The Priestess

By Frank Lauria

Cuban voodoo, a vice lord, and a woman with power over death itself—Dr. Owen Orient picked a lethal time to visit Miami

Cut off from his friends, students, and lover while on the run from the CIA and a powerful voodoo cult—just another day in the life of Dr. Owen Orient, psychic investigator.
 
When the ink on his fake ID dries, Orient finds himself in sultry Miami working at a small pharmacy in a rundown neighborhood. He manages to stay under the radar until his boss turns up dead after refusing to sell his business to a syndicate headed by Cuban voodoo priest Mojo Pay. Orient has no choice but to investigate.
 
Orient moves through a world of cocaine, sexual excess, dark voodoo rites, and occult murder in this riveting paranoir tale. The Priestess is an audacious new step forward in Frank Lauria’s genre-defying mix of horror, erotica, mystery, and thriller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Jun 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504009768

Frank Lauria

Frank Lauria was born in Brooklyn, New York, and graduated from Manhattan College. He is a published poet and songwriter and has worked in the publishing industry as a copywriter and editor. He has been writing novels since 1970 and his twenty books include five bestsellers. He has traveled extensively through the Middle East, Morocco, and Europe to research his occult novels. He lived through and participated in the Beat era, reading poetry with Jack Kerouac, Alan Ginsberg, and most of the other well-known artists associated with the movement. He lives in San Francisco, where he teaches creative writing and performs with his rap band. Lauria blogs regularly and publishes installments in his autobiographical journey through the cultural past of the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s. Lauria is perhaps best known for the seven volumes of the Doctor Orient series. Doctor Orient is a delver into mystery and the arcane, a knowledgeable man on all subjects occult, and a seeker of truth. His adventures take him around the world and into the depths of psychic and spiritual challenge and adventure. The books in the series are Doctor Orient (1971), Raga Six (1972), Lady Sativa (1973), Baron Orgaz (1974), The Priestess (1978), The Seth Papers (1979), and Blue Limbo (1991). An eighth Doctor Orient novel is currently in the works. Lauria has written a number of tie-in and young adult novelizations of hit movies, including Dark City (1997), Pitch Black (1999), and End of Days (1999), as well as a series of Zorro novelizations.

Book preview

1

The director’s assistant wore Gucci shoes and a tan Halston shirtdress, and she appraised Orient with the sharp glance of a seasoned shopper when he entered. Then a professionally congenial expression slipped over her pretty face like a plastic Glad Bag.

Dr. Orient, I presume. I’m Judy Wald. Hope you didn’t go through too much of a hassle finding us. The smile and handshake were hearty enough, but her gray eyes remained remote, like those of the youthful guides roaming the outer halls.

Didn’t realize security would be so tight down here.

She pouted sympathetically. Some radicals planted a bomb in the main computer a few years ago. And there were some thefts. The cheerleader grin popped back into place. It’s slightly inconvenient, even for us. But I’m sure you feel, as we do, that the foundation’s work is worth the extra effort. Right? she chirped encouragingly.

Orient didn’t fully agree, but he nodded.

If I’m too late …

No sweat. Mr. Donovan’s running behind, as usual. He’ll be ready for you in a few minutes.

There is one problem. They took my equipment at the gate. Two suitcases.

Sorry, doctor. Haven’t arrived yet. Want me to check? Without waiting for his answer, she picked up the phone. I can assure you there’s very little risk of your equipment getting lost. Mr. Donovan hires every single staff member personally, from the computer geniuses to the scrub ladies, Judy confided enthusiastically as she dialed. Our boss is very generous with salary and benefits, but he demands outstanding efficiency. And believe me, he gets it.… Hello, main; Bruce in?

She covered the mouthpiece and winked. Bruce honchos the security team. He’ll be right on top of things. She took her hand away. That you, Bruce? Have you cowboys checked out two suitcases delivered by a Dr. Owen Orient and routed for Mr. Dee’s office? You have? Great. Thanks, hound-dog man.

She flashed Orient another cheerleader grin. See? Your bags are on the shuttle. They should be rolling in any second. How about some coffee while you’re waiting?

Not right now, thanks. Maybe after the shuttle pulls in.

