The Savage Circle

By C.N. Eagle

In 1983 Chicago, professional killer Frank Depreo leaves a deadly warning for the bosses who betrayed him and are now threatening his family. Twenty years later, Frank Moore receives the terrible news that his daughter and her husband have died in a suspicious car accident. Certain that his old enemies have caught up with him, he leaves his life in Dayton, Ohio, and travels to the beautiful New England town of Haven, to find the truth and punish the guilty. But instead of mobsters, Frank discovers monsters, a far-reaching conspiracy of kidnapping and ritual murder, and a cult of werewolves ruled by a descendant of Transylvanian mass-murderer Countess Elizabeth Bathory. Frank will need all his martial arts and weapons expertise to survive and to destroy the Savage Circle.

For more information please see www.thesavagecircle.com/index.htm

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Feb 13, 2007
• ISBN: 9781425198411

C.N. Eagle

C. N. Eagle lives and works in Dayton, Ohio.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Dayton, Ohio. The Birthplace of Aviation, home of the Wright Brothers. The city’s main claim to fame was emblazoned at various points throughout the airport, and there was a replica of the Wright B Flier which hung on wires inside the terminal’s main entrance. An American history buff, Cox took his time examining a collection of Wright memorabilia on display, including models and colorful murals celebrating a century of aviation, before seeing to his rental car.

Danny Cox had visited Dayton once before. Since retiring from the Treasury Department he sometimes took work as an investigator for a Chicago attorney and five years ago had traveled to Ohio to collect depositions in Cincinnati. While in the area he took a detour north to look up an acquaintance from the old days. But his trip was wasted—Frank Moore was not in town.

At that time that Rolling Stone writer was doing his book about famous organized crime families, and was after Cox for an interview concerning the Maximillian organization and, of course, the case of Frank Depreo and whether or not he was in fact the legendary Magician. Cox agreed to the interview (one that ultimately disappointed the writer—the only information Cox was willing to disclose was already public record) and Danny recalled thinking that he was glad he’d not seen Frank. That made it easier to give detached answers and to keep very personal memories at a very professional distance. Things like friendship, however guarded, and pain, no matter how deep, tended to grow indistinct and fuzzy with the passage of the years, becoming almost events in the lives of other people.

His warm relationship with Depreo, only intensified after the Chicago shooting, resulted in his being involved with the relocation process to a degree rightfully discouraged by the Justice Department. The Federal Witness Protection Program was a tricky enough affair without personal attachments complicating matters. Several coincidental factors combined to give Danny Cox discretion denied to others: the decorations following his injury in the line of duty, his subsequent years with the Secret Service, and the importance Depreo represented as a government witness, chief among them.

Personal meetings between a Marshal and a Witness were strictly forbidden. But over the years Cox had defied that order no less than four times, above and beyond the numerous instances he’d acted as liaison between Depreo and his former wife and daughter, relocated elsewhere. Cox did all those things gladly. Regardless of the reasons, he considered Depreo, a confessed contract killer of chilling repute with fifteen confirmed cold-blooded murders under his belt (and countless others rumored), a valued acquaintance and yes, even a friend, though one seen very rarely. Theirs was a bond that only comes to men who have been under fire together.

Which made this trip all the more personal, and all the more painful. Cox dreaded the meeting, the first time in eight years he’d seen Moore face-to-face. He looked ruefully down at the envelope and folded newspaper beside him on the rental car’s seat. He would not have this sad news delivered by a stranger with a Federal badge.

He managed to get himself lost and had to stop at a convenience store to ask for directions. The clerk knew exactly where the place was—it was, he said, a beer joint where many of the area cops spent down time. The irony of this revelation was not lost on Danny.

The north end of Dayton bordering Trotwood had been extensively redeveloped—small wonder Cox had lost his way. He pulled off the main thoroughfare into a business center spanning an appliance store, a pet supplies warehouse and an athletic facility back towards the end of the parking area. The Last Chance Lounge was somewhere in the middle with no windows to peek in and a single unadorned entry door below the neon sign advertising its presence. Danny winced as he got out of the car. His back still troubled him, a reminder of the old days.

He left the late afternoon sunshine and paused to let his eyes adjust in the dimly-lit bar. Directly opposite the door a wide-screen television sat canted in the corner with a constant feed of cable sports. Between it and the doorway the black hood of a NASCAR racer hung on the wall emblazoned with the Number 3, over which had been adorned a banner with the popular image of the same Number 3 morphing into the wings of a dove. The bar stretched away from the door the length of the room, mirrors and electronic dart machines lining the wall to the left with tables here and there. Towards the back was the jukebox, a couple of pool tables, a small dance floor with a mirrored ball overhead, and beyond that a hallway with restrooms, a payphone, and a combination office-storage room.

A couple of working stiff-types who looked like regulars sat at the end of the bar nursing beers and Danny took a stool near them. He caught his reflection in the dark mirror over the bottles of spirits behind the bar and wondered how much he’d changed since last seeing Frank. He was happy to remember the woman greeting him with a pleasant smile. Lori Johns. Petite and blonde, brown eyes with beautiful long lashes, in her 40s. Danny was apt to think of the word ravishing, but in a girl-next-door way. He stole a glimpse at her hand, seeing no wedding ring, wondering if Frank was ever going to make it official. Hey, you. Danny, right?

How you doing, Lori? You have a good memory.

Well, he said you were droppin’ in—but I would’ve remembered anyway, she assured him, and he believed her. She had a Southern twang in her voice and an irresistible charm in her smile. How much had Frank told her?

Want a Bud?

Bud Light, he replied, chuckling.

Want a glass?

Naw.

Frank’ll be out in a minute.

Be better if I could see him alone, Danny volunteered.

I’ll tell him, she said after popping a can and serving it on a napkin. She asked the regulars if they were okay and disappeared into the back. Danny watched the news on a television overhead. The latest firefights between U.S. soldiers and insurgent groups in the Middle East. The two bar patrons were having a heated discussion about the upcoming Cincinnati Bengals season.

