Black Antler: A Thriller

By Mark De Binder

In this exciting sequel to “Serial Terror”, Chase Benton and his psychic foundation find themselves pitted against a serial killer from the Other Worlds. Sebastian Butler, patriarch of one of the oldest New England families, unwittingly lets Black Antler escape after being entombed by his ancestors 200 years earlier. Eager to resume the curse he cast on the Butler clan, Black Antler sets out to find and destroy the inner circle of the Butler family to exact his revenge. One by one, the members of the inner circle are found dead after being attacked by Mother Earth’s deadliest creatures.

Chase and team race against time to find this Dark Shaman and destroy the curse against the Butler clan before even more perish. Using CLAIR, the foundations supercomputer, his team of psychics, and the Spirit Realms, they muster all their resources to discover the secret of Black Antler so they can send him back to the underworld once and for all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark De Binder
• Release date: Oct 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9780979589720

Mark De Binder

World Traveler, student and teacher of Shamanism, master story teller, and more, Mark De Binder will rivet you to your chair as you become engulfed in his novels. A 20 year veteran of the hot high tech days, Mark traveled the globe visiting cultures on 4 continents. He is a master of bridging the plausible with the supernatural in such a way that you will never have doubts again about the "other worlds"... His works have been likened to Patterson, Koontz, Unger and Saul. Critics commonly write that De Binder will soon hit the charts as a New York Times Bestseller. Mark loves to read Ludlum, Flynn, Cussler, DeMille, His all time favorit book is Stephan King's "The Stand". Mark studies and teaches energetic modalities like Shamanism, psychic development, and reflexology. He has passions for skiing, windsurfing, surfing, climbing and hiking. He is at home in any body of water and can swim for hours on end. Mark currently has two more written that will be out in 2011/2012, and two more in development, Stay tuned, the best is yet to come. Make sure you pick up a copy of Serial Terror today!

Book preview

MARK

DE BINDER

Black Antler

A Thriller

First Edition

Black Antler: A Thriller

By Mark De Binder

Published by: Mark De Binder

Smashwords Edition

http://www.markdebinder.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This is a work of fiction – any resemblance of organizations, persons, or locations herein to real organizations, persons, or locations is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 Mark De Binder

Dedicated To:

Todd Clayton De Binder

A Mountain of Man,

A Hero’s Hero,

A Great Friend and Dad

Don’t Miss

Serial Terror - July 2010

Black Antler - 2011

The Sleepers - 2012

The Oneness - 2012

By Mark De Binder

http://www.markdebinder.com

Prologue

Southern New Hampshire Territories, 1696

It was approaching twilight as John Butler and his Indian guide rounded another bend along the Souhegan River in southern New Hampshire. They were due east of the mountain ranges, exalted far in the distance by the setting sun. The banks of the river were lush with early summer vegetation and heavy from the late spring floodwaters, causing their journey to be slower than John had expected.

The heat of the longest day of the year was beginning to surrender to the cool of night, and they were grateful after a hard day’s travel. John had contracted his Abinake guide, Short Owl, in Chelmsford, Massachusetts, three weeks earlier to help him in investigating the rumor of a native savage thought to be kidnapping settlers within a thirty-mile range of here. Over the last ten years, almost fifty settlers had vanished from their homes while traveling, hunting, or working their homesteads. At first, these disappearances seemed natural given the remoteness of the area and the harshness of the new territories. Over time, not one of the missing settlers had been found—dead or alive. A rumor surfaced from the friendly native tribes that a rogue survivor of the Pocumtuks tribe, wiped out during King Philip’s War, was exacting his revenge on the white man.

John Butler hailed from Concord, Massachusetts, and he was well known as an adventurer and surveyor of remote regions in New England. When the rumor of the kidnappings reached him a year earlier, his interest was piqued to the point of making written inquiries to the Governor and other local dignitaries. Three months ago, John received a commission from both Massachusetts and New Hampshire to investigate the possibility, and if true, stop the Indian however possible. He spent the first two months traveling to homesteads and villages, interviewing family and friends of known missing people, and he was able to establish a geographical pattern. Using maps, surveys, and known populated areas, he deduced that if the rumor were true, the culprit would be located at some point southeast of Mount Monadnock, close to the north central border of Massachusetts.