She shrugged and returned to her work, while Orient retreated to the comfort of an oversized chair near the door. He tried to relax, but despite Judy’s glowing reference, doubts peppered his confidence like carnival baseballs toppling a pyramid of bottles.

The sensitive equipment could easily be damaged by some careless bump, or the tapes destroyed by X-ray devices. At best, the suitcases had been misrouted through the vast maze of passageways that connected the underground complex of the RUD Foundation.

He hoped it was that simple. He really wouldn’t feel disappointed with Mr. Reynolds U. Donovan if he recovered his equipment intact.

The portable unit and two reels of tape represented half his worldly assets. The other half was safely tucked away in his hotel room. Two more reels of videotape.

The footage had a total running time of three hours and had taken almost ten years, and all of his income, to assemble. He berated himself for failing to make extra prints, then remembered the reason for the neglect.

Duplicating costs were just too heavy for his frail financial condition. Money, in fact, was the sole reason he’d let Ted Bork arrange this meeting with the director of the RUD Foundation. Normally he avoided any sort of corporate funding, but the opportunity had presented itself at a particularly crucial time. And quite naturally.

When Ted had called after two decades of silence, Orient was moved by both obligation and curiosity to invite him to dinner. Almost twenty-one years had passed since they’d shared a freshman room at Stanford.

He’d been only fifteen then—a gangling, introverted, insecure science prodigy entering an advanced program. Whereas Ted Bork was an advanced program all his own—class president, an A student, star athlete, confident, modest, handsome; in short, an ideal specimen of American youth.

Orient could still clearly see the quick stroke of dismay that had numbed Ted’s smile when they were introduced. He’d been braced for the reaction but completely surprised when Ted, instead of trying to rid himself of such an obvious burden, became Orient’s unofficial big brother.

For weeks Ted coached him in the social graces and manly arts. There were intense all-night bull sessions, long afternoons of touch football, poker games, weekend beer blasts, and a few memorable blind dates.

Because of the unique circumstances of his childhood, however, Orient was wary. Bitter experience had taught him to wait patiently for the real machinery behind the friendly smiles. It usually proved to be simple greed fueled by contempt and driven by fear.

But again Ted surprised him.

It was nothing more complicated than the challenge that inspired the campaign of good fellowship. Basically Ted was a perfectionist, dedicated to a single ideal—himself. He dutifully acquired one new skill per month, and kept progress charts on all his activities, including current romantic interests. He got up at six-thirty every morning, ran a mile to the gym, worked out for an hour, and ran back. He’d be sweating when he returned, and thirsty.

But he never drank his morning orange juice until after he’d showered and dressed.

Eventually Orient realized that he was just part of the program, like the push-ups and piano lessons. By helping his adolescent roommate adjust, Ted was able to toughen another facet of his character. Something like running ten miles a day, carrying a backpack filled with sand.

Secretly, however, Orient was pleased by the attention and was careful to learn slowly, knowing that as soon as Ted felt the course was finished, he’d turn to another exercise.

His friend put in the outstanding effort, and at semester’s end, when Ted moved into new quarters, Orient was more grateful for what he’d learned than stung by the fact that he hadn’t been invited along.

There was one area where Orient functioned superbly, however, and after his second year he was accepted by a Swiss medical school. By the time Ted gave his graduation speech, Orient was ready to begin residency in a private hospital. At twenty he was still socially awkward but already a skilled physician.

It was at that time that Orient sensed a formless yearning deep inside his being. After completing his residency, he took up the complexities of psychiatry.

It was an interesting period, but limited. What had once been exploration became repetition, and the yearning took root and spread until every movement rustled with its presence.

He decided to return home, and took a low-status position in a New York emergency ward. But after two bloody years in the pits trying to salvage bodies torn and smashed by the insanities of civilization, he was close to a breakdown.

A chance incident checked his emotional slide.

A girl he was dating introduced him to Yoga. At first an amusing diversion, it became a commitment. After a few months he decided to take a pilgrimage to India and Tibet.

Since that time he’d been fortunate enough to find a real purpose for his existence, but at some cost. He’d been unaware of its extent until the night Ted came to visit.

