Survivor of the Clan

By Jennifer Ott

A roar of motorcycles disturbs a peaceful congregation leaving church on an Easter Sunday outside Edinburgh Scotland. One of the motorcyclists assassinates geneticist Dr. Kyle Locke, while another abducts his daughter, Shelby Locke witnesses her entire life taken from her in one instant. When clues arise that lead to Odessa, Ukraine, it is Shelby who steps up the search to find her daughter and her husband’s killer.

Arriving in Odessa offers more questions than answers. Confronted with the suspects, Shelby must face her own past, as a child, and that of a mysterious woman whom she has recollections of a precarious time in the near past. In order to save herself and her daughter, she must find the courage and compassion to face issues that plague mankind and its future, only then can Shelby and Amelia be free.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Ott
• Release date: Mar 19, 2017

Jennifer Ott

After graduating college with a degree in fashion design and fine arts, I moved to New York City where I studied screen writing with the Gotham Writer's group and attended NYU part-time studying filmmaking and acting. Learning how to write screenplays taught me how to write tight storylines and acting helped master dialog. Living in New York City, inflicted with credit card debt, impassioned me to write my first non-fiction satire, Ooh Baby Compound Me which compares the credit card industry to fraternity hazing. Bad dating experiences inspired Wild Horses and eventually after much research - Love and Handicapping. My book, The Tourist reflects the dreamer's plight in an overly commercial and corporate world which many can relate. Saying Goodbye, What the World Doesn't Know, I can only say was channeled by from an unknown source. I became consumed by a real-life love story and felt compelled to write. The repressed eighth grade journalist arose and I dug deep into uncovering a hidden love story. The same force encouraged The Insurrectionist - a story so powerful and intense, it had to be told. After writing The Insurrection I needed something light and fun was desperately needed - One with the Wind. Throughout the years, I have learned stories are a dime a dozen, characters can blend into one and the same dialog can be repeated in many different ways, but the best writing comes from what we are most passionate. If the story compels the writer to near madness, it is a story that must be written.

Book preview

Chapter 1

On the pristine shore of Sunny Beach, Bulgaria, sunshine blanketed beach goers bathing on the coast of the Black Sea. The air permeated with the scents of body oils and perfumes. Children laughed, frolicking in the surf, and rock music played from radios. All blended quietly into their own private oasis, oblivious to what was happening on the blanket next to them.

A boy, wading in the water watched a wave appear. He closed his eyes, readying his body to take flight with the water. As he blindly glided along, he bumped into someone. He opened his mouth ready to condemn the other for swimming into his wave, but when he opened his eyes he saw a lifeless, bloated body.

Ma! He’s dead! He’s dead! the boy yelled leaping from the waves to the shore.

The once tranquil setting lost into the madness of the dead man, bobbing in the white foamy waves. The beach-goers stood watching as the body—bloated, blue, pocked-face—drifting toward the shore. Soon others gathered around, waiting until it drew closer, all afraid to touch the horrific sight.

While everyone stood paralyzed, entranced by the gruesome sight, a young man summoned his courage. He stepped carefully over each wave, rolling to shore, inspecting the body, anticipating it may come alive at any minute. As the body remained motionless, he reached forward, grabbing the robe that covered the man’s naked body, and pulling him onto the beach.

Before them they witnessed an unrecognizable naked man, dressed only in a silk robe covered in sand and seaweed. Sirens erupted over confused chatter. The beach-goers created a path for the emergency vehicles to arrive and attend to the deceased. Police covered the body to the happy music still playing from nearby radios. Once the body was removed and the police sped away, leaving the rest to wonder upon the fate of the man who washed ashore.

***

Inside a London crafts shop, intimate lighting poured over various doll parts—kits enclosed in plastic bags, arms and legs hung on rings, eyeless heads filled the shelf, muslin and stuffing crowded dusty shelves. The true art of doll making left only to those who held onto the sweetness, or darkness from their childhood. One such woman was Shelby Locke.

Since her earliest memories, dolls had always been her best friends when making friends was difficult. Although it wasn’t visible from her physical appearance, as she was an attractive women with soft, delicate features, and green eyes burning with natural wisdom, but inside she always felt separated and out-of-place. Her dolls became her clique of friends and her closest confidantes.

Strolling around the shop, she studied the blank heads. Which ones would provide promise? Which ones would become part of her Crystal Clan as she called them? Crystal was Shelby’s favorite word as to her it meant clear energy, and her dolls, her clan—her clear, energy clan.

