Conspiracy, A Novel

By C.C. Fehrman

Conspiracy is a suspense novel. A seamless blend of fact and fiction with unexpected plot twists keeps readers on the edge of their seats. In the early 21st century controlled disintegration begins. Can you trust your government? Can you trust your food? Can you even trust your own DNA? One thing is certain - nothing s what it seems. Conspiracy is a very detailed and thoroughly researched work with most of it being factual with a creative twist. 554 pages.

"Riveting! A real page turner. Couldn't put the book down in anticipation of what happens next, and the author doesn't fail to deliver when you do get to that next page. Stunning! Terrifying and all too real!" - L. Shelley, NC

"Sensational! Scary and thought provoking. The author has done the homework and leaves the reader hovering between fact and fiction." K. Sutton, CO

"Terrifying! - especially because most of it is fact. I was totally engaged. Loved all the characters and cared for their fate." E. Speas, San Francisco, CA

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.C. Fehrman
• Release date: Sep 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9780984200153

C.C. Fehrman

C.C. Fehrman is the author of fiction and nonfiction works including Color:The Secret Influence now in its 4th edition (Prentice-Hall, Pearson Education, Cognella Academic Publishers; Postwar Interior Design 1945-1960 (Van Nostrand Reinhold); Interior Design Trendsetters 1945-1960; Only Angels Sighthound Training Manual; Real Food for Real Dogs; Friends and Other Fantasies; Conspiracy, and numerous magazine articles. Awards; Dog Writers of America; Living Now. For ten years she was a featured writer for The Antique Collector magazine (London). She obsessively loves to do research and her love of research is what led her to write the novel, Conspiracy, most of which is based on factual information with considerable leaps of imagination.

Book preview

Prologue

Lost Coast, California

The black helicopter trailed the desolate Lost Coast. Hanging from its underside, a black rectangular box dangled from a cable like a coffin waiting to be lowered into a grave.

This far up in Humboldt County, the rugged northern California coastline is virtually uninhabited. No other coastline in the continental United States goes so far without a deep water harbor. Rugged coastal mountains extend one hundred fifty miles in from the ocean, creating a barrier to the outside world. This isolated location had been carefully selected for the project.

Sometimes hikers ventured into this desolate place and there were a few hardy souls who called it home, but they had chosen it for its remoteness and they avoided contact with others. So far, there had been no problems from outsiders.

The pilot swept over the browned terrain. It looked like the pound cakes his aunt used to make, all dry, lumpy and irregular. A choppy surf swirled up against the craggy shoreline. He felt a torquing on the tow line. He knew the winds could be fierce in this area but the weather was clear – bright, beautiful and still. Below him he could see the surf battling its way up the rocky coast. He was worried. He should not be feeling this wrestling coming from below.

Could the thing be bouncing around?

It was supposed to have been sedated for the trip. Now it seemed to be waking ahead of schedule.

He checked his coordinates and headed inland toward the drop spot. He should be right over the facility, but he saw no buildings, only a sparse covering of scrub and a few trees. It looked primordial, the way the earth must have looked before humans began their building. He decided to circle and look more closely. He knew the facility had been camouflaged so it could not be seen from the air, but he had no idea they had done such a good job of hiding it.

They had picked a well concealed location far enough away from Vandenberg Air Force Base that not even their fly-overs should raise any suspicions. Vandenberg’s Western Range facility is a vast tracking, telemetry and command complex whose boundary begins along Vandenberg’s California coastline and extends westward across the Pacific Ocean. The electronic and optical tracking systems collect and process launch-related data for space lift operations. Vandenberg covers 98,500 acres in Central California but that still left a whole lot of open space for the project facility farther north, closer to the Oregon border.

The jerking on the tow line grew more intense.

How could such a small thing be so strong?

The box was jerking fiercely now.

The thing must be flinging itself around in there.

It made him very uneasy that the sedation had worn off so quickly. This trip should have been a piece of cake. Transport the box, set down just long enough to disengage the cargo, and take off again.

Damn the idiot who didn’t give it enough tranquilizer.

He had never seen the thing, but he had heard the men talking about it enough to know he would not want to be alone with one.

He felt something then, like a sudden drop in an elevator. His uneasiness grew. He needed to set this thing down now.

Where in hell is the lab? It should be right underneath me. Why can’t I see it?

He had been given strict instructions not to use radio or phone communication. This was to be a totally discreet mission. But he could not keep circling much longer with the amount of disruption coming from below.

He had to make a decision. He needed to confirm the coordinates but he knew that would result in a reprimand. He might even be fired. They had made such a big thing of keeping total silence.

He checked the fuel gauge. It was below the level where he could wait much longer. If he didn’t find the lab within the next few minutes he would not have enough fuel to make the return trip.

The box began wildly swinging from side to side, each time reaching a wider arc.

This is nuts! This can’t be happening.

The pilot made a rapid decision. He would not break radio silence and risk his job. He had just thought of a new option. He could jettison the cargo.

His hand hovered over the cargo release. He knew it was risky if the thing escaped, but he needed to keep his job. He could make up some story about the cable release just letting go. Without permitting himself to think about it any longer, he pushed the release. The black box became smaller as he watched it drop toward the ground. He said a silent prayer that the fall had killed the thing. Then he turned the helicopter and headed back down the coast.

Chapter One

It was one day before Mike Cross’s sixteenth birthday. He and his mother were living in London at the time. It was autumn and the crisp brown leaves crunched underfoot on his way home from school. Wood smoke from brick chimneys curled in bluish swirls against a grey sky and a sharp wind pinched at his cheeks. As he neared the rosy brick house he saw the lights on in their maisonette flat on the ground floor. He had a premonition that something was wrong. He felt a deathly stillness in spite of the bustling crowds of busy shoppers and the traffic moving along the high road. He was late. His mother had asked him to come straight home after school but he had disobeyed and stayed out late with some classmates, stopping for fish and chips, and not noticing how quickly the hours passed. It was nearing eight p.m. as he walked toward home.