The first reaction was identical to the dismay that had marred Ted’s yearbook grin when he first met his freshman roommate. This time it was more expertly masked; the downward twitch at the corner of his mouth was quickly swallowed by an exuberant whoop of greeting. Only someone who knew Ted well would have understood.

That evening two distinct impressions cut into Orient’s memory. Although he was not yet forty, Ted’s face was much heavier, and very old. The deterioration showed itself as nothing more than an extra layer that softened his chin, and deep violet crescents under the puffy eyes; barely enough for Orient to measure the hard miles his friend had traveled.

The other change was unmistakable, however. Always charismatic, Ted now radiated a kingly aura. More than the material wealth symbolized by his red Mercedes 450SL and gold Rolex, it illuminated his presence with an assurance of power that was immune to censure.

Over drinks and dinner he drew a quick graph of his climb. Director of three private institutes, he’d just been appointed federal liaison for the AMA. Later, between reminiscence and gossip, he’d doggedly pumped Orient for details of his own progress.

Conditioned by experience, and well prepared, Orient managed to evade every probe. Then an old weakness betrayed him.

During dinner he noticed Ted’s manner becoming overly sympathetic, as if reassuring a terminal patient that recovery was imminent.

In that moment Orient glimpsed what his life looked like to others.

To cut overhead expenses, he’d closed off most of the house, except for the studio, bedroom, and kitchen. The books, rare manuscripts, art objects, and furniture had been sold off to finance his research, leaving glaring gaps on the walls and empty shelves. The lab and film equipment were also long gone, abandoned in favor of a less costly videotape unit and some needed cash.

He could almost hear what his old pal was thinking under the polite noises. Poor Owen. Good head, but no real sand.

His evasions of Ted’s questions merely reinforced the picture of eccentric failure. Estate squandered, no established practice, vague talk of special research, no family, no wife, no resources. At best, a competent lab man. At worst?…

The answer lashed across Orient’s emotions, crumbling every discipline he’d mastered.

A coward.

Stung by pride, he disregarded a primary rule and mentioned his assistance in a highly publicized cure involving the daughter of a White House executive. To worsen matters, the infantile impulse unleashed by Ted’s solemn astonishment caused another lapse in judgment.

Orient screened a short documentary explaining the technique employed in the cure—a combination of Yoga, hypnosis, and acupuncture that stimulated self-healing and regeneration of nerve tissue.

Unsatisfied by Ted’s modest admiration, he rolled another tape intended for private reference only. One illustrating the basic technique of telepathic communication.

After that, it was no contest.

He resisted, of course, but like some favorite uncle coaxing nephew to recite, Ted overcame every objection with patience, logic, and the unspoken promise of acceptance.

That was the button, Orient admitted regretfully. An adolescent need for approval. Push it, and it shattered eleven years of mental and spiritual training.

Someone pushed, and now he was sitting in an underground cubicle fretting like a kid waiting for the principal, while a conveyer dispatched his lost homework to the furnace room.

Normally, Reynolds Ulysses Donovan avoided projects of a speculative nature. A multimillionaire who shunned publicity, he had created a foundation whose major purpose was pumping a complex of underground computers full of raw information. A storehouse of the world’s knowledge, coded and preserved for future generations.

It was a reasonable goal, and Ted had pulled more strings than a harpist to arrange the interview. His reluctance was probably nothing more than the envy of a poor relation toward his benefactor.

Mr. Donovan is ready to see you now.

Orient moved toward the inner door, then stopped.

Something wrong, doctor?

He nodded. Your express shuttle. My equipment’s not here yet.

It’s already been set up in Mr. Donovan’s office, she informed him coolly. Everything’s been arranged. Please go inside.

Uncertain he’d understood correctly, Orient opened the door. His confusion escalated when he saw Ted Bork seated at a long table with a group of men.

As he entered, Ted jumped up from his chair and came toward him, beaming proudly. In the time it took him to cross the floor, Orient managed to grasp what was happening.

A billowy calm smothered his confusion as he took in the electronic world map blinking across the wall, the zebra-padded bar, the miniature glass eyes of at least two surveillance cameras, the bank of telephones edging the massive conference table, and the anticipation narrowing the faces of the men seated there.

