Chapter One

Thursday, October 23, 2006

Libertyville, IL

Elias Hawk looked out over his back yard from the second floor window, staring without seeing. The caller, nearly ten minutes late, had Elias on edge. Jimmy Donovan and Simon Wells sat in front of Elias’ desk, alternately looking at each other, then over at Elias and then over towards the phone.

“Maybe he’s had second thoughts, or maybe it’s all a hoax. We’ve had our share of those.” Jimmy spoke to no one in particular. He just needed to break the silence.

“Maybe he’s already dead.” Elias’ words spoke what the others feared to say.
Before anyone could respond, though, the ringing phone knifed through the tension, causing all three to flinch and look towards the sound.

Simon took the phone from its base and answered, “Simon here” – his soft Oxford accent still present after all these years.

After an extended pause, “Hi, this is, uh . . . this is J. S.”

“J. S., it is good to hear from you. I will put you on the speaker phone so the others with whom I work can hear, if that is all right.” But he did not wait for confirmation. He pushed the speakerphone button and placed the hand phone back in the stand.

“I am here with Elias Hawk and James Donovan, the other two you have chatted with through the chat room.” Simon continued. “Can you hear me OK?”

“Yes.” A quiet but rich male voice responded.

Elias moved toward the speaker. “J. S., this is Elias Hawk. Do you have a name – a real name, I mean – something other than initials?” Elias’ harsh sounding words shot across the line.

Another long silence before the voice finally said, “Jonathan.”

“OK, Jonathan, thank you for calling in. The chat room is a nice place to start, but to move forward, we need direct contact. That is the only way we can help you.

Are you with me?”

“Yes. But I am not as convinced as you seem to be about our . . . situation.”
Elias moved closer to the speaker. “Jonathan, I’ll be direct. We believe you have no idea of how much danger you and your family are in, but trust me, we do know the situation and we do know that you are lucky to still be alive. Look, you have no way of knowing us or whether we are even who we say we are, and we are in the same position with you. So, we are all going on a lot of faith here,” For Elias, faith was not something he had a lot of at this point, but with this contact, he was willing to believe that things could be changing.

“From what you have told us in the chat room, we believe you know some people we have been looking for . . . for nearly eight years, now. And, if they are who we think they are, we also believe you are, as we tried to explain in the chat room, in danger . . . significant danger. As I said, in our opinion, you are lucky to still be walking the face of the earth.”

Elias paused, continuing to stare down at the phone. The voice on the other end remained silent.

“These people, a couple, to be exact, the ones you referred to as the Connellys, they were, as far as you can tell, trying to hide something. Is that correct?”

The speakerphone remained silent, causing the three listeners to lean forward, as if by getting closer the voice would magically come through.

“Yes, I believe they are trying to hide something, but look,” the voice began, “as I said before, this all started when a few of us came to the conclusion that from what each of us knew about the Connellys, things just didn’t seem to add up – what each of us had heard or been told, just didn’t make sense. The timeline was inconsistent. So I decided, just for kicks, to try to check them out.” He paused a second. “Actually, my wife is the one who first became suspicious. So, she started to question them on some of their history. That’s when they became defensive and the relationship just died. That was a few of months ago. But I kept at it . . . kept trying to find out something about them, and that’s when I found you. To be honest, though, I don’t think our situation is anything like you described. But seriously, this all started as kind of a game for us.”

Elias listened and couldn’t help but think about Mo and how it had been her intuition that had kicked in, making her believe that the Woods, who Elias believed to be now calling themselves Connelly, who were hiding something. What is it about women, Elias wondered, that gives them this innate insight concerning people that men have to learn the long and hard way?

“Jonathan,” Elias cut through the discussion, “if you didn’t have some doubt, you wouldn’t have agreed to talk to us, so the best way to deal with this and to find out if there is any connection, is for me to fly out to . . . to, wherever the hell it is that you live and talk face-to-face. Where is it, exactly, that you live.”

Jonathan paused before finally giving them a name. “Cazenovia. Cazenovia, New York. About twenty miles southeast of Syracuse, a half hour drive. But really, I’m not sure you need to come here. After all, as I said, this started as a joke. In fact, as I mentioned in the chat room, the couple moved away and don’t even live here anymore. The only reason I found you is that my wife kept pushing me to see if I could dig up anything on them – just for conversation, I guess.”