The door to their flat was ajar. His mother never left the door open. She was fanatical about checking all the locks on the doors and windows and making sure things were secured. He edged the door back a little further and looked in alarm at the upturned furniture, the torn upholstery, the books and papers strewn all over the floor.

Mom? he called.

There was no answer.

He moved further into their ransacked home, dreading what he might find but forcing himself to go on. He found her in the kitchen lying on the floor in a puddle of blood, her dead eyes staring at the ceiling. Her throat had been slit open.

In the distance he could hear the police sirens growing closer.

It’s my fault. If I’d come straight home this wouldn’t have happened.

His mind was a torrent of emotions: shock, remorse, guilt, sadness, pain, but the strongest emotion at that moment was fear. Lately, his mother had begun to tell him things, to suggest that people may be watching them, trying to take something she had. She had not been specific but she had told him enough to make him suspicious. She had made him promise that if something happened to her he would immediately get away and keep on the move.

Don’t be fooled by the authorities. They are not your friends. Not even the police are your friends. You must run and you must keep running. That is your heritage. She had looked so sad when she said it that it made it hard for Mike to look at her.

The sirens drew closer as he remembered her words. He ran to the secret board in the floor and eased it up. The ransackers had missed it. He grabbed the box, stuck it into his backpack, grabbed a few clothes, and left by the back door just as the police were arriving in front.

He walked very quickly away from his home, from his mother, from his old life. He spent the cold night huddled in a clump of bushes on the school grounds because it was the only familiar place he could think of where he could hide for the night. He could not sleep, but stayed staring into the darkness until the first sun rays began lightening the sky. It’s almost dawn, he thought as he realized this was his sixteenth birthday. The first day of a new life lived completely alone. He must follow his mother’s wishes. He must keep running without knowing what he was running from. He remembered her lying on the kitchen floor. He knew that no matter how long he lived he would never forget her lifeless eyes.

Chapter Two

The old man shuffled toward the elevator, leaning heavily on his cane. The thick hallway carpet made it hard to walk. Its fibers caught in the crepe soles of his shoes and tugged at the cane’s rubber tip. But he persevered, head bent forward, able only to study the dirt-hiding pattern in the carpet. Marcus Church could no longer look people in the eye when he walked. His gaze greeted them at waist level and only with obvious difficulty could he shift his body to one side to allow him to view an approaching face. Age does that to people. Makes them all bent and twisted, Marcus thought.

Marcus felt the difficulty of being old. He felt it in his joints, in his muscles, in the way people treated him. Useless. Ineffective. A waste of time. He knew that’s what people thought of him.

He leaned heavily on the elevator call button, wondering how long it would take the elevator to reach his floor this time. It was a very large building complex housing hundreds of apartments, condos and town houses with the unlikely name of The Cottages. Perhaps the name was supposed to make people feel befriended within the anonymity of San Francisco’s large population, but Marcus Church craved the anonymity. He had lived there for four years, did not know any of his neighbors, and that was just the way he liked it. He did not need any prying eyes or pitying casseroles delivered to his door.

I can manage very well without anyone’s help. Always have. Always will.

There was an inherent pride in Marcus. He came from a time when people took responsibility for themselves. Not the whining welfare grabbers of today. We worked for a living. We took care of ourselves. We made it through the Depression. We made it through wars. We are survivors. No matter how twisted his body became, no matter how long it took him to shuffle through the large, impersonal lobby, or stop and rest for a moment beside one of the large potted pampas grass plants that flanked the entrance, Marcus Church was a survivor from a time of survivors and that knowledge gave him the strength to continue.

He hailed one of the cabs that were always available at the door. That was one of the things he liked about living at The Cottages, the great convenience, all amenities within walking distance. As he manipulated himself into the cab he noticed the young Asian man again. He always seemed to be there. Watching. Belt Buckle, Marcus had nicknamed him because he always wore a silver belt buckle inlaid with an elaborate mother of pearl pattern. With Marcus’s bent frame he could identify people a lot easier by their belt buckles than their faces these days. The young man lunged forward offering to help Marcus get into the cab, but Marcus irritably waved him away with his cane.

Land’s End, he commanded the cab driver.

Twenty minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of the memorial to the warship U.S.S. San Francisco housed at Land’s End. The twisted metal flag bridge now was a permanent fixture on the windswept bluffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Marcus Church liked going there from time to time. When he stood looking toward the water he could imagine himself back in the days of Guadalcanal, or when enemy Japanese bombers destroyed the fleet at Pearl Harbor. He could feel the danger, the fear. He could almost hear the Big Band sounds of the era, feel the heat and spray, and think of the long-dead lost lives.

This was his favorite time of day. Twilight. The time when all things began drifting into shadows and the world lost the certainty of sunlight. The thunder of surf on the jagged rocks below was a soft murmur as it drifted up to him. It was so soothing to lose himself in its steady rhythm. He often stayed for a long time just drifting in and out of thoughts with the ebb and flow of the tide.

The annoying sound of a Honda motor scooter interrupted his thoughts. He turned at the sound and saw the young Asian man parking his bike. He began walking toward Marcus.

Damn. What does he want? Marcus wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

The young Asian approached. Marcus turned away from him, looking out over the steep cliff at the choppy surf below. In this light he could see the rip tides forming twisted patterns in the water. Practically every year someone ignored the danger signs and drowned out there.

Hello, the Asian said. I’m Kama. We met before. Remember?

I’m not senile, Marcus barked. I remember you. What do you want?

I know you come out here sometimes.

And what does that have to do with you?

It’s dangerous.

And again I ask, what does that have to do with you?

I don’t want you to do it.

Do what? What is it you want young man? Marcus practically spat the words at him.

Kama, the Asian reminded. My name is Kama. Sometimes I know things about people. I can feel what they feel.

Marcus rolled his eyes. Is there some point to this?

I got the strong feeling you’re planning to kill yourself.

Marcus choked off the laugh swelling in his throat. Ridiculous! If that’s all you want then you can leave. It’s the farthest thing from my mind.

