Before The Star Fades

By Jeannine D. Van Eperen

It seemed the ocean had always been part of his life…in St. Yves, France, in Southampton, New York, and here in California, north of Morro Bay.

          He loved the colors of the sunset. He mused. How do I see, people wonder, and how do I explain? On some days I see fairly clearly and on those days, I take out Jean-Marie's picture and Jennifer's. I study them and I study Johanna and the children and sometimes Johanna asks," Jef, why are you looking at me like that?" And the children will say, "Daddy, you're staring," and I look away. They don't realize how precious sight is, even sight like mine."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590884973

Book preview

What They Are Saying About

Before The Star Fades

Author, Jeannie D. Van Eperen’s continuing account about the orphan children of St. Yves, in France, has a way of convincing you—whether or not you want to believe in consecutive lives or past-life memories—that reincarnation is real.

This book is so compelling she’ll make you wonder, Who was I in my past lives? Could the people I love in this life-time actually be individuals I have loved during a past life? Sometimes it sure feels that way. 5 Cups

—JoEllen Conger

Cinderella And The Stripper

"Before the Star Fades is the continuing story of Jeffrey Laurance's colorful and tumultuous life and it grabbed me from the beginning, never letting me go... not even when the story was done. It's a story of life, love and most importantly... living."

—Gail R. Delaney

Before The Star Fades

Jeannine D. Van Eperen

A Wings ePress, Inc.

General Fiction

Edited by: Leslie Hodges

Copy Edited by: Karen Babcock

Senior Editor: Dianne Hamilton

Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Cover Artist: mpmann

All rights reserved

NAMES, CHARACTERS AND incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

Copyright © 2006 by Jeannine D. Van Eperen

ISBN  978-1-59088-497-3

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS  67114

Dedication

For my good friends—in alphabetical order:

Usha Gundahura, Judy Hess and Mandi Isaacson

Thank you for your continued support

and interest in my work.

One

Jeffrey walked from Dutch’s office to his home a mile away. The fall day was clear and crisp. There had been fog earlier rising from the ocean, slithering up the cliffs then covering the countryside. But it had dissipated, burned off by the sun by ten, and now that same sun was sinking into the ocean, its rays orange and golden.

Jennifer and he had built their home on the cliff’s edge so they could watch the sun set and the waves crash against the rocks below. Jennifer! Dead now, what? Seven years. He sighed. He missed her most at sunset and on stormy days when she would find joy in watching the wild ocean’s waves, hearing their roar. It seemed the ocean had always been part of his life... in St. Yves, France; in Southampton, New York; and here in California, north of Morro Bay.

He loved the colors of the sunset. How do I see, people wonder, and how do I explain? On some days I see fairly clearly and on those days I take out Jean-Marie’s picture and Jennifer’s. I study them and I study Johanna and the children, and sometimes Johanna asks, Jef, why are you looking at me like that? And the children will say, Daddy, you’re staring, and I look away. They don’t realize how precious sight is, even sight like mine.

Most of the time now when I picture Jean-Marie, I see Gigi. It’s been so long since I saw Jean-Marie... and then I try not to picture Jean-Marie. It seems almost incestuous to see Gigi in her place, our daughter, so much like her mother.

He neared his house. Johanna and the children were out. It was quiet. Normally music would resound, and lights would be turned on even though twilight had not darkened much. Dutch had flown Jeffrey’s family down to Santa Barbara to visit Gigi, Mike and their baby for some secret expedition. Probably planning my Christmas present already. He smiled at the thought. He was almost forty-four, tall, slender, with emerald green eyes and burnished brown hair with a smattering of grey at the temples. All of his life people had told him he was handsome, a true statement; his children certainly were.

He walked into the unlocked house, entering from the poolside French doors, not bothering to turn on any lights. He liked the dusky light. It seemed normal to him. His vision was poor; he had been blind and partially blind for most of his life. He felt more at ease with the rest of the world in twilight dimness.

He sensed rather than heard or saw anything an instant before it happened. In that split second, he realized the dogs were not greeting him and there were strangers in the house. He tripped and fell face forward, pushing a table slightly as he fell. He felt a large, heavy foot placed on his back and his arms were jerked behind him and bound. He felt the cold steel of a gun against his neck.

Don’t bother crying out, Mr. Laurance, we know no one is here, an unfamiliar voice told him.