Over the past ten years, her Crystal Clan doll brand rose steadily with customers around the world. Her costumers, like her dolls, became a part of her, and the soul she put into her creations. Today she browsed the London craft shop, during her monthly excursion from her home outside Edinburgh.

We have a new shipment of glass eyes. New green colors, a chirpy female voice said in a British accent.

Shelby strolled over to view a wall display of glass eyes, all staring back at her. She scanned over all the brown and blue eyes to a spectrum of green eyes. One particular color attracted her attention—chartreuse.

Strange color for eyes, the shopkeeper said. They remind me of a snake.

Shelby fingered the package thoughtfully, senses emerging from deep within, reawakening lost memories. Snakes are often misunderstood creatures, judged solely on their appearance.

If you say so, the shopper keeper replied. I do imagine you could create a mysterious looking doll with those eyes.

Mysterious indeed. Shelby retrieved a handful of other green eyes varying in colors between emerald, jade and hazel.

I must say you are the only doll maker I know with green eyes as her signature, the shopper keeper said.

Shelby pointed to her own green speckled eyes. My dolls are my kin. They are a part of me, a reflection of me. When you share eyes, you share a soul.

I guess there is truth to that. The shopkeeper glanced at Shelby’s full basket of supplies. Are you ready to check out?

I believe so. Shelby carried her purchase to the counter.

Flying back home today? the shopkeeper asked as she rang her purchase.

Train. People-watching gives me inspiration. She checked her watch. I find when people are traveling they show their true character—some relaxed and casual, others rash, rushed and anxious. You can learn a lot about people riding the train.

Well, good luck with the dolls…and the train, the shopkeeper said.

Shelby smiled pleasantly and headed out of the shop to the quiet London street. With the packages secured under her arm, and an overnight back slung over her shoulder, Shelby hurried her pace toward Kings Cross station. Making her way down the platform, she protected her packages to keep them from being crushed from passengers.

At the moment she wondered why she chose the train. She hated crowds, and although she loved to watch people, she’d rather be at a distance from them. Perhaps it was her secluded upbringing, which made her distant. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. In a state of surrender of the moment, her mind trailed deep within her imagination.

Striding quickly through the train station with her briefcase in her hand, she noticed destinations and times on departure and arrival signs. Men dressed in cheap tweed suits and brimmed hats, and women in modest knee length dresses passed. No one ever looked anyone in the eye. It was too dangerous to make contact. It was the men, however, seated on benches reading newspapers, which caused the most concern. In today’s world, no one was a friend and everyone was considered an enemy.

Clutching her briefcase, she hurried to her gate to escape the ever-present eyes, which fell upon all the citizens. She wasn’t sure why her suspicion. She was only traveling to the next town. Turning around, she spied a man watching her. She returned an uneasy smile and kept on walking.

Could they tell what she was thinking? Could they tell that she knew the secrets they tried to suppress? Could they detain someone based on their ideology? She wondered. Why were some in positions of power the only ones allowed to think and philosophize? These were indeed the types of thoughts that got people arrested.

She waded through the sea of passengers waiting to board the train. In the distance she saw the steam from the locomotive rise and faint sound of the horn. The crowd pressed tighter, with the nearing train.

The train’s horn blew. Passengers edged away from the platform, allowing the train to pull into the station. Shelby opened her eyes to a blur of faces passing by. She waited until most pushed themselves inside for a seat. When clear, she hoisted her package of doll parts and boarded the train.

***

A single egg cell floated in a petri dish. A gloved hand injected a syringe into the cell, retracting its nucleus, and leaving an empty egg. Moments later, the gloved hand injected a donor cell into the egg. A pin was inserted to provoke a slight vibrational pulse. The cell divided. Life began.

Rolling back from the microscope, Dr. Kyle Locke, a handsome, blond-haired scientist removed his wire-framed glasses from his high cheekbones. He typed a few notes, and tapped a few keys on a monitor, where flashing lights in a rhythmic sequence lit up the board. He watched momentarily to make sure it all met with his satisfaction.

Dr. Locke, you’re wanted in room six for surrogating, a nurse said.

I’ll be right there, he said.

After making sure his work was all in order, he rose from his seat, and strode down a fluorescent lit maze of hallways, which opened to a large sterilized room of grey walls and floor. Centered in the middle was their patient, an Ankole Longhorn cow, resting on its side. The nurse properly handed Dr. Locke the large syringe. Carefully, he inserted into the cow’s vagina.