John decided they would begin the expedition just north of Chelmsford, where the Souhegan and Merrimack Rivers merged. Following the Souhegan northwest, they zigzagged back and forth along the river, covering one to two miles on either side, looking for clues, signs, or trails. About a week earlier, they had discovered a woman’s bonnet in a pile of floodwash on the banks of the river—this had been an encouraging sign to the men. After another week of pressing forward, they hadn’t found any new evidence that they were searching the right area. John committed to following the Souhegan River to its beginnings in the Mason Territory before formulating a new plan.

As the men navigated a bend in the narrowing river, his guide dropped to one knee and signaled his employer to stop and be still. John couldn’t see anything right away, but as he adjusted his eyes, he could barely see the light of a fire shining off the surface of the water ahead. As they quieted themselves, they began to hear a chanting sound floating down the hushed waters. Using sign language, John motioned to Short Owl to cross the water and carefully move forward from the other side of the river. When he reached the opposite bank, they began silently stalking upstream.

At first, John thought they were going to run into a party of hunters or explorers camping for the night, but as he came in view of the flames ahead, his heart stopped with fear at what he saw. In the distance, a small rock peninsula jutted into a wider part of the river. An ancient oak, possibly two hundred or more years old, stood majestically on the tip of the peninsula. To the left, a fire, burning with bright intensity, cast an eerie glow on a young white woman tied to the wide trunk of the oak. John could see the silhouette of another man, off to the side, busy working something in his hands. Quickly scanning the bank across the river for his guide, John found Short Owl lying prone under the branches of a hemlock tree, peering at the scene before them.

The two men made eye contact and agreed to keep moving forward. As John turned to continue, he watched in horror as the crouching man stood and turned into the light of the flames. Before him, he could see an Indian wearing the skin and head of an antlered deer. John froze as the native approached his captive carrying a long, stone war blade in his hands. The chanting increased in pitch, warning the two stalkers that time was running out. John stood and crashed through the brush as Short Owl scurried along the opposite bank to gain an advantage for attack. The Indian was deep in trance and unaware of the two men approaching as he brought the blade to the captive’s throat and ran it deeply from left to right, cutting flesh and bone. John screamed into the night as he watched blood erupt from the white woman’s neck and all over her oblivious murderer.

Reacting to the gruesome ordeal, both John and Short Owl stopped and drew their weapons. As John crouched to fire his musket, an arrow flew across the river just missing the mad Indian. The dark shaman slowly turned his head downstream to see a white man crouched and ready to fire his gun. John could see the hate burning in the man’s eyes, and he would never forget the look as he pulled the trigger and sent his lead ball speeding at the target. The shot went low but pierced the shaman in his left thigh, severing the artery, and sending the man howling to the ground.

John quickly moved toward his prey and saw that the young woman tied to the tree must surely be dead. He stepped into the firelight and looked at the wounded native. He was rapidly losing blood. From the corner of his eye, he could see Short Owl wading across the river. The shaman raised his head and war blade, then screamed words into the air in his native tongue—words that John could not understand. Then, an arrow came out of nowhere, striking the wounded man in the chest. He uttered the same words again as his eyes fluttered, his voice lost energy, and life drained from his body.

***

The next morning, after they had buried the woman and shaman, Short Owl and John Butler prepared for a scouting trip to search for any evidence of the other missing settlers. John, noticing that Short Owl had turned quiet since last evening’s events, wondered why this brave warrior would be so sullen. He looked at Short Owl and asked, The quiet here befits the deaths we witnessed last night. I should wonder what would make a man—either Indian or white—commit such atrocities.