Blindfold him. A scarf or some material was tied around his head, covering his eyes.

He was pulled to his feet.

Where’s the safe?

There is none.

Where do you keep your money and jewels?

The bank in San Luis Obispo. Nothing’s here. I have about sixty dollars in my wallet.

Someone took the wallet from his rear pocket, emptied it and let it drop to the floor. Sixty-seven dollars.

You’re sure? another voice asked.

Yeah. That’s all the money, some pictures and junk.

I wonder how much you’re worth to your family? the voice of the one who appeared to be the leader asked rhetorically.

It appears we’ll find out, Jeffrey answered.

I tol’ ya he waz smart, a gravel-voiced, uneducated sounding voice said. His family’s loaded. They got him outta the cell when he waz in stir.

Shut up. You talk too much. Let’s not waste any time, huh, boss? Let’s leave him and get outta here. Jeffrey could tell by the man’s voice and shuffling of feet that the fellow was nervous.

He’s telling the truth. No jewels or money around here, a deep voice said.

Okay, Mr. Laurance, or do you prefer Jeffers? the leader asked politely.

Jeffrey shrugged.

You’re coming with us. You’re not gonna give us any trouble, I hope. We don’t want to hurt you. There are several of us.

Four, Jeffrey said.

He could hear the smile in the leader’s voice. Yes, four here, another outside.

Should I put the tape over his mouth, Fred?

Fred snarled, You keep your own stupid mouth shut.

I won’t cry out, Jeffrey said, and mentally noted that one man’s, not the leader’s, name was Fred.

Maybe not, but we don’t like to take chances, Mr. Laurance. To the other man, the leader said, Tape him.

A large piece of tape was pressed over Jeffrey’s mouth and he was led outside between two of the men. Thank God, Johanna and the children aren’t here. Jeffrey heard them open a car’s trunk. He began feeling panic, and his heart raced. Was there anything he could do? He was blindfolded and gagged, and his hands were bound. About the only thing he might do was run, but strong hands held him. To run, to anger the men, might mean instant death. He tried to keep calm.

Blindman’s bluff, eh? the gravel-voiced man said, tightening his grip.

Sorry, Mr. Laurance, the leader said pleasantly, but you’ll have to ride in here.

Jeffrey hesitated. The men on each side prodded him.

It won’t be for long, the leader said in a rougher tone. If you don’t get in like a good boy, we can use persuasive methods.

The men helped Jeffrey into the trunk, took off his shoes and slammed the trunk closed.

He felt a whoosh of air and heard the sound of metal banging against metal as the trunk door was closed, sealing him in the cramped space. They had removed his shoes so he couldn’t make any loud kicking sounds. Bound and gagged, he was helpless. He decided in that moment when the trunk was locked he would never see his home or family again.

He heard the four men get into the car and slam their car doors and felt the vehicle begin to move over the gravel road.

How many kidnapping victims are saved? He was amazed at how calm he felt. He felt regret. He would have liked to see all of his children grown, but he knew he had a full life, three lovely wives, three happy marriages, four children, two stepchildren, two distinct careers—performer and writer—and a peaceful, separate home life. Yes, most of his forty-four years had been fortunate. His childhood had been marred by the death of his parents, but his mind at age six had reacted by blocking out all memory of that tragedy, and he had been happy at St. Yves Home for Orphan Children in France. It was there that he and Jean-Marie, his first wife, grew up—hardly grew up—Jean-Marie was barely more than a child when she was killed by a rapist. She was twenty-two when it happened, younger than their daughter, Gigi, was now. He still felt sick thinking of Jean-Marie’s death. It was still painful after all these years.

The car bounced along the road and Jeffrey felt slightly carsick, lying as he was on his side with his legs bent in a fetal position. If he threw up, would he suffocate since his mouth was taped shut? He fought to control his nausea. What did it matter, really, if he strangled here in the trunk on his regurgitation or was killed later by them? He had no fear of death, but was confused as to what he believed.

Jeffrey felt the car turn onto the highway. His nausea lessened. He thought they might have headed south.

Did he believe in the Heaven and Hell of his childhood learning of dogma at St. Yves? Probably not. He wasn’t sure there was an omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent God. That belief had been shaken when Jean-Marie was killed, and his Catholicity diminished when his marriage to Jennifer was not accepted by the church. Jennifer!