Upon removing it, he patted the cow on the flank. There you go, Nessie. You’ll be up and roaming the pasture in a few hours. He handed the equipment back to the nurse and slapped off his latex gloves. Make sure she’s well hydrated and has food available when she wakes. We need to make sure both mama and baby are healthy.

***

Meanwhile, the train from London to Edinburgh chugged along and within an hour quaint English suburbs came into view with less hurried crowds. Shelby retrieved a drawing pad from her portfolio and sketched the faces of the waiting passengers. She mused at her schizophrenic-like layout. Faces drawn all over the page in various angles and sizes. This was humanity. It came at all angles and in all sizes. Some drawn faces were large with vibrant expressions, others dull and lifeless. This was her connection to a world from which she felt separated. Somehow and in some way, drawing brought the world closer and into her heart.

When the train reached the next town, a wave of people disembarked, making way for new passengers. An attractive man headed toward the empty seat beside Shelby, looked down and smiled, just as he was about to sit. Is this seat taken?

No, she replied, watching him take his seat, instantaneously her thoughts wondered.

He sat down beside her. From the corner of her eye, she saw him take off his brimmed hat and rest it on his lap. She felt his eyes peer down to the ring on her finger and her briefcase by her legs.

Business? he asked in a pleasant voice.

Interview, she replied, knowing his intention. He was a train traveler, seeking to find dissidents. His friendly demeanor was a dead giveaway.

Oh? he replied, expecting more of a response.

I have an opportunity to travel to Paris, she said, realizing openness to the man was a better tactic to prove she had nothing to hide.

Ooh la la, is that what they say? he asked with a chiseled grin.

I guess.

So you must be excited?

No. I will miss my husband terribly. I honestly can’t wait until I go and come home. She turned toward him and studied his attractive face, deep somber brown eyes, sculpted cheek bones and full lips. How about you? Do you ride this train often?

Why yes. Usually earlier in the morning. It’s filled with school children in their crisp white shirts and red neck ties. It’s inspiring to start one’s day surrounded by youth. He once again trained his gaze upon her. How about you? Do you have any children?

Not yet. Still enjoying being married, she said with a beaming smile.

So I guess Paris can’t tempt you? he asked.

Absolutely not, she replied.

He flapped his hat on his lap, and then waved it to his face, looking around at passengers in the rest of the cabin. Have a good day, madam.

He rose from his seat, yet his energy remained, continuing her feeling of oppression. It was an invisible force they kept over all the citizens at all times.

The man seated next to her felt Shelby’s cool stare. Is something the matter?

Shelby lifted her gazed, bringing herself back to the present and broke into an embarrassed smile. Sorry, daydreaming. It’s a bad habit.

Writer? he asked.

No. Doll maker.

He admired the myriad of sketched faces on her drawing pad. You’re quite an artist as well.

It helps contain the madness lurking within, she said with a laugh.

The man broke into a wide grin. Don’t we all need a little containing of our madness?

With that, Shelby relaxed in the man’s presence. Yes, there was madness all around, inside and outside. Some showed it; others hid it well. Relaxing back against her seat, she watched the English countryside roll past. Scotland, her home, was only a few hours away.

Chapter 2

Upon her return to Scotland, Shelby drove home from the train station, down a quaint winding road beyond the city limits of Edinburgh. When she pulled into her driveway, she saw her father’s Mercedes parked in her normal spot, which wasn’t unusual. Her father frequented her home often, many times uninvited.

Opening the door, her vivacious, red-headed six-year-old daughter, Amelia, greeted her. She set her packages aside on the floor and lowered to hug her daughter. How was your day, sweetheart?

Good. Pappy picked me up early from school today. He took me to his work for a little bit, showed me how some of the equipment worked and then we played outside with the butterflies in the garden, Amelia chirped.

That’s so fun of your pappy, Shelby said, muffling her scorn.

Making her way through the house, she spied her adoptive father on the phone in their dining room. Dr. Ian Morehead was one of United Kingdom’s most revered scientists. His influence spread through most of the Western world, although Shelby had very little knowledge of his brand of science.

Ian Morehead, sixties, blond-haired and distinguished beyond a fault, spoke little of his research, although he did maintain a distaste for all those minions, as he called them, who didn’t understand progress. According to her father, or at least as Shelby suspected, only he had the remedy to cure the ills of mankind, if only the rest of the world would listen.

