The Legacy; A Heritage of Hate

By J.f. Cantu

Skylar Malone (Johann Hiedler) has come a long way from his birthplace in Berlin and childhood in the hills of Argentina and Paraguay. Years have passed. A lifetime. As a Private Investigator who has lived with amnesia in America for the past ten years, and who is now in pursuit of a serial killer; he encounters dark flashes of his past. Flashes that stagger him with sobering recollections of his true identity.

Why scenes of a flaming swastika prey on his mind; why he is constantly besieged with reminders that he wears the mask of Hitler; he does not know. Attempting to dismiss these uncertain recollections, Malone soon finds himself espousing viewpoints and inclinations that once stirred the world to war.

While closing in on the killer who has been terrorizing California’s East Bay, Malone’s memory comes sweeping across his mind with the truth of who he is – Johann Hiedler, son of Adolph Hitler and Eva Braun. His life unravels before him when confronted by the grouping of the three most significant people in his life: Theresa Meister, Bishop Hudal, and Valeri Zhukov.

Theresa Meister, his true love, now a young woman, was the girl he met as a young man in Paraguay. Bishop Hudal, nephew of the Vatican’s Bishop Hudal who aided the escape of many Nazis via the Underground Railroad, is the man Hiedler recruited in Paraguay toward resurrecting his father’s quest. Valeri Zhukov, son the Russian General who commanded the assault on Hitler’s Berlin bunker, is now the prime target of the East Bay killer; the man Hiedler intends to personally eliminate in avenging his father’s death.

From the moment his memory returns; Malone, now Hiedler, focuses the entire thrust of his life on reawakening the National Socialist campaign with Theresa Meister by his side. That thrust leads to the portent of things to come, a resurgence of the Nazi Regime in modern America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Jan 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781621833512

J.f. Cantu

A resident of Stockton, CA, Jose Cantu is a retiree of the USPS, having held many positions across the country including Postmaster, and District Manager. Today he a member of the Heritage Writers Community of San Joaquin County; a member of the Board of Directors for the Tuleburg Press of Stockton, CA; and has written two novels while developing his craft, “The Deadeye Deuce;” “Full Circle;” and one book of poetry, “A Chorus of Christmas Carols.” He has also completed three poetry manuscripts, “Bitter Fields of Dust,” “A Soul of Old Mexico,” and “Upon This Rock.”His writing style may be described as a cross of Ray Bradbury, and his own personally developed distinctive expressions.He is an award winning poet who has appeared on television as part of a telecast for writers, and who also speaks at writing seminars and workshops. Jose has already read excerpts from “The Legacy” on local television and local writer events.Jose holds a Bachelor of Arts Degree from St. Mary’s University, a Master’s Degree in Management & Supervision Administration from Central Michigan University, a Master’s Degree in Public Administration and a Doctorate in that field from Nova University.

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Prologue

Some things are hidden to the mind of man forever; some are not intended for the feebleness of human flesh—the inexplicable mysteries of the universe, the fleeting glimpses of life and death, time and eternity, the carnality and spirit that oft run counter in the soul of man. These things are best left to the mind of Holy God. Yet, when such confront us, when such contemplations come upon us as tempests in aroused fury, we cower in fear. And the paralysis that ever attends such unholy fear is noted in the defiling of our souls with the profane stench of sin’s corrupting residue.

Such fell to me when I was given the firsthand account of what may be best described as the tale of man beyond redemption.

The account herein disclosed is the narrative as told to me by Skylar Donavon Malone. It is the tale of two men: who they were and how they came to be. It began when the world in which Malone was to live—the world as he would henceforth view it—was shockingly made manifest. His testimony included the account of a horrific affair that concretized who he was and what his role would henceforth be in his reality to follow.

In anguish I thus now convey this report, and do so in both fear and trembling.

Tolerance is the last virtue of a dying society

~ Aristotle ~

Phase I

In Search of Truth

Chapter One

Jake, the manager, was mulatto: half-baked and half who-knows-what. Pedro, the head cook, was still dripping with evidence of his having waded across the Rio Grande. And Salvatore, the owner, was as Italian as garlic bread at a Mafia meeting in upstate New York. Still, with its suffocating stench of burnt tobacco and stained and mildewed carpets beaten down by the tramp of many feet, the place may just as well have been a million miles from the cloudy skies of West Berlin. Because it was hosted by waitresses dressed in Bavarian attire, however, it reserved the right to display magnificent paintings of the Rhine and be proudly called the Rhineland Inn.