In the Heaven of his childhood, his parents, his grandparents, Jean-Marie and Jennifer would be waiting for him; would he have to choose between Jennifer and Jean-Marie? It was impossible. And now there was Johanna. He hoped she wouldn’t be duped by these men into giving away everything in hopes of buying his life and his freedom. The children would be all right. Larry was seventeen now, as old as he had been when Lila Lubow discovered him, a blind boy playing the piano in Yves Bistro. Had he only been seventeen? He had felt so adult... such a man. He had been Jean-Marie’s lover for a year. Surely Larry didn’t have these feelings yet. He seemed so young, still a boy. Yet Gigi, his eldest, had fallen in love at eighteen and married at nineteen. And now he was a grandfather. Little Mike was three months old.

The car turned from the highway onto a dirt road. He could smell the dust in the air and the ride got bumpier. They were driving uphill. He wondered how long they had been driving, how far was he from his home, and had Johanna and the kids returned yet to find him gone? What will Johanna do? Call the police? Phone my uncles in New York? Probably call Dutch and let him handle it. Yes, that’s what she’ll do. Then what will Dutch do?

The car turned off the dirt road and onto gravel. It stopped.

Jeffrey’s thoughts were interrupted as he heard the car doors open and shut and heard the men’s footsteps on the gravel. A road or a driveway? Will I be killed now? Out on some lonely road? Or will they take me inside a house first? Have me talk to Johanna on the phone? To assure her I’m safe and will remain so? Maybe. He wished he knew what was going on. He didn’t mind dying so much as he minded uncertainty. Patience was not his virtue. He remembered how he nearly wrecked his relationship with Johanna merely because she didn’t immediately say yes when he told her they would marry the next day. Well, that had eventually worked out. Johanna was his, and they were happy. There were some adjustments. She was, at first, jealous of Jennifer. But Jennifer was dead.

A key turned in the lock and his ears were greeted with the sound of metal creaking as the trunk hinges opened.

Mr. Laurance, we’ll help you out now.

Someone shoved his shoes onto his feet and pulled him up by his arm. He felt dizzy as he was drawn into an upright position. His head grazed the trunk door as he was pulled out.

Sorry about that, the leader said.

Jeffrey had listened as the men talked in the car, unaware that he could, at times, hear them. He believed the leader’s name was Farley. Squirt was the rough, ill-mannered one. Another voice belonged to Evans. Then there was Fred. Was there another? The driver? Yes, he believed there were now five men. Hadn’t Evans said, Not so fast, Ed?

He was led from the gravel road or driveway, across some grass and then up five wooden steps, across a porch and into a house. He heard leaves rustle in the breeze and birds chirp cheerily before the door was closed. The wooden floor under the thin, worn carpet creaked musically as the men walked across it.

You, the leader, Farley, said. Take him to the john before we make him comfy for the night.

Glad ta, Squirt said. He put his arm around Jeffrey’s shoulders and caressed his face. Jeffrey cringed from Squirt’s touch. Come wid me, pretty boy.

Never mind. He doesn’t seem to like you, Farley said. To another he said, You can take him without molesting him, can’t you?

Come with me, Mr. Laurance, Evans said calmly. His voice was soft, but Jeffrey could tell his was a large and muscular body, taller and stronger than he. Jeffrey thought he had the manner of a nurse as he matter-of-factly unzipped Jeffrey’s trousers and guided him to the toilet.

Through the bathroom door, Jeffrey heard Farley say, Squirt, you can’t touch him. Understand?

Whats if they don’t pay, whats then?

Then, Squirt, you can have him with my blessings.

Are ya really gonna give ’im back?

If they cough up four and a half mill for him, I think they deserve him, don’t you? Farley chuckled. With that money I can be benevolent.

Ya kin what?

Be generous.

Yeah, I guess, it waz a good idear I had, huh, boss?

Yes, Squirt, a real good idea.

Been waitin’ close ta twenty-five years fer this. All we did waz have a little fun wid ’im and they took ’im outta da cell and left us der ta rot. Jest cause he’s a rich bastard.

Sure, Squirt. Well, I’m happy to help you with your revenge. A million dollars isn’t bad revenge.

Yeah. Be better though, if ya’d let me have a bit o’ fun wid him first. Does ya s’pose he remembers me?

He feels something, but I don’t think he remembers. He doesn’t seem to be afraid... not yet, anyway.