Short Owl shook his head toward the sacrificial altar and said, I did not want to share with you what the man who called himself Black Antler chanted last night. But you should know. He was the son of a shaman of the Pocumtuks tribe. Many years ago, as a young man, he watched as his family and village were wiped out by a troop of white men with red coats. He was the only survivor. He has lived here in the forest as a recluse all these years, gathering strength and power to seek revenge for the slaughter. Right before he died, he uttered a curse at you—a terrible curse that, if true, will be your undoing!

John listened to his new friend, and then uttered, Short Owl, your wisdom and knowledge of the ancients from this land are well known and respected by many. I come from a faith that does not hear the curses and superstitions of Godless people. I hope that you understand this and that I cannot fear the words of a dying man.

Short Owl looked seriously at John, and with eyes that gave away his feelings, said, The rumor of Black Antler has been known to us for some time. His power was strong, and he was feared even by the bravest warriors in my tribe.

Even so, said John, I do not believe that a man can put a curse on another that can only be exacted by the dead.

The powers of our shamans reach well beyond the dead. The underworld of the dead is where a shaman travels to seek answers and medicine for our people. Please, John, heed the warning and prepare yourself and your clan for the coming days!

Short Owl, what was the curse this Black Antler uttered upon his death?

Short Owl rose from his seat and acknowledged the four directions, and as if in prayer, uttered, For every cycle of the Medicine Wheel, for one thousand years, one of your blood will die. Not until then will your family rest from your deed. They will die at the hands of Mother Earth’s messengers—the bear, the wolf, the bird of prey...Your clan will not know peace...

Chapter 1

Greenville, NH—Present Day

The three boys had gotten together at Joey’s house in Greenville, New Hampshire, for a sleepover to celebrate the end of another school year and to kick off the summer’s adventures. Today was the longest day of the year, and they were all looking forward to two glorious months of play, play, and more play. Late last night, they had decided to go fishing the next day. Taylor had suggested they take the canoe of Joey’s dad and portage it up the street to a short stretch of the river that was inaccessible by boat. Guaranteed good fishing!

It wasn’t until early afternoon that they finally got around to the fishing trip, and after carrying the seventeen-foot Town and Country up the street, they launched her into the waters of the Souhegan River. After a dry and snowless winter, the water level was as low as anyone could remember.

Taylor was in the front of the green canoe, Christian in the middle, and Joey manning the helm in the rear. There was plenty of laughter and delight as the boys slowly paddled upstream, heading toward the dam. Christian was casting his red-and-white Daredevil into the shallows of the banks, hoping to surprise a slumbering bass. None of the boys had been on this part of the river before, but had seen it from the bridge at the beginning of Ashcroft Place Road many times.

The dam towered sixty feet above the river, and it was built to support the first mill in town hundreds of years ago. Normally at this time of year, the dam would be spilling millions of gallons of water a minute over the top, causing this stretch to be completely off-limits to any kind of boat. Christian reeled in his latest cast and turned to his left to launch the lure at the banks of a neat little peninsula jutting in the widening river. He overshot his mark, and the lure landed in the rocks. Failing to loosen the snag with all kinds of gyrations, he told Joey to turn in to the outcropping so he could retrieve the only lure they had brought.

Joey laughed and then pulled on the paddle, causing the canoe to turn sharply to the left. As the boat approached the rocks, Christian saw that the water was too shallow to float all the way in and signaled the others to stop the boat. He handed the pole to Taylor and carefully stepped into the clear water and onto the slippery rocks. He took the fishing line in one hand and used it as a guide to find the now hidden Daredevil. Approaching the rocky shore, Christian followed the taut line until he could see it disappear into a crevice. Before reaching into the hole, he decided to look inside to make sure it was not occupied by a water snake or other peril.