His mind drifted to other things—like the tragic reason for his visit—and he was startled when the man nearest him stuck out his hand.

How you doing? I’m Rob. Danny pumped the offered hand. This is Lou.

Danny Cox. Pleased to meet you. Rob could’ve been upper management—in his 30s, neat haircut, he’d removed his tie and loosened the collar of his shirt. Lou was older and looked like he had a lot of time on his hands, out of work, perhaps retired.

You’re not from around here.

Chicago, Danny told him.

I knew it. I could hear the accent, Lou said.

Just passing through?

Stopped to say hi to Frank. It’s been a few years.

Oh yeah? How’d you and Frank meet? Lou asked, making no attempt to hide his curiosity.

Danny was formulating an answer that would not contradict what Frank might have told them of his past when he was saved by Lori. C’mon, she smiled, picking up his beer and napkin.

Nice meeting you, Rob said as he followed her past the jukebox to Frank’s office.

Hey, buddy, Frank greeted him, hanging up the desk phone as Danny entered. Standing, he offered a hand and they shook warmly.

Lori put his beer on the desk and pushed an overstuffed vinyl chair close for him to sit. Danny felt himself blushing from all her attention.

Frank was past 50 now but looked ten years younger. The thick wavy hair was not quite so jet-black, but the jaw was still chiseled. Some extra lines around his mouth and eyes. Danny’s trained threat-assessment eye noted lean solid muscle rippling beneath a soft green t-shirt. Cox found himself halfway envious. Is she this nice to everybody?

Yeah, but she’s just faking it, Frank answered, earning a playful snort from her. She left, shutting the door behind her.

Danny scanned the small office. The desk was battered, the chair beginning to give at the seams. There was a new computer and flat screen on the desktop which was cluttered with invoices, coffee mugs, ink pens and other items required to run a small business. The walls were hung with operating licenses and beverage advertisements, the famous poster from Attack of the 50 Foot Woman alongside an autographed photo of Danica Patrick, a NASCAR calendar, a newspaper article in a frame—something sponsoring a Little League team—photos of friends and family. On a file cabinet holding a coffee maker and condiments Danny saw a framed photo of Gwen, in a high school cheerleading uniform with pom-poms.

You ever remarry, Danny? Frank noticed him looking at the photograph.

Nah, not me. Cox knew Frank partly blamed himself for much of the misfortune he’d known following the shooting, including the divorce from his wife Gail. But Danny had simply been doing his job and there was no blame to be had. In hindsight, he was glad Gail left when she did. If she couldn’t stick it out through the Worse, then the Better was just a joke, and in a way her bailing on him during his painful recuperation just made him all the more determined to get through it.

Kids okay?

They’re fine, Danny replied brightly. Michelle just had another little girl. Her fourth.

Congratulations. Girls must run in the family.

Yeah. They do that. He remembered why he was here and looked away from his friend without meaning to.

Lighten up, Marine, Frank chided him. Danny realized Frank had to be thinking of his own daughter. Time to get to it.

Frank said nothing, his posture tensing as alarm bells suddenly went off. Danny laid the folded newspaper and the envelope accompanying it on the desk and slid them towards him. No easy way to tell you this, he warned. I’m sorry, Frank.

Frank forced himself to pick the paper up and saw it was a New England periodical with yesterday’s date. He found the paragraph down the right side of the page Danny had circled with a yellow highlighter. The headline said:

2 die in crash

As he read Danny watched deep pouches form beneath the blue eyes. He aged ten years in only seconds.

Frank cleared his throat and laid the paper down. He was blinking his eyes as if recovering from a physical blow. Danny waited and waited and was about to break the silence when Frank said, Look, can you give me a minute? without looking up.

Sure.

Cox was standing outside the office at the pay phone when Lori walked over and asked if everything was okay. Danny nodded meekly, unwilling to meet her eyes, and she asked pointedly, What is it?

Danny gave her a guilty look. I had to give Frank some real bad news, he finally admitted.

What? she asked, nearly demanding.

Danny didn’t know what to tell her. You better ask him, he suggested gently.

Frightened, she tapped the office door and admitted herself upon receiving no response. She found Frank standing with his back to her, hands in the pockets of his jeans, paying close attention to a framed liquor license on the wall. He did not turn to acknowledge her. Frank?

Yeah. There was something in his voice she’d never heard before. Something weary, weather-worn—but immovable, like stone. Not for the first time, she had an insight that her mate was actually two different men. And this was the one he hid from her.

You’re not gonna talk to me, honey? she asked in a half-whisper. She was deeply frightened. Whatever had happened, it was very bad.

She saw the newspaper and splayed her fingers across it, turning it so she could read the highlighted article. Immediately her other hand went to her mouth.

2 die in crash

HAVEN___A local grade school

teacher and her husband were found

dead following a crash on Wednesday.

Raymond McVie, 25, and his

wife of 17 months, Gwendolyn, 24,

were found in their car after it had ap-

parently gone off the shoulder only

two miles from the couple’s Rune

Road home.

Raymond was employed by NE

Power. Gwendolyn was teacher of the

2nd Grade class at Haven Elementary.

School officials will have counselors

present to speak with her students on

Friday , and a memorial service will

be held at the school that afternoon.

The McVies were from Augusta,

Georgia, and will be transported home

for burial by their families on Saturday.

Oh honey.

She took his hand and kissed his fingers and he reached for her. She put her arms around him and they hugged tight with her head over his heart. She felt his chest hitch as he suppressed a wave of emotion he could not surrender to.

He buried his fingers in her hair and she wept for them both.

She forced herself to leave him—she did not know why it was Cox to deliver this news, but Frank needed to talk to him—and she gave Danny’s arm a reassuring squeeze in the hall outside the office.

Danny waited a couple of more minutes and then knocked on the door. Come on in, Frank called from inside.

