Coit Tower
Inspector Frank Carmack pulled his dark sedan into the small parking ellipse
beside Coit Tower. He double parked behind a black and white and climbed out. The
tourists were not going to be happy to see the place cordoned off with yellow tape. As
he buttoned his gray rain coat against the chill, he glanced up toward the top of the
fluted concrete spire, San Francisco's monument to the heroism of it's firefighters on
that terrible April morning in 1906, and afterwards. Though the sun had broken
through on the opposite side of the bay, bathing Marin's hills in gold, he could barely
see the tower's top arcade through the mist. The basso of the fog horn sounded at the
harbor's entrance, as it sounded every minute or so.
"Frank! Over here!"
Carmack spun to see Sergeant Joe Castro waving at him. He turned up his collar
and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He hated this kind of call... to him it was worse,
emotionally, than a murder scene. "What have you got, Joe?" he asked.
"Not much... it's down this here," Castro said, leading the way down the
narrow, brick steps that descended the east side of Telegraph Hill. "Careful," he
cautioned. "They're pretty steep... kind of treacherous." A startled squirrel darted
across the stairs, dove into the ivy, then scuttled up a nearby tree.
"Around four this morning, some guy evidently parked up top, came down this
way, then followed a side path to a point where he could jump from the path to the
second story fire escape of the house below. From there he jimmied the window and
got in. He bound and gagged the family and took, Maria, the eight-year-old daughter.
They managed to free themselves a little over an hour ago."
"Ransom?" Frank asked. "Anyone recognize the perp?"
"Nada... and no one saw the vehicle, either," Castro responded.
"Gang related? How about drugs?"
By this time they had reached the fire escape. Forensics was dusting it for prints
and photographing it, the path, and the house from every possible angle. Inside,
through the still open window, they could hear sobbing.
"You never know," said Castro, "but I doubt it. The family's comfortable," he
explained, "but doesn't seem too well off. They've lived here for years. Parents moved
here back in the thirties, when the neighborhood was working class Italian. The
grandfather repaired nets... fishing nets, cargo nets, and so forth down at the docks.
Mr. and Mrs. Fanucci moved in when her mother needed help, then they inherited the
house when she passed on. They could never have afforded it these days... area's gone
too up-scale."
"Hey, Sam!" Carmack called to one of the uniformed officers. "Just a hunch, but
check out that telescope thing up top... along the wall. See the one I mean?" he yelled,
pointing to one of the telescopes that tourists usually aimed at Alcatraz or a dozen
other landmarks around the bay. "See if you can angle it for a view down here....
Sorry, Joe... you were saying?"
"Just... ransom or drugs seem unlikely.... The wife babysits to be able to afford
to stay home for the kids. The husband has a landscaping service and repairs cars and
boat engines on the side."
"I don't like the feel of this at all," the inspector commented. "My guess is that
he's been watching everything that goes on down here.... It's like Polly Klaas up in
Petaluma or that kid snatched from his bicycle down south. They found him months
later under a pile of rocks out in the desert near Palm Springs." He rubbed a hand
across his long, thin face. "I'm not going to make the same mistake of following
procedure when the clock is ticking."
<< + >>
Angel Island
Sunlight streamed through the bay window of the mansion's breakfast nook.
Dominick busied himself with moving several house plants to take advantage of the
bright morning sun. With misting bottle in hand, he primped and preened his charges.
"Looks like we lucked out this morning," he commented. "The city's still fogged
in. Let me know if I can get you anything else," he told Nick, who sat at the table in
his ragged USN sweats, eating his breakfast, and reading the Chronicle's sports page.
"No, I'm OK," Nick replied absently. He was half listening to the radio that
Dominick had left on in the kitchen, trying to catch the traffic reports for the Bay
Bridge. He had an errand to run for Derek later in the day over in Hayward and would
have to get through that hell hole of a freeway maze in Oakland. The thought reminded
him, "Oh, Dom.... Did Derek finally get in last night?"
"Yes, sir. Actually it was this morning... about five."
"Interesting...," Nick said. "Did he stay over at Rachel's?"
"I wouldn't know, sir."
At that instant Derek entered the kitchen, headed for the coffee. Nick glanced
up from the paper and noted that his friend squinted his eyes against the sunlight. It
was only half past eight, he hadn't expected to see Derek til much later, all things
considered. He looked as though he had gotten little sleep."Morning," Nick said. "You
got in late... everything OK?"