Valeri Zhukov, an out-of-town customer, sat in a corner booth across from his friend, Skylar Donovan Malone. Zhukov eyed the Bavarian décor and the club-sponsor trophies that lined the entry corridor while grimacing with the scowl of a man driven by his own season in hell.

This place would be better called the Grease Bowl. I can’t see why they don’t just change the name. Or how about the Dirty Spoon? As for me, I’d just as soon go for the Leftover Buffet. Now that would be far more appropriate. But not the Rhineland Inn. What’s wrong with these people today? And what the hell does California have to do with the Rhineland anyway?

Zhukov’s head, sporting a crop of well-groomed dark hair, sat atop a thick, athletic neck that merged into full, rounded shoulders. His huge muscular arms and hands all but engulfed the booth where they were sitting. The coffee cup looked incongruously tiny in his massive quivering hand, as though he were accustomed to either holding large glasses of vodka or nothing at all.

Skylar Malone’s face, on the other hand, veiled the fiber of the man behind the facade. His was a narrow, triangular face that culminated in a strong chin and jaw line. His eyes, sometimes blue and sometimes hazel, were placed perfectly equidistant from the top of his nose and lay protected from the intruding gaze of man by the thick brows that hung downward. His was a face only Hitler and his own mother could admire.

Malone was now some thirty three years of age, slightly over six feet tall and somewhat on the ordinary side of handsome, though not in the usual sense. He had an unblemished complexion that tended to display his moods for the entire world to see through the lines that often made their appearance known on his expressions. And though on the homely side, he was blessed with that nameless magnetism that often attends those of striking good looks.

His charisma, however, was more a cerebral thing that couldn’t be simply flicked on and off as one would personal charm. But those who met him invariably reacted either with love or hate, acceptance or rejection. One way or another, his presence triggered a reaction.

The contour of his triangular face was further exaggerated by the downcast lines at the end of his mouth. The only attribute missing to make his resemblance with the face of infamy complete was a mustache hanging like a paintbrush from the end of his nose.

In the frenzied mid-morning atmosphere of the local restaurant, with the odor of hot breakfast sausage filtering from the kitchen into the dining area, Malone sat listening. Occasionally he nodded his head with detached agreement as Zhukov continued his criticism, like a man incensed with some personal difficulty far distant from the subject at hand.

Although Dublin boasted many other fine breakfast pit stops, the popular Rhineland Inn echoed the sounds associated with a lone coffee house at the core of the city’s life. The customary piercing breakfast shouts to the kitchen, the jingling of the cash register, the sound of clattering dishes by the dishwasher, and the buzz of waitresses filled the scene in welcoming the day’s yet uncertain destiny.

Zhukov, who had already declared claimed himself a smoker attempting to quit, frowned with displeasure as deep lines of disgust scarred their way across his brow. A group of teenagers in the far corner of the Inn made their presence known to any and all who cared or didn’t care to hear. They screamed and squealed like a group of piglets fighting for their fair share of husks in the mire, as though the loudest among them would prevail.

It’s a lousy sty, Zhukov noted, nodding his head in the direction of the teenagers with a glazed look of angst surely felt by a man on the rack. It looks like a sty. Stinks like a sty. Caters to a sty’s clientele. So I call it as I see it.

Come on, Val, you’re starting to sound like me. Besides, this place has the best sauerkraut in California. What’s eating you, anyway?

With a look of disgust, Zhukov nodded toward the rowdy kids.

Look, you know you can’t just kill those little maggots, Malone replied, at least, not in this country. It’s against the law. If the founding fathers had seen into the future, they would’ve made birth control legal long ago. He smiled begrudgingly. But it’s not like you to sound off like that just because of a group of noisy brats. So what gives?

Zhukov took a long, deep breath, exhaled slowly, and glanced once more toward the teens. Then he wiped his clammy hands with his paper napkin. Jenna Louise Asher, he replied. Nervously, he again uttered the name in a low, grumbling voice while looking away from Malone, as though reluctantly sharing some dark and burdensome secret.

What? Jenna Louise what? Malone could hardly hear himself above the din.

Jenna Louise Asher, Zhukov repeated in a low, muffled voice. His eyes darted about, as if he were intentionally attempting to avoid direct eye contact with Malone.

You serious?

Yes!

Puzzled, Malone asked, Who’s Jenna Louise Asher?