He stuck his hand inside and tried to tug the lure free. At first, the lure didn’t move, but after repeated tugs, it started to give—a little. Christian peered into the hole and saw that the tri-hook had caught the edge of a flat rock. Feeling the rock wiggle slightly, he decided to pry it loose so he could free the lure. When he reached in and grabbed the piece of slippery stone, a jolt of energy shot up his arm, quickly spreading through his body. He tried to recoil at this surprise but found himself unable to let go. Frightened, he yanked his clenched hand from the hole, pulling the stone and lure free. Much to the boys’ surprise, the object Christian now held was much more than a rock. Even though it was covered with green slime, they could see that it was a knife of some kind. All three boys looked at one another with astonished faces, disbelieving the luck that had just befallen them.

***

Ten miles away, Sebastian Butler was driving up Route 101 east out of Peterborough, New Hampshire, heading to Miller State Park. He planned a quick ride to the top of Pack Monadnock Mountain to relax for a few minutes on this lazy Sunday afternoon. He turned in to the entrance and flashed his park pass at the attendant, then began the short, but steep, climb to one of his favorite views of the region. Reaching the top, he parked his F250 and walked to a set of picnic tables overlooking the valley below.

Even though it was a clear day, the air was hazy and thick, slightly obscuring the bald top of Mount Monadnock across the valley in Jaffrey. Sitting quietly for a few minutes, Sebastian was thinking about the big Butler family gathering that coming weekend. Every five years, the native New England clan gathered for a weekend of visiting, meeting, and remembering the family documented back to Great Britain more than 350 years ago. Sebastian was the fourteenth firstborn son and direct descendant of John Butler, one of the founding fathers of the Mason, New Hampshire territories. Those territories were now known as Mason, Greenville, New Ipswich, Wilton, and Temple. He had inherited the great responsibility of family patriarch when his father had died prematurely ten years ago because of a bad fall and later infection.

He could still remember when his Father had asked him to the family estate one evening just days before he died. The meeting was private and lasted most of the night, leaving Sebastian exhausted and overwhelmed. He had learned the shocking truth about a family secret kept hidden and protected for more than 250 years. Fortunately, the secret passed down to him required little or no attention, thanks to the fifth firstborn son, Robert Butler, back in 1826. He was grateful that his duties as patriarch would be business and family oriented only.

As he sat there looking over Peterborough and Jaffrey, he kept going over his mental list of things to do for the big weekend. They were expecting more than six hundred, including guests, spouses and children, and the logistics were turning into a small nightmare. The biggest problem was finding lodging for everyone, and he and his wife Cindy had been working on the challenge for most of a year. After prebooking every hotel, motel, and B & B within a forty-mile radius, he and Cindy still had more than one hundred people to bed for the long weekend, and they had begun to obtain commitments from more than forty Butler family descendants living in the Monadnock region. He hoped to wrap up lodging issues by midweek.

In the early 1900s, a Butler had created a trust fund for the gathering that had been managed well over the years. The fund had grown to well over ten million dollars, allowing Sebastian to tap into more than a half million dollars in interest for the event. This enormous expenditure provided for travel, food, lodging, and entertainment for the entire brood, ensuring greatest attendance. It was considered bad form to miss the occasion unless there was a life-or-death situation precluding it. The opening of the weekend included a roll call where each branch of the family tree acknowledged its presence. It was quite the to-do. The family estate in Temple had been a war zone for the last five weeks, with landscapers, carpenters, party planners, and caterers coming and going, getting the 890-acre spread spruced up and ready to go. Yes, he thought, this will be the best gathering!

***

After the boys decided that they had indeed found a priceless artifact, undoubtedly an ancient Indian war blade, they continued their way up the river in the canoe. Christian had developed a headache after handling the blade and couldn’t shake the tingling feeling he got when he first touched the knife. Suddenly, he focused on the old mill building ahead. The water was about eight feet lower than normal, and he could see an opening in the fieldstone foundation that began to draw him to it.

Hey, guys! Christian announced, I want to go over and explore that hole under the mill.

Taylor, sitting up front, had to look around before he noticed what Christian was talking about. Seeing the size of the opening, he said, I’ll bet we could get the boat in it.