"Fine," the precept replied firmly as he poured his coffee. The pressure within
his head seemed to squeeze his eyeballs.
"What can I get you for breakfast, sir?" asked Dominick.
Derek's stomach rebelled at the smell of Nick's omelet. "Nothing, thank you,
Dominick.... Maybe later." He had started to take his usual seat at the table, when Alex
strode briskly in from the back door.
"You're back," she said cheerfully. Her morning walk always energized her and
lifted her mood. "How are you feeling this morning?" she asked. "Rachel said...."
Derek set his coffee mug down abruptly, sloshing some of the hot liquid onto
his hand. He shook it off. "I'm fine," he snapped. "Rachel should keep her mouth shut
about my affairs." He shoved his chair aside and stormed out.
"Which means he feels rotten," said Alex.
* * *
An hour later, Alex sat sideways on the couch in the drawing room. She had
been trying to write her grandmother a letter. She couldn't concentrate... her thoughts
kept returning to Derek. She should just give up and call New Orleans, she thought,
but Grandma Rose's hearing was no longer as sharp as it once was, and the old woman
enjoyed receiving letters. They could fill in the gaps that her ears had missed during
their Sunday evening chats. Besides, the letters were something she could tuck away,
pull out and reread later, again and again.
"Miss Alex," said Dominick.
She jumped. Like all good servants, he had entered the room soundlessly.
"Dominick, would you please clump, or something," she said. "You're going to give
me heart failure one of these days."
"I'm sorry if I startled you," he said. "However, Dr. Rayne has an urgent phone
call... from Inspector Carmack. Would you care to inform him, or should I?"
"No, I'll go," Alex said. She had been trying to think of a reason to go to his
office and check on him, but knew that in his present mood, she had better have a very
good reason for intruding. Wondering what Carmack wanted, she set her notepad on
the coffee table beside her empty tea cup and trotted upstairs.
When the doors to Derek's office, his sanctum sanctorum, slid open, she was
surprised to find the room dark. The wooden blinds were shut and the drapes drawn...
the small paneled room felt oppressive with the expansive view of San Francisco and
its harbor shut off. "Derek?" she said.
He turned on the light and immediately spun his chair away from it. Through her
empathic abilities, Alex could get some slight sense of a headache, but Derek was
shutting himself in. She didn't need to feel him... she could see the pain in his eyes,
which tended to turn brown when he wasn't well.
"Yes, Alex?" he said.
"Frank Carmack's on line one. He says it's urgent."
"Thank you... and Alex... I'm sorry I snapped," Derek apologized as he reached
for the phone.
"It's OK.... You're allowed... occasionally," she said with a smile.
* * *
Derek didn't feel like doing this. He didn't know if he could do it, but he had to
try. In vain, he attempted to forget the throbbing at the back of his head and behind his
eyes. Uncharacteristically, he grabbed a pair of sunglasses as he headed down the back
stairs on his way to the garage.
To his surprise... and yet, not... Nick was waiting behind the wheel of his
Explorer. Derek didn't really want the company. "I don't need a chauffeur," he said.
"I think you do," Nick countered, leaning over to open the passenger door.
"Carmack called about that little girl, didn't he? The one I heard about on the news this
morning."
"Yes... OK," Derek said finally. He climbed in and fastened his seat belt. "He'll
meet us in the parking lot at Coit Tower," he added, then leaned his head back and
closed his eyes.
Nick concentrated on the curving road that led to the ferry landing at Ayala
Cove, but once on board, he couldn't stand the silence any longer. "Derek?" he said.
"Yes."
"Are you OK?" he asked in a quiet, serious tone. "Really... OK?"
"Yes," the older man replied. "Just tired." Then he admitted, much to his
friend's surprise, "I haven't been this tired in a very long time... exhausted right down
into my soul. You might be too young to understand." He lapsed back into silence for
the rest trip.
<< + >>
Los Angeles Legacy House
Amanda Drake strolled along parapet of the Los Angeles Legacy House. The
day was smoggy, but she needed to walk the kinks out of her knees. As usual, she had
been riding that morning and still wore her breeches and boots. A few minutes
remained before the impromptu meeting she had called for eleven.
She sipped her cold lemonade and glanced down at the street, ten storeys below.
She loved that street, Hollywood Boulevard, street of stars. Street of wonders was
more like it. She'd been shocked when Derek told her that he planned to purchase the
empty bank building for the Los Angeles headquarters of the Luna Foundation and that
he was proposing to the Ruling House that the Legacy move it's LA House into the
building's upper floors. She had wondered if he actually knew where the building was
located. He had... and she still laughed every time she thought of Derek's private joke.