Zhukov’s dark red, short-sleeved rayon shirt stuck to him like a bad memory on a guilty conscience. It was soaked with dark spots of perspiration around the armpits and on the center of his chest. I—I don’t know, he answered. I don’t know. His trembling hands reached for his shirt pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and patted the pack as though to ensure its continued safety upon its return to his pocket. He then ran the unlit smoke under his nose, sniffing it slowly before setting it down on the clean ashtray before him. I don’t know. He exhaled the words grudgingly, as though carving them out from between his teeth. That’s why I wanted to see you. A newspaper clipping was mailed to my house in Missouri. It’s the third article I’ve received.

Zhukov’s face grew ashen; his voice quivered. Each one had to do with some gruesome murder here in the Bay Area. I threw the first two articles away, thinking they were just some horrible pranks. The first had to do with the monstrous killing of a teenage Vietnamese girl, Cong Dung Ly. The second made me sick. It dealt with the dismemberment of an illegal alien from Mexico, Lupe Velez, who reportedly was forty years old. Now this. I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do.

He picked up the unlit cigarette and flipped it in his fingers. Then to top it off, news of those grisly events were carried on television, radio, and every newspaper in the country. I couldn’t get away from the constant reminders of those brutal killings. They made nationwide news with their terrible details. They’d follow me on the car radio, on television, and my daily routine. I couldn’t dare tell anyone I’d received envelopes stuffed with the news articles on these murders. I wondered if some crazed killer was watching me at the same time I was watching TV.

His hands trembling, Zhukov reached into the briefcase at his feet and pulled out a soiled, wrinkled ten-by-twelve envelope. He handed it to Malone. Malone slid his coffee cup to the side with the back of his hand, pulled a piece of newsprint out of the envelope, and began to read.

Some Evidence Found in Killing of Local Proprietor

Pleasant Hill—Pleasant Hill Police continued to search for clues Friday in the slaying of a local woman who was shot twice while making a night deposit at the Community Bank on Lakeside Drive.

Among the evidence they are examining are three gun casings found at the scene, believed to be from a .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol. Jenna Louise Asher, 58, was shot in the right arm and abdomen by an unknown assailant who fled on foot Friday night, said Pleasant Hill Police Chief Richard Subia.

Asher, sole owner and manager of the Dew Drop Inn Saloon, a local oasis for Diablo Valley College students, had walked approximately one hundred feet down a darkened alley from the bar to the bank, where she deposited her daily receipts. Witnesses told police they saw Asher struggle with her assailant, who fired shots during the altercation. The assailant didn’t get the deposit bag, which contained approximately $1000, because Asher managed to put it into the bank slot before she fell. Her purse was found at her side.

The killer is described as a female in her mid-twenties, five feet four inches tall, and weighing between 120–150 pounds.

Subia said officers were continuing to canvass the neighborhood around the area in an attempt to locate possible witnesses. Police are also examining physical evidence, including gun casings found at the scene, and a brown leather jacket found in a dumpster behind a nearby store.

"The facts are very sketchy at best, Subia said. This is a different case. It’s really tragic that we have only a meager set of circumstances to deal with."

Subia, who was at the scene of the crime, said that officers had to use flashlights to assist the paramedics while they worked with Asher. The victim died at 1:58 a.m. Saturday during surgery at St. Joseph’s Hospital. The unmarried proprietor, who had no surviving relatives, lived in Walnut Creek, was a native of Independence, Missouri, and had owned the Dew Drop Inn Saloon for the past thirteen years.

Malone set the news clippings down, took a slow, deliberate breath, and with a baffled look on his face, tentatively exhaled his words. Was Asher a friend of yours?

No way! Zhukov snapped. Come on, Sky. I never even heard the name before. Look, I didn’t know the lady. Never did, and sure as hell don’t want to start now. I’ve never even heard the name Jenna Louise Asher. Never have. Zhukov’s hands trembled as he reached for his cup of coffee, lifted it to his lips, and took a sip. His face twisted into a grimace when he realized it was cold, and he abruptly set the cup down. I live in St. Louis. What the hell do I know about anyone in Walnut Creek, California?

Well, somebody thinks you do. Have you gone to the police with this thing?

No way, replied Zhukov. No way! He slapped the counter with his palm. You think I want to get mixed up with a thing like that? Hell, man, I’m doing the best I can just to get by. I can’t afford to get jammed up in some hellish California murder case. I took two weeks off just so I could come down here to get your help. You’re the only private eye I know, and the only one I can trust to protect my interests. I know we’re friends—I’ve known you since the pro-am eight years ago—but I’ll pay whatever your going rate is. I just need your help. So what do you say? Willing to help me out?