As Danny sat Frank came out of the storage cooler with two bottles of beer and repeated, Okay. Okay, to himself. Sitting across from Danny, he took a long swig from the beer and Cox did the same from his own. Frank swallowed noisily, leaned back in his swivel chair and seemed unsure of what to do next. I’m sorry, Danny told him for the second time.

Frank nodded, steeling himself to hear the details. Tell me what happened.

It’s what the newspaper said. Danny indicated the manila envelope on the desk. I’ve still got contacts with the Justice Department. They’re quietly looking into it. Marie and Gwen have been in the program twenty years so of course they’ll give it a hard look. But so far it’s a straight car accident.

They made Kovovitch look like a car accident, too, Frank observed grimly, scanning the police forms.

That struck Danny speechless. The sudden death of Radu Maximillian’s right-hand man twenty years before—as a matter of fact, that happened only two days before the shooting, he recalled—had been suspicious as hell, and Cox always considered it a mob hit glossed over for some unknown reason by the old man’s money and influence. He tried to recall the exact details, wondering what Frank knew that he didn’t. Kovovitch hadn’t been under Federal relocation, Frank. If anything stinks about this, DOJ will find out.

These Haven cops know what they’re doing?

Laid back, but they’re okay. We’re double-checking what they have.

What are Randy and Rudy up to these days? Frank asked bluntly, his eyes narrow and mean.

Danny took another drink of beer and replied, The family doesn’t have the muscle they once did. Randy’s been out of jail for years. Rudy changed his name, he’s a doctor in Chicago.

A doctor, Frank said, musing aloud.

You know the old man’s been dead years. He never really got it back together after Kovovitch— Danny didn’t finish the sentence, torn by his desire to know all of Frank’s secrets, and his fear of knowing them.

Is Marie covered?

Absolutely. She and her husband. She’s fine, Frank.

For an instant Frank’s expression broke, giving in to a grimace of bitterness. But she’s being watched, he insisted.

I said yes—our guys will be on her all through this. Like I said—the Maximillians don’t have the stones for this anymore. I’m sure it’s nothing—

My little girl’s dead.

I know. I didn’t mean it that way.

Frank took a drink. He appeared to set himself and sighed. Well. The funeral is tomorrow. I’ll have to go.

Danny didn’t bother to object. You’ll need to be careful. I didn’t say they’ve all forgotten. Randy spent twelve years in prison because of you.

He sticks his head out, I’ll nail him, Frank vowed through a mirthless smile that never touched his eyes—a shark’s grin, carved from granite, Cox decided. This was the man they used to talk about in hushed whispers, the soulless killer with the power to overcome any security, reach any target, and escape as if by magic. Not for the first time, Danny Cox knew that the Magician was not just an underworld legend.

I’ll get an early-morning flight to Augusta. I need to find out where the services are—

He was back to being just Frank again—heartbroken now, and laser-sighted on a new goal, but just Frank. That’s in the envelope, too, Cox said. The families are having the one service for the kids.

It’s a Catholic ceremony, Frank observed, noting the name of the church. Marie, his ex-wife, had been a devout parishioner despite a first husband who was less than spiritual. That might have become a big point of contention in their relationship, had they been together long enough.

He grew contemplative, his large eyes turning even more sad. Cox said, You did what you had to, Frank. You did what Marie asked you to. It was the right decision at the time.

I know, his friend agreed.

Some of what I’m about to tell you could be dangerous for you if it got out, Frank began, by way of explanation for the fact that he had never told her the entire truth before now.

Tell me, Lori said, unflinching.

They stood at the kitchen sink with only that light on and the scent of the mint she kept in the windowsill pleasant over the aromas of the finished meal and the lemony dish soap. She wiped a plate clean and passed it off to Frank to be rinsed and dried. As they worked and talked they sipped bottles of cold beer. Jake lay under the table with head between his paws, eyes large, sensing the somber mood.

Danny had left for a motel despite their pleas to stay in the guest room. He’d taken a tour of the house and after a dinner of Lori’s special stir-fry sat with them for a couple of beers before leaving. He sensed they needed some time alone. The quiet dinner conversation had centered on the intervening years—Danny told a few non-classified tales about his time as the head of President Bush’s Secret Service detail— his family, and theirs—Lori had two daughters from her ex-husband who were grown with husbands of their own. Understandably Frank had little to say.

When I came back from the war I played around with the idea of becoming a cop, Frank explained now. I actually enrolled and started the academy in Chicago, but it wasn’t for me.

She listened attentively. She knew he was raised in orphanages and had enlisted in the Marines on his eighteenth birthday. Many of these details were new to her.

Believe it or not, it was a cop who encouraged me to apply, a robbery detective named Ed Eckert. I was taking a little business school during the day and working third shift in a convenience store at night. In the three months I was there, we must’ve been robbed about a dozen times and I got to know a lot of the city cops. Eckert thought I handled myself well, and with my war record he figured policeman was the job for me.

Lori had no doubt of that. She knew of course of Frank’s interest in martial arts, and about the boxing when he was younger. He was the real deal. A few years ago, they were participating in a dart league match at a bar across town, when a pair of armed robbers hit the place. Everything was cool until the hoods got violent with a barmaid. Frank intervened. Bare-handed he disarmed both hold-up men, using extreme force. They had to be transported to a hospital by ambulance. His friendships among the Dayton and Trotwood cops kept his name out of the papers. So what happened in the academy?

Frank took a deep drink from his beer, shaking his head ruefully. I thought it was exciting; I knew my way around the police headquarters, looking at mug books, talking to prosecutors. More than half the thieves—there was a teenaged girl once too, she claimed somebody forced her to do it—but I helped catch more than half of them. I was good at descriptions, I’d go out of my way to get a look at a car or a license plate. The store chain paid me rewards more than once. But in the academy, it was nothing but rules. You’d think after two tours in the Marines I’d be okay at wearing uniforms, taking orders, doing everything by the book, but it drove me crazy. I think maybe I was a bit of a nut job.