But I feel it. Strongly. Everything looks dangerous here, Kama said, feeling fearful in the waning light. The blackening branches of the twisted cypress trees looked ominous, barely discernible, like threatening claws reaching out toward him. The ocean was a waiting deathtrap below.

Then I’d suggest you get some psychiatric help, or do whatever it takes to calm your obviously overactive imagination.

Kama was becoming agitated. His voice raised in pitch as his agitation grew. I can’t. I can’t get it out of my mind. I’ve tried. You’re so alone. Inside. I know it.

Marcus was beginning to realize that Kama may be more than just a nuisance. His sarcastic suggestion that Kama get psychiatric help may have more significance that he had first realized.

Marcus softened. Look young...Kama...I’m grateful for your offer of help. But I really don’t need it. I am just fine. So please go on about your business and leave me to mine.

Kama looked confused. Marcus could just barely make out his expression in the fading light.

Please Mr. Church, please come away from this place, Kama begged. It’s not safe for you here.

Marcus ignored him and turned back to stare at the waves glittering, now in moonlight. He always felt a little sad as day turned into night, as if witnessing the death of the day. He drifted back to this thoughts. The U.S.S. San Francisco was 588 feet in length; 11,585 tons, carrying 1125 Marine and Navy personnel then. She had 17 battle citations and a Presidential Unit Citation. She had served her country well at the battle of Guadalcanal from November 12-13, 1942. One hundred and seven crew were killed. And now she’s just a flag bridge ripped apart by gaping holes that tourists come to see. Marcus had completely obliterated Kama from his consciousness until he felt Kama’s hands on him.

What are you doing? Marcus tried to turn around, but his twisted body found it very difficult. Still, he managed to push past Kama, descend the few steps leading away from the monument and move as quickly as he could toward open space. He traveled the path carefully. There were bits of twigs and cypress branches that littered the path along with discarded Coke cans and food wrappers from visitors. He always had to be careful navigating the obstacles in daylight. But now it was night. No street lamps here. Just the darkness. He was in the open now and took a moment’s breather against the huge, rusty chain-link that served as a barrier between visitors and the cliffs below.

Marcus assumed he would be able to hear Kama’s approaching footsteps if he followed. He was wrong. Suddenly and silently Kama had taken his arm in a fierce grip.

Get away from me, Marcus demanded.

But you don’t understand. I want to help you, Kama pleaded.

Marcus tried to twist his already twisted frame further to wrestle free of Kama’s grip, but the young man was very strong. Marcus was shocked as he felt himself lifting up into the air. It just couldn’t be. He pushed back, resisting Kama, trying to regain his balance, but the twist of his body threw him off balance. It all happened so fast. One minute he had been standing on the path. The next moment he was being gouged by cypress branches and butterfly bushes as he bounced and rolled down the steep cliff toward the deadly surf below.

Kama watched as the old man disappeared into the darkness.

Chapter Three

Monica Caldwell sat at her dreary desk in the dreary office waiting for a pile of work to find its way to her. Temps always got the crap jobs. Her mind wandered, thinking of the nomadic existence of her childhood. Always on the run. Missing school so often it was a miracle she had learned to read or add, but Monica was very smart. She found ways to compensate.

Monica had worked as a temp for more than four years. She liked it much better than a permanent job. She had the freedom to choose when and if she would work, and she could even choose the kind of work she did. With her varied experience, work was seldom boring and on days when it was, there was always the internet. Of course, she would rather have had a wealthy spouse with a short life span and be living in the Bahamas, but deep down Monica knew she would likely be supporting herself for the rest of her life.

She turned on the computer. It hummed to life. Where should I go today? Monica loved the internet. It was the key to the universe. All the knowledge that she had missed learning in school was available to her at the touch of a button. She had visited famous museums in Venice, Florence, Paris and London without ever leaving her desk. She had studied the wonders of quantum physics, the sometimes uncannily correct observations of astrologers and psychics, literature, history, and alternative medicine, but her favorite topic was secret societies. Conspiracies were fascinating mysteries that grew with the passage of time. And there were so many of them on the internet - UFOs, crop circles, the Kennedy assassination, aliens at Roswell, area 51, military secrecy, government cover-ups - an endless array of tidbits to choose from.

Extreme Hardcore Babes! They’re large and in charge! Lots of lard. These big mamas will smother you and eat you alive!

Monica was startled by the intrusive pop-up that appeared on the screen. She irritably deleted it and went back to reading through a list of possible secrets just waiting to be uncovered.

Hot college chicks! XXX Action! 120,000 hardcore pics!

Damn! Monica was getting really irritated now. She was so tired of having to deal with pornographic sites that intruded by popping up on her screen. It used to be just occasionally, but now it was becoming so intrusive that she felt it was a personal attack on her privacy. She was not a prude. What she objected to was having the stuff shoved in her face. She should have the right to choose it, not just have it appear on the screen. And this one was accompanied by particularly graphic photos. Not what I want to see first thing in the morning! Take that, asshole! She slammed her finger down on the delete button, imagining she was landing a punch in the face of the guy who had sent it. She tried to take her thoughts back to the web site she had chosen - The Nazi-UFO Connection.

Monica smiled. This ought to be good for a few laughs. She took a swallow of satisfying coffee. Then she set about reading her morning entertainment:

It all began with what was probably one of the most devastating immigrations to America. A German, whose surname is well known to most, arrived in America early in her history and gave rise to a family line that would later finance the Nazi revolution in Germany, even to the degree of merging their ownership of a major oil company with the Nazi owned and operated I. G. Farben chemical company, which provided Zyklon-B cyanide gas for the German death camps during World War II. Following the war, there is more than enough evidence to conclude that these American corporate fascists secreted literally thousands of hard-core Nazis into the USA, shuffling them into the various levels of the military-industrial-intelligence fraternity which the German family essentially owned and operated, while at the same time sponsoring U.S. presidents who would faithfully remove power from Congress via vetos, executive orders, the appointing rather than electing of executive branch personnel, and the creation of several secret agencies that operated under security classifications that even the most powerful Congressional overseers were forbidden from acquiring.