“Believe me,” Elias broke in, “if this is what we think it is, then this is no joke. In fact, I believe I need to get there as soon as possible.” Elias’ voice grew more definite – the tension in it stretched across the miles.

“You did tell us that the Connellys moved away about eight weeks ago, right? Just up and disappeared. Well, if that’s the case, and they stay true to form, then you are in danger, imminent danger. I’ve told you the history during our talks in the chat room.”

The line went silent once again. Elias continued. “Jonathan, you have to give me all the information; your full name, your address, and phone number. I can fly out tonight and be there for us to talk face-to-face tomorrow morning.”

“Let’s hold off a bit.” Jonathan broke in. “I can’t meet you this weekend. We have plans. How about Monday?”

“How about I meet you Sunday night?” Elias responded. “No one makes plans for Sunday night.” Elias persisted, almost getting to the point where he would go to this Cazenovia with or without Jonathan’s approval.

“OK, OK. We meet Sunday night, but it will have to be after the children are in bed. Let’s say, eight o’clock.” He paused before saying, “Stoner, my full name is Jonathan Stoner. We live at 550 Oweghena Terrace, in Cazenovia, NY, but I have to say once again, I can’t believe we are in the type of danger you described. After all, they moved away.”

“Believe me, it is every bit as dangerous as I said . . . maybe more because of the length of time they have been gone.” Elias grew more anxious, ready to have the plane fueled and in the air at that instant.

“Listen to me, Jonathan. These people, if they are who we think they are . . . well, let me just say that they are not nice. They do not play games. They do not take prisoners. They kill. Period.”

With that last statement, the phone went silent except for the faint sound of breath, passing haltingly from the other end. Elias could only assume he had finally hit home, that he got Stoner’s attention.

“OK, Sunday night, eight o’clock,” Stoner relented, his voice growing quiet.

“One last thing, Jonathan, make sure you lock all your doors and windows, and don’t open up the door to anyone you don’t know.”

The call ended after Elias and Stoner exchanged phone numbers, and agreed to meet at 8:00 PM on Sunday, October 26.

Upon finishing the call, Elias turned back toward the window.

“Eight weeks, almost nine by the time I get there – too much time,” Elias said as he watched the dark peregrine falcon swoop down toward the field beyond his back yard, zeroing in on it’s prey.

“I should be there now.”

The early days of the 2012 election are upon us. The Democrats already know who their candidate is but the Republicans still have a long way to go. One thing that amazes me is how all Republicans are characterized by the a good portion of the press and by Democrats as heartless people who are all rich, are greedy, don't want people other than Caucasians to succeed and want to end all forms of a safety net for those who are in need of help. I didn't realize I was like that and am such a bad person. Unfortunately, most Republicans I know are anything but what they are characterized as. I'm getting a little tired of it.

I am a Middle American. Not sure exactly what that means, but it sounds about right and that is what I have now named me. The reason I even mention this is that I just finished reading two articles; The Rescue That Missed Main Street by Gretchen Morgenson (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/08/28/business/economy/the-feds-rescue-missed-main-street.html) and The Desperation-of-Deprivation Myth by Mark Steyn (http://www.nationalreview.com/articles/275679/desperation-deprivation-myth-mark-steyn).

The first article discussed the bailouts that went to large financial institutions and how all these bailouts seemed to help were large financial institutions and not the people in the street even though the bailout was sold to the common man as something that was necessary to help the common man. Evidenced by our current unemployment rate and low to no growth in our economy, the bailouts failed. One can argue all they want about how much worse it could have been if the money wasn't given to the large financial institutions and the auto industry or that what was really needed was a larger amount of money poured into the bailout. But there is an equally strong argument that can be made for what if that same money had been used to bailout credit card holders and mortgagees? Neither of them are provable. The only thing we do know is that the bailouts have not helped the common man or our economy. Maybe we would have been worse off without the bailouts, but I don't see how much worse it could be.

An argument can also be made for not having given the financial and auto industries anything, so that they would have had to sink or swim, and to swim, they would have had to change their business models and how they do business, neither of which has happened. It is business as usual on my dime.