London House had jumped at the chance to abandon the Hancock Park mansion
that had been the Legacy's southern California home for over seventy years. Hancock
Park was a staid area of old homes and old money, but during the last few years the
House's relationship with its neighbors had radically deteriorated due to a series of
unfortunate, inexplicable incidents. When Derek had offered a new location, they had
happily accepted his proposal, no questions asked.
Amanda remembered how she had held her breath the first time William Sloan
had visited. She had no idea what his reaction would be, but feared the worse, since
the Ruling Precept was not known to be of an especially cordial or humorous nature.
When he had stepped from his limousine in front of the polished glass doors, he had
surveyed the busy street corner, looked up at the twelve storey Gothic-Art-deco tower,
then across Hollywood Boulevard toward the life-sized tyrannosaurus rex bursting
through the roof of Ripley's Believe It or Not Odditorium. At that moment, a pink
Cadillac convertible with tail fins and white fur upholstery had pulled up in front of the
Hollywood Wax Museum next door. She had been mortified. The car's horn had
bellowed out the first few notes of Beethoven's Ode to Joy. Two scantily clad young
women had emerged from the shade of the wax museum and had leaned into her
pimp's convertible, making certain that the Ruling Precept had seen all they had for
sale. Mr. Sloan had simply smiled, then walked over to the discrete brass plaque that
read, Luna Foundation, and had burst out laughing. He had laughed so hard that he had
to wipe the tears from his eyes.
"Oh, Lord... Derek... only you would do this." He had turned to Amanda and
said, "I can't wait till that old fart Tremayne sees this... he'll have apoplexy for sure."
Before he could continue, the laughter reasserted itself.
"Oh, forgive me, Amanda," he had finally said, "but a damned castle complete
with pointed turret, gargoyles, and flying buttresses on Hollywood Boulevard... and
Derek said he bought it for the vaults."
"But...,"Amanda had hesitated, "I thought you and he weren't on the best of
terms."
"My dear," the Ruling Precept had replied, at last gaining control, "never believe
anything that you hear, and only half of what you see.... Derek and I have an
'uncommon' relationship," he had added with a half grin.
Now she looked down upon old Elmer, as they had nicknamed the T-rex. Rap
music blasting from a souvenir cum T-shirt shop cum discount electronics shop,
attracted her attention. A motorcycle officer was giving a warning to a group of gang
bangers collected in front of the store. Soon they disbursed. Farther down the street,
at the Chinese Theatre, she could see the tour buses lined up, disgorging their
passengers for the required stop to see the movie stars' concrete foot prints in the
courtyard of Sid Grauman's 1927 oriental fantasy. Across from the movie palace was
the newly refurbished Roosevelt Hotel, home to the first Academy Awards and the
purported ghosts of Marilyn Monroe and a trumpet playing Montgomery Clift. Rumor
had it that during the making of the Wizard of Oz the Munchkins had run wild,
terrorizing other guests in a mad demolition derby.
Amanda slowly walked around to the east side of the tower. In the distance was
the "Hollywood" sign... giant white letters perched on the mountainside. She loved the
bustle of the street. Often she would hear people say in disappointment that it wasn't
the Tinsel Town they had expected, that it was dirty and noisy, full of gangsters,
pimps, hookers, druggies, and runaways. Yes, there was that, but the street wasn't a
museum dedicated to Hollywood's Golden Age. It was a vibrant street dedicated to
business of all kinds, just as it had been ever since the dusty farm road called Prospect
Avenue had been paved over and renamed... it was alive. If you watched closely, you
could see the costumers, the prostitutes, and the tourists popping into the purple
fronted lingerie emporium, Frederick's of Hollywood, or the kids from Hollywood
High grabbing lunch at a hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese taco and donut stand. Always
there were the tourists, stopping to take pictures and read the brass inlaid names on the
rose granite stars on the Walk of Fame. She wondered what they'd think if they knew
what this building really housed. She spotted a couple of neatly uniformed women
hurrying down the street toward the Church of Scientology headquarters a dozen
blocks to the east. She smiled when she saw them, without a backward glance, brush
by "Darth Vader," a homeless man who wrapped himself in black plastic garbage bags,
complete with plastic cape to purposefully stride the boulevard daily, on what mission
no one knew.