Why do you say that? she asked. She had wasted more than a few years with a screwed-up man, her former husband. Frank was the most well put-together she had ever known.

"It was the danger, Lori. I craved it, craved the excitement. After a long time I realized I was expecting trouble, hoping for it. Waiting for someone to force me to do something." He eyed her speculatively, satisfied that she was listening to what he said and, more importantly, hearing him.

"Well it didn’t take long to know police work wasn’t for me. I dropped out, and I kicked the college loose too. Whoosh!" Jokingly he passed an open palm across the top of his head like he had dodged a bullet. "Don’t know what I was thinking there!" This forced a girlish giggle from her, in turn earning a subdued smile from Frank.

I was young, I could handle myself. I wanted excitement. So I got myself a very well-paying job at a strip club in the city—as a bouncer.

Let me guess, she interrupted. It was the worst dive in town.

No, not at all. It was a well-run place in downtown Chicago, high-class, no drugs and no prostitution. Never trouble with the cops. Alec and Bruno, the other two bouncers, taught me that handling yourself took more than steel balls and quick fists—it took a certain amount of diplomacy. Without that, Alec said, no tough guy in the world would end up anywhere but the jail or the graveyard. Diplomacy. And patience. And I already had that—from the Recon.

Semper Fi, Lori responded with a knowing nod. Over the years she learned slowly about his war service, and learned not to bring it up. It was not a secret—it was just something that was not discussed.

You got it. In the Marines, Frank was a sharpshooter, a supremely gifted marksman hunting upper-echelon Viet Cong and North Vietnamese officers.

Alec and Bruno made the introductions to a lot of the town’s heaviest hitters, including quite a few, what you might call, shady types. Eventually I found myself working as a driver and a bodyguard for a rich corporate raider named Randy Maximillian. Recognize the name?

She bit her lower lip with her brow furrowing: Yeah, I’ve heard the name—used to make movies or something—?

That was his old man, Radu. Old mobster, used to give a lot of Hollywood parties in the ‘50s and ‘60s, produced a few movies. He liked hanging out with movie stars. When I met his son Randy was being groomed to take over the family operations. The truth was, Randy could be more blood-thirsty than his pop ever thought about.

Did you know what they were into? Lori asked directly.

Sure. I knew. But I wasn’t involved in that end of the business. At first.

What did you do?

At first, his driver, his bodyguard. Then I could speak for him. Basically I had a talent for cowing people through force of my personality, and he utilized it.

He used you? She was offering him an out he realized, an excuse.

But Frank looked her right in the eye and gave his head a single shake. No, he said firmly. No one used me. I wouldn’t allow that. I was young but I knew what I was doing. I had a talent, I made a lot of money. He did not venture to add that talent was killing people.

The first time had been all on Frank. A street gang on Chicago’s south side blamed the Maximillians for their lagging drug transactions. This led them to do a very stupid thing. The failed hit left Randy wounded—Max’s son at that time had very little to do with the family business, but he was the easier target—and one of his bodyguards dead. Frank, off duty that day, took the murder attempt very personally.

It took him two weeks. He tracked down the gang’s headquarters and went in at night. For a white man in that part of town, it was enemy territory. He got into the house and, quietly and methodically, left two young men cold to the touch in his wake. Others in the house Frank considered non-combatants. It was the beginning of the Magician’s legend. But the targets were young, little more than teenagers. He did that out of anger, a desire for retribution. It was an act that left his stomach in knots, when he dared to think about it.

But, at that time, he regarded Randy as his friend as well as his employer.

The only time I considered getting out was when Marie threatened to leave me, Frank continued, letting the rinse water out of the sink.

"The club’s owner sometimes had us, Alec and Bruno and me, running errands for his elderly mother. Mrs. Carpella was like everybody’s mom. I’d take her to the market, drive her and her friends to evening Mass, go back and pick her up. She liked to cook Italian dishes and she’d usually send us home with a meal. She also tried at one time or another to fix us up with the daughters of her friends. With me, it took.

I admit it, I wasn’t just taken—I was nuked, Frank said emphatically. With a wistful smile he continued: Marie wasn’t even interested at first. I wasn’t either, even though I marveled at how beautiful she was. She wasn’t my type. She came from a good family—something I knew nothing about. The first date was just to please our elders. We had dinner, a movie, and went late-night bowling. And I fell hard. So did she. I was old enough to know better, but we were married six months later and a month after that Gwen was on the way. And the whole time I think we knew it wasn’t going to last.

Lori had heard some of this before, but without the details concerning his employment. She now realized what a skilled manipulator he was. He had actually been quite vague about his past in the years she’d been with him and not only had she not dug for more details, she had not even been curious. That’s how—diplomatic he was.

By the time Marie realized how much my job scared her, I was in pretty deep. We tried to make it work for Gwen, but there was just no way. I couldn’t be the kind of man she wanted, and I didn’t want her to be the kind of girl who’d settle—the truth was, I think each of us would not have changed one single thing about the other. I know I wouldn’t have. We ended up getting a special annulment through the church. It was for the best. Marie and I loved each other dearly. But it takes more than that, sometimes. He looked at Lori and shrugged, accepting.

A year after we split, I ended up testifying against Randy Maximillian. I was given immunity from prosecution and, my testimony making me a target for a lot of dangerous people, I was relocated, given a new name and identity. Marie and Gwen were also forced into the program. It broke Marie’s heart. Given no choice but to have her home and family ripped away to save their lives—I don’t think she ever forgave me.

Were you arrested? Lori asked in a shocked voice. How did they force you to testify?

No, I volunteered to testify against Randy, and several others. It’s true what they say, Lori—there’s no honor among thieves. I had been picked up for questioning a few times, but they never had a thing on me. Randy was the one who screwed up. Somehow, either through his own paranoia or from rumors circulated by the cops, he began to think he couldn’t trust me.