Good news, Ted was saying. Come meet RD. Christ, he’s really impressed.

Orient let himself be led to the head of the table. Reynolds U. Donovan was bald, with a full moon face and cruel, country-shrewd eyes. He remained seated when they shook hands, but Orient noted the small, soft fingers and tiny feet barely touching the floor.

Welcome to the world’s deepest think tank, doc, Donovan rumbled cordially, voice unusually resonant for a short man.

It’s very nice—

Donovan wasn’t listening.

Don’t mind telling you right off that all of us in here got pretty excited about these films ol’ Ted showed us. Let me introduce our committee. Gentleman at my left is Chip Albright, from the science office over there in Washington. Fella ’cross from him is Lew Strand, our bank man. Big guy is Ben Altman, our house counsel. You probably seen him in all the papers. And you know ol’ Ted, of course.

Orient smiled and nodded to each man in turn. Albright and Strand smiled back. Altman didn’t.

Orient took a seat next to Ted and waited, like the others, for Donovan to fill his pipe. He remained calm, every instinct poised. He knew that all the decisions had been made. The only question left to be clarified was how far he could be trusted.

Well, Owen, Ted spoke up expansively, the boys saw the films, and everyone, especially RD, agrees that your work has enormous potential.

Donovan looked up. Mighty impressive stuff, doc. Didn’t know you were on the Mulnew case. He paused to tamp some tobacco. ’Course, all I know is what I see on TV, but they tell me you can make anything happen on a hunk of film.

Orient shrugged. That’s perfectly true.

Well, the truth is, doc, I’m as tough to please as a Texan in Tulsa. And what I’d like, if it’s possible I mean, is to see a live demonstration. Ol’ Ted said you have something you do from time to time. Psycho-kinetics, he called it.

Quite right, Orient said evenly. We also call it PK, to keep it simple. Does anyone have a small object in his pocket he’d like to donate?

Donovan struck a match and threw the pack on the table. How’s this?

Orient’s concentration had been completely focused since the moment he entered the room, so it required little more than a shift of attention to prepare himself. He carefully extended the orbit of his awareness until he sensed the gravitational field emitted by the book of matches. He’d performed the experiment many times before, so he was quick to recognize the weak tug of potential energy, despite the alien vibrations crackling through his consciousness.

Without hesitation he allowed his brain cycles to fluctuate until they pulsed at the same rate as the energy emitted by the paper matches.

When both cycles were moving at the same speed, he applied leverage with his will.

The book of paper matches moved across the table as if drawn by a string, coming to rest directly in front of Donovan.

Well, RD, can our man deliver? Ted asked triumphantly.

Donovan sucked at his pipe reflectively. First-rate work, doc. Just like the four films we saw here. Absolutely a whole new branch of science.

Four films?

The moment he asked the question, Orient felt the tension swirl around the room like electric snow.

"Well, this is how it was. We saw the first two films, and they were fine. The cures you worked out were truly brilliant. But the truth is, we’re not exactly in the market for cures right now. Anyway, ol’ Ted said you probably forgot the telepathic stuff, so we had a couple of our staff boys go up to your hotel to get ’em. Hope you don’t mind us invading your privacy. I mean, you did just plain forget that stuff anyhow, right?" Donovan’s expression was wooden, but his eyes were like pale-blue nails.

Not really.

Fully aware that every word was being carefully weighed, Orient enjoyed seeing a twitch of apprehension deflate Ted’s grin. I wasn’t certain the RUD Foundation would be interested in a project that’s not accredited, so I decided to show only the most practical application of the technique. Just to make sure you didn’t think I was some sort of crank.

Donovan chuckled softly. Crank? Far from it, doc, he reassured. That telepathic technique of yours might be bigger than the space program, if properly developed.

Orient nodded enthusiastically. Glad you feel that way, Mr. Donovan. All it would need—

"All it needs is the right kind of money. We understand fully. If you understand that we’re not interested in the medical applications right now. But, son, if you can teach certain people to send and receive images mentally, you can write your own financial ticket. We’ll also make sure you get full recognition. Maybe arrange a Nobel or somethin’ for you and ol’ Ted."

