eyes are the same color as the flowers.” He held up both hands in a gesture of self defense. “Not flirting, not flirting -- just an interesting coincidence. Have a nice morning." Anna Dawn returned to her desk. For a long moment, she examined the wildflowers, her fingers strangely trembling. How was she supposed to react to things like this? If he made her so uncomfortable, why the devil did she like him so much? Maybe she was being silly, reading things into their banter that was all perfectly innocent. What was there to fear, really? That somebody was being nice, was actually attempting to care about her? She had been alone so long, independent and self-directed…; no one else to have to plan for, or worry about. This whole idea of permitting a personal relationship to develop between them - - a “thing” he had called it -- rubbed like a new pair of jeans. But, then, she had never known a father, so how could she know what to expect from a man? Worse, she had never known a mother, so how could she know how a woman effectively interacts with a man, whatever his role? And beyond that, it had to be admitted, her new boss was an entirely different animal altogether from anyone she had ever met, from either sex. How one was to appropriately respond to him was anybody's guess. An instruction manual had not been written on the likes of Dr. James Omega. To be truthful, she didn't think he meant anything unseemly by his attentions. But she couldn't get over the feeling he was after something. Did he sense her aloneness and was just trying to be a friend? Hard to say. Reflectively, she stared at the cheerful bouquet in her hands. Found them by the roadside, did he? she thought. The wild roses from the previous week probably came from his walks, too. James Omega seems to have a knack for finding things others pass by, whether it's flowers or ... me. The question is, do I like being found? As she fingered the tiny blossoms, she felt a small shiver of delighted discovery -- each delicate blue flower had a perfect, white star in the center. Boxes began arriving that afternoon. Anna Dawn was sitting at her desk, looking over the fall class schedule when the UPS courier came through the door with two packages, one roughly the size of a microwave oven and the second the size of a shoebox. “M'am,” he said, “some parcels for a Dr. J. Omega?” “Yes,” she said. “You may leave them here. He's out of the office, but I'll sign for him.” “Fine. Where do you want them put?” “Over there, by his door.” She pointed to his office. “What are they?” The courier shrugged. “I don't look inside 'em, M'am, I just deliver 'em. But most of 'em say 'Handle with Care.' Were you expecting something fragile?” Anna Dawn shrugged. “I don't know. He just said he had some, uh, things that were coming. I'm guessing these are what he meant.” “Okay, then. The delivery is insured. If there's any damage, he can fill out a form for reimbursement. I'll be back” As soon as he left, Anna Dawn allowed herself to walk over and peek at the labels. Neither box had anything to give away what was inside. She bit her lower lip. No, Anna Dawn. Whatever
  • 49. it is and, with Dr. Omega, it could be anything, you are not going to let your curiosity get the better of you. We do not open our boss' mail. Who knows what he has in there ... lurking. He did say they were old and very special. Stop it! You're not going to think about it. You'll find out soon enough. Get back to work.” She stalked back to her desk, picked up the schedule, and began flipping through pages. A grunt caught her attention. She looked up. The courier had returned with three boxes, this time on a hand truck, one carton just a bit smaller than the other two. He left them beside the first two and exited. The sixth box was the largest so far; more the size a large desktop computer set with speakers and monitor might fit into. For the courier, it was a single trip in and of itself. After several more appearances, the courier leaned wearily against the counter by Dawn's desk, wiped his brow and blew air out his cheeks in relief. “That's the lot, M'am.” “Thank you,” she said. “Can I get you a drink of water or something?” “No ma'm, just your signature.” He offered her the clipboard. “There you go,” she said with a sympathetic smile. When Omega returned, there were seventeen boxes of varying dimensions awaiting him outside his office door. Anna Dawn looked up as he came in. “Merry Christmas.” Omega's eyes lit up. “Oh good! Wonderful! They are here! Would you help me unpack them, Ms. Hamlyn?” She didn't show it, but if he hadn't invited her, if she had to wait another five minutes to see what the boxes contained, she would have popped. She had no idea what to expect, but she was sure it would be something amazing and she was right. Omega opened the first box, reached deep into the Styrofoam peanuts that filled it, and withdrew ... a bird carved of wood. Its plumage was painted powder pink and lavender with a white breast and it was seated on a branch, head back and beak open, in a pose of singing as if it were beckoning with all its heart for the sun to rise. Omega stared at it fondly a moment, then turned to Anna Dawn. “Spring's Herald,” he said. “Lovely, is she not?” “Yes,” Anna Dawn agreed. “I don't think I've ever seen anything like it. What did you call it?” “Spring's Herald.” “That's an unusual name.” “I enjoy giving animals my own little nicknames. It is more fun than Latin.” He placed the bird on the center row of his newly-made shelves. “Spring's Herald is, or was, a real bird -- a member of the lark family. You have not seen anything like her because she and her kind have not been on the planet for a very, very long time. She is extinct now, and a sad thing it is. Her song was..., that is..., was reputed to be ... quite beautiful.” The next box held a real stuffed squirrel in an air-tight glass case, or at least, Anna Dawn guessed that it was a squirrel. Then, again, truthfully, it didn't look quite right. “What is this?” she queried. “It looks something like a squirrel, but it‟s yellow.” Omega took it from her and gave it a place of honor beside the lark. “Good guess. It is a member of the lemur family, actually, a pomatuu ... a golden pomatuu at that; 'Toe-sleeper,' I like to call him. From South America.” “Is it extinct, too?” Omega nodded. “Every box you see here contains a creature that is no more.” Anna Dawn looked astounded. “How did you get all these?” 49
  • 50. “It is a collection I have been making for many, many years. These animals are very precious. Many of them are the only proof that they ever existed. Not only are they all extinct, but a few of them are also extremely old. Anna Dawn shook her head in disbelief, “So how old can they be? I mean, dead animals turn to dust in a few years, unless they are mummified, and mummies could never look this good.” Omega's eyes twinkled. “Let us just say, I know some people who are very good at what they do. The point is, Anna Dawn, you are looking at a very valuable collection. It is the only one of its kind in the world. Now, will you help me get the rest of these out of their prisons and up on the shelf? I tend to think of them as my pets, you see, and I do not like them to be cooped up any longer than necessary.” She bit her lip and pushed up her glasses on her nose. Right. Your pets. Oh, boy. For the next hour, it was like some bizarre birthday party, opening presents. The specimens ranged from reptiles to fish to insects with a bit of everything in between, the majority being mammals and birds. When they were done at last, Omega stood back, admiring the display. “Now it feels like my office,” he said. “Dr. Omega?” Anna Dawn asked. “Is there ever going to come a day when you cease to surprise me? I'm asking, because if there is, just let me know and I'll call in sick and stay home. What I'm trying to say is, I'm getting addicted.” Omega looked puzzled. “To what?” “To you,” she said, and walked out, leaving it at that. Ω The man awoke with a dull headache and the sprinkle of a cold rain hitting against his face and skin like small bullets. He brought himself to his elbows, shook his head and looked dazedly around. He was in an alley, lying on a crumpled pile of newspaper. The filth of decaying garbage assaulted his nostrils. His clothes were soaked through; his white shirt, stained with his own blood, was made transparent by the rain growing heavier by the minute. Get up! Stand up before you drown, he thought in a language that seemed both familiar and foreign. Somehow, he understood the meaning, but it was as if he was creating words as he used them, as if when they formed in his mind, he was using them for the first time. He staggered to his feet, shivering. Weakly, he leaned against a brick wall to regain his bearings. Looking upward into the weeping sky, he blinked into the rain and covered his face with his arm. “Where am I?” he muttered aloud. “How did I get here?” Even as he spoke, he knew. Hazy memories, fog-like images, crept around the corners of his mind. Garrin Cross. That was his name. He had been attacked from behind. The last thing he remembered was a plastic bag being thrown over his head. “Who? Why?” he asked, frowning, fighting to sort it out. One answer seemed to make sense, and a name. Chang. One of Chang's hired thugs. It had to be. Angrily, he fought to force the scattered remnants of memory to take form, to stick.
  • 51. I was to meet him here, he remembered. We were supposed to seal the deal. When I drove up, he was over here by the alley. I walked toward him ... then ... someone came from behind and before I could react, or even draw my gun, somebody hit me and then ... the bag … and … I died. I … died?! A shouted curse from Cross's lips dashed against the surrounding brick walls and was blown to shreds by the wind. He shook his fist at nothing but a face in his mind. “Chang! Traitor! How could you do this to me! You'll pay for it, you Chinese son of a whore!” He stopped in mid-sentence. But ... I'm alive, he puzzled. He slowly took a deep breath and blew it out quickly. No problem breathing now. He held his hands in front of his face, wriggling his fingers as his curse was slowly replaced by laughter. “Look at me! I'm alive. I'm alive!” For a moment, all was confusion as two memories fought each other, neither making sense. The man held his head and closed his eyes, straining to knit the two ends of a broken rope together. I am Garrin Cross. But I am not Garrin Cross. I am Qeoc-neh-qiti, high priest of the Brothers of the Moon, given this body, given a new life as Garrin Cross. Yes. It was starting to come together, the elements of his existence swirling, coalescing into a sphere he could grasp. I am here to serve the One True Lord. He has given me rebirth. I am here to become this man, this Garrin Cross, to assume his identity, to enter his world. There is a mission for me, but I must wait until I am told.... I must master this body, this double language in my brain, and learn to live with power in this new life, before I can serve Him. Only then will he come to me. Only then will I serve the purpose of my re-creation. Garrin Cross lifted his head and looked around. At the end of the alley he saw a portion of a derelict building with a loading dock and, parked near it, a sleek, black automobile. “That‟s my car,” he said aloud, the memory of the machine forming in his mind. “It‟s called a, a Porsche. That‟s right. That‟s my Porsche.” He staggered toward it, half-running, at the same time reaching into his pocket for the metal and plastic thing, called a key, that he knew would make it work. Following instinct that guided him even as he made the movement, he pressed a button on the key's monitor pad and the door latch clicked. With an instinctual movement, as if he had done it a thousand times before, he slipped behind the wheel. For a moment he sat in the machine, wondering what to do next. Coaxing the memories of its function to manifest, he found he knew to put the key into the ignition and, thus, started the motor. A second curse expressed his amazement. “Good. Very good. It's working. Now, I am supposed to make this thing move.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I damned-sure hope I know how.” He did. His left hand automatically switched on the headlights and wipers, his right hand took the wheel and his foot pressed the gas. The car surged forward into the storm. He drove, following the images and recollections that entered his brain, sloshing at first through dimly-lit, deserted back streets, then moving on through neighborhoods of tightly-woven, busier streets and finally joining a frantic, coursing torrent of automobiles, trucks and buses that was the interstate. He careened a bit unsteadily from lane to lane until he caught the hang of it. A few cars swerved and honked, spraying water on his windshield in their wake, but he finally settled into the lane that felt right and stayed there. I‟m remembering. It‟s coming back. That ramp, up ahead is Highway 101, he instructed himself, reading a long, green sign as he drove under it. I take this and my exit should be coming up in twenty minutes after that. 51
  • 52. Sure enough, at the prescribed time he saw the exit he was looking for and turned onto the ramp; leaving the nightmare of the freeway with a soft mutter of gratitude under his breath. Another half hour of driving, remembering turns as he came to them, landmarks as he saw them, found him in an up-scale residential area. He squinted and scowled through mists of rain to make out the road signs. Coastal Pine Drive. My house is this way..., he confirmed, turning off the main street onto a two-lane, winding road that slowly climbed its way up the thickly-wooded, eastern slope of the San Rafael mountains. Peering through mist and a foggy windshield at the dark, blurry outlines of houses and trees, he finally recognizing a gated driveway, leading to a Spanish-style mansion set well back off the road, its lawns mostly obscured by a dense fortress of scrub oak and pine. He pulled to a stop in front of the gate, pushed a button on a remote control he recalled being located in the dashboard -- it was right where his memory told him it was -- and the gate swung open. He drove forward, up the brick-paved drive, and stopped in front of the expansive, red-tiled and stucco hideaway villa. As he approached, two black dogs, lulling under a covered porch, sprang to attention, ears forward, noses pointed toward the car and its occupant. Cross got out of the car and whistled. Both dogs came running, jumping and whimpering, deliriously vying for their master's attention. Cross rubbed their ears and scratched their chins. “Miss me, boys?” he asked. The dogs responded in the affirmative with wagging tails and happy barks. With the same remote control that opened the gates, Cross keyed in a digital code that opened the front door and stepped into the warmth of a spacious entry hall. He looked in amazement at the luxuriant furnishings, massive fireplace, carefully-detailed architecture and gilt- framed artwork that decorated the place. It was an odd sensation, seeing each thing, each possession for the first time, yet knowing it intimately at first sight. Straight ahead rose a fabulous, carved railing and an ascending, Mexican-tiled staircase. He hurried up it to the bedroom and shower he knew were waiting on the second floor. There, he threw open the bedroom doors, stripped off his sopping tie and shirt, and headed straight to the bathroom to turn on a steaming stream of hot water in the shower. No sooner had he done so than he heard a movement and soft cry behind him. “Garrin?” He turned to see a slender, stunningly-beautiful, dark-haired woman dressed in translucent white lingerie hurrying toward him, her arms outstretched. She came to him and kissed him hard, pulling him close to her as her arms passionately embraced him. “Oh Garrin,” she breathed, pressing her head against his chest. “I've been so worried.” A name came to him. Alicia. Alicia Elizando. The woman continued with trembling voice, “When you took off like that this morning ... I was afraid you weren't coming back. Where did you go? And what..., look at you!” She drew back, noticing for the first time his hair, skin and remaining clothes were soaking wet. “What on earth? Your head! It's bleeding!” She pulled him to the sink, held a hand cloth under cold water and dabbed at the gash on the side of his head with a shaking hand. “Garrin, what in the world happened?” “I'm all right, Alicia,” he answered, taking the cloth from her hand. “Don't fuss over me. I need a shower, badly. Then we can talk.” She backed away. “Certainly. Of course. I..., I'll wait for you on the patio. I'm just ... so glad you're home.” He could sense she was offended and hurt. “I didn't mean to be curt, kitten. I'm just ... well, it's been a rotten day.” He brushed her cheek with his hand. “Get me a brandy, will you?”