The actual story was a bit more detailed. Some people do change, and it was Randy who changed from a man Frank could respect and call friend into an enemy, in only a few years. Frank was perfectly willing to take the lives of other killers, but he flatly refused to do anything endangering the lives of innocents, particularly women and children. Things like placing bombs, or setting fires. Randy had no such restraints and expected his people to feel likewise. Frank refused to even be associated with those willing to go to such extremes and this began to be a problem. Frank killed one of Randy’s own men—Randy successfully convinced him that the enforcer had gone rogue, menacing the family of a city prosecutor against orders. It all came to a head when Frank realized that Randy was planning to have his ex-wife, Lydia, murdered in retaliation for starting a fresh round of custody battles over their son. Frank intervened, first with Randy, which provoked a major disagreement to say the least. Next he talked to Lydia. He’d met the woman casually—she knew he was rumored to be Randy’s primary enforcer. But he just talked to her. Calmly. Logically. He convinced her that she absolutely had to drop the custody suit. She had no choice in the matter.

He simply told his employer that the woman was not to be harmed, just as calmly and logically. Randy did not take it well at all—but according to the occasional society page blurb, the former Mrs., long since remarried to a Broadway producer, was alive and enjoying the company of her grandchildren to this day.

"Finally an associate told me that Randy was out to get me. I called him for a meeting, but he was unavailable. He was ducking me. I considered my options. I knew I could be in some trouble if Randy went off the deep end, which is exactly what he did.

He flew in a couple of shooters from New York City. They tried to cap me in my apartment as I got home with a bag of Chinese take-out.

Lori’s eyes were like saucers.

I’m still here, Lori, and they are not. Before he died one of the shooters told me it was a man of Randy’s hired them. I called my old buddy Ed Eckert, and turned state’s evidence.

Concerning what exactly? Lori pried, clearly terrified of the answer.

Frank held her in an iron gaze. I don’t want to get any more detailed, he said to her. I testified. Randy went to prison for twelve years, along with some of his cronies. I had to—for Gwen and Marie. Randy was out of control.

She was flabbergasted that the man she’d spent the last twelve years sleeping with was a former—what? Gangster? No. That simple title did not apply.

As if reading her mind, Frank said, I won’t deny I’ve done some things, but I never crossed my own line. Everything I did was against people who had it coming. I’ve never harmed a single innocent soul, or let one come to harm. Do you believe me?

Of course I believe you, she whispered.

They sat now at the kitchen table, holding hands, nursing their beers under the single overhead lamp. She collected her thoughts for a second, and asked, Marie and Gwen? Were they safe?

No one went after them. As far as I know, Frank amended. He’d stopped that quick. It was Marie who’d first alerted him to the new danger—she had this thing she could do. He knew it wasn’t Randy—he was safely in jail and besides, once he had time to think, he knew better than to threaten Frank’s family. After Marie’s phone call he’d given Cox the third degree and the lawman admitted that they’d increased security around Marie and Gwen following a warning from an informant.

Do you think Gwen was killed? Lori hated giving voice to the words.

Frank looked down at his beer and gave a thoughtful sigh. I let you assume that Danny was wounded while we were together in Vietnam. I apologize—the truth is, we were both over there, but we’d never met. He was a Federal marshal in charge of my guard detail during the beginning of Randy’s trial, and he ended up taking a bullet for me, one paid for by Radu Maximillian. We’ve kept in touch ever since—

Oh my God, Lori gasped, a hand going to her mouth.

The shooting happened on the steps of the Cook County Courthouse, just two days after Frank visited the mansion. The gunman was an unemployed auto worker from Detroit. It was unbelievably sloppy. In a packed crowd, three shots from a handgun—one blew off the toe of a photographer (who went right on snapping pictures), one went wild, but the first caught Danny Cox low in the belly, slipping in just below his protective vest. Even wounded he still was able to tackle the gunman. Two days later, the failed killer hanged himself in his cell. Frank decided Kovovitch had the hit planned before meeting his own end.

Danny is convinced Gwen is an accident, Frank continued. But I have to know for sure. I have to go and check it out, Lori.

What will you do?

Frank knew exactly what she was asking. But one thing at a time. He said, Tomorrow I’m going to my daughter’s funeral. Then we’ll see what happens.

Lori was more frightened than she had ever been in her life. She sipped her own beer, trying to not let her worry show.

You okay with all this? he asked.

She finished the bottle and got up from the table. She held out her hand. What was your name before?

Francis Michael Depreo, he said in way of introduction. He shrugged at her look. The name Moore? My mother was Irish-American.

Lori decided on the spot, telling herself she would learn to live with the butterflies in her belly. She forced a grin to quiet any reservations. Well c’mon, Francis Michael, she said, clasping his hand in her own, and let me take you to bed.

CHAPTER TWO

Daddy! Daddy’s home!

The little girl came running at him, black hair flying, and laughing he scooped her up

There she is! How’s my little Guinevere today?

I’m juss fine!

He blew noisy raspberries against her neck coaxing screams of delight

Momma Momma he’s tickilin me! Daddy’s tickilin me!

Frank awoke from the dream in a cold sweat, hating to face what was now and what was past, stirred by the airliner’s change in attitude as the pilot banked the craft for the approach to Atlanta. He adjusted his sunglasses, and glanced down at Brandon, the chubby seven-year-old in the neighboring seat. The kid had his face glued to the window. A pretty redheaded flight attendant said, Excuse me, with a smile and leaned across Frank to help the boy with his seat belt. Time to buckle up, big guy, she told the kid. Frank caught the pleasing scent of her perfume.

We almost there? the child asked.

Almost. That goes for you too, sleepyhead, she reminded Frank.

Bran? You being good? This from Brandon’s mother, seated on the window behind her son.

Yeah, Mom, came the kid’s long-suffering reply. His little brother, who was only four, sat behind Frank. The mother and boys were on their way to visit the grandparents.

Mom, can you see anything? Brandon called out, craning his neck to see out the thick glass.

The plane was descending through cloud cover and Frank’s ears started to pop. He asked the boy, Want to see a magic trick?