Ted sat back in his chair and took a cigar from his pocket.

Orient made himself smile. Sounds very encouraging.

More than just encouragement, doc. Ben Altman here will send you a foundation contract this week. The dollar amounts will be blank. You fill them in.

That’s certainly good news. I’d like to thank—

Donovan waved the pipe at him. Don’t mention it. Been a real pleasure, helping out. Sometime soon we’ll have to get together for a personal visit.

Ted quickly jumped from his chair, leaving his cigar unlit on the table. Thanks for everything, RD. We truly appreciate it.

Donovan nodded. You keep in touch, son. Glad to see the AMA has some forward thinkers. Take good care of our genius, hear?

Orient moved to the end of the table and started packing his equipment, while Ted shook hands all around. To his relief, the portable unit and four tapes were intact.

Don’t have to bother with that, doc. We’ll have it sent, Donovan called out, genial tone edged with impatience.

Orient was prepared for the polite offer.

No trouble, he said casually, continuing to pack up the equipment. These are the only masters. And since you enjoyed them so much—he smiled and looked around the table—I thought I’d make copies for everyone here.

As expected, the gesture caught Donovan in a diplomatic bind. He hesitated, frowned, then jabbed the air with his pipe. Well, all right, then. Help him out there, Ted boy. We got a heap of business on the table, can’t hold much longer.

Despite Ted’s special pass, they were searched twice before being allowed to ascend to the surface, and again at the main gate. It took an hour to reach the Maryland turnpike from the secluded grounds, and once on the highway, Orient settled down for the long trip back to New York. He waited with interest for the reviews, but some sixty miles passed before Ted broke the silence.

Let me tell you, Owen boy, that you sure did a hell of a job charming those committee boys. That last little extra you threw in, about making copies for everyone. Perfect PR. Make sure you follow through on that one. Ted glanced over at him. You’re not sore because I told them about the telepathy and the other tapes?

Orient smiled. Not even surprised. But why did you keep me outside so long?

Well, you know how it is. I thought I could sell the committee, then let you decide. Worked out okay.

Never told me about a committee, come to think about it.

Didn’t know myself until I got there. It was really a big break. They’re all top guys.

"Depends on your vantage point. Albright’s with the Pentagon, isn’t he? I remember something from the Times about an investigating committee he heads. Seems to be very big on committees, in any case. Always a bad sign."

"Come off it, Owen. Chip’s head of medical research for the Defense Department. And he’s the one who wants to make you rich."

Pardon. Forgot myself for a second.

Now, don’t worry about a thing, boy. Ted chuckled, imitating Donovan’s Texas drawl. Just set in the chair and let it rock.

Orient resisted a surge of rage. It was crucial that he bait Ted into disclosing as much of the truth as possible.

We need a few smart lawyers to help us set up a big new research center, Ted mused, palm slapping the grained-wood steering wheel in time to the stereo music. We can use your house for a while, until we find another location. Do you prefer another town-house in New York, or a place on the coast? Malibu, maybe, or Palm Springs.

I like the sunshine.

Great. Now, tell me, pal, how’s it feel to be on top after all that youthful soul-searching?

‘Almost doesn’t seem real.

Ted’s face puckered with glee, making his features seem almost boyish. A bulge of fat spilling over his silk collar completed the impression of a greedy child.

Don’t forget to make up a print of those tapes for me, he reminded. They’ll be great for the media boys.

Orient savored the moment. It was time to tell the greedy child he couldn’t have any candy, and seé if he screamed something interesting.

I’m not making a print for you, he said softly.

Ted’s glee was swallowed by a suspicious squint, and suddenly he was an adult again. The cynical, bitter old man Orient had seen that first night.

So you want to keep them for yourself, he muttered. You’re learning real quick. You really had me fooled with that idealistic bullshit.

Did I?

You know you did. He snorted angrily. All right, play it your way. But there are four other men on that committee. You must know that sooner or later I’ll cultivate one of them and get a copy of those tapes.

I’m not making copies for anyone.

Ted slowed down and pulled the car into the right lane, jaw working and streaks of perspiration darkening his shirt collar. What the hell are you saying? You must be overworked or something, Owen boy. You’re messing with a million-dollar deal here.