Malone reached for his own cold cup of coffee and carefully measured his thoughts before attempting to express them. You want my professional help? Why me?

Why not? You became a PI for a reason, and I need your help.

Hell, I don’t remember why. I think I was trying to help some poor sap find his true identity. I don’t know. What if I take on the job and you don’t like what I find? What if I find something you don’t want to know or hear? Something to make you wish you’d never come to me in the first place? What about that? Malone leaned into the edge of the table as he spoke.

Zhukov put his unlit smoke to his nose, sniffing at it again as if somehow that act itself would surface some solution to his dilemma. Then he set it down. Well, I do need help. I can’t go to the police. Don’t know anyone else in the Bay Area, and don’t have anyone I can ask for help. I’ve got nowhere else to go. What do you say? Got any ideas?

Malone picked up the wrinkled envelope from the counter and examined it as much as the immediacy of the matter would allow. The thing contained no return address. It bore an Oakland postmark and was mailed on the day after that noted on the newspaper clipping. He looked up from the envelope and asked, Do you know anyone in the Bay Area? Anyone at all?

Struggling to avoid Malone’s gaze of suspicion, Zhukov firmly replied, No, Sky. No one.

Are you sure? Think, man—think!

Zhukov’s hand went to his breast pocket for his pack of cigarettes. Noticing the one on the ashtray, he reached for it instead, seeming to struggle with the terrible craving to light up before dropping it again. He motioned to the waitress behind the counter. More coffee, please.

He grew uncomfortable with Malone’s unrelenting question that refused to be silenced. He seemed to be either searching for the right words with which to share some dark and sinister secret, or he was simply trying to screen some unpleasant incident from his past.

Delaying the inevitable response, he watched the trim and alluring waitress pour the fresh, steaming brew into their cups. She exuded a breathtaking grace in her features, while the flawlessness of her frame all but burst on the scene despite the modesty of her work attire. When she finished, he lifted his cup, breathed in the rising steam, and sipped the coffee.

All right, no more crap. Out with it, Malone insisted. This is Sky, remember? Your friend. Besides, you called me for help. There’s no way I can be of any help at all to you if you don’t fill me in. What’s this all about anyway? Come on—out with it.

All right, all right, Zhukov sighed in final resignation.

The waitress glanced at the unlit cigarette on the ashtray and set her coffee pot on the table with a smile. Trying to quit, are you? She rested her left hand on her hip and smoothed her hair with her right.

Zhukov nodded and smiled in return. Sheer agony, he said. Headaches just refuse to give up and die. Sometimes I wish I could.

I know the feeling. She picked up the pot of coffee from the table and gave him a teasing grin with her rich, round lips. But in this place, it’s a losing battle. Right, Sky? A glance from her piercing blue eyes seemed to speak to Malone’s unsuspecting heart as she walked slowly away.

Occupied with his predicament, Zhukov looked up from his cup to address Malone’s lingering question. Two years ago, during the North Cal Open, beach side, at the Shoreline Lodge in Alameda, I met this wonderful thing. Her name was Gretchen Reinarts Gembler. She was a teacher at a local school. Loved golf. She followed me in the Open one afternoon and met me after the round was over. The rest…well, we stayed in touch. I saw her several times, and I was serious enough to ask her to come with me to Missouri.

So what happened? Malone’s voice rose as his probing, pale blue eyes met Zhukov’s gaze with penetrating interest. While waiting for Zhukov’s answer, he glanced toward the tempting waitress to see her stroll across the room like a smoothly rolling wave over a placid moonlit lake. Malone watched her till she vanished into the milling crowd near the entrance. Then, giving no further thought to the tempting waitress, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. He knew Zhukov had something to add. Something uncomfortable. Malone’s heart quickened, eager to gather any bit of information that might provide insight into Zhukov’s difficulty.

Zhukov looked away, as though reluctant to answer any more nagging, intrusive questions, but he proceeded to respond in halting syllables. We… had a thing for a while. Zhukov appeared uncomfortable with the whole of this difficult matter, but slowly, methodically continued. Then she just said… just said… she had this commitment to her students—or some such. His voice trailed off and he stopped, reached for the napkin on the table, and wiped his brow before resuming.

I lost track of her when she started work on some advanced degree or another. I don’t know. But she’s the only person— besides you—that I’ve ever really known in the Bay Area. Other than that, I—I don’t know about… about any Jenna Louise Asher.