Brandon turned his head around and blinked at him. Yeah, he said emphatically.

Frank offered his right hand, palm up. He wiggled his fingers to show he was hiding nothing, then passed his left hand over it once, and turning the palm down closed his fist. With the boy watching intently he turned his hand back and opened it to reveal two sticks of chewing gum, one of which he slid toward the boy with a card-shark’s thumb movement. Brandon’s mouth spread into a wide grin as he took it.

He unwrapped the foil and shoved the Juicy Fruit into his mouth. His jaw worked energetically, his hands over his ears like he’d seen adults do. Thanks, man. He eyed Frank, obviously wanting to know the trick’s secret.

Brandon, came his mother’s immediate warning.

Thank you, sir, the boy amended contritely. Frank lifted his sunglasses and rolled his eyes in sympathy with the kid, who nodded with knowing agreement. Moms.

Frank smiled, leaned back with his hands folded across his belly and shut his eyes behind the dark lenses. He thought about his daughter.

He boarded a connecting charter to Augusta and his waiting rental car. He’d once visited the city for a bar owner’s convention and been a couple of times besides, though his former family was unaware. He was never in the habit of contacting his ex and daughter though he knew they lived there. He used a map to find his hotel, checked in and went up to his room.

He took a hot shower and dressed for the funeral. Not unexpectedly, a sense of deep depression and dread was creeping over him. A numb state of shock was giving way to the inevitable sorrow of losing a loved one. He wondered what poor Marie was going through—Gwen was her life. He was groggy with near-exhaustion as well, having had a fitful sleep that night. He felt awful. He began to ask himself how he was going to get through this—an attitude unfamiliar to him.

Fully dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and matching silk tie, he sat on the bed and eyed himself in the dresser mirror. He thought he looked at least ten years older than he had only twenty-four hours ago. He wanted to talk to Lori. He picked up the phone and dialed her at their home, told her he just wanted to let her know he was there. Checking in, another habit he was unaccustomed to. She told him she loved him, what he needed, and to call her after.

For just an instant, he considered leaving the hotel, hopping a plane, and returning to Dayton. It made no difference if he was here, Gwen was gone and beyond caring about this or anything else. He had no faith in an afterlife whatsoever. Believing in such a thing led to inescapable questions concerning sin and redemption, matters he preferred not to think about. Later, when was able to bear it, he could visit Gwen’s grave and then go on with the life he’d made with Lori. It was a good life. To hell with the Maximillians, even if Randy was responsible, and Frank made him answer for it, it wouldn’t change a damned thing. He told himself this almost desperately in hope of finding a legitimate reason not to go through with this horrible day, told himself it was all the hard truth—but he couldn’t buy it. He could no more let this go than he could cut off his own arm.

Driving to the funeral home, he began to ask himself, When was the time he had given up on ever having Gwen in his life again? He’d been a doting father at one time—hadn’t he? What would Marie’s opinion be? It had been her to encourage him to break off all contact with them. She’d felt very strongly that he had to—and Marie’s feelings had a way of being prescient. He learned to not take them lightly. After that Danny Cox had been the go-between, until Gwen was a little older. Past dangers relaxed over time. Frank and Gwen exchanged letters, pictures. Surreptitiously he’d made her graduation from high school and then from college, but passed on her wedding. He didn’t trust himself to keep a distance at that event. All those years ago he’d consoled himself that his wife and daughter would have an easier life without him.

How could he have been so stupid?

He was ashamed of himself. That was a bitter fact. He never felt the need most other men came by naturally, the desire to be a parent and to guide offspring into adulthood. Maybe that ingredient was left out of the mix when they’d thrown him together. No one noticed anything was missing, including himself—that space was filled by a propensity for the taking of human life. That’s what he was. A Taker, not a Giver.

At least, he told himself, he had no desire to excuse himself through the discovery of the truth about Gwen’s death, if there was a truth. No. There was no excuse for him, and he had to live with that. His motive was pure and primal: Revenge. God, if He even existed, was beyond Frank’s reach should Gwen’s death be an accident. But if any outside party had a hand in this, that person had no right to go on living and Frank would not stop until that injustice was corrected.

Either way, he would have to find a way to make peace with himself over the terrible mistakes he’d made. All those years, just pissed away, he thought bitterly; all those years, when he could have been her father.

He did not sign the guest book. He saw a guy looked like a cop in a dark suit and shades in the funeral home lobby. Frank could feel the man giving him the eye as well. He’d spotted two Federal types in an unmarked car outside; maybe FBI, their haircuts were too neat for marshals.

He followed a little placard on a stand that said Raymond & Gwendolyn McVie. His heart was thudding painfully. The entry to the parlor was on the right. Lots of people, standing around in groups dressed in their best. A double funeral brings out twice as many mourners. Frank tried to keep his face away from others without seeming too obvious about it. It had been twenty years and he was wearing sunglasses, but Danny warned that Marie had resumed contact with her immediate family and they would certainly be here.

The caskets were side-by-side, highly polished like cars in a showroom, surrounded by garlands and sweet-smelling flower arrangements.

They were closed.

Frank expected this, even hoped for it—but another side of him wanted, needed, to see his baby’s face a last time. It was a natural part of the grieving process, and necessary for closure. There were photos on stands on either side of the caskets. The young man, the young woman, as they had been in life. Smiling for the camera, happy and healthy. Their whole futures ahead of them.

Gwen’s hair was as black as when she was a child. Frank’s heart lurched at the image of her. The stately widow’s peak she definitely got from her mother, but the high forehead and the features below, he hated to admit, most resembled her father’s. However the same characteristics making him rugged, chiseled, magically transformed in his daughter to form delicate Old World beauty. He wondered if Marie was reminded of her old sweetheart whenever she looked at their daughter. Better if she was not.

Momma! Daddy’s tickilin me!