As she finished her last circuit, she somehow found it amusing that two blocks
to the north of this decadent street was the high Gothic Hollywood Methodist church,
while a block to the south was the Spanish baroque tower of the Church of the Blessed
Sacrament... but then Hollywood was a town where people lived and worked and
worshiped, just as she did. She looked down upon the rooftop gardens four stories
below... a Luna Foundation picnic was underway for battered women and their
children. She could hear the children squeal with delight as a magician entertained
them. Later they would tour an exhibit of African masks, newly installed in the lobby.
Leave it to Derek to think of using the sixth story roof for a park. She smiled
again at the thought of seeing him tomorrow, and of taking him down the street in their
ritual visit to Musso and Frank's. He was such a dual personality. On one hand, the
Luna Foundation Derek was so sophisticated and European that he could be at ease
at Buckingham Palace, yet the other Derek, the American academic adventurer, saw
the joy and tragedy of Hollywood Boulevard and loved places like Musso's, with its
age stained wooden booths, its menu that hadn't changed, except for prices, of course,
since it had opened in 1918, and its original mechanical cash register operated by the
a cashier that everyone swore had been sitting on the same stool since opening day.
The joke was that she had been stuffed since 1946.
She glanced at her watch... two minutes after eleven. She was late for her own
meeting. Amanda opened the french doors and entered the Regency sitting room that
served as her office. She wanted to get this over... her ride and the Valley's heat had
made her drowsy, but she wanted to make sure that her team, which was waiting, was
prepared for the San Francisco precept's arrival.
She first turned to Mark Taylor, the former LAPD forensics specialist who acted
as her security/scientific advisor. "They'll be bringing their own equipment so that we
can have second set of readings. You'll make sure there's a power source available for
them... other than from the house's system?"
"Of course," he said. "I spoke to the realtor, and I'm going to have a back-up
generator there, too."
"Perfect." Amanda took a sip of her lemonade and puckered at the tartness that
she loved. "Oh... and make sure the guest house over there has linen, groceries, and
so forth. Derek said he'd prefer to stay there while researching the house... Bethany,
have you managed to get the report in shape?" she asked as she looked her younger
colleague straight in the eyes. "It'd better be short and to the point... nothing
superfluous, but nothing left out. Derek never had much patience with long
windedness."
"It's on your desk. You'll have to be the judge," Bethany Lopez stated plainly.
The small Mexican girl was not one to mince words.
"Thank you, I'll glance through it. I'm sure it'll be fine."
Bethany was curious about their visitor from San Francisco. "What's he like?"
she asked. "I mean... Dr. Rayne has quite a reputation in the Legacy. Some say he'll
be Ruling Precept one day."
Amanda chuckled. "I'll be surprised if he ever leaves San Francisco. His family
founded that house and he's completely dedicated to it."
"How'd you get to know him?" Bethany persisted.
"He saved my sanity... and probably my life." Amanda continued when she saw
that both pairs of dark eyes were fixed on her face, determined to have the tale. "I'd
just started grad school at Stanford, when I began having blackouts and what I thought
were migraines. However, the doctors found that I had a brain tumor.... They removed
it, and it was fortunately benign... but the surgery wasn't. I began having psychic
episodes... getting impressions from things and people, then occasionally a
precognitive dream. It all terrified me. I thought I was going crazy, becoming
schizophrenic or something. One of the doctors suggested that I contact Dr. Derek
Rayne of the Luna Foundation. I did. I was very surprised, to say the least. I was
expecting some fuddy duddy psychiatrist, instead I got a handsome thirty-something
who had Ph.D.'s in anthropology and theology, lived in a castle on an island in San
Francisco Bay, was richer than Midas himself, a real-life ghost-buster, and a precept
in something called the Legacy. I think I fell in love with him for a while.... He never
knew.... He taught me to deal with my new abilities."
"Are his talents as strong as yours?" Bethany quizzed.
"Mine pale in comparison. I doubt that there's anyone in the Legacy who has
psychic gifts to match Derek Rayne's. He was born with it all, with the exception of
telekenesis, though there have been rumors even of that. If he had lived in biblical
times, he'd have been considered a prophet, in medieval times, he'd have been a witch.
God help the Legacy, if he were ever to fall.
"Now, that's enough. You'll be meeting him tomorrow. Get out.... I need to take
a little nap... didn't sleep well last night and the heat got to me a bit." She ushered
them out the door, then pulled off her boots and settled into the chaise lounge tucked
into a corner of her office. Ten minutes was all she needed. Then she'd take a look at
Bethany's report.