All right. Malone knew he wasn’t going to get much more out of Val today. Where are you staying?

I’m at the Holiday Inn down the street, but damn it, man, I sure need to know what this is all about.

Let me take care of that, but tell me more about Gretchen. Where did she live? What did she look like? How old would she be now? Anything at all you can tell me will help.

Zhukov sat up straighter, rubbed his hands together, and adjusted his shirt that was clinging with sweat on the center of his chest. He ran his hands through his damp black hair. As the unrelenting rumble of the unruly teenagers grew in intensity, Zhukov closed his eyes, attempting to shut out the pandemonium.

She was wonderful in all things important to me, he said. Her eyes were as warm and blue as California’s skies. I could talk with her about anything imaginable, and she would somehow find it of interest. She had this perfect smile.

The noise level of the busy restaurant seemed to intensify in harmony with Zhukov’s closed-eye account of this mysterious Gretchen Reinarts Gembler. Malone thus surrendered any further thought of gaining additional information of value for the moment.

She sounds great, he interrupted, and at least that gives me some idea. Let me see what I can dig up for you. I’ll be in touch. He reached for his coffee cup, felt the thing cool to the touch, and thought the better of it. He got up and made his way past the crowded tables.

Malone felt burdened with the bulk of the many unanswered questions, particularly the puzzling matter of why anyone would want to mail such newspaper clippings to his friend. Surely this dead letter killer wouldn’t be taking time to mail things like these, would he? he mused. Then he quickly corrected himself with the sudden recollection of the Zodiac killer of San Francisco. But why, and why now? Did the killer alert his victims with such mailings? And who would want to kill his friend anyway?

Puzzled by these wayward thoughts, he walked out to meet the street in search of truth.

Chapter Two

Malone’s hands held the steering wheel of his triple black 1960 T-Bird convertible so gently they seemed to glide around the shiny surface. The Bird was some fourteen years old now. Never ignoring her needs (for to him, the sweet Bird would always be a she), he touched the wheel as if caressing his favored lady.

He maneuvered the Bird in and out of traffic, allowing the other admiring road warriors to look, smile, and otherwise provide the occasional beep of their horns or give their thumbs-up to express admiration for the gleaming thing of beauty. Today, however, Malone didn’t respond to their signs of appreciation. He was deep in thought over the trouble that had overwhelmed his friend Valeri Zhukov.

Malone’s gaze was fixed like stone, intense, cold as the murky blue of his eyes when deep in the grip of some personal dread. He stroked the steering wheel while enduring the ever-combative traffic.

From early on, Malone had conscientiously sought to assimilate into Bay Area society but ultimately had declared utter defeat. He recalled one instance when he had been invited to speak at a local Rotary Club meeting. The club’s most prominent and influential member, a well-heeled snoot—the selfsame blueblood hired to develop the business park community near the Highway 580/680 interchange—refused to be accommodated in the same room as Skylar Donovan Malone. Unfortunately, the cold aloofness of so many Bay Area Californians, along with their hectic freeway traffic, had ultimately won the day. There was just no way to negotiate either the troublesome traffic or the relentlessly moneyed social ladder without getting chewed up, spit out, and cast aside by the haves who seemed to make their plundering advance by gorging on what little the have-nots had.

It was as though both California traffic and the social order more resembled a raging storm in Death Valley than a direction-oriented, objective-led migration on purpose-driven wheels.

But then, traffic wasn’t at the core of his present concern. He cracked open his window, allowing the freeway breeze to bring in the fresh-blown, eye-burning smog from the blasted East Bay traffic present at all hours of the day. Then, thinking better of it, he closed the window and chose to suffer with the air inside rather than to endure another moment with the dreaded smog enhanced by the valley’s unending traffic. The matter foremost on his mind was that of the troublesome envelope sent to Zhukov, and on his own sudden nagging link with this whole unseemly affair.

Then too, there was this Gretchen Reinarts Gembler.

Gretchen was a teacher at a local school. Hopefully she still lives in the area, he muttered to himself as he slowed his Bird, guiding her into a Quick Stop. The breeze stirred the debris on the blacktop and thrust it into a trio of young men leaning against the entry wall, leaning as though to convey the notion that their singular profession in life was watching the world roll right on by.

Man, Malone thought, wonder if that job’s got a good dental plan?

Cautiously he ducked under the car’s black canvas top as he exited his vehicle. Too many times he had read of some poor sap being accosted by a group exactly like these three idle misfits, and he simply didn’t feel like soiling his hands with a physical confrontation just now.