Monica chuckled to herself. Wow! What a bunch of whackos. Where do they come up with this stuff?

Her entertainment was cut short by a buzz of conversation indicating that the meeting had broken up as people began filing back to their desks. Monica’s supervisor, Loretta, appeared at her workstation with a stack of files.

Got a minute? she said.

Sure. Is that my daily torture? Monica joked pointing to the files.

Afraid so. Loretta returned her smile. And I’ve got some good news for you.

I could use some. What’s up?

Well, Sheila’s baby is going to need a lot more care than she realized so she won’t be coming back to work. We’re offering you this job permanently. I know we’ve talked about it a bit before. It has great benefits and perks as you know. We’re very happy with your work and I’m sure you’ll soon move up quickly in the company.

Monica sighed involuntarily. She had been half-dreading this moment. She really liked this job, the people were great and the perks, including a three-week paid vacation, were far better than most. But the idea of working permanently for anyone just did not fit into her scheme of things.

I really appreciate your confidence in me. But I’m going to have to say no thanks.

Loretta’s mouth fell open in surprise. Well, I wasn’t expecting that. She seemed annoyed, perhaps even a little hurt. Are you sure? Is there anything we can do to change your mind? Would you like some time to think about it?

Monica shook her head. No. I know it sounds nuts. I really like it here. You and the staff are just great. It’s just that I’m not a permanent worker type.

Loretta looked confused.

Monica, I know it’s none of my business, but I just don’t understand. I mean people are scrambling for jobs in this economy. Maybe I can get you a little more money. Would that make you reconsider?

It’s not the money. It’s not you, it’s me. What am I breaking up a relationship? That thought jolted Monica to the realization that that’s exactly what she was doing. This was more than a job. She had formed some friendly ties with Loretta. They often joked they were so alike they could be sisters. I know I might kick myself later. And I’m really going to miss working with you. But, hey, we can still be friends, right? We can still do our lunches, and shop together and stuff. God, it is just like breaking up.

Sure, Loretta lied, knowing it would never happen. Well, I’m still going to tell Human Resources you want a couple of days to think it over. Just in case you change your mind. She left the pile of files with Monica and turned to leave. Think about it, okay?

Monica nodded, knowing that her mind was already made up. Usually she was happy to leave an assignment, but leaving this one wasn’t going to be easy, letting her know she had stayed too long already. She did not want to form emotional ties. She did not want people to get too close, to begin asking questions, to know who the real Monica was. She did not want them learning her secrets.

Without allowing herself the luxury of considering the offer for one more second, she picked up the phone and called her temp agency, requesting another assignment immediately.

Bored again, Monica? the voice on the phone said. I was beginning to think you were about to give up the temp lifestyle and go permanent.

No. Time to try something new. Monica tried to keep her voice light.

Okay. Well I haven’t got much right now, but there is a personal assistant position open in Pacific Heights. The client is in a wheelchair and needs someone to take care of her personal business items. Write checks, keep the books balanced, do whatever errands she might need. I know it’s not your usual thing but....

Baby-sitting the disabled. Not exactly my thing at all, but it does keep bread on the table. Maybe it’s time I moved up to the tony part of town anyway.

Sounds perfect, Monica said swallowing hard.

She hung up the phone and began tackling the files Loretta had left. This is your last day. This is your last day. All day long Monica tried to ignore the feeling of sadness that would not leave her alone, but she shrugged it off. I’ll get over it. Change is good.

What Monica did not realize is that things were about to change in ways she could not even imagine.

Chapter Four

Whenever he felt like it, Mike Cross could turn on a charismatic presence as easily as switching on a light.. Mid-thirties, slim and fit with the lean, lithe body of a marathon runner, his keen blue eyes held people in the mesmerizing gaze of Australian Shepherd dogs who hypnotize sheep into doing their bidding with their strange blue eyes.

As he walked into Noir, the small, trendy restaurant/bar, he was aware of the eyes turning in his direction. He quickly scanned the patrons and noticed the small Asian man sitting alone at the bar nursing one of the trademark huge martinis. Noir was noted for martini glasses so large they could best be described as bowls on stems, and for its collection of black and white stills from film noir movies that covered the walls. Noir was also noted for its liberal atmosphere. Young gays and straights alike frequented it and it was often hard to tell one from the other. Most people didn’t bother to try. A piano softly played jazz and standard ballads. Piano bars had come full circle from being trendy to passé to trendy again. Noir was the kind of place where you expected to find a heavy veil of smoke and a sultry sequin-gowned singer draped across the piano. But, smoking was not allowed by law, and any sultry singer found draped across the piano may or may not have been female.

Mike went over to the bar and took a seat to the left of the Asian, leaving one seat vacant between them. Kama did not notice. He continued staring intently into the bottom of the martini glass. His head was splitting. It pounded and throbbed, the pain barely dulled by his second martini.

Excuse me, Mike said. Could you pass me that bowl of olives?

Noir was famous for its complimentary bowls of salty olives based on the premise that the more olives you ate, the thirstier you got, the more drinks you would order. It seemed to be working.

Kama remained motionless.

Mike touched him on the arm. He jumped as if he’d been shot and turned to look at Mike with a gasp.

Mike raised his hand as if to fend off a blow. Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just asking you to pass me the olives, he said motioning to the bowl.

Oh. Sorry, Kama said, sheepishly pushing the bowl toward Mike. I guess I was just daydreaming.

Not a problem. I’m Mike Cross. He offered a handshake a bit awkwardly to the side.

Kama brushed Mike’s fingers as if too weary to bother with completing the grasp. I’m Kama Takahashi. Pleased to meet you, he replied automatically. It was not the type of reaction Mike was used to. People tended to smile and gush over him when he was wearing his charismatic persona.

Kama isn’t a Japanese name is it? Mike asked.

No. It’s Sanskrit. It means ‘the golden one.’

That’s quite beautiful. It’s not common to run into someone with a Sanskrit name.