  • 53. She turned to go, wiping her cheek. He grabbed her wrist. “Alicia, you're crying.” It gave him an odd pleasure to see it. “I was worried,” she explained, flushing. “But you're home now. Everything's all right.” “Yes.” “I'll get the brandy. Don't keep me waiting too long.” He smiled at her, a dark ember lighting within that he had not felt for a very long time. “No, pet. Not long.” He watched her leave the room, her negligee gossamer about her body as she moved, her long hair shining like an ebony mane down her back. “Beautiful woman,” he whispered as a tapestry of memories of her flooded into his brain. “And I own her, body and soul.” Garrin Cross ducked gingerly into the shower and began to scrub everywhere, eagerly washing away the grime and filthy smell of garbage and blood. He had just lathered his hair and was letting the hot water rinse the suds down his back when he heard the bathroom door open a crack and a man's voice call out through the steam. “I can't believe you went by yourself this morning, boss. That was very, very foolish. How did it go?” Cross turned off the water. “Hand me a towel and I'll tell you.” The man obliged and stood waiting outside as Cross toweled off. A few moments later, Cross emerged, wearing a white terry cloth robe, slicking back his dark hair with a silver comb. His eyes, in one quick sweep, took in the tall, blond Swede standing by the door with every bulging muscle in his great arms taught, his jaw set like iron. He remembered this man as soon as he laid eyes on him. Erik Holtz, his bodyguard. “He tried to kill me, Erik.” “Chang?” Cross nodded and turned sideways to a gilded mirror above an ornate, ash wood dressing table. He pushed back his hair, revealing a bruised gash. “Pretty, isn't it?” “You shouldn't have gone without me,” the Swede said, his accent thick with disapproval. “I thought everything was set,” Cross explained, the recollection of events re-forming faster on command now, playing one by one in his mind. “I thought everything would be okay. Chang called at six a.m., gave me an address, and said, 'Come alone or the deal's off. I'll expect you within the hour.' I hesitated at first, but then I figured too much was at stake for him to do anything to mess it up. When I got there, nobody was around. Then I looked and saw him waiting by some buildings, so I got out and walked over there....” “Hell's hounds, Cross. Don't you recognize a set up when you see one?” the Swede growled. “I'm not a total idiot, Erik. I wasn't unarmed. I thought I could handle it. As I got closer, I could see it was he. He smiled and held out his hand to shake and I reached out to take it. Right then, as he held on to my hand, one of his cutthroats came up from behind and hit me over the head. I vaguely remember these big octopus hands throwing a plastic bag over my face and I struggled to breathe. They held me down on the ground until everything went black” The Swede looked shocked. Frowning, he bent forward to look into Cross‟ face. “You say they covered your head with a plastic bag?” “That's right.” “Then how are you still alive?” 53
  • 54. Cross's rubbed his face with his palm and grinned. “That's a good question, my friend. I‟m thinking he removed the bag to look at my dead face, but removed it too soon. The bag was not on my head when I woke up” The Swede shook his head. Cross could tell he didn't quite buy it. “And then what happened?” “I woke up in an alley, soaking wet, with a headache and a bloody skull, but otherwise, none the worse for wear.” “Well, you're one lucky son of the devil,” Erik grunted. “I can't believe professionals like Chang‟s henchmen would be so sloppy. If it'd been me, you'd be dead.” “Comforting,” Cross replied, hardly amused. “I believe I can trust you to make things right?” The Swede looked pleased. “I was hoping you'd ask. Don't worry, I'll find out who did it. The incompetent creep's as good as dead.” “Chang, too.” At this, the Swede fell silent. “I know it won't be easy. He wears bodyguards like a sultan wears jewels.” The big Swede's gray eyes flashed. “That's why you were smart to hire me, Cross. You know I can do whatever you need done. Chang's history.” The Swede turned to leave. Cross held out his hand, signaling him to stop. “I just want you to know, Erik, I appreciate your skill,” he said, his dark eyes narrowing, looking straight into the other man's, “and your loyalty. I know the risk you'll be taking. I also expect Chang will try to make you a better offer.” “Don't worry,” the Swede said, allowing no emotion to enter his voice. “I don't believe in making things complicated. I only work for one man at a time.” “Good. That's what I wanted to hear. You can trust me to make it worth your while. Tonight?” The Swede shook his head. “This kind of thing takes a bit of time to do right. I need to find out his daily routine, where he‟ll be when and with whom. With his security, it may take a while. But don‟t worry….” Holtz reacted to Cross‟ disapproving frown, “I‟ll get the job done and done right. I'm assuming you want more than just a hit, you want a message sent, to anyone else who may be contemplating messing with you in the future. Am I on target?” “You read me like a book.” “Best stay home until it's over. No sense taking chances. If he were to discover you‟re still alive, he could try again. For added protection, we should increase security around the property; put in a gatehouse and guard.” “Fine,” Cross said with a shrug. “Whatever you think best.” The bodyguard turned to go. Cross again put out a hand to stop him, his handsome features contorted with an ugly snarl. “Oh, and Erik ... make him suffer.” The Swede paused, his thin lips showing only the slightest trace of a smile. “You can count on it,” he said, and left the room without looking back. Cross took time to locate a box of Cuban cigars and lit one before he strolled outside to the patio. Overhead, a thin quarter moon fought against currents of choking clouds, still threatening rain. A chilly breeze, sweet with the smell of Pacific salt, teased the heavy wine-red draperies at the open glass doorway. He breathed it in deeply, savoring the scent and power of darkness. Silhouetted against the pale sky was the figure of a slender woman, her back turned toward him, her raven hair blowing in the wind. He advanced to where she stood rubbing her arms and shivering and watched her from behind.
  • 55. “You're cold, pet,” he purred in her ear. “Come inside and let me warm you.” She startled, then turned to face him, her eyes wet with tears. “Oh Garrin, I was thinking ... if ever I should lose you..., ” she started to cry. He held her against him, stroking her hair. “Now, now, kitten, I will never leave you, and I will never, ever let you go. You can be certain of that.” She looked into his face, blinking and smiling, and he wiped her tears with his fingertip. “Let's go inside,” he coaxed. “I feel like it's been an eternity since I felt the way I'm feeling now, here in your arms. Let's go inside and see what happens.” “Yes,” she whispered, pulling him by the hand, “let's.” Ω 55
  • 56. Chapter 6 The Johns' old blue Ford truck kicked up a cloud of dust behind it as it rattled down the road leading from the farmhouse toward the highway. As soon as he hit pavement, Michael rolled both windows down and fiddled with the radio dial until he found a country station that he liked. Music with a solid beat and homey lyrics, the warmth of early summer‟s sunshine on his bare arm, the wind in his hair, all helped take his thoughts away from missing his father, selling a ranch that was the only home he had ever known, and the uncertainty of the future he now faced. Around him, Star Valley, Wyoming spread out like a well-worn quilt, a patchwork of green and yellow pasture squares knotted on each corner with a white sideboard farmhouse here and a ramshackle barn there, the whole effect stitched together with barbed wire and fence posts. Star Valley was, in fact, two valleys joined in the shape of a peanut. The valleys, known as the upper and lower valleys, were in the minds of the locals the most beautiful place on earth. Few outsiders, once having seen their unspoiled grandeur, would dispute them. The dirt road Michael was driving on from his ranch soon joined Highway 89, which ran straight through both valleys, due north to south. He passed Star Valley‟s famous cheese factory on the outskirts of a little horse rail of a town called Thayne, then drove on through the Narrows, where the Salt River flowed lazily between green banks of willow and cattail. Here, where the valley was cinched in like the waist on a bridal gown, a deer suddenly darted across the highway, narrowly escaping Michael‟s truck. He slammed on his brakes and swore. Glad for the deer as well as himself, Michael muttered a short prayer of thanks and sped on his way. The narrows opened and the upper valley opened before him in all its bucolic postcard perfection. The morning sun's glare on his dusty windshield forced Michael to squint as he viewed the approaching town of Afton, some ten miles distant, tucked against the western skirt of the Salt River Range. The whole familiar sweep of it was easily taken in by one glance of his eyes. This time he almost resented the beauty of it. For all but three years of his life, he had wakened, worked and slept within the bosom of this valley, a place he must now leave for good. The parting would be bittersweet at best, the result of a wedge driven between himself and the people here when he was eighteen years old. The loss of his father and the ranch were merely a final blow. There was nothing to keep him here now. In his mind, he told himself, he was likely looking at these fields, these farms and Star Hill, which bore the valley‟s high school symbol, a star formed of white, painted boulders, for the last time. He passed the tiny hamlet of Grover and drove by more farms until he reached the outskirts of town. To a worldly traveler, there probably wasn‟t a lot to commend Afton, Wyoming. But to Michael, this place was one fond memory after another. Except for one. And that memory, of his darkest hour, he quickly pushed from his mind. Today, Michael Johns would think only of the future. The town began now in proper. Michael drove past a string of small businesses, the dentist, the insurance agent, a Pizza Hut, then on past the town‟s only two gas stations, a car dealership, and
  • 57. then the Frosty River—a drive-in where he and his friends had demolished many a greasy cheeseburger and thick chocolate malt after a Braves‟ football game. Streets lined with a hodge- podge style of houses, built anywhere from the 1930‟s to present, side by side. Even so, pride of ownership was evident. The yards were kept well. Backyard gardens of vegetables and raspberry bushes spoke of a self-reliant people who loved their little spot on earth. The homes may be humble, but dear. Michael felt an ache in his gut. A part of him longed to stay in this place, so familiar that had he been struck blind, he could still have navigated every street. But a restlessness stirred inside he could not ignore. It whispered in his ear like an insistent fly. There‟s more than this for you, Michael Johns. Time to go. Time to go. He drove down the eight-block length of Main Street, grinning as he passed under one of the town‟s more charming features, a worn, elk-horn arch erected right across the highway. It was said some veterans returning from the Korean War had nothing to do when they got back to the Valley and thought an elk-horn arch would be just the thing to attract tourists. It had stood there ever since, looking down on all the rodeo and homecoming parades, observing the changes in automobiles that passed beneath it, mutely taking note of all the comings and going of the town folk at their shopping. Michael grinned. If that old arch could write a book, what tales it could tell. Moving on, Michael cast nostalgic sidelong glances at more small buildings standing shoulder to shoulder, businesses that had been passed down from parent to child for generations -- a furniture store, a pharmacy, grocery store, a jewelers and, last of all, the newspaper office. He had been in every one of them, knew every item stacked on every shelf. And everyone behind every counter knew his name and he theirs. Leave it behind, the fly buzzed in his ear. Time to go. At the end of the block he turned left, drove two streets east past the town park, up to a tidy, yellow, gabled house, which had been converted into the Lincoln County Library. Here he parked the truck, hopped out, and started up the walk. Turning his head, he noticed an elderly couple sitting in rockers on the porch of the house next door. “Hello there, Robert John's boy,” a silver-haired man called out cheerily, but the man's wife leaned over and pulled his sleeve. “Hush you!” she whispered. “Don't you talk to him, Samuel! That's the boy what stirred up all that trouble.” Michael clearly heard her words, but pretended he didn't. “Shistt, woman!” the man hissed back. “That boy's pa is Robert Johns, one of the earth's cream, I tell you. If his boy's a little headstrong, well then, I expect we all got a fault or two.” The old man waved and called out again, beckoning for Michael to come nearer. “Hey, son! How's your pa doing these days?” Michael stopped on the sidewalk, but didn't go over. No use wearing out a welcome when there wasn't any to begin with. “Buried him three weeks ago, sir.” “Oh, I'm right sorry to hear it. He was a fine man, your pa.” “That he was.” “Cancer's a hard way to go.” “Yes sir, it is.” “Well, good luck to you, young man..., what's your name?” “Michael.” “Good luck to you, Michael.” “Thank you.” “Samu-el!” his wife hissed again. “Leave him be!” 57
  • 58. Michael walked over to a yellow climbing rose trailing over a trellis above the library porch. He plucked off a blossom, walked over and presented it to the old woman. “My compliments, M'am,” he smiled. “Hope you have a good day.” Then he turned and walked into the library, without a backward glance. “Well, I never!” the woman snorted the moment he was gone. “Did you see the brazenness of that young puppy? Vandalizing Liona's roses right in broad daylight!” The old man reached over, took her hand with the flower in it, and pulled it toward his nose for a deep, long sniff. “Darn nice of him, wasn't it?” The woman glared at him. “Nice?” “Yes, nice. That boy's all right now, ain't he?” The old woman sat back with a huff, rocking hard. “Not necessarily. They say you can't always see insanity plain out, Samuel.” “He ain't insane, Amelia,” the man retorted. “You been list'nin' to too many rumors.” She snorted, smoothing the crocheted afghan over her knees. “All's I know is that nobody in his right mind would do what he did and that's a fact. An‟ you mark my words, that young man is goin‟ ta destroy everythin‟ good that happens around him.” The man hit his knees with his hands. “Oh, for heaven's sake! All that's been near four years ago, Amelia! He was just a high school boy. So he made a mistake. He thought he was in the right. Why can't you forgive and forget?” “I can forgive, cause I'm a good, Christian woman,” the old woman answered tartly, rocking her chair until it squeaked in protest. “But there's some folks that'll never forget.” The old man shook his head. “Where there's no forgettin', there's no forgivin',” he said. The woman's jaw dropped. “Well, I never!” she choked, gathered herself and her blanket up and stormed into the house. For a long time, the old man sat and rocked by himself. “She's right though,” he said softly to himself. “Some folks'll never forget.” The elderly librarian was sitting at her desk, reading, her back to Michael as he entered. She was dressed in a navy blue, cotton-print dress with a doily collar. This would be the way he would always remember her, Michael thought -- twinkly, gingersnap eyes and a doily collar. As she did not look up when he came in, Michael tiptoed up behind her and put his hands over her eyes. “Gracious!” she gasped, dropping her book to the floor. Michael leaned down and whispered menacingly in her ear, “This is a stick up, ma‟am! Hand over your rubber stamps and paper clips or I'll be forced to use my voice in a loud and unruly manner.” The woman laughed then and reached up to grasp his strong young hands with her frail, bent, arthritic fingers. “Michael Johns, you scoundrel! You about gave me a heart attack.” “Ah, Mrs. Crandall, how'd you know it was me?” Michael asked innocently as he removed his hands, picked up the book for her, and sat himself down atop her desk. Bright eyes, framed with sagging eyelids and crow's-feet wrinkles, frowned up at him with mock disapproval through a pair of square, rimless glasses. “Who else would it be but my favorite student? I see your behavior has not improved since you graduated.” Her voice was stern, but her whole face suddenly broke into a warm smile. “I am awfully glad to see you, Michael!”