He put his fingers on the cool metal skin of the casket and, head bowed, closed his eyes against his own reflection, remembering the giggling black-haired girl running to him, always delighted to see him, always. He daubed his eyes beneath the glasses with his fingers. My little Guinevere, he murmured only to himself. The hospital waiting room, the night she was born. His first sight of her, face purple, trembling with rage, howling her little head off. What lungs she had! She was born with a thick mat of black hair. His heart melted, and never fully recovered, when he held her the first time, and only then had she stopped wailing. And later, looking up at him, seeming not to see, her dark eyes impossibly wide and filled with mysteries known only to newborns.

He felt a pang of guilt for his cowardly thoughts from earlier, thoughts of not coming to the funeral and how his daughter was beyond caring one way or the other—had he actually told himself that? And suddenly a strange sensation came over him, one he could not begin to understand or explain. It was the feeling of having someone standing near to him, very close, though there was no one. It was strangely comforting and at the same time he noticed a faint, sweet fragrance he detected over the scents of the flowers though it was completely pleasant and not at all overpowering. It was—strawberries, he decided. So tenuous he almost thought he was imagining it.

A woman’s sobbing snapped him out of it—the scent forgotten, he turned, heart pounding, both afraid and hopeful of seeing Marie. A middle-aged woman sat in the first row, consoled by a man and two younger women. Raymond’s family, perhaps his mother and siblings.

He spent a few minutes examining the funeral arrangements, his eyes returning time and again to the casket holding his daughter. The room was overflowing with flowers and plant bouquets. He saw cards from Gwen’s students in New England and from the Haven School Board, and from Raymond’s coworkers. A lovely potted plant had been delivered from a Mrs. Valerie Newcombe, the Book Cellar, Haven. The accompanying card had a warmth indicating personal attachment and Frank filed away the name mentally for future reference

People were beginning to find seats and Frank took a place in the back where he might not be noticed. The seating arrangement had the husband’s family and friends on the right of the room, Gwen’s on the left. The front rows of his daughter’s were empty and he did not recognize anyone seated further back. As the room became more settled he came to worry that Marie might not even be able to attend the service. She had to be devastated. He regretted not calling her. She would be sorry later if she was not here.

Several people entered the room and sat in the second and third rows and Frank recognized two of Marie’s sisters, both with men who were presumably their own husbands, and one of his ex-wife’s aunts and an uncle. Then Marie came in, walking carefully as if on slippery ice. She was accompanied by a man Frank’s age who held her arm firmly in both his hands, with two young men not yet thirty trailing who resembled the husband.

She wore a black dress and stockings. In her late 40s and still slim and straight-backed despite the oppressive grief. At first he did not see her face clearly. Her head hung slightly and her hair, brushed over one shoulder and shiny black with only a hint of a regal gray, hid her features from his angle. Nonetheless his heart quickened at the sight of her, and he began to relax. It seemed better now that she was here. Even a room apart, he was not alone in this.

Suddenly she paused, her husband stopping with her, and she turned to scan the seated mourners. Her cheekbones were still sharp, the firm chin and beautiful mouth, and the widow’s peak, all nearly the same, but her pallor was evident. She looked right at him and he stared back, stunned. She wore sunglasses as did he, but he felt their gazes locked, and he was relieved to see not the slightest bit of surprise on her features. She knew he’d be here. Then the moment was gone and she was escorted to her seat.

His mind drifted and he paid no attention to the eulogies or even noted who gave them. He endured those and the words of the priest in a daze, watching Marie’s back both figuratively and literally. She sat up straight during the ceremony with her husband’s arm around her. He was the one showing the weight—his head kept bowing, his shoulders sagging.

In no time it seemed people were standing and filing past the caskets, saying their personal Goodbyes, offering their condolences to the families. Frank stood to do likewise.

He shook the hand of Marie’s husband with both his own. The man seemed crushed. He would be a prince, and would’ve doted on Gwen; Marie would not have accepted less. He found her looking up at him over the rims of her dark glasses, her eyes swollen and red. She took his hands in hers and pulled him down to her and they embraced. He inhaled the fragrance of her hair with tears in his eyes. They said nothing.

The day was overcast but Frank kept the glasses on. He considered having a word with the two Feds outside but decided against it. They would be highly reluctant to open up to him, even if they had an idea who he was from Danny or some other.

He knew he would be visiting New England, but wasn’t sure of his next move. He thought it would be a good idea to see Marie, find out what he could about Gwen’s life in Haven. He was not looking forward to it. The brief moment inside the funeral home was a sad one. But sweet as well, and he did not want to risk spoiling the memory of it.

He was deciding to go back to the hotel and get out of the suit when someone approached from behind. Frank tensed, wary. He turned to see Marie’s husband offering his hand. Excuse me. I’m Cliff Tibbets.

Frank Moore.

Of course, Tibbets responded. He continued without one of those pregnant pauses, for which Frank silently thanked him. Marie asked me to apologize for not coming out to speak to you. She’s been in a pretty bad way.

I understand completely, Frank assured him. Tibbets didn’t look too on top of things himself.

She and I both feel it’s important for us to talk, the other explained. She just can’t handle all this socializing right now. How long are you in town?

As long as you need, Frank said. He gave him the name and room number of his hotel.

Marie is assuming you’re going to Haven, Tibbets remarked, watching Frank’s reaction.

I am.

Well I’ll call you this evening. Look, you’re welcome to be with the family tonight. Everyone will be at the house, though I’m not sure Marie will be doing much more than trying to sleep.

Thanks for the offer, Frank replied earnestly, but the hotel’s fine.

Okay. Well I’m glad to have met you, Frank. I’ll call tonight, or Marie will, we need to get together.

Call as late as you like, Frank reminded him.

Tibbets was Frank’s age, handsome, with a high forehead and receding blond hair turning gray. He was Frank’s height but with a little more middle-aged padding on his frame. He had the look of a self-made executive who took pretty good care of himself. Frank recalled he’d owned a string of dry cleaners or something when they’d gotten married—what, fifteen years ago? But now he was tired and shell-shocked, the look of a man with his world torn from under him.