The second article discusses how all the social programs we keep putting into place (entitlements) seem to have fostered a feeling of entitlement to those who are not willing to work. Why work when you have government money to put food on your table and a roof over your head? What this has done, however, is to make some people brought up under that system, not all but a goodly number, to think they have been screwed because the system hasn't given them more; they still don't have all the things other do who go out and work for it. To offset this slight, some of these people think its OK to loot stores and take what they believe is rightfully theirs, had the government only given them more.

The point of all of this ranting on my part is to show that both the left who think we need to give more to society paid for by government and the "rich," whoever they are, and the right, who believe financial institutions, large corporations and the like deserve to be protected so that they can provide jobs and money to the "working class," have been wrong.

The problem is that the common man, or the Middle American as I have just named myself, have no organized voting block. We have no voice. We have no one looking out for us and we are caught in the middle of having too much and a work ethic that seems to drive us to take care of ourselves and our families, and not enough to cause pain to those who are controlled by the money men to get any consideration other than to be told that what each side is doing, they are doing it for us. But the "for us" never seems to happen.

It is about time we stood up for ourselves, not as TEA Party members (I'm still trying to figure that one out) but as citizens who understand that bailouts don't work, banks don't give money if they are not incentivized to do so, Congressmen and Women are more concerned with saving their "job" (when did being a Congressman or Senator become a life-long job?) and some people believe they are "owed" something without giving something to get it (like money or sweat).

While I have always thought that I have checked out political candidates so that I knew which were best for our country (I'm not saying any one of them is anti-American or not as loyal to our country as I am -- only who is going to do the best work for the country), I am going to be even more scrutinizing in all future elections. And, more participative in getting the right people in office -- those who will watch out for all us Middle-Americans.

I ran into an old girlfriend at my class reunion last month (actually ran into a couple of old girlfriends -- small school and we tended have shorter relationships than what is now the case). The last time I had seen her was about 10 years after high school when I called on her then husband at his store. I was a salesman for products that he sold in his store. After calling on him for some time, I stopped in once and the old girlfriend appeared. She saw my business card and had to come out from the back of the store to talk to me. Now, speed ahead a few decades and the next time we meet is at the reunion. She is now divorced and bitter about it, or at least that's what the body language and voice inflection told me. Since I didn't ask her probing questions about the divorce and how it all came about, it did get me wondering how she got where she is now -- the choices she made and why, and what were the alternatives? But she also made me think about my own decisions along the way when she asked me at the reunion if I ever did anything with my singing. You see, at one time, I kind of envisioned heading off to become an entertainer, most likely a singer. But that is not the path I ultimately took -- for many reasons, but it's now interesting to think back on those reasons and to wonder. Not to wish I had done something different or to bemoan the path I took, but just to wonder.

I returned to my old hometown for my high school class reunion the other day. I had not seen some of the people in years -- and I mean years, some I had not seen since we graduated. Others I had run into since leaving the town, but even for those, it still had been years. I had not returned for other reunions for a couple of reasons; timing for one, as they were held over major holiday weekends and we had other plans, and also because I couldn't fathom the point of returning. Who would I see? Would it just be losers who had nothing else to do that weekend? Would the "cool" ones return or would they too blow it off?

But something motivated me this time. Maybe it was age, maybe it was curiosity or maybe it was just that now that I am back to writing, I find people and the trail that takes them from where they were to where they are now, fascinating. I am intrigued about the mind -- what makes people do the things they do, especially those that seem to have had some disconnect with "normal." What made people make the decisions they did to take one path over another? How much did fate play in the path taken versus conscious decision-making?

In truth, I am glad I went back. It was good to see those that I had grown up with, with whom I experienced so much. The reunion did not produce, however, any deep understanding or revelation of mankind -- there wasn't enough time to talk to each person and find out much more than their married names, the number of children they have, where they live now and what they are now doing. It is not that people were guarded -- there just wasn't time for deep discussion.

I am still intrigued by those with whom I reacquainted and maybe even more intrigued by those that weren't there. Why did they decide not to come back? Are they hiding something? Did something occur in their life after high school that they just don't want to share?