  • 59. Michael looked deeply into those sweet, wrinkled eyes he knew and trusted so well. He wondered at the strong prompting he felt that morning to come talk to her. Perhaps it was that Mrs. Crandall had been his champion and sounding board ever since he had her for Sophomore English and Literature at Star Valley High. No matter what the subject of conversation, whether it was grades or fishing or Shakespeare or baseball, she always loved to visit with him during lunch or after school. After he graduated and left for Laramie to attend the University of Wyoming, she wrote him letters and often phoned him on holidays. In many ways, Michael looked upon Mrs. Crandall as a surrogate mother. So it made sense that he would want to see her after all that happened the past three weeks. But the prompting he felt this morning to see her was something more. It wasn‟t a casual thing, but a pressing need. From the moment he opened his eyes, her face popped into his head and along with it, a desire to talk with her. The feeling nagged at him through breakfast and followed him around through chores like a toothache, until at last, he felt he was almost yanked out of the farmhouse by his earlobe and dragged by the seat of his britches out to the truck. He didn‟t even know what he was supposed to talk to her about, but talk to her he must. So it was, on this fair morning, Michael Johns found himself standing before her, somewhat confused, but nevertheless anxious to see her. She smiled at him and said softly, “I heard the funeral was very nice, Michael. I‟m sorry I wasn‟t able to attend. I was visiting a friend out of town and did not hear of it until I returned just the other day.” “I felt you there—in spirit,” Michael said, squeezing her hand. “It was a longer time coming than he would have wished. He hated feeling useless or a burden. Of course, he never was a burden.” “I know it was tough on you to leave college and come home and run the ranch while he was getting treatments in Utah.” “No‟m. It was an honor.” Michael said. “I was glad he agreed to come home at the end and die in his own bed.” Mrs. Crandall sniffed, reached for a tissue and dabbed her nose and eyes. “I want you to know I admired your father very much, Michael. A kinder, more generous man I‟ve never met. He suffered with great patience all those months.” Michael nodded. “I‟m really going to miss him.” She patted his hand affectionately. “Of course you will. He was a fine, fine man ... and so are you. What are your plans now? Going to stay and work the ranch or go back to school?” “Pete Grover made me an offer on the ranch and I took it. I intend to go back to the University for fall term.” She clasped her hands, in relief. “Oh good, good. You should. You're such a good student, Michael. You have a wonderful mind. I know you'll go far.” Michael looked down at the floor, swinging his legs. “I hope so. I want to make Dad proud of me, ...and you, too.” He looked up at her and grinned. “You're my favorite teacher, you know.” She shook a finger at his nose, smiling. “Well, you‟d better do well or it reflects on me, then! I have great hopes for you.” “Thanks. I'll try hard not to disappoint you. I owe you big time for helping me get my scholarship.” “You deserved it.” “Maybe. But I couldn't have done it without you.” The librarian blushed, pulled a tissue from a box on her desk, and dabbed her eyes. There was an awkward silence. 59
  • 60. Embarrassed, Michael decided it was time to change the subject. “Say, Mrs. Crandall, I wonder, do you have anything I could read?” She sniffed and smiled. “I believe I might.” Her hand gestured toward the shelves surrounding them. “This is a library, you know.” “Thought a good book might take my mind off things while I'm hanging around waiting for school to start. Does the library subscribe to any current scientific journals or magazines?” “You always did have a thirst for knowledge, Michael. It's one of the things I liked best about you. But I'm afraid we have a very limited number of scientific publications. Probably nothing up to your caliber, anyway. Maybe a National Geographic or two.…” “That's better than what I've been reading, “Michael hopped off her desk to take her elbow and help her up. “All Dad kept around was Readers Digest.” “Oh dear, we can surely do better than that.” She tapped the pencil on her desk in thought. “I know! How about a good novel? Science Fiction?” Michael shook his head. “Don't think that's quite my style. Sorry.” She peered at him over her glasses. “Something dashing then...; an adventure story. The Three Musketeers?” “I don't think so.” “It has some juicy parts....” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Definitely not, then.” “Why not. Too mushy?” “No. It's just hard to read about a banquet when you're starving.” “What?” Mrs. Crandall dropped back down in her chair. “Michael, you don't have a girlfriend? A strong, good-looking, brilliant boy like you?” “Please!” Michael interrupted her, reddening. “No. I don't. Yet.” “Why not?” He shrugged. “Haven't met the right one I suppose. Plus, I haven't had much time for looking. But when I find her, you'll be the first one to get an invite to the wedding, okay?” “Only if you don't take too long,” she said sternly. “I'm not going to live forever, you know. You listen to me and settle down, young man, or one day you'll wake up and all your chances will be gone.” The librarian suddenly brightened, “By the way, I have some interest in science myself, you know.” “That doesn't surprise me. Since high school, I've looked up to you as the ultimate authority on just about every subject.” “Well, aren't you a dear?” she laughed delightedly. “You know, Michael, now that I'm retired from teaching, I like to travel a little now and again. It so happens I have an old friend who works over at Colorado State University in the administration office. Two months ago, she called me up and asked if I would like to take a refresher course being offered there in library science. She invited me to come out and stay with her for a while at Fort Collins. Sounded like fun, so I accepted and, in fact, I just got back a few days ago.” “Then the science you are referring to is library science?” “No, no, silly boy! Just listen. While I was there, my friend and I had time on our hands in the evenings, so we started attending a summer lecture series. And one of these lectures was on biology. That's your specialty, isn't it, Michael?” “I'm beginning to wonder,” Michael replied. “What do you mean? Isn't that your major?” Mrs. Crandall stared at him. “It is, if I ever get back to it.
  • 61. “Of course, you'll get back to it! Don't let me hear you talk like that!” Michael pulled a chair over to the desk and plopped down. “Oh, don't mind me. I 'm just feeling a little unsure about what I really want right now. But, go on—please. You were saying you went to a lecture on biology and...?” “And, I was enthralled! Simply enthralled!” she exclaimed, clapping her wrinkled, bent hands for emphasis. “The professor giving the lecture was one of the most fascinating men I've ever heard. The way he talked, you'd think biology was the most amazing subject in the whole world. Held us all spellbound for two solid hours. Now, I say if a man can keep me glued to my chair for two hours talking about worms and snakes and prairie dogs, he's something extraordinary.” Michael chuckled. “I'd say so. What was his name, do you remember?” The librarian looked up. “I'll never forget his name, in fact, because it was so different -- It was Omega. Dr. James Omega.” Michael straightened up, eyes wide open. “James Omega? At Colorado State? I thought he was at Chicago.” “You sound like you know him.” “Not, ah..., personally, “ Michael stammered. “But he is someone special to me. Kind of an inspiration, you might say. Well, you see, I read one of his books back in High School and it made me first think of going into biology as a career. He's quite famous, you know.” “Really?” “Yes, he's been on television and written some of the most wonderful stuff on endangered animals I've ever read.” “That sounds pretty passionate for someone who claims he's uncertain about his major.” Michael put his chin on his hand. “Oh, it's not that I don't love biology. It's just that it hasn't been quite what I thought it would be. But, you don‟t have time to listen to my worries.” Mrs. Crandall settled back into her chair and smiled that warm, gentle smile he loved. “Michael Johns, for you, I have all the time in the world.” He hesitated, then began. “I just don't know quite what to do.” She said nothing, just listened. “I love animals, you know that. For a long time, I thought I wanted to be a vet. Then I read a book by Omega, “A Biologist‟s Notebook: Animal Societies and How They Interact.” I was hooked. Wow, I thought, I wanted to learn more about all that. By the time I graduated, I had read everything by Omega I could get my hands on and I knew that biology was the direction I wanted to go. To be honest, though, my three years at the University of Wyoming were disappointing.” He paused. She still said nothing. “Oh, there were fine professors there and plenty to learn. It was just all textbooks and formaldehyde. I kept thinking I was ready to take it to another level -- I wanted to see and understand animals the way James Omega did. Man, I can't believe you got to hear him lecture! I'd give my best saddle to…” “Michael,” Mrs. Crandall said, very, very softly. “What?” “Why don't you transfer to CSU?” There was silence. Michael stared at her. “You could, you know.” A grin slowly spread across Michael's face. “I guess I could, couldn't I? But I can hardly believe Omega is at Fort Collins. Are you sure he wasn't just visiting?” 61
  • 62. “Just a minute.” The librarian opened the side drawer of her desk, shuffled a few papers and pulled out a brochure. “Here it is, the pamphlet for the lecture series. See? There's his picture. You read what it says.” Michael picked it up, a tingle going through him as he stared at the face of the man he idolized only a slim horsehair less than his father. “Dr. James Omega, our featured speaker, is the newest member of CSU's Faculty,” he read aloud, “and will begin teaching classes this fall in the Department of Natural Sciences.” Michael's voice was filled with disbelief. “Holy cow.” “Well?” Michael straightened, looking toward the door. “I knew I was supposed to come see you today. This is why. Now I know what to do.” He bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Mrs. Crandall, you have just shown me the way. Again. Like you always do. God bless you.” Crooked fingers patted his hand. “God bless you, Michael Johns. I see in you great things.” “I‟ll try like heck to not disappoint you,” he grinned. “Guess I better get crackin‟ if I‟m going to get an application to CSU in time for fall semester. Bye, Mrs. Crandall, and thanks again.” Grinning like a schoolboy, Michael Johns threw his former teacher a farewell kiss and charged out the door. Ω “Eritrichium nanum!” Anna Dawn greeted Omega triumphantly as he walked through the door at 8 o‟clock Monday morning his third week at Colorado State University. “Beg pardon?” he said, setting his briefcase down beside her computer desk. “The blue wildflowers ... Eritrichium nanum. Family, Boranginaceae. Common name, Alpine Forget-Me-Nots. Genus name, erion, comes from the Greek word for “wool”, and trichose, meaning “hair,” referring to the soft, wooly hairs on the leaves. Satisfied?” Omega grinned at her. “Very. Good work, Ms. Hamlyn. You have proven yourself a worthy opponent. Now, how well will you do with these...?” He opened his briefcase, unrolled a newspaper, and handed her a spray of creamy white blossoms. “The gauntlet has again been thrown.” He turned and walked into his office. Anna Dawn, he thought, seemed to enjoy this little ritual of his bringing her flowers for identification as much as he did. He was glad he thought of it. And he was glad for her. She was a blessing -- just the secretary he hoped for. That was important. She would soon be trustee to several things of a delicate nature and, not only cooperation, but discretion from his secretary would be essential. His last secretary betrayed him and he could not let that happen again. Anna Dawn Hamlyn had a straightforward manner and an honest and pretty, face. He felt already he could depend on her and he hoped it would be mutual, that she would come to trust him as well. Trust was akin to loyalty and loyalty was a binding virtue. He believed without question it was meant to be; that this particular girl being here at this place and time was no accident. If there was anything Omega had learned, it was to trust in the higher-powers to arrange important things. Not a very scientific philosophy, but one, which had proven itself true to him over and over again. In much the same vein, he trusted the intuition that led him to this new university. He could have chosen from any in the world, and logic might have brought him to a more prestigious location; but he was not concerned about his own career. Not hardly. He was on a quest for someone he must find, a very special, unique soul, who probably had no idea of his true calling,
  • 63. …yet. Such a search took faith. Omega knew when one goes looking for a single shell on a beach of thousands, one had better trust in something more reliable than logic. So I follow my gut and this is where I end up -- Fort Collins, Colorado, for goodness sake! Who would have thought? He chuckled softly, shaking his head. He leaned his elbows on his desk and let his eyes wander back and forth over his beloved knickknacks and reflected. Quite a leap from Chicago to Fort Collins, from celebrity to this humble swivel chair. James Omega has shown he can dance in the spotlight, now we will see if he can exit gracefully off the stage. One season wanes, another waxes. You do not miss the hoopla. It is so peaceful here. It has all come round for the best so far, right, old man? Being here feels right. You have to trust in that. You have to trust that you have been led where you are supposed to be. He pushed back his chair, stood, and moved once more to his precious window. His fingertips drummed on the window ledge as he peered down, watching the buildings below swallow the students in gulps. Except for Anna Dawn's keys snapping away in the next room, the office was perfectly peaceful and silent. The afternoon sun beamed in soft rays through scattered clouds above, its position in the sky almost directly overhead. Soon it would move southward, summer would pass and the precious days would keep marching onward, unabated. The master-clock is ticking. Time, precious time, is slipping through my fingers. I must find him!“ He struck the desktop with his hand in frustration. “This is the right place to look, I know it, I know it!” he spoke aloud, trying to reassure himself. „All that is needful, shall be given,' he thought, that is the promise. Ah, but what a test! I feel as if I stand in the vortex of a rising storm, holding my breath, waiting for the cyclone of events to sweep my way. I cannot run from them, nor control them. I can only play my humble part as best I can. And for now, in this decision to be here, I must stand firm! I have followed the call. I am where I should be. Surely, he cannot be far away.” Omega drew in his breath and held it a long time in pensive thought. There were heavy stakes in this game he was playing. Where much was to be gained, much was at risk. The enemies would be out hunting for him, soon enough. Like bloodhounds, they had his scent in their noses and weren't about to give up the chase. He had bought himself a little time with this move, but he would be found out sooner or later and then they would be after him again. A sudden anxiety rose like a cold hunger in his stomach. He splayed his hands against the glass, pressing its silicon chill against his palms as if trying to reach desperately through it, to touch someone below, beyond his grasp. He pressed his forehead to the window, fighting to keep down the anxiety that rose like bile to his throat. The greatest danger of this game was not going to be for him. Please, dear Maker, bring him here, quickly, he prayed. Let me find him before they do. Ω Alicia Elizando opened her eyes, turned and saw the bed was empty -- Garrin had already left. She could hear water running in the bathroom. She lifted the sheet and sat up, when a pain on her cheek drew her attention. She touched her face gingerly with her fingers and winced. The flesh was hot, tender to the touch. She walked to the mirror above the dresser and stared at herself more closely. The left side of her face was swollen, the cheek turning a greenish blue. She pulled back with a short gasp. Looking around, she found a partially melted bucket of ice next to the bar in the bedroom. Taking two cubes in her hand, she wrapped them in a napkin 63
  • 64. and held them gently to her face. The pain made her eyes tear, but it was not unbearable. She grit her teeth and walked out of the room toward the patio balcony, continuing to hold the ice pack to her skin. The rays of a warm California sun filtering through the late morning fog touched her face like a caress. She stood there on the flagstones, face upturned, eyes closed, soaking in the comfort of it. A voice from a lounge chair in the far corner of the patio startled her. “Good morning, Alicia. It's ten thirty. You two slept late.” Her hand jerked, dropping with the icepack to her side. She turned sharply, her free hand instinctively covering the bodice of her negligee as she spoke. “Erik. I didn't see you there.” He stood and came toward her. “What's the matter with your face?” She turned away, raising her hand to shield the bruise behind the icepack. “Let me see....” Erik insisted, his voice firm, with uncharacteristic tenderness. He moved her hand away and stared at the bruise for a long moment. “I sincerely hope you ran into a bedpost, not what I'm thinking,” he said. “Garrin's never hurt me before,” Alicia answered, her eyes showing the betrayal. “It was my fault.” “Why? What did you do?” She threw the dripping napkin angrily on the ground. The ice cubes cracked and scattered. “Last night, he ... he was very tense. I knew something was upsetting him, but he wouldn't tell me what. I tried to comfort him, to please him....” Erik stood away at the remark, his glacial eyes downcast. “As only you can, I'm sure. Then what?” “I, I just made him mad, that's all,” Alicia snapped back, clenching her fists. “I tried. I tried hard. But he couldn't get what he wanted. Finally, he exploded. He slapped me across the face and then...” She turned her back to the Swede, her voice shaking. “He got very ... mean. He's never done that before, Erik. It scared me.” She could feel him standing there, staring a hole in her back with those hard gray eyes of his. When she turned around, he dropped his hand, as if he had been thinking of touching her shoulder. “He's had a lot on his mind lately,” the Swede said gruffly. “Sometimes a man does things he regrets when he's tense.” Alicia shook her head with a frown. “He's been upset before and never taken it out on me,” she said sourly. “He wasn't himself.” “Alicia...,” the bodyguard cut himself off. Whatever he wanted to say went unsaid, and his features hardened, regaining again, their usual, unreadable visage. “Go get cleaned up. I'll run down to the kitchen and tell them to bring breakfast up to the patio this morning.” She turned to go, then stopped. “Erik,” she whispered, “don't say anything to Garrin. Don't tell him I talked to you about it at all. Please.” His voice was colder than she expected. “I would never, not for a million dollars, get in the middle of what goes on between my boss and his woman. You don't need to worry. I never talked to you. I never saw the bruise. Good morning, Alicia. Expect breakfast in a half hour.” Without a further word, the big man turned on his heel and exited through a side hall adjoining the patio. “Thank you,” she called softly after him, but the door had already closed and he was gone. For a long moment, Alicia stood, wondering what to do next. Should she pretend nothing happened? Should she pout and make Garrin feel guilty? Should she give him the silent treatment,