Joey began to turn the boys slowly toward the five-story mill wall and exposed opening. Any of you bring flashlights? he asked excitedly.

Yeah, Christian and Taylor said in unison.

Great! It’s going to be real dark in there. I bet we find more buried treasure.

Woooo whooo! Taylor cried at the prospect of finding his own Indian war blade.

Christian became silent as a chill shook his body from head to toe. A dual feeling of excitement and foreboding came over him as they drew nearer the entrance. As the boat approached, they could see the slimy green growth on the ancient stones forming the archway into the man-made cavern.

I don’t think anyone has been in here forever, Taylor shouted to no one in particular. It looks like it’s been underwater since it was built.

Looks that way, Joey agreed, just as Taylor reached out of the bow to grab the stones to stop the canoe before it slid in.

Christian, let’s take a look with our lights before we head in, Taylor said, a hint of fear coming from his voice.

In tandem, the two boys turned on their lights and shone them into the wide opening. It took a minute for their eyes to adjust, but when they did, both boys let out low whistles.

What is it, guys? Joey said excitedly.

There are markings on the wall, Joey! Taylor exclaimed and continued to move the beam of light along the wall, peering deeper into the cave. It goes back about fifty feet, and look, there are stairs leading from the water onto some kind of platform.

Is that a door? Christian said, with numbness in his voice.

Yes, said Taylor. Jesus, guys, this is the find of the century. Indiana Jones, watch out!

Joey was trying to peer into the opening, but he was still too far back to see what the others were talking about. Hey, are we going in or what? I can’t see a thing.

We have to go in, Christian said, guided by a force with which he was unfamiliar. We have to open that door.

Whatever! Joey said, as he back paddled the boat to turn the bow straight in to the cave mouth. You guys light the way, and I’ll paddle. Go slowly; I want to see the walls and stuff.

The canoe front slid under the stone archway and, each in turn, the boys ducked their heads to fit through. Taylor was shining his light on the wall to the right and Christian the wall to the left. There was only one symbol on the wall. It looked like the head of a big buck with large sixteen-point antlers. On each wall, the symbol kept repeating. Small at first, the symbols kept getting larger and larger as the boys got closer to the granite stairs at the far end of the tunnel. Every ten feet or so, there were iron torch holders bolted into the walls. When the boy’s lights merged at the end of the cavern, they noticed the big stone door. A life-sized version of the antler symbol had been carved into it.

Joey maneuvered the boat so it paralleled the stairs on the starboard. Christian ignored the others, hopping out without bothering to hold the boat for them.

Hey, Bozo, Joey chided Christian, We need some help here, please...

Not hearing his friend, Christian advanced to the door towering above his head and placed his hands on the damp cool stone. Brushing away the centuries of dirt and grime, Christian wiped the symbol clean, its deep etchings coming alive in the glow of his light. A circle surrounded the symbol with small etchings of animals and spirits as if containing the antlers. Midway down the door, an iron ring, rusted and pitted from years in the damp and flooded chamber, protruded from the stone. Joey and Taylor suddenly appeared at Christian’s side in awe of the sight before them.

Taylor reached out for the iron ring, and Christian grabbed his hand, forcing him to stand back.

What the hell! Taylor spat at his buddy, as Christian grasped the ring and fondled it with an evil glare on his face. He began to tug on the ring, but to no avail. The stone wouldn’t budge a bit. Joey, not sensing anything wrong, leaped to the boat and brought back a long piece of rope. Christian grabbed it from him and began to tie it around the rusted circle so two ends of the rope could be pulled. He took the end on the right and told the others to take the left end. Together, they dug in their heels and put every ounce of strength into moving the monolith. After three tugs, Christian thought he felt the door move a little. Leaning into another pull, they could all see the stone begin to slide on the slimy, wet floor. Another four tugs and the door breached the seal that had trapped the air inside all those years. The foul smell hit the boys’ nostrils with the impact of a hammer and sent them moving back a few feet to escape the odor. Christian lurched ahead and began to tug the end of the rope with all his might, and the door finally moved freely into the chamber.