Frank had no idea how successful this Federal Witness Protection stuff was; after so many years did subjects tend to resume contact with family members they were separated from? Marie’s relatives were at the funeral. How many subjects in relocation ended up dead years later because of a failure to stay in hiding? He would have to ask Cox. He was now worried that Gwen may have been tracked down and targeted through Marie’s family. But if that was the case, why hadn’t Marie been hit first? Maybe Marie was in danger this very minute. Frank looked around and spotted the Federal men in the unmarked car. He found the cop from inside hovering around the front doors, scanning the crowd. He had a hand up to his ear, no doubt listening to a hidden microphone like the Secret Service, but he seemed relaxed if vigilant. Frank followed his line of sight and saw two men he had not noticed before, parked a block down the street. Looked like his ex was well-protected.

He returned to the hotel with a six-pack from a convenience store which he intended to last a while; he wanted to stay sharp. You could never tell when it might be the wrong moment to let your guard down, so better not to let it down at all. Vaguely he became aware that he was taking on habits, an attitude, long since almost completely forgotten. Almost.

He called Lori, told her about the service, that he had seen Marie and her husband. No, he decided not to go to the cathedral or the cemetery. He had chosen to stay in Augusta at least until tomorrow. Lori said Anna and Leslie, her own daughters, were spending the night and they had rented a couple of Patrick Swayze movies.

Tenderly, Lori asked, Were there closed caskets?

Yeah, Frank sighed.

Now there was a pause, and Frank silently thanked whatever powers that be for her. I sorta wish I’d come with you, she said after a moment.

I sorta wish you had, too, he admitted, but better you didn’t. There’s too much baggage here.

Were there photos?

Yeah. It was nice.

How did she look, honey?

Frank tried to answer and an unexpected wave of emotion left him unable to speak for a moment. He swallowed audibly, and breathed, She was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. He got it together, and added, Ray was a good-looking kid. The grandchildren would’ve been gorgeous. He said this with no problem. It was just a statement of fact. And the idea was a happy one.

Anyway, I just bought some beer and I’m gonna watch some TV. Maybe I’ll see Marie later if they call.

Call me if you need to, she reminded him.

I promise—same goes for you, hon.

She told him she loved him and they hung up. He took everything off but his slacks, socks and undershirt and lay on the bed with the pillows propping him up. He nursed a can of beer and channel-surfed until he found a ball game. The Braves and the White Sox—but it didn’t matter who was playing, he couldn’t concentrate on the game anyway.

After a while and realizing he had not even noticed who was winning, he put down the still-unfinished beer and stood at the windows, peering through a slit in the curtains. The sun was going down. He scanned the parking lot three stories below, looking for anything suspicious. He was fully back in danger mode. It had been a long time.

In his dream Gwen was grown-up, running ahead of him through the forest, jumping over fallen logs and dodging low branches. She was barefoot because she was dead, like Paul on the cover of Abbey Road. She kept looking back at him, moving ahead, wordlessly urging him to keep up. It all seemed to be in slow motion, and it was fuzzy and indistinct, like in a mist. And no matter how hard he tried he just couldn’t catch up to her.

The phone’s ringing woke him. He snapped up, alert instantly like in the old days. Frank? It’s Cliff Tibbets.

The room was dark except for the television. After nine by his watch—he had been asleep for hours. Cliff, he said in response.

I’m downstairs in the bar, Tibbets told him. Can you come down?

Sure. Is Marie with you?

There was a pause and the other man said, No. She isn’t. I’m sorry, I’ll explain when we talk.

I’ll be right down.

He put on a pair of jeans, a pocket T and some sneakers, and took his cell phone along inside his jacket. He was a little disappointed that Marie did not come. He was worried about her. He wanted to see for himself she was going to get through this.

The bar was called Spanky’s, it was dark and plush and without much personality like all hotel saloons. A jukebox was softly playing the Dixie Chicks and the place was quiet for a Saturday night.

The bar itself was huge and trimmed in chrome which reflected the neon light adornments. The bartender was a frosted blonde 30-something with bright red lipstick. Tibbets met Frank with a bottle of beer and led him to a table against the wall where they could speak privately.

Frank, Marie is a mess, he said with a rueful shake of the head. I don’t know what to do. She goes between these highs and lows and she won’t talk to anyone about what she’s feeling.

To Frank it seemed Tibbets wanted his help, or at least his advice, but he didn’t think it proper to offer. He took a drink of his beer and said nothing.

When Marie’s mom died two years ago, it was bad, Cliff explained, but this is much worse. She held together then. Now she’s not.

Frank wondered again about Marie contacting her family, breaking cover. Marie is tough, he pointed out, speaking from personal experience. I’m sure she’ll pull out of this.

Cliff sipped his own beer and leaned on his elbows and Frank saw how terribly tired the man appeared. I guess a lot of it is me, he confided, his brows knitting with misery. It’s been rough on me too. I mean, a wife and husband are supposed to prop each other up when they lose a child, and I really need her now, but she’s just not—Frank, I’m sorry, I know she was your kid—

Don’t be. I’m glad Gwen had a dad in her life, Frank assured him. He noted that this guy definitely had no problem showing his feelings. But he was thankful. His daughter had been raised in a warm and loving environment.

Tibbets said, Frank, you don’t need to worry. I know that Marie would tell you not to beat yourself up over not being in Gwen’s life. She was a happy kid and, believe me, she knew her dad loved her. She really did.

I appreciate you saying that. Frank felt a touch of annoyance. Tibbets no doubt meant well. But he talked too much.

You know, I have two older boys from before I met Marie. I’m close to both of them. But Gwen—Gwen was so special, to all of us. I wish you could’ve seen the way her big brothers doted on her, fussed over her. And she looked after them too, like a lioness with her cubs. Tears in his eyes, he gave Frank a sorrowful smile. Their hearts are broken over this, boy.

Frank said