Kama gave a little half smile and shrugged. I’m half Japanese. I don’t know what the other half is. I never knew my father. My mother gave me her family’s last name. She said I was special and a Sanskrit name would be special too.

It was much more than Mike had wanted to know from a one-line opener.

You look kind of familiar. I think I’ve seen you at The Cottages, Mike said.

I live there. Kama showed interest for the first time. Do you live there too?

Mike nodded.

Small world, Kama nodded in agreement.

Could this conversation be any more banal? Mike wondered. I bought one of the townhouses. Been there about a year.

Oh. Kama seemed crestfallen. I can only afford one of the rental studios. It’s small but it’s okay. I like the neighborhood. It’s nice being able to look out the window and see the water. I’ve got kind of a view if I stand on a chair. I guess if I were taller it would be better... his voice trailed off. Mike noticed his hands were trembling as he tried to pick up the glass for a sip. He finally settled on moving his mouth toward the glass rather than attempting to lift it.

Are you all right? Mike asked.

You noticed I’ve got the shakes, huh? I had a bad experience last night. Shook me up pretty good.

What happened?

Kama shook his head and curled his lip over the martini glass for another sip. He gradually became aware of his surroundings rather than wandering lost in the chasms of his mind that kept him thinking, thinking. Talking to Mike was making him feel better. His muscles were starting to relax. He shifted his body on the bar stool so he could face Mike more directly. Mike is a good looking guy. Seemed nice too.

Kama hesitated for a moment then decided to ask. Say, Mike, how much do you know about people who have several different personalities?

Mike raised an eyebrow. You mean multiple-personality disorder? I’ve read a little about it. Truth be told, it fascinates me.

Tell me what you know.

Mike popped a stuffed olive into his mouth and bit down, feeling the pimiento squish between his teeth.

Let’s see, Mike mused. The main causes of multiple personality disorder are abuse and neglect in childhood. Most often, sexual abuse. In some cases, MPD can be induced in adults. It’s even been induced in undercover operations by military intelligence. At least that’s what I’ve heard. Anyway, essentially because of a severe trauma, a person’s personality sort of splits off into several different personalities. It’s a coping mechanism.

Kama nodded, but seemed to want more so Mike continued.

The different personalities are called ‘alters’ and they can vary from two to more than a hundred.

A hundred? Wow, it must get pretty crowded in there, Kama responded.

Mike grinned then continued. Each alter can have its own name and each may have different mannerisms and facial expressions from the others. They each may also dress differently or talk with different accents. Sometimes one will be left handed and another right handed. They may even have different handwriting. Occasionally, a person may even take on the persona of an animal.

Bizarre, Kama mumbled.

It’s possible for one personality to be a sloppy drunk alcoholic and in the next instant when a different personality takes over, that sloppy drunk is suddenly stone cold sober - even though the alcohol is still in their system. And if you think that’s odd, it’s even been documented that one alter can have different medical problems from other alters although they share the same body.

Kama’s head jerked in surprise, reminding Mike momentarily of a pigeon.

Its true. For example, one alter may have a life-threatening allergy to peanuts, yet another alter that shares the same body can eat peanuts with no problem. One alter might have different vision than another. One might have thyroid problems or diabetes or multiple sclerosis where the others don’t.

No way! How can that be? Kama said.

Well if medical science ever figures that out we’ll probably have a whole new take on what disease and recovery are all about. Studies have shown that when individual personalities undergo testing for brain wave patterns, each personality will test differently.

That’s mind-blowing! Kama was now showing real interest in Mike. How can that be? I mean you’re brain’s your brain.... isn’t it? Kama did not sound very sure.

Well, according to the articles I’ve read, An EEG, electroencephalogram, measures brain activity. Each personality has its own brain wave pattern. At this point I don’t think anyone’s capable of explaining it. But after a patient is cured, the EEG will be completely different from what those of the separate personalities were.

It’s almost like your fingerprints change in each personality. They don’t do they? Kama was only half joking.

I don’t think so - but then I’m not sure anyone’s really studied that.

Hmm. So can people be cured?

It’s possible. Usually with a few years of therapy. People are very flexible. One of the skills humans learn in early life is to play with many roles. We learn to switch between many roles in a single day. Maybe being a father, a brother, a professional, a lover.

Kama chuckled then realized he had interrupted Mike. Go on. Please.

Our dreams are like a theater where different aspects of being can be tried out and experienced. For most of us there is a continuity of memory between our many daily roles and we can switch between them voluntarily. A person with MPD, on the other hand, doesn’t have that control. Their personality shifts occur randomly without their being in control or even knowing the other personality has taken over. The ability to integrate these different personality states is accomplished before or around puberty.

Kama opened his mouth to comment but Mike raised his finger to interrupt him.

Let me just finish this train of thought. One of the survival mechanisms of children ensures that they become attached to their care givers. So even when their own parents abuse them, they still love them. They grow up with both love and hate for the same person. That becomes very difficult for a young mind to integrate and it can lead into splitting the personality into parts with different alters being able to deal with different aspects of life necessary for survival.

So people don’t know they have multiple alters? Kama asked.

Not usually. Sometimes there may be clues though. Like lost time or missing memory. Maybe meeting people who think they know you, but you don’t know who they are because it’s one of your alters who has actually met that person. Or a person might find clothes in their closet that are not to their taste and they have no memory of buying them.

Kama shook his head in disbelief. It’s totally wild. So how are patients treated? Drugs and stuff?

Often they need to be separated from their families since their problems are so involved with family relationships. And sometimes they have to go back and relive the childhood traumas that caused the personality to split in the first place. Just remembering them isn’t enough. They actually need to relive it, often through hypnosis. I’ve always been fascinated by it although, as I told you, it’s way over my head. And it’s a very complex subject.

So how come they have to relive it? Why isn’t remembering it enough?

Because traumatic events were often experienced by only one personality, it’s necessary for the other personalities to share the physical and emotional memories, as well as the mental image of the memory. That way, as the separate parts begin to take on each other’s memories and experiences, the patient begins the coming-together or integration process. For many multiples, integration is the ultimate goal. But for some, the goal of therapy may simply be teamwork....creating a more functional person.