  • 65. just enough that he would know she was angry and hurt, more deeply than the bruise on her face? She finally decided to play it cool and see how his mood played out at breakfast. During the three years she had known him, he had spoiled her, petted her, indulged her, but he never, ever abused her. Surely, this was a one-time thing. Surely, it didn't mean he was tired of her or that she couldn't satisfy him. Stop it! Don't go there, she told herself. Mustn't think such things. Thinking it makes it come true. Hurry. Make yourself beautiful before he sees you. Maybe he'll apologize. Maybe he'll want to make up. You have to be ready. You have to be beautiful. Hurriedly, she ran to the closet to select something lovely to wear, tight pants, a blouse that showed off her best features. In her rush, she passed the mirror and paused once more to look at her cheek. Not too bad, she thought. It'll go away in a few days. Foundation and blush will cover it till then. One thought nagged at the back of her mind, a question she didn't really want answered. Why had Erik looked at her like that? But there was no time to worry about that now. Garrin would be coming out of the bathroom soon, expecting breakfast, and her. She hurried off to her own room and a shower. When she saw him next, she would be smiling and perfect. She would be everything he wanted her to be and more. Ω 65
  • 66. Chapter 7 The early sun climbed into a rosy dawn sky above Star Valley, Wyoming. Everything at the dairy ranch was in order, the cows were milked, the sheep, pigs and chickens fed. The barn was cleaned and stocked with hay, the house spic and span. Michael Johns had the blue truck packed and ready to go and the engine idling as he shook hands at the door of the farmhouse with Pete Grover. “See you're chompin' at the bit,” the mortician turned dairy rancher said. “Right anxious to get away from these here cows, ain't ya.” Michael popped a stick of gum in his mouth. “No sense hanging around here. It's three weeks until fall term begins. I need to line up an apartment, make sure my registration and schedule are all ship-shape and check out the lay of the land. You know, get to know my way around town ... check out the local fishing streams…” “And the fillies,” Grover put in with a knowing wink. Michael snapped his gum and looked down at his boots. “Yeah, maybe.” Grover delivered a sound clap to Michael's back. “Well, good luck, Michael. Don't worry about things here. I'm a fast learner, I have three sons to do most of the work and you‟ve done a good job of showing us how the place runs. You go catch up with that dream of yours.” “Thanks, Pete. Say, if you get a chance, drop in to the library and tell Mrs. Crandall I'll call as soon as I get settled, will you?” “Sure.” “See ya.” Michael started down the porch steps. Grover slid his hands into his rear pockets. “I'd be downright surprised, but I hope so.” Michael paused and said over his shoulder, “You never know. Take good care of Scout. I might come back for him someday.” He walked the distance to the truck, got in, and slammed the door. The two men waved and Michael gunned the engine, leaving a cloud of dust swirling behind him as he headed down the dirt road for the highway, the first mile toward whatever lay on the other side of those mountains. It excited him to think of going to CSU and taking a class from James Omega. Due to a great G.P.A. at Laramie and an impressive track record of volunteer conservation work, his application to the school was accepted immediately. It seemed a bit odd to have something go so smoothly. A bit odd and danged unusual. Most of the gains he made in life came with heavy cost and no small effort. Just like what his father used to say: “Most times, life's like tryin' to plow with a broken harrow. But never mind. You do it anyway. It's gotta be done, and the field's not goin' to plow itself.” So, this is it, he thought as he headed south through the valley, perhaps for the last time. Everything he passed had a memory attached. But he had memories enough to last awhile, he
  • 67. figured, good and bad. Now, he needed to make some new ones. He was at a turning point from which he hoped to mark the true beginning of his life. Somehow, he knew it would be just that. It was a good two-hour drive from Star Valley down to Evanston and another two and a half east to Rock Springs across a lot of wide-open nothing with little to look at—just an occasional hawk on a telephone pole, a warren of prairie dogs, or an antelope or two. There were a few flat- browed buttes standing buckskin bare, silent sentinels of a quietly hostile and lonely land. Other than that, mile after mile of dull rolling swells and washes were the only scenery. But Michael loved it. For a man Wyoming born and bred, nothing was more exhilarating than miles and miles of big sky stretching overhead, meeting at last a horizon far beyond a mortal's reach. Here was freedom. Here was a connection to one's place on the planet. Here was room to breathe. Southward, a bank of gray storm clouds gathered, looming like haughty, angry lords, summoned to battle. He noticed and frowned a little, knowing how quickly a summer thunderstorm could come from nowhere on these plains and wreck havoc. By the time he reached Laramie, he was getting stiff and tired. He stopped for a shake and burger at a local drive-through and took time to check his watch. Four o'clock and he estimated he still had about another two to three hours to go to get to Fort Collins. He stretched his arms over his head and twisted his back. Funny, he mused, letting a low moan express his discomfort, how he could ride Old Scout around all day and not feel a thing, but sit on the padded seat of a truck for half a day and he could feel every bone poking into every muscle of his body. “Not much better than riding a sharp-spined mule bareback,” he sighed loudly, mounting the seat again. “Oh, well, back to it.” Driving past the University of Wyoming on the way out of Laramie without stopping gave him a peculiar feeling. After three years, he had a strong feeling of kinship to the college and he felt somewhat like a traitor, an unfaithful lover, deserting it for another. He'd had some good times there, sitting in the bleachers at a football game with his face painted yellow and brown, rooting for the Cowboys. He remembered his roommates with fondness, and the girls he dated -- they were sweet, but there was no one so far he wanted to put his brand on. That was all right. He wasn't in a hurry. He also enjoyed most of his classes, though something always seemed to be missing. At the time, he figured it must be his own fault -- maybe he had a rotten attitude, or was just being idealistic, expecting biology to be this grand thing, when what it really amounted to was a lot of memorization and hours of dusty-jacketed textbook reading. Will it be different at CSU, he wondered? A strange tickle in his stomach rose with the question. There was that feeling again. He asked himself for the hundredth time, was he really doing the right thing, basing a major decision like this on gut instinct? Life taught Michael Johns to believe in reasons; it was his father who taught him to believe in dreams. The former was much easier to throw a rope on, and Michael would have loved to back up his choice with a good, solid, down-to-earth reason why he felt so compelled to change horses mid-stream. It wasn't until the Wyoming state line was well behind him and he was on the last lonely stretch of highway to Fort Collins, that he recalled how Laramie was as far east and south as he had ever been, except for a few months volunteer work in Louisiana. From here on, it was all new country -- a new state he had never been to, a new town, a brave, new beginning. He suddenly felt rather heroic. The long, late August evening wore on. The wind was picking up and the sky was ever growing darker. A little on again, off again, skiff of rain made the road slippery in spots. Michael frowned, turning on the wipers. Just one more thing to wear on his nerves. Another hour passed. The rain scattered and returned, as if the cloud lords couldn't make up their minds whether to war or just bluster. Michael knew he was getting close now, only about 67
  • 68. twenty miles, he estimated, short of his destination. Not a bit too soon, he thought. It had been a long drive. He was concentrating on rain slicks and wind gusts with half his brain and deep in thought as to what he wanted that brave, new beginning of his to be with the other half, when two things happened simultaneously. If he had been fresh and alert, he probably could have dealt with either one without mishap. But as it was, both his mind and physical reflexes were functioning pretty much on autopilot, neither capable of a judicious, immediate response. As he came over a rise, passing a clump of trees, a streak of feathers came from nowhere into his line of vision -- a hawk, right in line with his windshield. He hit the brakes and swerved hard to the right to avoid an almost certain collision. To his amazement, within the same second, an old man appeared right in front of him, standing just off the side of the road, waving his hands frantically as Michael's truck made a beeline straight for him. The hawk hit the windshield. Michael cringed and overcorrected to the left to avoid hitting the old man and the blue pickup went skidding sideways then backwards across the slippery highway, over the muddy edge and down an embankment. At the bottom the truck hit soft earth and began to roll upward to one side, stopped just shy of the roll‟s crest, then thudded back down on all four wheels. The rocks were still settling from a miniature landslide as Michael, hands trembling but with a vice-like grip on the steering wheel, heard a voice coming from above, back up on the shoulder of the road. “Are you all right, young man?” it called, shrilly. “Are you hurt?” Michael, still reeling, shook his head to clear it. It took him a moment to answer, to register he was indeed all right -- he was still alive and he hadn't hit the old man, thank God. Still shaking, he managed to roll down his window and turn off the engine. “I, I guess so,” he answered weakly. “Yes, I'm all right.” Then again, not exactly all right. There was no telling what damage the truck had received.. “What? I cannot hear you,” the voice said. “Wait. I am coming down.” In his rear view mirror, he could see the man starting down the slippery bank. He seemed rather spry for someone his age. It was only a fleeting thought and Michael's brain was still rather scrambled. He closed his eyes, rested his head on the steering wheel, and fought to regain his composure. A strong hand gripped him on the shoulder through the open window. “You look unharmed, boy,” the voice said with a tone of relief. “No broken bones, no head injury, no whiplash?” “I don't think so,” Michael muttered, not raising his head. “Good. Then I must go check on the bird.” Sounds of shuffling feet up the embankment. Michael jerked his head around just in time to see the figure disappear over the top of the embankment. “Go check on the bird?” he said, incredulously. “What in tarnation are you thinking, Grandpa? Here I am, stuck in mud up to my hubcaps, a good twenty miles from civilization and, hey, I almost ran you down -- you could be DEAD right now -- and you‟re worried about the bird?!” Slowly, Michael pushed open the door and pulled himself from the cab. He stood a moment, getting his feet to hold him, and scratched his head. He looked up to the road and shrugged. “So, Michael, let's go see how the bird's doing, shall we? What else have you got to do right now?” He made his way unsteadily up the slick, rocky bank until he gained footing on the asphalt of the highway. His boots were sticky and clotted with mud. From where he was, he could see the old man, his back to Michael. He was across the road, down on one knee, bending over what must
  • 69. be the bird -- or what was left of it. A pang of regret stabbed Michael's conscience. Hawks held a special allure, the essence of freedom. He loved watching them soar, seeing them sitting on a telephone wire or on a high tree branch back at the ranch, surveying their kingdom. They seemed regal, somehow, the royalty of birds. There had been no avoiding hitting this one. It was a real shame. Michael walked slowly across the highway toward where the man kneeled, not really wanting to see the damage he had done -- the sight of it could hardly be pleasant. But as he approached, the man, whose complete attention was on what lay on the ground before him, held out his hand without looking around, motioning for Michael to hurry. “It is alive,” Michael heard him say, though he hardly could believe it. “Amazingly, you just grazed it. Broken wing is all. It can be fixed.” Michael was close now, trying to peer over the old man's bent shoulders to see. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved kacki-green sweatshirt. A ponytail of white hair, tied behind his neck with a leather thong, stuck out behind a brown leather hat. Rain was dripping off the brim. “Fortunately I know a man who rehabilitates injured raptors,” the man was saying breathlessly, speaking softly and calmly. “He can help once we get it stabilized. Meanwhile, it falls to us to do the first aid. Perhaps you would be good enough to give me a hand here....” “Sure, sure. What do you want me to....” “We need to cover its eyes, so it will stop struggling. Have you got anything ... a handkerchief, a strip of cloth, anything for a makeshift hood?” Michael could see the bird was in great distress, flapping, pecking and clawing at the old man who was trying, unsuccessfully, to calm it. “My bandana. In my truck.” “That will do. Please, get it. Quickly.” Michael ran across the highway, made it down to the truck with only a few slips and scrapes, then hurried back up, waving the bandana. “Here you go,” he said, panting. The old man reached behind him and took the handkerchief. He grunted. “This is much too big. Could you tear it into strips?” “Tear it? This is my new bandana.” The old man was still fighting gingerly with the bird, trying to restrain it without getting bitten or sliced by the small, razor-sharp talons. His next words had a distinct edge of impatience. “This is a peregrine falcon, boy. An endangered species, as you may know.” “Of course I...” “It is worth a hundred of your bandanas. Now, if you would be so kind as to tear me off a strip ... ouch! Tear me off a strip the right size to make a blindfold for this poor, suffering creature which YOU injured....” “Hey, I didn't mean to, I couldn't help....” “... preferably before my hands are MINCEMEAT, I would greatly appreciate it.” Michael was speechless. He simply bit his lip and said nothing. Removing his pocketknife from his back pocket, he cut a slit on the hem of the bandana and pulled. Repeating this, he soon had three strips, meeting the specifications as instructed. He handed them over the old man's shoulder. “Here.” “Good. Now if you could just help me hold her, while I tie it on....” “Hold her. Right.” Michael kneeled down next to the man, who was cautiously restraining the bird's talons by holding its ankles with his left hand and gripping its flailing good wing with his 69
  • 70. right. As Michael replaced the old man's hands with his own, the hawk screamed. Hurriedly, the man took one of the strips of bandana and tied it around the bird's head. For the first time, Michael caught a glimpse of the old man's face. His eyes grew wide, his breath caught in his throat. “What is the matter, boy? Are you sure you are all right?” the man said with genuine concern, turning his face and looking squarely at Michael for the first time. “I'm fine. Help the bird,” Michael said lamely. The man turned back to the hawk. “I intend to. Just hold her a moment more and I will have it,” the man said, his hands working now with confidence and skill. “Poor thing is really hurting. After the hood is on, she should calm down. Then we have to apply a splint.” “A splint? You know how to do that?” “Yes. Find me a flat stick, about eight to ten inches long, if you can.” “Gotcha.” Michael, heart pounding, hurried off and returned shortly with a wooden ruler. “I'm a student,” he said. “This was in my school stuff.” “Very fortunate. Now, come here and I will show you what to do.” Together, the two of them worked side by side, Michael listening to and following directions like a nurse in an operating room, as the man secured the broken wing to the ruler with the two remaining strips of bandana. Even as the man said, the bird quieted almost instantly when her eyes were covered, although her talons still struck out with lightning reflexes whenever she felt so inclined. In all, it took about twenty minutes to complete the task to the man's satisfaction. Michael became so engrossed, he hardly noticed the rain begin afresh, pattering persistently on his bare neck until it trickled down his shirt. Even then, riveted to the task at hand, he paid it little attention. At last, the man said, “Done!” and they both leaned back on their heels, with a joint sigh of satisfaction. “That should hold her until I can get her to my friend. I think she will be all right.” The man patted Michael's shoulder. “Well done, boy! You could make a fine veterinarian someday if you keep this up.” Michael laughed. “Actually, I want to be a biologist ... like you, Dr. Omega.” The man turned sharply and looked Michael up and down in a quick assessment. “You know who I am, then?” “Oh, yes. I definitely know who you are.” A slight smile spread across the man's face. “You think so, do you?” “I'm on my way to CSU for fall term,” Michael explained. “With the intention to take a class from you, if I can.” “I see. Not many people know I teach there. How do you?” Michael motioned toward the falcon with a jut of his chin. “A little bird told me,” he said, grinning. Omega frowned. “No seriously. I wish to know.” “A friend, my former high school teacher, attended a lecture you gave earlier this summer. She told me you were here.” “Ah yes. The western deserts seminar. I see.” Omega's face and tone of voice changed slightly, showing a subtle wariness. “That was a select audience. Less than a hundred people were there. My being at the seminar was a last minute decision. It was not advertised. So, the chances of this friend of yours attending and hearing me speak were small.” “Lucky for her. Lucky for me,” Michael said guilelessly. “Sometimes things that are meant to be have a way of working out.”