As a writer, it doesn't really matter because I believe that after some time has passed, I will write about one or two of those former classmates -- whether they were there or not, because my mind will eventually think enough about a couple of them that I will invent their lives after school. And knowing me, they would be surprised by what happened to them and the mystery they created.

The following is an except from "Invisible Sin" -- a mystery.

Prologue
September 2, 1968
Yountville, California

Robert Rosselli knew the person before him would not shoot. He would not shoot for two reasons; one, he didn’t have the guts, and two, Robert had no intention of dying right now or in this way. He, and only he, controlled his destiny.

“So, here we are,” Robert said, placing the phone back in its cradle. “The money’s transferred – you have what you came for.” He turned, staring hard into the man’s eyes, refusing to glance at the weapon. “I’ve done my part. Now . . . give back what’s mine.” The words hissed through the quietness.

The intruder stood frozen in place – no words, no movement; his eyes boring in on Robert’s – an unfamiliar position.

Robert stared, believing that with just his eyes, the man would wilt and plead for forgiveness. “Once that’s done,” he continued, “do what you want. Run away and hide. Spend the money on whatever it is you think it will get you. But know this,” the words cutting the air now held still by a thread, “you will be hunted, you will be tracked down and you will be found, and whatever money is left – I take it back. I don’t care who you are or how I get it.”

A wry smile pushed at the corner of Robert’s mouth as he turned and sat easily down into the dark leather chair, crossing his legs and placing the ransom note on his lap – ever in control.

“Enjoy it while you can.” He locked eyes with his intruder – old power against ‘the never had power’.

The intruder’s cold stare could not match Robert’s, but still, it bore deep into Robert’s eyes as if trying to get inside the workings of Robert’s mind, attempting one last time to finally understand this man who had made his life so miserable. And then, as the coldness spread from the intruder’s eyes down across his face and into his hand . . . he pulled the trigger. The speed surprising them both – faster than a thought.

For the intruder – a beginning. But for Robert – the end. Peace and finality delivered by a bullet.

I have belonged to a writing group for about 4 years, the Brandywine Valley Writers Group (http://www.bvwg.org). At first, as I was finally concluding my first novel and looking for help in getting published, the group offered some benefit. As time passed and my first novel was completed, and a second and a third novel began to develop, either the group changed or I did. I know the group dynamics changed as people came and left, and my reasons for being a part of the group also changed. Not that I still didn't need some of the benefits a writing group can offer, but it is almost as though I have outgrown what this group can offer. What a group like this has to do is to evolve along with its members or the members, who evolve, will eventually look elsewhere for whatever new challenges and/or offerings they need at that time in their development. I guess groups such as this are very much like people -- people develop and grow and need more sophisticated knowledge than what they previously needed, much like a child grows and needs new and better knowledge in order to continue growing as a person. If the groups don't change and offer more challenging thought, then they stagnate and can only provide the same information to a new group of people who are passing through that part of their life -- a novice writer needs different information than a writer with experience so if the group remains a group for novices, then those that have moved beyond that will find another group. So, as one looks for a writing group, and I believe they can help writers evolve, look for one that is growing and where the people are ahead of you on the leaning curve.

I ran across an old friend yesterday, or more accurately, she ran across me. It had been 10 years since we last saw each other but it was like it had only been a few days - a very busy few days for her since she is now married and has a 6 year-old daughter. Be that as it may (whatever that means), its interesting how there are always some people with whom you never seem to lose the connection; people with whom you can just pick up where you left off. It is the people that make our world -- the events are just the backdrop. So much has changed in the world since we last saw each other, and yet, in many ways, not much has changed within each of us.

Just finished reading Serena by Ron Rash. A great book along the lines of Hemingway. If you like great character development, tied to history and a knack of showing the surroundings without being intrusive, then you'll love Serena -- well, maybe not Serena, herself, but you will love the book.

Today is a momentous day. Having traveled the world and seen many other political systems and ways of governing, I can honestly say, there is none like ours -- which I consider to be far above all others. Whether one agrees with who is the leader of our country, we had the option to vote, to argue, to defend, to campaign for and to openly support our choice, which all people cannot say. The fact that someone of a different color or creed can be elected to the highest office in the land says a lot about who we are and what we stand for. So, feel proud today of our forefathers and what they created -- a lasting system where people have options and are free to choose.