Kama dropped a couple of olives into his martini, absently swirling them with his finger. He wanted to ask Mike one more question, but he wanted to be sure it sounded casual. He forced his voice to be light and chatty. So is there any connection between multiple personality disorder and ESP?

An expression of surprise crossed Mike’s face. Funny you should ask. One of the many unusual aspects is the frequency of severe headaches and extrasensory perception. The ESP experiences can include telepathy, clairvoyance, ‘seeing ghosts’ or having poltergeist experiences, or having an out of body experience.

Clairvoyance. That’s when people can read people’s minds isn’t it?

My understanding of clairvoyance is that it’s the ability to detect things that are not readily available to the usual senses. Somehow having the ability to know things that other people don’t recognize.

Knowing stuff. That’s what I thought. He paused thoughtfully then said, Have you ever had an out of body experience?

Mike shook his head.

I had one once, Kama said. I was really into yoga for a while and I meditated a lot. One time I was lying on the floor in savasana - that’s the Sanskrit name for the corpse pose - anyway I was lying there and I’d been meditating for a while I think. You kind of lose track of time so I’m not sure how long I’d been there but suddenly I felt this kind of prickling sensation at the top of my head and I slipped out of my body. The next thing I knew I was on the ceiling of the room looking down at myself lying there. It was pretty scary. I realized that if I wanted to I could go right out the window and into the sky, like flying. I could tell the real me was this kind of milky plasma looking stuff. My body was just the shell where it lived."

Kama paused, giving Mike a chance to react. Mike continued to sit silently apparently intrigued with what Kama was saying. Kama continued. I stayed outside my body for a little while and had an urge to travel further, outside the room. To go outside. But suddenly I thought, What if I can’t get back into my body? And I panicked. The next thing I knew my plasma self dived into my body’s chest like a diver going into a swimming pool. And then I was back.

Mike shifted on his seat and released a held breath.

I’ve never told that to anyone before. Do you think I’m nuts? Kama asked tentatively.

No. Of course not. In fact, I envy you the experience.

Really? Kama brightened.

Mike found himself staring at Humphrey Bogart, who returned his gaze from the back bar. A few frames down, Greta Garbo had succeeded in being alone.

Kama was pleased with Mike’s response. Mike had not ridiculed him or made him feel strange. Perhaps they could be friends. Perhaps Kama could finally get the thing he had been seeking for so long. He did not want to push his luck so he thought it best to change to a safer topic.

So do you like old movies? Kama asked.

Yes. I love the old black and whites. They have a real depth to them. And the characters seem so much more real and fascinating than they do in films today. Here’s looking at you, kid. Mike raised his glass and toasted Bogart. "I mean that great tough guy line from The Maltese Falcon where Bogart says to Peter Lorre, ‘When you’re slapped you’ll take it, and you’ll like it.’ Classic. Pure classic."

I look at these old photos a lot too. Sometimes when I come here I wish I could just disappear into one of those old pictures and start a brand new life, Kama said.

Mike studied him but said nothing. Kama had an air of defeat and seemed far too weary for someone in his early twenties.

I’ll bet someone like you can’t even imagine what it’s like to feel like nothing, Kama said with a trace of bitterness. Then he quickly caught himself and forced a tight smile. Hey, the Castro Theater is showing a couple of noir films this weekend. Maybe we can catch a movie.

Sounds good. Mike fished in his pocket and pulled out a business card which he offered to Kama Here’s my number. Just give me a call and we’ll figure out the schedule. He checked his watch. Gotta run now. Call me. Mike got up to leave.

I will, Kama replied. Nice meeting you, he called after Mike.

Mike turned and gave a half wave in Kama’s direction. As he walked outside, Victorian style street lamps illuminated the moist streets. Wisps of drifting fog softened sounds and blurred the outlines of cars and people. Mike smiled to himself. The meeting with Kama had gone a lot better than he had expected. It would make it much easier to do what he had to do.

Chapter Five

Pacific Heights is one of San Francisco’s wealthiest neighborhoods with astonishing Bay views and equally astonishing real estate price tags. Among the large and impeccably maintained homes looms the occasional mansion, so designated as much by the exquisite detailing and construction materials as by its size.

This particular mansion was owned by Gertrude Greenwood, known in social circles as Gigi. The name Gigi seemed much more suitable to the beautiful young woman from rough beginnings who, at the age of twenty, had married one of the richest men in California and settled in this luxurious aerie. Now, decades later, Robert Greenwood was dead, but his money was intact. In fact, it had grown considerably due to Gigi’s deft management.

Life had been kind to the external appearance of Gigi’s body but not to its internal workings. In her mid-sixties, Gigi could still pass for forty, aided by the skills of cosmetic surgeons and hair colorists who managed to retain the subtle, natural highlights of a child in her honey blonde hair. Gigi’s lungs, however, were seriously damaged. A breathing disorder had taken a hold two years earlier, forcing her to now spend most of her time in a wheelchair, depending on oxygen tanks to stay alive. It seemed a cruel irony that a woman still so petite, beautiful and mentally alert should be a prisoner in her own body.

Monica stood at the door of the Georgian mansion, taking in the view of San Francisco Bay. A vista of the Marin Headlands’ rolling hills and the Golden Gate Bridge sparkled before her in the brilliant sunshine. Although Monica had been in some grand homes before, this one made her feel a bit intimidated. The term imposing came to mind. The house was perfect. Perfect proportions. Perfectly groomed. Some people have it all. She pressed the door bell and a melodious chime sounded.

A moment later, the door was opened by Alma Sticke. Alma was huge, a mountain of a woman reined in by black stretch leggings and a too-tight T-shirt. Her short haircut immediately made Monica think of the word jarhead. It was not flattering to her, making her fleshy face seem like a ham. Too large. Too pink. Her eyes were being consumed by her cheeks. Alma Sticke smiled and her eyes disappeared into folds of flesh.

Monica extended her hand. Monica Caldwell. I’m from the agency.