Joey and Taylor were half expecting something to jump out at them, but Christian advanced without caution into the tomb with a clear sense of what must be done. He entered the room, and with his light, saw more of the same symbols covering the walls. He was astonished to realize that he already knew what this room would contain. As if he had seen it before, the pedestal in the rear, a large clay pot with lid sitting on top came into view. To the left was an old iron chest that had been closed with locks and chains. Stepping up to the pedestal, Christian placed his hands around the urn and felt it pulsate as if alive. His eyes began to glaze as the energy from the clay surged into his hands and arms, feelings of deep anger and hatred coursing through his blood. His hand reached for the lid on the pot and, without hesitation, pulled it loose from the vessel. The feeling of anger disappeared, and an overwhelming sense of freedom replaced it. That sense quickly disappeared and turned into one of pure evil.

***

As Sebastian was getting ready to return to his truck, a strong gust of wind blew out of the southwest, and a dark cloud as black as night appeared on the horizon. He watched the cloud approaching the valley below and felt a chill shake his core. Something terrible had happened, something he couldn’t fathom in the recesses of his experience. As the wind encircled him with impending fear, he absently reached to his neck and pulled out the pendant his father had given him that fateful night ten years ago. He had told Sebastian to wear it always and never to remove it for any reason, no matter what. He had thought the request superstitious and ridiculous but had kept the pendant on all this time. Holding it in his hand, the view of the dark cloud and valley below vanished.

Suddenly, he was in another place, on a riverbank somewhere he had never been, slowly walking upstream toward chanting. As he rounded the bend, a man in the distance stood from his perch next to a campfire and turned to face him. The man was an Indian, a headdress of an antlered deer atop his head. A grin slowly formed on the Indian’s face as his hands stretched to the sky and he continued chanting. The voice grew louder and louder, and Sebastian watched in silence as the gruesome figure pulled a war blade from its sheath and walked to a large oak on the edge of the peninsula. The warrior held up the blade while looking at Sebastian, then thrust it into the heart of the tree, laughing the cruelest laugh Sebastian had ever heard.

With the blink of an eye, he was back on top of Pack Monadnock, sweat pouring from his head and body. He let loose the pendant as if it were burning and stared at it with certain dread. His father had warned him that, someday, the shaman named Black Antler might escape his tomb. He suddenly realized that today was that day, and that the legend of the Butler family was not just lore. He could feel the presence around him, taunting him, daring him, challenging him to stop the impending doom.

Chapter 2

Jaffrey, New Hampshire

Jonathan Longworth had just crossed the Massachusetts border into New Hampshire on his way to Jaffrey and the Serial Connections Headquarters. He was both excited and ambivalent about the meeting and events planned for the day. On the one hand, he was going to participate in a real-live serial capture as an observer in the HQ control center, but on the other hand, the meetings afterward with Chase Benton, the head of Serial Connections and Karla Jenkins, the new Secretary of Homeland Security, would be rough. Chase had been dodging the inevitability of commercializing the highly sophisticated computer system called CLAIR for years. External pressure on Jonathan and the other benefactors had finally come to a head, and now, they had to deal with it one way or another.

Jonathan could clearly remember eighteen years earlier when Chase Benton had used his skills as a detective and psychic to rescue his son from the clutches of the infamous Hacker. He had heard of Chase through his circle of industrialist friends, and after weeks of frustration dealing with the Boston FBI’s bumbling, had approached Benton to consider taking a lead in finding his son. The FBI agent in charge, Henry White, had insisted that Chase work with them instead of independently, and he and Jonathan had reluctantly agreed. Even with the FBI breathing down his neck, Chase had been able to put together a profile of the Hacker in days, and within a week, he had found the killer’s connection to the victims. It was easy to pinpoint the person’s name after that, and the FBI clumsily rushed in to capture the man. Their ineptitude caused a fellow employee to tip off the Hacker, and he was able to flee before the agents could surround his location and capture him. After confronting Henry White, Chase went out by himself and, in twelve hours, hunted down the killer, barely saving Jonathan’s oldest son William from certain death.