I joined the social networking site, LinkedIn, for business reasons, initially, but then decided I could also use it to expand my writing connections. It didn't take long before one of my writing contacts, Tom Coyne, author of "A Course Called Ireland (A Long Walk in Search of a Country, a Pint and the Next Tee)," found me and linked on. I first met Tom about a year ago when I asked him to speak to our local writers group, The Brandywine Valley Writers Group. He is a fascinating individual, and a bit quirky, you'll find when you understand how his latest book came to be. But he is definitely an interesting and engaging person, and I highly recommend his books if you enjoy golf, enjoy what golf can teach -- beyond the course, and just enjoy a good, light read. Visit Tom's website at http://www.tomcoyne.com. Writers are a great group of people, for the most part, who are willing to share their stories and help fellow writers find their way.

Good story tellers don't follow "good rules for story telling," or at least I don't know any that do. They just know how to paint pictures with words, words and phrasing that keeps their listeners wanting more. So why are some writers so hung up on the rules? While its good to know the rules and what helps move a story forward and keeping it interesting, to adhere to rules over substance and word painting will prevent the story from doing exactly what you want, as an author -- holding the reader in your palm and taking them wherever they want to go. Just a thought.

It took longer than I expected, but I have finally finished "American Lightning" by Howard Blum. It is an interesting read in that it combines a bit of history with a bit of mystery. The book is not one that I would say is a "grabber" but it did hold my attention as it takes the reader back to a much different time in our country; one that tied unions with film-making and with people like Clarence Darrow. If you like historical novels with a bit of intrigue, you should find this one right up your alley.

I am continuing to read Howard Blum's turn of the 20th century true mystery novel. While it continues to have interesting information about a particular mystery and how several famous characters became involved, the read is difficult at times as it plods along at several points. Interesting, still, but not a quick read -- or at least not for me.

"The Talisman"

Excerpt from Chapter 1

Jace Neffi watched as the little man carefully worked. He appeared in no hurry; the small trowel moved lightly against the earth, scraping a fraction of soil, one pass and then another until the trowel caught ever so slightly, causing the man to hesitate a split second before lifting the trowel to scrape against the obstruction – a bone or something else? He was like a surgeon performing a very delicate operation – on a body long dead.

Voices chattered all around, being picked up by the microphone embedded in the camera. The little man’s voice quietly droned on – the surgeon of archaeology, explaining each move and its resultant effect, speaking loud enough so that his voice masked the cacophony of noises coming from the groups off to his left on the sun-baked burial mound in the background.

Jace intently watched the video as the little man began the delicate task of lifting the obstacle from around the neck of the skeleton; most likely one of Jace’ long ago relatives – a giant Susquehannock Indian. Jace could almost feel his DNA straining inside his body, reaching out to the dead warrior who stared out through his large, dark eye sockets on the monitor. Sacred ground, but who would sound the alarm when all his ancestors supposedly disappeared so many years ago? Jace certainly couldn’t, unless he wanted to announce that the line had not died out, that he may be the lone survivor to that once proud and fierce tribe.

He continued to watch, for the . . . how many times had it been now that he watched this same video, over and over again? He had lost track and he’d only had the video for a few hours. But each time he watched, he felt it told him more about what the finding of the object meant, what it was that he had to do to discover more about what the object could tell him – an object that appeared to be a medallion of sorts.

“Are you going to watch that all night or are you going to come to bed?” Angie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and that look of “are you at it again?” in her eyes.

“Yeh. I’ll be right there. Still can’t figure out why he sent me this without letting me know it was coming.” Jace’ eyes never left the screen; watching the little man, Professor Frank O’Malley, slowly remove the amulet from around the warrior’s boney neck.

“Or why he just didn’t bring it over or have me come over there.” Jace’ eyes remained glued to the flickering screen.

“Well, you aren’t going to find out tonight, unless you want to go over there and wake the poor man up – if he is even there.” Angie walked into the room and stood behind Jace, putting her hand on his shoulder, watching the Professor hold the medallion up as he told the camera what he saw and what he thought he could be holding.