  • 71. Omega eyed Michael strangely. “Yes. That is true. I had hoped, however, it would take a while longer before I was pegged….” His voice trailed off. Michael had no idea what he meant by that, but, obviously, the man was troubled. Omega expelled a breath through pursed lips. “Well ... I should not be surprised. I expected the news to get around sooner or later.” Then it began to click. “I'm sorry,” Michael said. “I imagine a popular public figure like you gets badgered all the time by nobodies like me. I didn't mean to upset you.” Omega's face softened. He put a hand on Michael's shoulder. “My boy, you are certainly not a nobody! You just saved a peregrine falcon. That places you pretty high on my good guys list!” They both stood, slapping the mud off their jeans as best they could and straightening their backs with mutual groans. Omega was the first to offer a hand. “You know my name, young man. What is yours?” “Michael Johns, sir. Very pleased to meet you.” They shook, heartily. “The pleasure is mine.” “Sorry, I almost killed you.” “That was my fault, not yours.” Omega stooped, slowly lifting the bird in his arms. “We have to get this bird some help now. She is hurting.” “Yes, but there's one little problem....” Michael thumbed in the direction of the truck. Just as he did so, a charging eighteen-wheeled rig barreled around the bend. It blew its horn at them as it went by, the driver staring at them through his windshield. Almost immediately the brake lights went on and the big truck pulled to the side of the road, flashing its emergency blinkers. After a brief explanation, which seemed to interest the trucker greatly -- especially the part about the falcon, a tow chain and winch were produced, attached to the pickup and, in amazingly short order, Michael's truck was being yanked up the slippery bank and deposited safely back on the road, the only apparent damage being one bent fender. With a wave of his hand, the trucker pulled away, shaking his head, muttering something under his breath that Michael barely caught, something about how he thought he'd seen it all. “Truckers. Gotta love 'em,” Michael said, meaning it. “More than once I've followed behind a rig like that in a blizzard and been right glad to my dogteeth it was there in front of me, plowing the road.” It was then, for the first time, Michael stopped to think about a few things. “You're a good ways from town, Professor. What brought you clear out here all alone, anyway?” Omega stood rocking the falcon in his arm, just as would a mother with a baby. “Field work. Research. You perhaps know I specialize in endangered species. Well, there was a pair of peregrines I have been keeping my eye on, their nest is not far from here ... and I came out to check on them. They mate for life, you know. I was just in the middle of a conversation with this one about it when....” “Wait. You say you were talking to the falcon?” Omega smiled wryly. “Only in a manner of speaking. Anyway, I was distracted and it was distracted, and it suddenly spied a ground squirrel. It dived straight for it without another thought in its head and flew right into your path. Raptors are apt to do that, you know. They have amazing eyesight, but a terrible case of tunnel vision, and tunnel mind, for that matter. They see food, focus, and go for it like an arrow, often to their deaths if they are by a highway, just as this one almost did.” 71
  • 72. “You, too,” Michael reminded him. “You came pretty close yourself to being road kill. You scared me to death!” Omega shrugged it off. “It was thoughtless of me to step onto the road and I am sorry -- about your truck, about the delay, about the scare, about everything.” Michael shrugged. “Hey. No problem. The drive was getting boring. And, anyway, I'm really glad I got to meet you ... see you at work and everything. It was great.” Omega laughed outright. “Glad you think so.” “So, where's your vehicle?” Michael asked, looking around. Omega hesitated. “Oh, I have no vehicle. I do not drive.” Michael was dumbfounded. “But, how did you get out here in the middle of nowhere? Thumb a ride?” “Not exactly,” Omega seemed to be hedging. “I am quite a hiker.” Michael ran his fingers through his hair. “I'd say you are.” “But now, since you are here,” Omega went on without a blink, “and since it is raining, I would appreciate a ride into town, if it would not be too much trouble.” “Not to mention the falcon needs attention as soon as possible,” Michael added. “Quite right.” “Well, what are we waiting for? Hop in.” Michael was in biologist heaven all the way to Fort Collins. He kept wanting to hit himself over the head with a rail post to bring himself back to reality. Could this really be happening? Was the one and only Dr. James Omega himself really sitting beside him, the two of them chatting away like old friends -- Omega talking about how amazing falcons were and Michael explaining how he loved animals and wanted to learn all he could about them. He was careful to not get too “groupy” on Omega. If he said, for example, that Omega was his life's inspiration, his reason for turning his whole life around and transferring to CSU, or that he felt drawn to him by some inexplicable cosmic force, that would have been a bit much, pretty embarrassing for them both. So Michael constrained himself, remarking he really enjoyed the “Vanishing Eden” television series and had actually read all of Omega's books. He figured that was enough -- -a pretty good, not too sappy compliment, while staying within the bounds of good taste. The rain all but cleared by the time they reached town. Omega asked to be let out at the CSU parking lot nearest the Clarke Building. Michael wondered at first why Omega would not have asked to be dropped off at his home, but then concluded he was probably going directly to his office to telephone his friend and get help for the bird. Omega came around to Michael's side of the cab and reached through Michael's open window to say farewell with a handshake. “I look forward to seeing you in my class, Michael Johns. I will never forget your help with the falcon today.” Michael gave a quick nod of his head to say thank you. “Let me know how she does.” “Of course. Good-bye.” “Bye.” Michael drove away, leaving Omega waving from the curb. “Man alive, what a day!” he said, spanking the steering wheel with his palms. “Can you believe it? James Omega! Right there, he sat right by me! Holy cow. Holy cow.” The young rancher drove down the street and around the corner on his way to the motel where he had reserved a room for the night, never looking back. He did not see James Omega stand for a long time staring after him, pondering whether the boy was friend or foe. He did not see the
  • 73. worried look in the old man‟s eyes, or the grim set of his mouth. And he did not see him, cradling the bird in his arms, turn and walk hurriedly away from the University for a good block before disappearing from view behind a clump of trees. Ω 73
  • 74. Chapter 8 It was the first day of fall semester and students were scurrying by the thousands across the campus greens, filtering into the various campus buildings where their classes were located. Omega stood watching them from his small, but lofty, porthole. “Anna Dawn,” he called through the door. “Did you purchase the item I asked for?” “Yes, I'll bring it right in,” the reply came and in a few moments, Anna Dawn Hamlyn stepped through the door, laying an empty, 2-quart glass pitcher on Omega's desk. “Here you go,” she said, a little breathlessly. She has been bustling around all morning, Omega mused, running here and there, like a cat missing a kitten. She has a case of first-day fever like the rest of them. It made her face flush in a most becoming way. “I've got to hurry or I'll be late for my first class. I'll be back to work from one to five this afternoon. Professor? I don't understand why it was so important that it be a glass pitcher,” she said, straightening. “Couldn‟t be esthetics. You teach biology, not home ec, right? So, is Martha Stewart attending your class?” Omega shot her a faux look of disapproval. “You have a certain wit, Ms. Hamlyn,” he said wryly, “that may get you into trouble one day.” It came easily now, this tête-à-tête between them. Omega's efforts were paying off. The summer had ripened their relationship into a comfortable, friendly one. “That may be true,” she answered. “But I still want to know. 'Not Tupperware, my dear,' you said, 'or Rubbermaid.'” Dawn imitated his voice. “'It has to be glass.' So I'm asking again, why glass?” Omega's eyes twinkled in a certain way when he had a secret and they were twinkling now. “Because, oh inquisitive one, of the tinkle.” Anna Dawn put her hands on her hips. “The tinkle? What is that supposed to mean?” Omega held up the pitcher, examining it. “It must tinkle, loudly, when I fill it with ice cubes and water. Plastic does not tinkle.” “I suppose not.” “It must tinkle at the precise moment I want it to tinkle.” He shook a finger at her. “Never underestimate the power of audio stimuli on the psyche, Anna Dawn. Sensory impressions are the most dynamic channels of learning we have and one of a teacher's most powerful tools. I have a point to make today, this first, all-important, day of class and a tinkle plays a very big part in it.” Anna Dawn held up her hands, conceding defeat. “Okay, okay. You're the one with the doctorate degree. I respect that. I acknowledge you must know what you're doing. If you say a glass pitcher is indispensable in an upper-level Honors biology class, who am I to question?” She appeared ready to leave, then paused. “By the way, that last bouquet of Monday flowers you gave me, the little pink ones, really had me guessing for a while. I figured it out but it took some effort.” “Good for you. Well?” “Lathyrus littoralis, or, the Silky Beach Pea. Pretty little things. But what puzzles me, Professor, is their habitat.”
  • 75. “Oh?” “It seems they only grow on sand dunes along the Pacific Coast -- anywhere from Washington state down to central California -- and nowhere else. Now, I know you like to hike, Dr. Omega, but I think it highly unlikely you tromped all the way over to the Pacific Coast and back over the weekend. So, if I may ask, just how did you manage to get me a batch of fresh flowers that grow 1400 miles away?” She stood there, arms folded, awaiting an answer. The biologist only laughed and turned away. He began packing his briefcase in preparation to go to class. “Ah, the inquisition comes, at last,” he said merrily over his shoulder. “There are many explanations I could give. I could, perhaps, tell you I raised them from seed. I could tell you I am the member of a wildflower garden club that mails me unusual plants every month. I could even tell you I own my own jet and can fly wherever I wish on the weekends. But,” he wagged the finger again, “I will not tell you any of those things, because they are not true.” Anna Dawn looked at him quite suspiciously, wearing that 'here he goes again,' expression she used whenever Omega pulled out another of the seemingly inexhaustible supply of tricks he kept up his sleeve. “Drat it, Professor, you're being deliberately elusive. Something's rotten in the state of Ft. Collins, or I'm a fool.” She frowned, tapping her foot. “I think you're hiding something.” Suddenly Omega stopped to face her. “There are still a few things about me you have yet to learn, Anna Dawn. Someday, I will tell you everything you want to know. When the time is right, I will tell you all my little secrets. But not just yet.” She grew quiet at that remark, her beautiful blue eyes showing her puzzlement. “All your secrets, Dr. Omega? Nothing too mind-boggling, I hope?” Omega snapped shut his briefcase. “You might be surprised, my dear. You might be surprised. So, how do I look? Is my tie straight?” She nodded. “You look very nice. Good luck with your first day of class.” “Thank you. You, too. How did your schedule turn out? Did you get the classes you wanted?” “Pretty much and some will be a challenge. The one I'm most worried about is Microbiology 358, taught by Dr. Marsh.” Omega slipped on his suit coat. “Juliet Marsh is a lamb. You will love her.” Anna Dawn picked up the class list from the desk and handed it to him. “Not according to the scuttlebutt I've picked up. They say at first glance she looks and acts like your very own sweet little grandma, but when she grades, all that sugar and spice turns into vinegar. Her tests are supposed to be your worst nightmare.” Omega's eyebrows raised. “Really? Juliet Marsh? Who would have thought? Anyway, I am sure you have nothing to worry about, Anna Dawn. If you are the same kind of student as you are secretary, you will do wonderfully in any event.” Anna Dawn's cheek flushed. “Why, thank you. That's very nice of you.” He liked to see her smile. If only he had had a daughter of his own ... Omega cleared his throat. “Well, I must away. There are eager minds waiting.” “Eager minds that don't yet know who their teacher is,” Anna Dawn reminded him. “In the class schedule it merely lists the instructor of your class as 'faculty.' I'd like to be there to see the look on their faces when James Omega walks in.” “Ah, yes. Well, hopefully they will not all get up and leave.” “Fat chance,” she smiled, handing him a plastic bag also sitting on the desk, filled with little foil pouches. “Not when they find out they get treats. Now, off you go. You said you wanted to be early.” 75
  • 76. “Right.” He started out the door. “Wait!” she cried. “Don't forget your precious pitcher!” He took it from her and paused. “Thank you, Anna Dawn. Thank you for all you do for me. Someday, I hope I get the opportunity to pay you back.” “There's nothing to pay back, but....” a mischievous sparkle lit Anna Dawn's eyes, “just help me get through Dr. Marsh's class,” she said. “Microbiology really isn't my thing. I could use any suggestions you have to give on the final project. If I get an A on that, I'll consider you my own personal miracle-worker.” “Not to worry, my dear,” the old biologist said on his way out the door. “I have been known to work a miracle or two.” Ω Michael Johns hurried down the twelve concrete steps in front of his small rental home. It sat on the top of a moderate-sized hill and, in order to descend to the street below, one took the stairs. It was not a matter of choice. He quite liked the little frame house on Pineview Street and felt lucky to get it. Housing was at a premium when the college students returned to town. They came like a tide held back a full summer, eager to sweep in and occupy every shelter with a bed and toilet, no matter how dilapidated. He had tried through a good part of the summer by phone and on the Internet to find a suitable apartment without success. Then, with unbelievable luck, Michael happened upon a FOR RENT sign posted in the window of the house, high above the street and virtually out of sight. Calling the phone number given on the sign, he was told the house belonged to an elderly gentleman who had been placed in a rest home just two days before. His sister was going to try to fix it up and sell it as soon as possible. She hadn't even placed a newspaper ad yet. Michael immediately offered to fix it up for her if she would discount his rent, an agreement was made right there on the phone and both parties hung up feeling fortune was smiling on them. He took the steps three at a stride, his backpack bouncing against his shoulder blades like a loose saddle. Here it was, the first day of classes and he was just one flip of an egg away from being late. He threw open the door and hit the seat of the blue truck coming from a full run, landing with a precision only years of practice can bring. When he turned over the engine, a cloud of black regurgitated from the exhaust pipe. Rats, he thought, I'm burning oil! Oh well. It'll have to wait. No time to fix it now. His nerves tightened. He hastily grabbed his class schedule to check once more the room number of his first class, then gunned the engine and tore off down the street, leaving a three-foot peel-out smudge on the pavement and a vapor of dirty smoke diffusing into the air. Omega arrived thirty minutes early at what would soon be his classroom. The amphitheater was still empty. He hid the glass pitcher, freshly filled with water and ice cubes, behind the podium and hurriedly wound his way back and forth across every row in the room, placing a foil bag on the armrest between each folding seat. Turning to a table in front of the podium, he opened his briefcase and lay out his notes. A box containing copies of the class syllabus, typed and organized to perfection by Anna Dawn, was already there on the table, ready to distribute.