Listen Don, Morehead said on the phone, I’m sorry for your loss, but I wouldn’t mention the cause of death. The Bulgarian police can investigate as they wish, however, the general public doesn’t need to know. It was an accident. He turned around, seeing Shelby behind him. He gestured to her with his finger to give him one more minute. Please give Delores my best and may your son rest in peace. He hung up the phone and approached Shelby with a hug and quick peck on the cheek. Travel to London, I suspect, was uneventful?

Depends on what you mean by uneventful. I nearly bought up the shop in London. I can’t wait to create more dolls, she said.

Lovely. He watched Amelia chase a butterfly in a garden of Scottish thistle through the French door window.

Outside, Amelia stopped running, closed her eyes and extended her hand. The butterfly landed on her finger. She opened her eyes, smiling at the gentle creature. Slowly, she bent her arm and guided the butterfly toward her face so she could get a better look. She blew a kiss and the butterfly flew away.

Amelia said you took her out of school early again, Shelby said, unloading a bag filled with toilet paper, which she placed in a cabinet already containing shelves of toilet paper.

Are you expecting the apocalypse? Morehead joked.

Dad, she said with a breathy sigh, just want to make sure we’re stocked.

Honey, Amelia will be in grad school by the time you run out. He turned away from the window toward Shelby. Anyway, she’s way beyond that petty children’s day care. She can learn more with me in one hour, than she can during a whole semester at that school. Not only is her IQ far beyond her fellow students, her emotional intelligence is off the chart. You can see it with her interaction with the butterfly. She has a special connection to all creatures.

She is one of a kind, Shelby said, admiring her daughter. She shifted her body toward Morehead with her arms folded tightly across her chest. But I don’t want my daughter home-schooled. I want her to learn social skills. I want her to have a normal childhood, regardless of her intellectual and emotional quotient. She is my daughter. I get to decide her schooling, not you.

A child as gifted as yours needs to be placed with those who can care and guide her talents. Morehead observed Amelia’s behavior, not like a grandfather, but as a scientist. There will come a time when the world will depend on her gifts. We need to make sure she is properly prepared. Besides, it didn’t seem to harm you any bit. You have a husband, a beautiful daughter and a successful artistry and business. Sometimes parents…families know what is better for children than administrators, and bureaucratic pencil-pushers.

Well don’t be surprised if you show up at school and they won’t let you take her. I am her mother. I can restrict you from access to the school, she said, hearing a crack in her voice.

He chuckled. You would do that to your own father, deny him the opportunity to spend time with his granddaughter?

There is plenty of time to spend with her when she is not in school. If you come near her school again, I swear dad, I will refuse you access.

Well, darling, that sounds like a threat, he replied with a hint of whimsy.

She sensed his power growing over hers, this power she spent her life trying to overcome, yet he had his ways…many ways. Over the years she had grown numb to her loss of power. She had rebelled against him so fiercely at times, the only option was to shrug and give up, but now it was her daughter for whom she must fight. She is my daughter. I gave birth to her. I have authority over her, as you attempt to have over me.

Morehead nodded and knew his visit was nearing an end. He stepped toward Shelby and gave her a kiss on the cheek. I must be leaving. I have to prepare for the upcoming symposium. Your husband will be a keynote speaker.

I know. He’s every excited, and I intend to be there to support him.

Good. Give my best to Kyle when he comes home. He collected his suede coat and slung it over his shoulder. Don’t forget the reception Friday evening. There will be some of the greatest minds in the world in attendance.

I’ll have Natalie polish my glass slippers and tiara, Shelby joked, trying to ease the tension.

And please make sure to show up with your sparkling wit. I’m sure Kyle’s associates will be most impressed.

Shelby watched her father stroll through her dining room and disappear down the hallway. Hearing the front door open and close, she shifted her attention to Amelia playing outside. Years of trying to conceive, the tears, the frustration, now before her was the fruition of her labor. Amelia was her greatest creation and she bought her the greatest joy.

***

It was the path he had walked for nearly five years, from his office on top of the dam to the dirt walkway along the Jukskei River, which led to the outskirts of Johannesburg. He adjusted his sunglasses below his hardhat and reached back to straighten his blond ponytail.

Hello Johann, greeted a woman dressed in a khaki blouse and pants, which were too tight for her round frame. Nice day today.