“Can’t understand why he didn’t answer when I called earlier. Since his Maggie died, he doesn’t sleep much, so if he didn’t answer, he had to be out – but Frank just doesn’t go out at night anymore. Strange.” Jace took the disc from the computer and started the Shut-down process as he reached up with his left hand to touch Angie’s hand, now resting lightly against his neck.

“Other than the possibility of the burial mound being Susquehannock, I can’t figure why he sent it. I guess it will have to wait, as you said, until tomorrow.”

Jace got up from the computer, slipping the disc into its plastic case and turned off the desk lamp. He looked down at the disc before putting it up on the top shelf of the computer desk.

“Until tomorrow,” he said as he turned and followed Angie off toward the bedroom. He loved watching her walk, especially when she was naked – that little butt, so perfect, and her back, oh how he loved her back – smooth, delicately curved and inviting. Sleek was all he could think, almost like a lioness – femininely muscular, yet so soft and smooth, something only a God could create. One of these days, he thought, we just have to get married.

I have just finished reading the first few chapters of "American Lightning" by Howard Blum. Not my normal read but interesting just the same. The story, a true crime novel, takes place at the turn of the 20th century and links Clarence Darrow, with William Burns of the famous Burns Detective Agency, and D.W. Griffith, the man who revolutionized the film industry -- all brought together by the bombing of the Los Angeles Times building by union anarchists. The story meanders at times, but the history and similarities to other incidents in our Nations life are remarkable.

I recently finished "Nemesis" by Jo Nesbo, a Norwegian aurthor. If you are looking for a mystery with great character development, a very intriguing and intricate plot or plots, then this book should appeal to you. It is part of a series of mysteries featuring an alcoholic detective, Harry Hole (sounds like a name I would have found a place for in one of my mysteries, but since Jo has already used him, I guess I can't). Check it out.

Its Friday, its snowing and its writing time. Over this past summer, I lost something -- a desire to write. Well, not a desire, exactly - more so the itch to write, and I couldn't figure out why. And then, in September, the itch returned, and again, I couldn't figure out why. But now I konw. Writers need other writers to keep the juices flowing. Not just any writers, but writers that challenge, that encourage, that are really into the writing and not so much into the "form" or the "right way" to write. Well, its back. The itch, that is, and I'm writing full steam. It feels good.

A book seller told me about a woman who came into her store and asked if she had any posters of US sunsets. The Seller said she had posters but wasn't sure about any with sunsets and wasn't sure, even if she had any that she could guarantee they were US sunsets. As they were looking, the Seller remembered a calendar that she had in inventory that had nothing but sunsets seen from various places throughout the US, and asked if that would do. The woman looked at the calendar and was ecstatic and said that the calendar was absolutely perfect.

As the Seller was ringing up the sale, she asked the Buyer why it was important to have US sunsets. The Buyer said that she was from South Africa, which led the Seller to ask if the sunsets were that much different in the southern hemisphere, to which the woman replied that there was a difference but more importantly, the calendar was a gift to a woman in South Africa who was from the US and who the Buyer knew through her work.

The Seller asked what type of work the Buyer was in and the Buyer replied that she worked in a prison and that the woman for whom she was buying the calendar was a prisoner, who had been in the prison for 14 years and during that time, because of the location of the cell in which the US woman was held, the woman had not seen a sunset in all those 14 years.

I just thought I would pass this story on.

Writing -- good writing, is tough. I don't know how many times I have heard the comment, "Everyone has a book inside them just waiting to get out." Unfortunately, while that may be true, just getting the book out does not mean that it will be well written or ever read. Getting the book out, as tough as that can be, is the easy part. Getting the book out that is well written is difficult. For those that are serious about writing, you have to get serious about writing. There are few people who can pick up a pen, pencil or laptop and just immediately begin writing well. It takes practice, practice and more practice. It means reading about writing what makes good writing. It means talking to others who have gone down the same path and hearing what they have done to make themselves better. It means working at your craft, because that is what writing is -- a craft. It is an art form of expression. And, like anything else in life, if you want to continue to get better, you have to continue to work and learn. Learning is the key. It still doesn't mean your work will be read or published, but it does mean that your odds improve.