  • 77. He walked to the computer/media console and turned it on. Within minutes he had his PowerPoint presentation up and ready, awaiting his command. He checked the overhead projector and the microphone. All was in order. For a moment, he stood silently, gazing out at all the empty seats. Today, the students who filled those seats were in for a bit of a surprise. One by one, they began streaming in. Omega quickly left the room before he was spotted and waited in an adjoining storage room for his entrance. At exactly nine o'clock, Dr. James Omega opened the door to the lecture hall and walked to the front of the classroom. He stood behind the podium, looking up at the students seated before him in the amphitheater and tapped the microphone lightly with his pencil. “Let us begin now, shall we?” Chatter hushed to an immediate silence. Slowly, whispers behind hands, pointing fingers and nudging elbows revealed the students' gradual recognition of who stood before them. Their reaction was one of stunned amazement. Omega's eyes scanned the audience. Immediately, he recognized three faces -- Dean Hyden, Derk Long and Annie Groff were seated in the back row. They waved and smiled as a show of support. He acknowledged their presence with a respectful nod. Of course, they would not miss James Omega's first public performance on their turf if their lives depended on it. He noted Frank Curnow was not with them. “May I get some help to pass these out?” he asked, walking over to the box on the table. Several students eagerly volunteered. “You, you, and you....” he said, pointing. “Thank you. Make sure there is one for everyone. No one gets overlooked in this class.” The distribution of the syllabus gave him a moment to collect his thoughts. He found he was much more nervous than usual. It wasn't the teaching, or even that he was being so blatantly evaluated by his peers -- he had performed under much more intense scrutiny. It was because a hope, a desperate hope, that his someone might just be there, seated right in front of him, sitting in one of those chairs. That singular hope pushed all else into secondary importance. He held his breath. Slowly, his eyes passed over every face, one by one. Many looked back at him, smiling shyly. He gave them a reassuring nod, all the while keening for some spark of intuitive recognition. There was none. No fire of confirmation. Yet. With a sigh, he rotated his shoulders and adjusted his tie, trying to let the disappointment go. Maybe in next term's class. The search was not over. He could not think about it now. There was work to do. His eyes brightened to a sparkle. “Good morning. I am Dr. James Omega and this is Biology 451, Evolving Ecosystems of the Twenty-First Century,” he said in a friendly tone. The students exchanged looks, smiles spreading around the room in a chain reaction. So, it was him, not a look-alike. Amused, Omega saw it register, watched them sit up straighter to make a good impression, noted them eyeing him like a mongoose eyes a cobra -- alert, intent, sizing him up, ready to spar. “May I suggest you check your class schedules and make sure you are in the right place?” He cocked an eyebrow at the crowd, waiting. As always on the first day of class, there were a few students, undoubtedly freshmen, who, greatly embarrassed, rose and clattered conspicuously from the hall, followed by snickers from the upperclassmen. As they filed out, Omega's eyes followed them to the door, where he noticed another student entering. He looked flustered, arriving late, an apologetic frown written across his face. The bird boy, Omega thought, recognizing him. Late to class. What was his name? Michael something, I think. 77
  • 78. For a moment, he reflected on the incident that had introduced them. It was that the boy had recognized him so readily that unnerved Omega. That and his story of how he knew Omega was teaching at CSU. It seemed suspicious that anyone besides a spy for the enemies would have tracked him down so quickly and, yet, a warm reassurance spread over Omega at seeing him again, not a feeling of dread or warning. The feeling was comforting. Perhaps the boy's story was legitimate, but enemies had come before in seemingly innocent guise. At any rate, there was no time to dwell on it now. He had a class to teach. Omega let Michael get settled in on the back row, then cleared his throat. “Well, now that we are all here...,“ he winked and grinned in Michaels direction -- Michael reddened and saluted back with his pencil. “And if you are sure you all belong here, and I am fairly certain I do, why not begin?” Everyone seemed to simultaneously ease back into their seats, ready for the show. Omega said, “To answer the question I see in your eyes, yes, I am who you think I am. I must tell you I am delighted to be standing here today at this excellent university as the newest member of the Natural Sciences faculty.” He shot a glance up at the dean and his colleagues. “Hopefully I will earn my keep and they will let me stay.” At this, the audience broke into polite applause. Omega held up his hands. “Well, thank you! That is very kind of you. Now, I know some of you may feel a bit unsettled, being in a class with a public personality as your instructor, but let me assure you, I am not here to make you uncomfortable. Let us not put up the illusion of celebrity on a pedestal, like a wall between us. Make no mistake about it, you are the important ones here today. We are here together, at this place and time, to edify and instruct each other. I want there to be a bond between us, beyond teacher and student. I will, in fact, be very disappointed if we do not finish up this course as good friends.” Oh, yes, James Omega knew how to tame a mongoose. He held up a finger, pointing it in their direction. “And do not think that I may not have time for you in my busy schedule. You, my young friends, are more important to me than any television show or book tour. I want to get to know you, every single one of you, on a personal as well as academic basis. I offer you an open invitation right now to come up to my office as often as you wish, whether it is to discuss an assignment, argue a point of view, or just have a good long chat about your family dog. You can e-mail or phone me at any time at the numbers on the cover of your syllabus. Please, please do not think of me as some beyond-your-reach celebrity from PBS. I am your teacher. I am here to help you any way I can.” He paused, assessing the effect he was having on the audience. The students were as still in their seats as a bed of sleeping clams. “Now then,” Omega went on. “We are here to study biology -- the study of life! What a grand adventure we shall have! You may have noticed a bag of peanuts by your chairs. These are a small welcome gift from me. If your first morning of fall semester went anything like mine, you are probably feeling a little nutty....” A chuckle from his listeners. “Yet, look at us. Somehow, we all made it here and that calls for a celebration. During this first lesson, let us all pop out of our shells, so to speak, and get acquainted. At the least, I thought a little tangible positive reinforcement might be in order. That should please the behaviorists in the crowd.” The audience laughed outright at that one.
  • 79. Omega took a place behind the podium and flipped on the overhead screen. “Please, open your bag and enjoy the peanuts as we talk. Let us begin our class with this seemingly simple question -- how many animals can you name that eat peanuts?” Within a few minutes, everyone in the room was engaged in discussing and debating peanutivores, all the while unconsciously popping the roasted, salty treats into their mouths. Omega augmented the discussion with several PowerPoint visuals on variables of why certain animals might prefer peanuts in their diet -- availability of the food source, the shape of mouth, teeth, appendages, its type of stomach and so forth. He asked, would a circus elephant, for example, a creature readily associated with peanuts, really eat peanuts in its natural environment? The entire discussion was delightful, but one might argue, somewhat deficient of substance. That was all right. The point he intended to make had nothing to do with peanuts or elephants. Omega subtly noted, after about fifteen minutes, the audience had finished most of their treats. He watched their faces carefully now, especially their eyes. The telltale signs he was looking for would appear there first. On and on through the discussion he led them, blithely unaware of the devious trick he designed for them. As students were encouraged to talk, Omega, an astute observer of physical behavior, began to see the very looks he was anticipating -- the beginnings of thirst. Eyes started to squint and blink, caused, Omega knew very well, by a lack of moisture in the eyeball's vitreous humor. Students licked their lips, cleared their throats and swallowed; all in an unconscious attempt to alleviate the dryness of tongue and esophagus highly salted peanuts so effectively induce. Another ten minutes should do the trick, Omega thought. By then they will kill for a drink. He purposely launched off into an overview of the text, syllabus and course objectives -- an instructional segment as dry as the Utah Salt Flats, by intentional design. Throughout, the students' suffering increased, discomfort becoming torture, evidences of genuine thirst written on every face. They squirmed and coughed, barely able to concentrate on a word the professor said. Now was the time. Omega quietly stopped his lecture in mid-sentence and pulled out a glass pitcher of sparkling, crystal-clear ice water. Every eye in the room riveted toward it. “Excuse me,” he said apologetically. “My throat is a little dry. Please, pardon me.” He took out a glass and set it beside the pitcher. He could see the students staring at him, mouths slightly open, tongues lolling out over crusted lips. This was a teaching moment. Taking his time, he filled the glass with water, deliberately close to the microphone. Sure enough, the ice cubes tinkled right on cue and the amplified water sloshed into the glass with the gurgling resonance of a virginal Rocky Mountain spring. From the audience, utter silence. “Cheers,” Omega said, seemingly oblivious to their agony. With several loud, gusty gulps, he drained the glass to the last drop and set it down with a lip-smacking sigh. An audible groan swelled through the ranks. “What?” He looked at them innocently. “Oh, I am sorry! Are you thirsty?” The students glared at him. Not funny. This bordered on student abuse. “Oh, I see, I see,” the master teacher said, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. “Could it be those peanuts, those harmless little salted peanuts, are making you wish right now you had never been born? Or maybe you are wishing James Omega had never been born?” Lips quivered. Some students looked ready to mutiny and make a mad bolt for the nearest drinking fountain. “I understand that to receive credit you must sit in those seats and listen to me talk for a full hour....” Repressed gnashing of teeth. Did the man have no mercy? 79
  • 80. “But, if you will forgive me my cruel, little joke, for it was done in the interest of teaching you something of infinite value and, if you will allow me to speak for only another few minutes, I will excuse you early so you can all make a beeline for the drinking fountain. Deal?” Disgruntled submission. No one in the audience was in the mood, or the position, to disagree. “Very well,” their teacher said, “with your thirst, we begin the real lesson for today. This water,” he said holding up the pitcher, “is knowledge, the most precious substance we have on Earth. If you would obtain it, you must thirst for it, with all your might, mind and strength. It is not often easily won. It is a thing, when you have it, to be savored, every single drop. Never, ever take it for granted.” Slowly, with great dignity, he bowed to them. The students' faces showed their surprise. James Omega, an internationally recognized scientist, bowing to them? “You are students, my young friends. I revere you, for to be a true student is a great thing. You are the seekers of knowledge ... a holy quest! But here is the question.... What will you do with your knowledge, once you have it?” He took the pitcher and poured water into his cupped palm, letting it dribble through his fingers. “If you have no glass, no container, no shape for it to assume, knowledge is useless. It goes where it wills, not where you will it. It gives you no power.” Taking up the glass again, he filled it to the brim. “The glass, is your purpose; crafted in your image, it is your own, special, unique niche, your contribution to the world. If you have the glass firmly in your hand -- a goal, a direction, a shape, into which your knowledge can flow, then you can begin to really do something. Then all these classes and tests and research papers take on meaning -- they become a springboard to your power, your tool for change. And it is the using of this power, the power to make a positive difference, a personal power that only you can wield, that will quench your thirst. “You came to this class today for knowledge. It is my task to fill your glass and I intend to do so. But into what glass will you pour it? How will you quench your thirst? That is for you to decide. You must find your passion and, once you find it, never let it go.” He stopped, slowly looking into the eyes of each of his captives. “When I look around this room, I see more than just the faces of a few honor biology students, I see the faces of the next generation of saviors. Yes, saviors. Saviors of the natural world. “These are perilous days for the plants and animals of our planet. Species are disappearing to the point of extinction at a rate unparalleled in any other era of the earth's history. There have been mass extinctions before, but never for the unjustifiable reasons that are happening now. For the first time, this planet's incredible biological diversity is threatened to dwindle past the point of recovery. My friends, it is predicted that the last tiger will be extinct from the wild by the year 2040. Think of that! Think of a world without the elephant, the cheetah, the vulture, the wolf, or the panda. You are not only on the brink of losing all these wonderful animals so well known and revered, but hundreds, thousands of more species you do not even know about. Plants are vanishing as well and, with them, the ecosystem they support. What was once a beautiful, complex planetary organism is all starting to cave in, like a black hole. “Look at this....” Opening his briefcase, Omega withdrew a small box, about the size a watch might be kept in. He opened it, gently tipped its contents in his hand and held it up for all to see. Necks craned and eyes squinted to get a better view of the tiny, sun-colored object not much bigger than a walnut in his open palm.