There isn’t going to be any deal.

Why in hell are you doing this?

Why did you break your word and tell them about the telepathic technique? Why did you break into my hotel room and take the tapes? he asked tonelessly. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to walk out and ask me for them?

"So that’s it. You’re angry and want to make me look bad. That’s why you went through that song and dance. And I thought you were being smart, for once in your life."

Perhaps I was. I’m not a complete fool, ol’ Ted. If I hadn’t pretended to accept the offer, I never would have left that bunker with my tapes. Or didn’t you know? Donovan and the boys just wanted to make sure I’d sell. If not, a couple of guards usher me outside. As it was, I had to step lively to keep Donovan from scooping up the tapes right then and there. Those top guys of yours could hold things up in court indefinitely, while they exploit the technique.

You must be crazy. Ted chuckled. Paranoid, I think you psychiatrists call it.

How long have you been working for the company, Ted?

It was a wild shot, but the jerk at the corner of Ted’s smiling mouth signaled that he’d connected.

Ted also sensed he’d given himself away. The chuckle trailed off to a weary sigh as he eased the Mercedes onto the highway’s shoulder and guided it to a stop.

He lit a cigarette and stared out at the stretch of white pebbles illuminated by the headbeams. When he turned to Orient, his face was void of expression, like a surgeon studying a section of flesh. I didn’t have your advantages, he said, voice flat. I worked my way up from my father’s bankrupt grocery store. The company gave me a scholarship to med school and set my father up in another business. He shook his head. Not even my wife knows. How did you find out?

Only way it makes sense, once you eliminate coincidence. It explains Chip Albright and the Pentagon, and how you made everything happen so easily. It might even explain why you decided to look up your old buddy after twenty years.

That brain of yours really puts in overtime, Ted admitted. Donovan got wind of your research and asked me to check it out. Indirectly, of course. Today’s the first time we’ve met.

Nice job.

He took a deep drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Don’t bother feeling righteous. Everybody works for the company. Even you, Owen. There’s no other choice.

Seems I’ve already made a few.

Ted’s smile was contemptuous. "If you don’t work for the company, you don’t work anywhere, boy. We have a file on you that would make a hell of a series in the Daily News. It’s damning stuff, Owen. We can pull your ticket to practice medicine for a long while. It’ll take lots of money and lawyers to get it back. You explained it all to me yourself."

Orient made an abrupt move, and Ted instinctively lifted his arms to protect his face.

Orient turned off the ignition and removed the key. No sweat, old pal, he said softly. Just want to unlock the trunk and get my gear. I’ll be out of your life in a second.

Not yet.

Ted’s arms parted. There were crimson patches above his white lips, and his neck was puffed with hate.

I’m not out of your life yet, old pal. As he spat the last word, he grabbed Orient’s wrist.

Jerking free with a quick twist, Orient opened the door and stepped out of the car. He kept glancing at the front seat as he lifted the suitcases from the trunk. When he saw Ted slide across the seat and step out, he sensed there was serious trouble coming. He was disappointed to see he was right.

Ted’s eyes were glassy-bright in the rushing glare of traffic, like those of a hungry cat, and the dull-gray barrel of an automatic protruded from his fist. I mean to have those tapes, he said, voice shaking slightly. Even if I have to terminate you, Owen.

Terminate? He shook his head sadly. You don’t even tell the truth when you kill.

Don’t make me do it, pal. Hand the stuff over.

You won’t shoot me here on a crowded highway.

I’d never be brought to trial.

Wrong again. I gave a great performance down there, remember? Donovan and the boys won’t buy it. They’ll all believe you killed me to get the tapes and the glory for yourself. You’ll go to prison while they exploit the tapes. And somehow, I can’t believe you’re that loyal to the company.

Ted’s answer was obscured by the growl of tires crushing pebbles and by a red flash of light.

Need some help here?

Orient turned and saw a state trooper approaching, white Stetson glowing pink in the rotating beam of his turnpike cruiser. Then he heard the clatter of Ted’s gun against the stones.

How about a lift? he called out.

The trooper