After William was saved, Jonathan formed a group of benefactors to set Chase Benton up with a private foundation whose sole mission was to profile and capture active serials eluding law-enforcement agencies. Chase turned out to be much more than Jonathan could have ever hoped for, and the foundation Chase built had a worldwide reputation for doing the impossible under impossible conditions. CLAIR, the ultramodern artificial intelligence system Chase had built as a cornerstone of the group’s efforts, had been kept a closely guarded secret until last fall when a series of events leading to the deaths of three of the country’s worst serials over Halloween weekend opened the doors of scrutiny from outside agencies. Under a federal warrant, the U.S. government had demanded Serial Connections give them a guided tour of the complete operation, especially interested in the supercomputer and its uncanny ability to merge data of all sorts quickly and to draw inferences, which might take hundreds or thousands of man-hours to solve if at all, in seconds.

At first, Chase had been inundated with every federal agency dealing with criminals and terrorists, and within a month’s time, Serial Connections had come to a grinding halt. Jonathan had used his considerable financial influence to get a court injunction to stop the onslaught, and his battery of attorneys was able to persuade the courts to funnel the government investigations through a single channel. Because Homeland Security already had a council representing the CIA, NSA, FBI, and other lesser known, but active, spook agencies, the court agreed to use them as the focus, so Chase and his team could get back to work. Jonathan had agreed to take point so Chase didn’t have to use his valuable time in what he thought was a waste. CLAIR had been built specifically to be the organization’s hub and was designed to work with the investigative teams of Serial Connections and, most important, the psychic group that gave the foundation its edge and success.

The artificial intelligence built into CLAIR had everything to do with being able to understand the psychic world and techniques and to assimilate the myriad supernatural discoveries and inputs from the group for solving the cases. Chase was convinced that if the technology behind CLAIR were handed to these agencies, they would never get the psychic part of it, and their efforts would lead to certain disaster. As intelligent and fast as CLAIR was, she was still a machine, and the Serial Connections experts needed to vet her deductions and conclusions before any action was taken. Not to mention that if this technology found its way into the hands of the wrong people, and they did get the psychic part, it could be used to thwart law enforcement as efficiently as it was used to solve crime, which frightened Chase Benton the most.

Jonathan saw the Serial Connections main gate and took a left into the compound. As he drove through the gate, the totem animals on the gate pillars looked down at him. The Wolf and the Falcon; he had been horrified the first time he saw them, as he didn’t completely understand the shamanic world of Chase Benton. But over the years, he had developed much respect and understanding of things unseen and the spiritual and energetic practices of the man who’d saved his son’s life. As he approached the HQ building, he could see a limo and two big black SUVs just parking in front of the entrance. That would be Karla and the Homeland Security group. Karla had told Jonathan just that morning that she had assigned a two-person team to camp out at headquarters for three to four months to get firsthand working knowledge of Serial Connections operations and to work with CLAIR. Serendipity had provided a perfect segue for everyone. Chase had called him this morning to tell him that two of his operatives were ready to close in and take out a serial this day. They had decided to wait until the Homeland Security group got there, so they could all participate from the HQ control center and see how complex the operation was.

Walking into the entrance, Jonathan was surrounded by three of Karla’s Secret Service detail before she could wave them off and tell them who Jonathan was. Just as he was walking up to shake Karla’s hand, the elevator doors opened, and Seville Waters stepped out into the foyer. All eyes turned to her as the Secret Service agents came to attention, and Karla held up her hand again to keep them at bay. Seville walked up to Jonathan, gave him a European kiss on both cheeks, and said, Hello, Jonathan, we are all very glad you could come.

Seville, you look incredible as always, and thanks. It is good to be here. I am really looking forward to seeing you all in action today!

"Well, hopefully, you won’t be disappointed. You know how these things go. But all indications show a 95 percent chance the bust