  • 81. “This little fellow, when it was alive, was one of the most beautiful, little amphibians science has ever seen -- the Golden Toad of Brazil. It used to thrive in the rainforests of the Amazon. Now it resides in this box in my office. Here, you may handle it. Pass it around.” He handed the mummified toad to the closest student, who gazed at it in wonder. “Take a good look my friend. You will never see another. The golden toads are gone. The last one was seen in 1989. Hold it. Admire it. Its like will never be among us again, except as a two- dimensional image in a book. If you feel sorry for it, well you should -- but multiply your sorrow by a thousand. No, by ten thousand. That is the sorrow I feel -- for every animal pushed to extinction before its time. The golden toad is no different from the tiger or cheetah. It is only one of many species that will meet its doom in your very own lifetime. Unless..., unless people like you come along and make some changes. “Listen to me, my friends. This is my battle cry and you will hear it from me again and again. If you think the discomfort of salt on your tongue is painful, it is nothing compared to the bitterness, the emptiness, the bleakness of a barren Earth. You must not let this happen. You are the chosen ones. The saviors. I believe, deep in my soul, everyone here feels a fire of desire to help. I know you do, or you would not be sitting here, honor students majoring in biology. As I said, biology is the study of life, of living things. To be a biologist is to be a disciple of life, a champion of it. “There is a fight out there needing champions. A battle of life and death, but it is also a battle of ethics, a war of intellect, a battle of politics and priorities. And it is all over this central question: is mankind smart enough to co-exist with other life forms, or will he dominate, incarcerate and, eventually, eliminate the complete global ecosystem? Once man was given the Garden of Eden. If things do not change, he will end up with Hell.” Omega paused. His fingers ached, gripping the podium, so tightly his knuckles turned white. It was hard to stop. There was so much he wanted to tell them. How important they were. How much depended on them. But that was a heavy dose of medicine, best given one precious drop at a time, and he had a whole term to do it. For now, the point had been made, the door thrown open, the challenge issued. How he loved this moment, this thing called teaching, this awakening of minds. The importance of it never failed to excite him, or humble him. Its outcome could perhaps re-stabilize the fulcrum of the mighty pendulum, swinging so dangerously off balance. “Students,” he went on, softly, “remember the thirst you have felt this day. Let its discomfort remain in your memory long after you have slaked it.” His voice was earnest now, entreating. “Please remember it. Each and every time you drink a glass of water, remember it. Thirst for knowledge as you have thirsted for water today. Savor it. Prize it. Do not let it slip between your fingers, unused. Find the right glass for it, your special purpose, and take your stand. Make your mark. Let the world be better because you are in it. You are the ones who can make the difference between Eden and hell. You are the saviors. Now, go get your drink. Dismissed.” No one budged. This was a surprise. Omega expected every student to jump and make a dash for the nearest exit, but they didn't. The entire audience sat still, completely and utterly quiet. Then, one student on the back row began to applaud. He stood and clapped and others joined in, until the entire amphitheater of people was on its feet, clapping and whistling. Omega looked startled, a hint of wetness forming on the lids of his eyes. He glanced around and found his three faculty colleagues enthusiastically joining in the applause, broad grins on their faces. He also peered into the back row, focusing on the student who began the applause, narrowing his eyes. The bird boy. Michael Somebody. They made eye contact. To his surprise, a 81
  • 82. sudden jolt ran through him, electric, confirming, so strong it took his breath away. Was this it? The sign he had been praying for? It was all he could do to maintain his demeanor, gripping the podium to support his trembling knees. The students filed out slowly, a great many stopping on their way, in spite of their thirst, to say 'Thank you,' 'Great lecture,' 'I'm going to love this class!' 'I can't believe it's you!” and the like. Omega returned their compliments with grins and nods, but right now, he wanted only one thing, to speak to the bird boy on the back row. But his adoring audience surrounded him, demanding his attention. Michael did not come down to the front, but merely waited at the back until the room was mostly empty. To Omega‟s disappointment, when they made eye contact one last time, the young man simply waved and walked out. Omega held out his hand. “Wait.…Michael…. ” But the lad was gone. How he would like to have stopped him, run after him, done anything to engage in conversation with him. But Dean Hyden, Derk Long and Annie Groff were there now, offering congratulations, blocking his path. “Excellent presentation,” Hyden said, pounding him repeatedly on the back. “Well done, James!” “Thank you.” Omega said, thinking, Next class. It is all right. He will be back. I will see him again next class. With shaking hands, he gathered his papers and turned off the console panel. Annie Groff noticed what she took for first-day jitters. “There, there, James,” she said, patting his arm. “It's over and you did a superb job. I'm surprised to see you, of all people, so nervous.” “I just wanted to make a good impression on you, Annie,” he said as explanation. “Well, you did. Your words were very ... moving.” “You had me in tears, I'll tell ya,” Derk Long sniffled, melodramatically wiping his eyes on his sleeve, then laughed. “Seriously, James, you were great. My hat's off to you!” Annie Groff cocked her head to one side, as if puzzled. “Where on earth did you get a golden toad, James?” Omega hesitated. “I collect specimens of endangered species.” She eyed him suspiciously. “Ah. I see. And here I thought that was illegal.” “No, no,” he assured her. “I would never take the life of a living creature, nor break any laws, I assure you! However, I do manage, with no small effort and certain connections, to acquire a specimen here and there ... after it is dead of natural causes, of course, …for scientific research.” “Oh.” Groff looked immensely relieved. Omega finished packing his papers and clicked his briefcase shut. “You shall have to come and see my collection. I am keeping it in my office at present,” Omega said, inferring the invitation extended to all present. “I believe I could boast it is quite unique and extremely valuable. Eventually, I would like to put it on exhibit here at the university, with Dean Hyden's permission, and the assurance of adequate security, of course.” “Of course!” Dean Hyden beamed. “What a coup that will be! A prized collection of James Omega on exhibit, here at little old CSU. Very generous of you, Doctor!” Derk Long clapped his hand on Omega's shoulder. “We're heading over to the Lowry Center cafeteria for lunch, James. Join us?” Omega nodded. “Love to. Thank you.” Together, the group of teachers moved up the aisle of the amphitheater, heading for the exit. “I especially loved the metaphor of the water,” Annie added. “Very effective. It'll stick.” “Thank you.” Omega held the door for her and the others.
  • 83. “You‟re quite the teacher, James,” Hyden said, exiting. “Kept them on the edge of their seats the entire hour. What‟s your secret?” Omega shrugged. “It is all in the tinkle, Bill. All in the tinkle.” With no small satisfaction of a first-day‟s job well done, Dr. James Omega smiled to himself, flicked off the lights, pulled the door closed, and walked away. Ω 83
  • 84. Chapter 9 The darkness of night spread across the sky outside the Spanish-hacienda mansion like a floating phantom's veil. A few stars, escaping the thickening tendrils of fog, peered in through the windows, where two figures hunched before a flickering fire. Inside, the chime of an ornate clock standing in the corner of the luxurious, formal sitting room struck the hour eleven. Garrin Cross sat in a black leather chair, rolling a smoldering cigar between his thumb and forefinger, eyeing the muscular blond bodyguard seated across from him. “So, it's done, then?” he asked. “Yes. And done well.” The Swede's Arian gray eyes shone like ice under moonlight. “How?” “You want the details?” “Yes. Every last one.” The Swede looked amused. “That's not like you, Cross. You‟re usually a bit, pardon me for saying so, squeamish.” Cross sucked the cigar, caressing it with his lips. “Not this time. This time, I was killed! Well, almost killed,” he corrected. “He fully intended to kill me. Yes, Erik. I want to know exactly what happened to the maggot.” The bodyguard hesitated. “You seem changed since that night, Cross. I can't put my finger on it, but you're different.” “A brush with death can do that to a person,” Cross snapped, narrowing his eyes. “It makes one wiser. Less trusting. Definitely less squeamish. Now, go on. Tell me. Tell me everything.” The Swede shrugged. “All right. I suppose you ought to know what you're paying for.” As Cross listened intently to Erik's account of Yo Chang‟s agonizing death, he lay back and closed his eyes, savoring the feelings of pleasure it awakened in him. To think he had ordered another man's murder and it was carried out with no question or argument. That is power. That is pure power. “I took out the bodyguards, too. Four of them. And Chang's wife and daughter.” Cross sat up, opening his eyes. “Wife and daughter?” Erik frowned. “They were witnesses. I couldn't leave them alive.” “What about the bodies?” “At the bottom of the Bay. They won‟t be coming back up.” “I understand. No loose ends. Well done.” Cross withdrew a well-stuffed envelope from his smoking jacket and pushed it across the coffee table. “This is for your trouble.” The Swede picked it up and placed it, without opening it, in his front jacket pocket. “Thank you.” Cross stood and walked to the immense fireplace, his dark eyes reflecting the glowing firelight. “There are other matters to attend to, now that Chang's out of the picture. I need to pay a visit to a certain senator from California.” “Bob Westland,” Erik said. “Exactly.” Cross paused, considering. “How long have you worked for me now, Erik?”
  • 85. “Two years, doing the odd job here and there. Almost six months fulltime.” “Yes, well, I believe it's time you were brought more in on what's going on. You've proven yourself trustworthy more than once. And I need another person who can back me up when the time comes. Not just follow orders, but actually make some decisions, if need be. You understand?” The Swede nodded. “I'd like that.” “So would I. I realize I can't be everywhere at once. I need a man like you. Someone with a brain, as well as brawn. And loyalty ... that's key.” A nod of agreement. “Understood.” Cross continued. “The man you just killed was Westland's toughest competition.” “Chang was in politics?” That brought an unexpectedly hearty laugh. “Hardly. The other way around. The politician is into crime. Behind the skirts of his office on Capital Hill, our upright Senator Westland runs a very profitable side-business in black market African goods, selling mostly to Asian markets. Stuff like ancient African artifacts, animal hides, elephant tusks and rhino horns. Westland finances the poachers and I move the merchandise. It's a tricky business ... you have to have a nose for it. By that I mean, you've got to have an inborn instinct who you can trust and who you can't ... an instinct I possess, which is why I know I can trust you.” “I appreciate that.” Cross tapped the ash from his cigar into the fireplace. “Anyway, Westland depends on me to get his African goods sold for the right price, quickly, and with the proper amount of ... discretion. I have contacts all around the East -- Singapore, Hong Kong, Taiwan, Manila, Seoul and Ho Chi Minh City -- places where this particular sort of contraband is most marketable. Private collectors and Asian apothecaries make up the bulk of people I work with.” “What about opium?” Erik asked coolly. Cross grunted. “Uh-uh. Not in the picture. I avoid that messy business like the plague. Very nasty characters in that line of work. And the law. Big bucks are going into enforcement against drug runners nowadays. It's getting harder all the time for those folks to make a decent living and keep themselves out of jail or, even, just stay alive. Deal drugs? No thank you, very much.” In the firelight, Cross's eyes narrowed. “Poaching has all the advantages and none of the disadvantages of running drugs. Yes, there are some occasional hassles with local park rangers, but they are, in general, easily bribed. Westland secretly recruits a fair number of park rangers into his poaching ranks. Simply makes it more profitable for them to hunt the animals than protect them. Plus, there aren't many rangers to begin with. The reserves are poorly-funded and sloppily-run. Certainly not efficient enough to protect such a vast area of hunting grounds.” “And your end of it -- dumping the goods? Is that an easy ride, too?” Cross smiled. “Easy? Yes and no. You must understand, my friend, our line of work has existed in the Orient for centuries. The people I work with have been smugglers and dealers in contraband for generations. To them it is a fine art. No, more than that, a proud family tradition. As long as you provide quality goods and the price is right and you have honor -- -that means they know, if you ever got caught, you would die rather than sing -- you can rest assured the lines will stay open and all will be well. And profitable. Very much an 'I scratch your back, you scratch mine' sort of arrangement. As long as you follow the rules, yes, it‟s easy. If you don‟t, your head may end up on somebody‟s wall someday.” “I see.” The Swede sat back and folded his hands. “How did Chang figure into all this?” 85
  • 86. The angles of Cross's face, outlined in the fire's glow, suddenly hardened. “Yes, let's talk about Chang. Everything was going very well, for both Westland and me, until he came along. He seemed to come from out of nowhere. Took him less than eight months to get his own business up and going, threatening our sources, underbidding us and, in some cases, pirating our goods. Chang was aggressive and smart. His attempt to undercut Westland almost succeeded. He might have, if he hadn't been stupid and tried to kill me. I guess Chang figured he could inflict the most damage to Westland by taking out his dealer.” “Foolish man.” Erik said. “Not so foolish.” Cross rolled his cigar back and forth between thumb and finger, the movement subtly betraying his anger. “If he had pulled it off and really killed me, Westland would have had no choice but to go to him as my replacement, paying triple the price I charged.” “I see.” Cross shot Erik a sharp look. “I've definitely got to pay the good senator a visit. I'll schedule an appointment with him next week.” “Am I coming?” Cross turned, nodding his head. “Yes, but just for show. No need for muscle, yet. Not unless the good senator refuses my demand for a higher percentage. With this attempt on my life, things just got a lot more risky. I think I deserve a compensatory consideration. The Senator had better agree. I think he will, after the favor we've done him by eliminating his competition. Plus, I'm sweetening my pitch with a subtle, but very powerful, means of persuasion ... Alicia.” The bodyguard grunted. “Then the poor man doesn't have a chance.” Cross turned on him, using the cigar as a pointer to emphasize his words. “If you want to play with the big boys; if you want all the chips on the table to end up in your pile, you find and hire the best -- like Alicia ... and like yourself, Erik.” Erik did not voice but nodded a thank you. Cross continued, “I pay you both well enough for me to expect premium results in return. You, Erik, never disappoint. And Alicia has proven herself very useful in the past.” He hesitated. “But...,” “But?” Cross's fingers ran back and forth over the mantle's sharp rim. “Lately, I've been getting the feeling she's losing her edge. She seems less focused, even dissatisfied. Under the terms of our original agreement, she was willing to do whatever I asked her to do and, in return, she got whatever she wanted from me. A simple contract, yet it worked well enough for both of us. Now, over the last few weeks, she seems ... I don't know ... possessive? I think she wants more of me than I can give.” The Swede sat, frowning down at the floor, “You're a dolt, Cross. Can't you see? She's in love with you.” Cross looked up sharply, then turned toward the Swede, one hand poised motionless, holding the cigar, the other braced on the mantle. He made a dark figure silhouetted against the fire, the tip of his cigar glowing like a tiny red eye. “Poor girl,” he said, tapping ashes into the fire with a flick of his finger. “But I suppose that's not so bad a thing, as long as she doesn't expect me to love her back.” He released a shrewd laugh and the Swede, with a sardonic, sideways smile, shook his head and joined him. Cross's cell phone rang, a jarring interruption of this shared moment of private confessions. Cross took it from his pocket, flipped open the cover and placed it to his ear. “Yes.”