Alma eyed her suspiciously. And what agency would that be?

Monica checked the house number. This is 3731 isn’t it?

Alma nodded.

Then I’m to report here for work today. I’m from the temporary agency. I’ve been hired to help Mrs. Greenwood with her clerical work.

Who hired you? Alma was sharp.

Monica pulled the project slip from her briefcase and searched for the name. It says here the order was placed by Mr. Johnson. She offered the paper to Alma.

Hmmpf. Mrs. Greenwood’s lawyer. Well he certainly didn’t tell me.

Does Mr. Johnson normally discuss Mrs. Greenwood’s business affairs with you? Monica asked with feigned innocence.

Alma glared at her, but she moved her considerable body to the side to admit Monica. Well, I supposed you’d better come in then. I’m Alma Sticke. I’m an LVN. I take care of Mrs. Greenwood. Wait in there, she said pointing to the large sitting room, and I’ll let Mrs. Greenwood know you’re here. I just hope she’s up to this," she added glaring again at Monica.

Monica had immediately disliked Alma Sticke, yet she tried to talk herself into being charitable. After all, Alma was an LVN, licensed vocational nurse. It was her job to watch out for Mrs. Greenwood’s health and well-being. She was probably just doing her job trying to protect her from unwanted visitors.

Monica took the opportunity to absorb the great beauty of the room in which she wandered. It was far better than anything she had ever seen in Architectural Digest. It had been created with the kind of personal wealth that the magazine would kill to cover, but the opportunity had not been given to them. The sitting room soared at least twenty-five feet to the delicately detailed plaster work ceiling. A pair of huge rosso antico marble columns supported the entry portal and a carved fireplace of the same marble was centered on the opposite wall.

Furnishings were an exquisite blend of antiques, luxurious silk damasks, and art. Paintings were hung on silk cords from the picture molding against 18th century salmon silk walls. Degas, Matisse, Chagall, all originals. A large portrait of a beautiful woman with exquisite, delicate features, wearing jewels and a satin ball gown hung over the mantel. Judging from the style of clothing, Monica guessed it was a portrait of Mrs. Greenwood in her prime. Lighting was effective yet unobtrusive. Built-in cabinets filled with rare Oriental porcelains completed the scene. Monica’s eye came to rest on a Sung dynasty bowl casually placed on a side table. She had seen its twin in the Asian Art Museum, its soft celadon color immediately capturing her attention. Priceless, no doubt. Why is it that some people have so much while others have nothing?

A shuffling behind her announced Alma’s return. Monica realized the sound was Alma’s thighs rubbing together. She’s ready for you now, Alma announced. I’ll show you up. I hope I didn’t sound too snappy earlier. I just have to look out for Mrs. Greenwood. That’s my job.

Not a problem. I totally understand.

Alma led the way through the enormous foyer. In the old days they held grand parties here, Alma said responding to the widening of Monica’s eyes at the size of the space. It was easy to imagine the buzz of conversation and the clinking of champagne glasses. This was a home made for entertaining.

Monica assumed they would ascend the stately, curving staircase but Alma ushered her toward the elevator. No sense walking when you can ride, she said. Looks like a little walking would do you good. Monica‘s eyes followed Alma’s rolling buttocks across the room.

Fitting Alma alone into the elevator would have been difficult enough, but the addition of Monica to the small space was far too much togetherness. Monica recoiled slightly at the smell of Alma’s fishy breath. She noticed crusted egg yolk on the front of Alma’s T-shirt. She was very glad when the elevator reached the second level, and she involuntarily breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped out onto the plush hallway carpet.

Mrs. Greenwood still tries to keep up with her charities. I suppose that’s what you’ve been hired to do.

I guess I’ll soon find out, Monica replied.

Alma forged ahead, opening the door to Gigi Greenwood’s room with a flourish. Mrs. Greenwood, this is Monica Caldwell. From the agency.

Mrs. Greenwood. It’s very nice to meet you. Monica said.

Alma settled herself in a large leather recliner. Monica continued standing until offered a seat.

The frail woman in the wheelchair breathed with the help of oxygen tanks. I’ll speak to Miss Caldwell alone.

Alma’s face registered surprise at first, then hurt. Oh. All right then. Just ring if you need me. She left the door ajar as she exited.

Would you mind closing the door, please? Gigi Greenwood said to Monica.

Monica walked to the door. It swung easily on its bronze hinges. For a split second she could have sworn she saw a movement in the shadowy recess of the hallway. Maybe Alma likes to eavesdrop.

Lock it, please.

Monica turned, looking questioningly at Gigi.

The lock is at the top, Gigi said. I can’t reach it anymore from this damn wheelchair.

As the lock snapped into place, Gigi Greenwood visibly relaxed.

Take a seat, she motioned to Monica.

Monica settled herself across from Gigi in a comfortable leather chair. They were in the library. Walls of hand polished mahogany. Glass-fronted shelving held hundreds of old leather bound books, their spines gleaming with gilt titles and decorative scrolling.

My husband was a rare book collector. Each one of those cabinets is climate controlled. His collection is still intact. I suppose one day it will be auctioned off along with everything else. She said it matter-of-factly, without seeking sympathy. What do you think of my home?

It’s exquisite. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.

Gigi studied Monica closely.

Good. You said that without either a trace of envy or an attempt at ingratiating yourself. I need an honest, intelligent person. And one that can be discreet. My attorney says you come highly recommended. I trust him implicitly. Therefore I trust you - unless and until I discover otherwise. Are we clear on that?

Yes. Of course, Mrs. Greenwood. I can guarantee you absolute discretion.

I prefer to be called Gigi. Mrs. Greenwood is old and ill. Gigi is young and vibrant. I still like to delude myself that I’m more of Gigi and less of Mrs. Greenwood. Her eyes were sharp, alert, and the same brilliant blue as her twelve-carat Kashmir sapphire engagement ring.