Pardon me, guys, he muttered as he negotiated his way past them to the store’s glass doors. The misfits mumbled something unintelligible in return, remaining unmoved and undeterred in their quest to watch the world drag along without either their participation or commitment.

Taped to one of the doors was a sign that read, ONLY TWO CUSTOMERS AT A TIME ALLOWED ENTRY. C’mon, man, he thought, does that mean I have to wait for someone to join me before I can enter? He gripped the metal bar, pushed the door open, and walked inside.

Overhead mirrors strategically placed throughout the store provided the employee behind the counter with a clear view of all aisles and corners. Malone paused to survey the area. His eyes darted about, searching for a pay phone, a commodity rapidly vanishing given the crime of theft invading society like a virus on a muggy afternoon. At last, his eyes came to rest on a wall phone at the rear of the store.

He picked up the tri-valley phone directory and searched for Gretchen Reinarts Gembler without success. There was no listing for any such female in the book. Malone looked up from the directory as the three characters attempted to enter the establishment.

No! No! Only two you can come in now at one time, the cashier shouted in his broken English. One must have wait on outside. He reached under his counter, pulled out a sawed-off maple baseball bat, and waved it menacingly toward them. No! One must have go out now. Only two you can come in at same time. Can you no read sign?

He slapped the bat into the open palm of his left hand while he watched the boys exit the store. They shouted obscenities at the man, adding some offensive thing or another about his ethnicity.

Malone took advantage of the minor disruption to make his exit, smiling at their impudence. Returning to his car, he recalled that Zhukov said he had met Gretchen some two years earlier.

That must be the reason she isn’t listed in the current directory. She moved, for God’s sake, Malone muttered. She moved.

A trip to the local San Ramon Post Office proved helpful. The place, managed by a postmaster who resembled the fabled Uncle Remus (without the pleasantness of Remus’ whistling good cheer and infectious smile), proved to be most helpful. For a fee of a dollar, and after much tedious research by a postal employee, Gretchen Gembler’s new address was now securely in Skylar Malone’s grip.

Her address was 6937 Zenith Ridge Drive, Danville, California, not far from the growing population of San Ramon’s rolling, grass-covered hills.

As Malone exited the freeway on the first Danville off-ramp, a speeding car passed him on the right and cut him off while turning left on Diablo Road, leaving him in such sudden disruption at the wheel as that comparable to the alarming experience of a moderate earthquake. He slapped at his horn while concurrently slamming on his brakes to avoid hitting the other car. The driver, oblivious to the rights of other motorists, and in typical native fashion, flashed him the California bird and continued on his way.

Stupid Crazifornia driver, Malone shouted, flailing his hands toward the other motorist in defiant response. Asshole, he mumbled to himself. If he weren’t in his own car, he’d run over himself. Why the devil did I ever come to this lousy seismic fault land anyway?

Malone soon found himself in front of a garden-variety apartment complex. The place was as arresting as it was menacing. The entryway was half-hidden by a veritable forest of tall trees and overgrown with untended border hedges. The age-bleached and cracked asphalt, spotted here and there with clumps of dandelions and other weeds growing through the cracks, ran endlessly around the perimeter of the complex. Still, Malone was taken by the haunting sound of the wind as it worked its way through the towering trees overhead. As if captivated, he stood silent for the moment, dumbfounded by the imposing sight of the expansive brown rock and cedar siding facade of the Hillside Manor Apartments.

Have I been here before? he mused. I feel these trees within me. I know this place, these colors, this setting from somewhere. I know this godforsaken place, or one just like it.

He looked up to take in the mysterious rustle of the trees as a few droplets of moisture from the leaves fell to his face. The property, though teeming with nature’s green, felt lifeless, friendless, ominous, and somehow known to him. A mist of familiarity seemed to hang in the air.

After locating the apartment’s directory, and with attentive diligence, he again failed to find Gretchen’s address. The poorly cared-for corridor was draped with dust, cobwebs, and neglect. With its meager glow of enfeebled overhead lighting, the place proved to be yet another dead end. No Gembler anywhere in the directory.

His persistence sorely tried, he inquired at the apartment manager’s office. A pale, thin man, so drained of color as to cause Malone to wonder how he could possibly negotiate California’s mythical sunshine, was deeply engrossed in the book that sat on his lap. His bleary eyes all but blazed with yellow fire from the task of his twenty-four-hour on-site duty. He appeared to be peculiarly tall and slender, dressed in all-black attire.