He tipped his hardhat and gave her a toothy smile. She couldn’t resist blushing. Good day, Glenda. Rain or shine, it’s always a nice today.

A strikingly handsome man with sculpted features, burning blue eyes and blond hair, Johann chose a quiet life away from the superficiality often associated with big city life. Environmentalist at heart, but engineer with a strong intellect, he was the perfect candidate to manage and moderate the water and irrigation system outside Johannesburg, South Africa.

Feeling Glenda’s gaze on his shoulder, he knelt down to the river running his fingers through the water. The sun’s light sparked every ripple and the light breeze sung a sweet song of the water nymphs, at least that’s what he wanted to believe since he was a child. He had almost forgotten about Glenda’s focused stare. He bought his attention back to his task-at-hand and removed test tubes from his khaki shirt breast pocket and dipped them in the water for samples.

We found traces of Escherichia coli in the water last week, Glenda said.

Just as he turned to her an explosion rumbled underground. Both looked upward toward the dam seeing a plume of smoke. Johann stepped back, taking hold of Glenda’s waist.

What’s going on? she asked in a fearful tone.

He knew what was coming at any minute, and there it was, the crack, breaking through the cement, which held the water. He didn’t say a thing, just when the flood came, he clung to Glenda, holding his head above the rapids, carrying them away. Both bobbed, gagging and choking on the water, until he reached out for a tree branch, pulling them both to safety. Soaked and shaken, they watched from the tree the once peaceful valley, now become a lake.

Who would blow up a dam? Glenda choked up at the question.

To those who saw the world through the society’s lens, it was a question many pondered, yet Johann knew there were those who do anything to shake up order. I don’t know, he responded.

***

Nighttime shaded the Locke home in a comforting darkness. Kyle always liked to keep the house dark at night with dim, amber lighting and a fire blazing in the hearth. As he read from a science journal, Amelia sat alongside him, reading her educational children’s book.

Here’s a novel idea, Shelby started, settling in a chair with a cup of Earl Grey tea. Why don’t you read to your daughter?

Kyle looked up and displayed his book, "Would you like me to read to her from Principles of Neurobiology?"

"How about Charlotte’s Web or Alice in Wonderland?"

Nonsensical fiction stories, he said with a laugh. It’s better she read from her own books.

It’s okay, mommy. I like my books, Amelia replied.

Shelby shrugged. Impossible to explain human bonding to an intellectual genetic scientist. Over the years she grew comfort in her disconnection. Life was easier at times with no emotional investment, no drama, and no pain. As for joy, she never felt it, so it was something she never realized she lacked.

On the television an austere, grey-haired gent presented headline news in a monotone voice. "A bomb destroyed a hydroelectric plant outside Johannesburg last night. Despite the destruction, no one was injured in the blast. As of yet, no one has claimed responsibility, but the few clues left at the scene baffled inspectors.

Shelby sipped her tea, hypnotized by the voice of the broadcaster on television. Her attention numbed and drifted from the news to her own story swirling in her mind.

His cheeks appeared as if filled with air, his nose was tiny and his brow was thick and burrowed. He reminded her of a mutant animal mated with several species at one time. Beads of sweat covered his forehead despite the cool air breezing through the window. He laced his chubby fingers together and looked at her through thick glasses, and then flipped through the pages in the file. I am concerned about your husband’s parent’s allegiances during the war.

She cracked a smile, musing over the man’s mutant appearance, and ironically easing any tension that may have existed. They died during the war, she responded. My husband was raised by the state since the age of six. He did well, went to university and now has a good job as an engineer.

Glancing up at her, he pressed his glasses to his face. Give me one word to describe your husband?

Dedicated, she said passionately. He’s a dedicated husband, dedicated employee and dedicated to the party.

The man removed his glasses. So tell me. Why did your family stop dancing?

The answer was simple. There was no more joy. All this hard work, who has the time, she replied giving him a smile.

A slight grin crossed his chubby face. We will take your application into consideration and notify your representative of our decision.

Thank you, she said, rising from her seat.

Leaving the office in haste, she headed down the hallway. Just like her apartment, the walls were as thin as cardboard. Even within the state buildings, secrets were not to be kept. Everyone heard everyone’s business.

She stopped in the lavatory. After doing her business, she studied the ceiling and corners of the stall. Feeling sure there were no cameras, she wadded up extra toilet paper and shoved it in both sides of her bra. Sure it