Monica had a hard time not staring at the ring. One of the accent diamonds alone would make an enviable engagement ring for a wealthy woman. In spite of the large gemstones, the ring design was perfectly scaled to fit Gigi’s petite hand. Like the house, it was exquisite.

Your job will be to help me with my charitable foundation. I have always believed strongly in doing charity work. Giving back to the community. Helping where I can. But in my present condition my work is essentially limited to signing checks.

Gigi noticed Monica’s fascination with her ring. Do you like sapphires? There are people who would kill for this ring. It’s a Kashmir. Mined out in the early nineteenth century. The only way you can get them today is through the secondary market.

It’s breathtaking! The moment the word escaped her lips Monica realized her faux pas. Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...

Gigi waved her hand. Don’t apologize. I’ve adapted to my condition. I do sometimes wonder though who will wear it when I’m dead.

Monica felt that anything else she could think of to say would only heighten her embarrassment, so she remained silent.

So, as I was saying, I’ll need help with my foundation, but I also have another project I’m working on which will require your absolute discretion and loyalty to me and only me. I can’t stress that enough. No one must know what we discuss in this room. No one. Not any of the servants. Definitely not Alma. Not even Mr. Johnson, should you ever be contacted by him. Do I have your solemn word on that?

Yes. Of course.

Good. You will be provided with a laptop computer. It will require an entry password which only you and I will know. Each day when you get ready to leave, you will lock the laptop in that safe. She pointed vaguely toward one of the walls. Monica saw nothing that resembled a safe, only bookshelves. There’s a hidden wall panel. No one knows about it but me. And now you. It will remain strictly between us. Whenever we work together it will be in this room and the door will remain locked. Any questions so far?

Only about a million! Like why all the secrecy? Why don’t you trust Alma? Or even your own lawyer. And what am I getting myself into here?

No. Not yet. It all seems quite straightforward, Monica lied.

Does it, now? Well you must have had some unusual assignments.

Monica smiled. I’ve had my share. Temp work is rarely dull.

Is that why you do it?

For the most part, I suppose.

From the look of you, I’d say you could do much better.

Monica smiled again.

I tire easily, Gigi said. Movement uses up oxygen, but so does talking. Your time will have to be flexible depending on my strength on any given day. Fortunately, this is one of my better days. I’m glad I felt up to meeting you.

The huge sapphire had flopped to one side of her finger and Gigi righted it, taking time to pause and inhale some additional breaths of oxygen, which gave her the strength to continue.

It’s sometimes hard for me to remember that I was once a ballerina, that my body could spin and turn and soar through the air. And now I can’t even walk across the room. She said it as a matter of fact, without seeking sympathy. I was prima ballerina for the San Francisco Ballet when I met my husband. I gave up my career to marry him.

Have you ever regretted it?

She shrugged slightly. Perhaps I would have liked a year or two more to dance. But it’s too late for regrets. I’ve had a wonderful, privileged life. The professional life of a dancer is so short anyway.

Gigi fell silent, breathing deeply from her oxygen tanks. Monica was unsure whether to ask if she needed help or just wait it out. She decided on the latter. After a minute that seemed much longer, Gigi spoke again.

I will be extremely generous if you follow my instructions. I will be equally ruthless if you do not. I speak plainly because I don’t have breath to waste. The sum your agency pays you is a pittance. I’m not stupid enough to expect the kind of loyalty I require for that salary. The work you will do for me will be worth one hundred thousand dollars to me. Perhaps more.

Monica’s head jerked involuntarily.

Gigi smiled for the first time. Yes. It is a lot of money for clerical help. But you’re much more than that, aren’t you?

Monica felt Gigi’s eyes boring right through her. She was a rabbit in a trap. She knows! But how is that possible? Monica decided to bluff it out. I hope I can live up to your expectations, she said.

Not to worry, my dear. Your secret is safe with me, Gigi replied. She smiled knowingly at Monica’s astonished expression. Yes. I know. I’m not a fool. Fools don’t wield the kind of power and wealth I have at my disposal. You will be paid for a regular eight hour day on the record even if we don’t work at all. The bonus will be just between us. We both have something to hide. We both can benefit from each other. I’m getting tired now. Take the rest of the day off. Come back tomorrow at ten o’clock. She waved Monica away.

Monica nodded, feeling as though she were in a dream. Just an hour ago her life was in control, now someone knew her secret. Was it really possible? Perhaps Gigi had just been fishing, using it as bait in a power play. Perhaps she didn’t know anything. Perhaps she had just expected Monica to divulge some deep dark secret that she could use against her to control her. But Monica had remained silent.

She walked from the library, down the grand staircase and out the front door. Only when she was standing on the porch with the front door closed firmly behind her and the breeze cooling her burning skin, did she realize that her heart was racing.

Chapter Six

Kama could not control his thoughts. He had tried all night. Even drinking too much had only made his headache worse and had done nothing to block out the image of the old man going over the cliff. He could still hear the scream inside his head as it became fainter, and fainter then disappeared altogether.

Maybe the old man isn’t dead.

That new thought entered his mind. All night long he had believed he had killed Marcus Church. But perhaps by some miracle he had survived the fall. Perhaps he was lying out there now, waiting for someone to find him.

Perhaps he’s dying right this minute.

Kama chastised himself for not checking. He knew he should have made sure. But he had panicked and run away. And now, not knowing was a kind of torture he could not bear.

He had to know for sure.

Was the old man dead?

Was he, Kama Takahashi, a murderer?

He already knew he was an outcast, but a murderer was something entirely different.

From as far back as he could remember, Kama had been different. At school in Japan, his classmates never accepted him as one of them. He was always gaijin, foreigner.

In the West, people thought of him as Asian. But in Japan he was only half, and half-breeds were always looked on with suspicion, as though a lower life form. His nose was a little too prominent, his skin was not quite the right tone, his hair was dark brown with red glints rather than black, his eyes a little too round. His face had a definite European cast to it that clearly defined him as a mix, and he had suffered for it.

Endless teasing, taunting, being excluded. Always made to feel inferior. And when he was small and would run home to tell his mother, he was made even more aware of his difference. There was no father to