  • 87. He waited a moment, then said, “Yes. I understand. No problem. Next Thursday at one o'clock will be fine.” He listened a moment longer, then added, “Right. I'll be there,” ending the conversation by snapping the phone shut with a click. Thoughtfully, he stood staring at the fire, then turned toward Erik with a sideways grin. “Guess who that was.” Erik shrugged. “Who?” “Bob Westland. Calling me first. It seems news travels fast.” In the dark shadows atop the Mexican-tiled staircase, Alicia pressed her back against the wall and covered her mouth with her hand. She had envisioned making her entrance down the stairs, melting into the darkened sitting room like a taste of warm, fluid chocolate, shooing the Swede out with a wave of her imperious hand, and seducing her dark master in front of the fireplace with all the skill at her command. She had opened the bedroom door silently, to take him by surprise and stood on the landing. She did not mean to overhear a conversation concerning things she did not want to know about, but she did, beginning with someone named Bob Westland and ending with words and laughter that struck her like a knife. For a long time, she stayed there, her hand stifling the sobs, her eyes spilling tears. She could never have him then, she realized, not his love at any rate; which was the one thing she wanted, the one thing beyond her reach. She clamped her teeth hard together, swallowing a sob, trying to get a grip. Was Garrin Cross worth all this pain? She hadn't always loved him, she thought bitterly. At first, he was merely a fascination, then an opportunity, a chance to escape the grind of coming up with rent for little more than a hovel a few blocks from the Berkeley campus, scrimping from the grocery money to somehow squeeze out tuition for an art class here and there. That was her only choice then; eat or take classes. When you never know when the next painting will sell, and you're always just scraping by, you do what you can to survive. She discovered there was a fairly regular income to be made by selling her body, which she did; but the clientele were usually college boys. Bright, but often younger and poorer than she was. Still it paid the bills, if at the expense of self respect -- a small price to pay to stay in school. Then, by sheer luck and chance, she met Garrin and all that changed. Alicia slumped down in shadows of the hallway landing and wept, remembering. She saw herself as she was on that rainy Sunday afternoon when they first met. She set up her paintings under a store awning, instead of her usual spot on the curb, and sat on a step a short distance away. There she waited, like a lost kitten, wearing tight jean shorts and a body-hugging pale blue top, smoking pot, hoping for a customer -- either for her art or her body, she didn't much care which -- when a limousine drove by, then circled the block and drove by again. She looked up into the darkened, rain-streaked windows as it passed, smiled and waved, thinking, “I can't see who's in there, but he's gotta be rich. I wonder, what would it be like to be rich and ride in a car like that?” To her surprise, the limo pulled to the curb. A moment later a man got out and walked toward her. She well remembered that first time she set eyes on Garrin Cross. He was beautiful, so very beautiful, and elegant, and suave. Her heart nearly flew from her chest. He stopped, admired her artwork, and asked how much she wanted for them. He liked the one of a cougar killing a deer. The big cat's claws raked deeply into bleeding buckskin shoulders, its teeth sunk deeply into a haunch. The roe's head was turned upward, staring over its shoulder at its attacker. What he liked best, the man said, were the deer's eyes -- wild, wide and terrified, yet dulled, as if resigned to its fate; as if it understood struggle was useless, the end was near. 87
  • 88. “Submission to absolute power,” he said, “its a very potent thing. Very ... arousing. How much?” “Fifty,” she said. He gave her two hundred. She stared at it, unbelieving. He held out his hand. “Come with me.” She looked up at him, her head tilted a little to the side, her breath catching in her throat. The words were neither a question nor a command, but their inference was irresistible. It was the first time she had felt the full potency of power. The man was dripping with it. “Sure,” she said, her voice shaking. “Where?” He looked over her street, her world, and said simply, “Away from here. And if I like you, you'll never have to come back.” “Yes,” she said, and followed him back to the car. A new life began for her in that moment -- fine things, travel, excitement and lustful passion. Since that day, Garrin fed her, clothed her and thrilled her. Then he trained her and used her. No matter. He did, in a way, need her and, as time passed, she realized she was in love with him. It hurt her then, after she realized her feelings for him, to be asked by him to pleasure his clients. She was icing on the cake, the reward for a good deal. At first, she rather enjoyed the effect she was able to have on these wealthy, influential men. It was part of her new life, a kind of heady power, and the immorality of it didn't matter. But later, when her heart told her she was in love, it did. Garrin mattered. His love mattered, like the beating of her heart, like the breathing of her lungs. She never wanted to leave him. More than anything, she wanted him to reciprocate those feelings. She once thought she could make him love her. Tonight, overhearing his talk with Erik, she knew it was all an illusion. The laughter she heard below was a slap across the face, a blow of reality to her hopes. Silently, she straightened and quietly slipped back through the door into the bedroom. She did not turn on the light, but felt her way in the dark to her dresser and opened the top drawer. There were pills inside, pills that made the hurt go away. She shook four into her palm, padded to the lightless bathroom and fumbled in the dark for the drinking glass. She turned on the faucet, filled the glass with cold water and swallowed the pills. For a long time, she held her hands under the cold, running water, her thoughts playing with alternatives and finalities until, at last, her mind began to cloud. She turned off the water and stumbled to the bed, collapsing into a pile of satin pillows, soon stained with tears. “If I push him,” she choked, “he'll detest me. I see that now. But, what shall I do? What can I do?” She turned her face into the bedding and tried to cry her grief away. After a while, her sobs slowed, smothered by a creeping drowsiness. This doubly frustrated her because, although she initially took the drugs to bring forgetfulness, the answer to her question was just starting to come, dim but hopeful, like a distant harbor light glimmering through a chilling mist. Her mind swam toward it. “All right, then,” she mumbled, struggling against the ever-deepening desire to sleep, “I'll back off. I have to. And I've got to be strong ... can't let him see how much he's killing me. As long as I'm useful, he won't send me away. And I know how to be useful.” The last thought she had was, “I'll find a way. I'll find a way to reach him. I can't go back to what I was. There's no other life for me. Somehow, I'll find a way to stay.” She reached up and fumbled with a delicate gold chain around her neck, rubbing the diamond pendant between her fingers like a child with a blanket until sleep came at last.
  • 89. Ω James Omega sat cross-legged on a Montana mountaintop, back propped against the stump of a fallen fir tree. Squinting his eyes, he gazed out at a sunset that appeared, as Montana sunsets so often do, to set the horizon on fire. While the lights on the heavenly stage gradually changed from chaotic orange to somber lavender, his hand idly stroked the ears of a red fox. The fox did not appear to notice the dazzling light show. It just lay splayed across Omega‟s lap, eyes half-closed in contentment, docile as a lapdog. Omega loved to watch the rising and the setting of the sun, and he made it a point to see both as often as possible. In them, he could experience the motion of Earth turning beneath him and observe the heaven dancing bright with her gypsy shawls around a solar bonfire. This never failed to inspire him, nor to quiet his mind when he was worried or perplexed. The old biologist also loved the big sky country of Montana, with a special fondness for the Gallatin River Valley. He chose to be here this particular evening because he had not visited the area for some time. No better spot, he thought, to refresh the soul and clear the mind. He scratched between the fox's shoulders. It responded with a stretch and a sort of appreciative purr. He gave it an affectionate pat on its rump. “Off with you now,” he said. “You have a family to feed, while I have much to think about and must be left alone to do it.” The fox bounded, soft-pawed, to the ground and, with only a brief backward glance, disappeared into the woods. Omega, watching it leave, rubbed his beard. Michael Johns, he thought. What to do about Michael Johns? That was the bird boy's name. Yes, he quite remembered it now. A week had passed since the peanut lecture and the electric shock he felt on making eye contact with Michael. Surely the feeling was an affirmation. Surely, the Shepherd had been found! At that moment, Omega had wanted nothing more than to rush over and throw his arms around the boy. Tell him that he was just the person he wanted most to see in the whole wide world. Tell him that you had a mission for him. An opportunity to do something amazing, beyond his wildest dreams! Omega chuckled. Probably a darned good thing he did not get to do that. Putting himself in the boy‟s place, the old man imagined how he would feel if some wild-eyed professor, whom he had only known a day, came over and gave him a big hug. At best, it would have been very strange and awkward. Completely inappropriate. You would think your professor was … well, any number of things came to mind. None of them favorable. No, there was a time and place for everything. The telling must be done very carefully. It must be arranged in detail and executed with patience and a certain amount of cunning. Although there was a tremendous pressure to hurry, the acquisition of the Shepherd for his fold was a task which would take time. Then, he paused. Was he getting ahead of himself? Was this boy really the one? In his fervor, was he jumping to conclusions over a chance meeting beside a remote highway? Think, old fool. Think! he warned himself. Where were the signs? If Michael Johns was the truly the one he sought, there would certainly be signs. The old man picked up a stick and idly traced patterns in the ground as he thought over their first meeting on that rainy afternoon. That he and the hawk and Michael Johns were all in the same place at the same time, that they should—literally—run into each other like that, had to be more than mere coincidence. After all, it could have been anyone who had hit the hawk, but it was a boy on his way to CSU, with the specific, expressed desire to become Omega‟s student. He recalled 89
  • 90. Michael‟s comments about discovering how Omega was at Ft. Collins through a former high school teacher and how he had decided, on the spot, to transfer to CSU. That scenario, as Michael told it, had also seemed strangely contrived. That Mrs. Crandall just happened to hear Omega lecture, that she just happened to mention it to Michael, who had just happened to want to see her that morning, although he did not know why, couldn‟t all have just happened out of the blue. These were signs! Omega felt strongly he had been led to CSU and ,just as strongly, that Michael had been led to him. The powers that forge spirit to spirit had brought them together. The electrifying jolt he felt in the lecture room was a divine confirmation. . But what of Michael Johns? Did the lad have any inkling that this series of events was guiding him toward his eternal destiny? Not likely. Yet, the lad admitted he felt a prompting, a feeling in his gut, and had acted upon it. That, Omega was certain, showed he was in touch with the spiritual threads, ignorant of them though he may be. That he had already taken that first step of faith, boded well. Omega threw down the stick, rose to his feet, eagerly rubbing his hands. His heart was pounding. It must be him! It must! For several moments, he paced back and forth kicking leaves, fairly dancing a jig. A squirrel from an overhead branch, scolded. Omega looked up at it, feeling sheepish. Forgive me, whisk-tail, he sent. I must seem a bit crazy to you. But I cannot help it! I am very happy at the moment. Very, very happy! And the great James Omega, world-renowned scientist held in the highest esteem by millions, reputed as one of the greatest intellects of the age among the scientific community, threw his arms out wide and spun around and around like a schoolgirl in a new Sunday petticoat, laughing, until he finally collapsed on the ground on a carpet of leaves. The squirrel, now thoroughly vexed, gave the last word, a long, sharp, berating trill, then scampered off through the branches to a safer part of the forest where there were no crazy two- legged creatures creating havoc in the underglade. For a time, Omega sat in silence on the mould, slowly composing his thoughts. He rubbed his forehead. There was so much to plan, now that the person desperately sought for so long was found. Firstly, how should he approach the young man and inform him of his destiny? How could he tell this innocent farm boy what he now needed to know without scaring him off? This was no Boy Scout outing he would be signing up for. It was an ordeal. Oh yes, a great honor, but an ordeal nonetheless, fraught with danger and hardship. Well Omega knew, if he were in the lad‟s shoes, he would think the whole thing was, well, as a rancher would put it, the excrement of a cow. I will begin by making him my friend, Omega decided. I will be his mentor and, in time, his confidant. Before I can tell him anything, he must trust me. And I must trust him, Omega added as a note to himself. I must know the raw materials of soul I am starting with. I need to assess the lad‟s capabilities -- intellectual, emotional and spiritual -- as well as his strength of commitment, his intuition and his openness of mind. Can he accept new ideas? That is essential! If I am to mold this boy into my elect protégé, I need to know his strengths, his weaknesses. I need to know him as a son. I expect, if the boy is the Shepherd, he will come already equipped with the basic values in place, Omega reasoned. The Maker will have prepared him and shaped him, given him a worthy share of life experiences to toughen him, to build his character. The Maker does that well. If Michael is the Shepherd, he will already know the value of hard work and enjoy it. He will understand the necessity of getting a thing done, no matter what it takes to do it. And he will be honest. Once he gives his word, he will fulfill his oath or die. Reliability. Fortitude. These are the virtues I expect to find in Michael Johns.
  • 91. And now, it all would fall to him, Omega realized, to take this uncut jewel and hone it to perfection. It was his responsibility to show the lad who he was and what he was meant to do, to set his feet on a marvelous, perilous journey, from which he would never return. It was to be his burden, and his joy, to hand the Shepherd his staff. This mission would certainly prove as daunting for the teacher as for student. Nevertheless, Omega could not help feeling a surge of exhilaration at the thought. There must be tests. In addition to his education in biological science, Omega must guide other aspects of Michael‟s development, just as important. How well could Michael handle decision-making and leadership roles, for instance? Omega eagerly planned to provide the lad with several rigorous opportunities to do just that. If the boy passed muster, as Omega believed he would, then the serious training would begin. Now that would be when the real fun began! Omega grinned, but at the same time, felt a surge of urgency. There was so much to do and so little time! The old man rose to his feet and looked upward. Night now draped the heavens in a silk of dark indigo and the first stars were forming in its folds: Venus, his favorite planet, ruby Arcturus, haughty, silver Vega, bright, blue Deneb, and ice-white Altair—twinkled down at him as he stared back in awe. The last three stars formed a huge arrowhead pointing southward. He recognized it at once as the Summer Triangle. It was one of his favorite constellations. But James Omega knew it by another name, taught him in his youth. Heaven's Compass, it was called by his people, for it aimed directly at the center of the galaxy, the throne of God, the heart of spiritual creation. His eyes moved to another constellation at the point of the Triangle. Set with Altair, its alpha star, as its shining avian eye, a mighty thunderbird spread a wingspan of a thousand light years across the heavenly expanse. Aquila, Omega whispered reverently, staring at the breath-taking sight. To the Greeks—the great eagle, messenger of Zeus. To the Anasazi, Itto-ak-sii, the wise Hawk lord, protector of the brave of heart. But, to me, thou art Michael the Archangel. Michael, the valiant, who led the costly fight that defeated Satan and cast him from grace. Great was the victory of that feat! But alas! For the souls who joined the Fallen One and were lost with him forever, great was the sorrow. For a long moment, the old biologist's eyes lingered on the stellar image, admiring the form of the mightiest cherubim of all, wings unfurled, ever the watchman over the sons and daughters of Earth, ever the foe of evil. Omega shivered. A sudden fog creeping silently up the mountain was slowly engulfing the grove where Omega stood. One by one, the stars were swallowed and winked out. Ah, Great Angel, Omega whispered, as an unwelcome foreboding stirred in his heart, I hold in my hands another Michael-- destined to take his place as one of the great ones. I fear the powers of evil will be no less a foe to him than to thee. He will have no less a battle of wits, virtue and courage to try his soul. Either he will succeed, and the Plan goes forward, or fail, and all I have worked for these many years is lost. There are no guarantees he will win. O Michael, Great Soul! For so long I have sought him and, now that he is here, I worry. I worry. When his time comes, when the wolves attack, will my young shepherd be victorious as thou, or will he die as suddenly as an exploding star, bright, bright, bright … but gone? A brief flash of glory, then … nothing. Huddling his arms against his body to ward off the fog‟s chill, James Omega stood in cold forest solitude, head bowed. It had all seemed so right when the stars were shining above him. He had felt the thrill of great hope and anticipation. Everything seemed to be falling in place. His long-sought prize was real and within his grasp. His plan was being guided by Maker‟s hand. But, now, darkness obscured heaven‟s light and the reality of what lay before him sank in. Well he knew, whenever goodness put up a tender shoot, the heavy foot of evil would rise to smash it. He 91
  • 92. must secure his treasure, test him, train him and arm him before the enemy found out. All must be done efficiently, correctly and expeditiously. Omega gave a parting glance skyward, hoping for one last view of the stars. There was nothing but fog and darkness. He reminded himself, even though he couldn‟t see them, the stellar pillars were still there, strong, bright, everlasting. This gave him some solace. But in his heart he knew the truth. Make no mistake about it. As soon as the identity of the Shepherd became known, the wolves would come. Ω You are invited to continue reading in Book 1 of the White Circle Trilogy: Omega’s Shepherd