Well, he waz ’fraid back then. Scared shitless, he waz.

He’s older now. Squirt, I think you’d better stay away from him for now. It’s best if he doesn’t remember you.

Okay, boss.

Jeffrey heard their words, muffled by the door but still audible to him. The one called Squirt knew him. Had he heard right? From prison? He had tried to blank out all memory of that episode of his life. There had been five men who—

You finished? Evans asked. Wanna wash your hands?

How can I? he mumbled through the tape still on his mouth.

Right. I forgot you’re still tied up.

Evans assisted Jeffrey with his trousers, then led him back into the living room.

If you’ll come this way, Mr. Laurance, Farley said, and Evans nudged Jeffrey forward. They walked into another room. Sit down, Mr. Laurance. Evans pushed him down onto a bed.

Jeffrey felt the mattress sag under his weight; the springs protested. He heard another man, probably Fred, move around to the other side of the bed and stand there.

We’re gonna untie your arms but don’t try anything. There are more of us than you.

Jeffrey nodded.

Okay, men, you know what to do. Farley took a few steps back; the creaking floor told Jeffrey that fact.

Evans untied Jeffrey’s wrists. Jeffrey tried to rub some circulation into them but the men pushed him back onto the bed and turned him, face down. Each took a wrist and tied it to his side of the bed. Then each tied an ankle to each side of the bed. For a moment Jeffrey’s hand felt the pole to which he was fastened and he decided it was an old brass bed. The mattress had seen better days as well. They removed his shoes again. He was still blindfolded and gagged. Evans then ripped the sleeve of Jeffrey’s shirt, and professionally gave him a shot in the arm. Jeffrey tried to stay awake, but couldn’t.

EVANS FELT JEFFREY’S pulse and murmured, He’s out. Evans, a large black man, was a nurse. Anything you want to know about him, Farley? What I gave him is sometimes called truth serum. He’ll tell you anything.

No, let him sleep.

Want him still gagged?

For now. He’ll be okay that way, won’t he?

Evans nodded.

We’ll send Ed out to get us some food. We’ve got a long wait, and we can go over our plans again.

Evans got a quilt and laid it over Jeffrey. He’ll get cold not being able to move, and I’ll keep checking on him.

Evans had been recruited by Farley for the caper because of his medical knowledge. If they received the four and a half million they were asking, Farley wanted to return their victim in good condition. He also didn’t want any trouble from the victim. Farley wanted him quiet and docile. Squirt, the idiot, thought there would be a lot of loot at the Laurance home. Farley had doubted that from the start and had made these contingency plans. Plans that included Evans.

Evans had been a good nurse, but he wasn’t able to submerge a desire to sell drugs from the lab as a sideline. His expenses were high—alimony to two wives and four kids, plus he liked good clothes, fast cars and women. Evans just didn’t make enough as an honest registered nurse, but he liked the work. He liked people. He liked the man who was now lying prone, spread eagle, tied to the bed unconscious. Evans had read about him in magazines and newspapers, watched his television shows and saw the two French movies he had made. He hoped they wouldn’t have to kill him, but Evans thought he would kill Jeffrey himself rather than let Squirt have his way. A quick shot in the arm. Evans hated to see anyone suffer, and this dude lying there had suffered in his life. Yeah, the poor bastard had had his share of troubles including a short prison term, incarcerated in a cell with Squirt and four more like him. But on the other side of the victim’s coin he was wealthy, talented, handsome, had his pick of any woman he wanted. In fact, they probably begged him, Evans thought, smiling. But the man was mortal and it was quite possible he would be dead within forty-eight hours. Rob Evans shook his head. He would not give him up to Squirt. No, sir. Evans had to admit torture for torture’s sake made him vomit. He would just have to kill the poor bastard himself, if worst came to worst.

Think he’ll be all right like that? Farley asked, wanting reassurance.

Evans nodded. As long as I keep an eye on him and you keep Squirt outta of here.

Farley nodded. The brains of the group, he graduated summa cum laude ten years ago and immediately embarked on a life of crime—no arrests. Everyday work bored him, but he was very good at his chosen field. This was his first kidnapping, and he had gotten the lead from, of all people, Squirt Thomas, a psycho if there ever was one. But nonetheless it was a good lead. Jeffrey Laurance or Laurance Jeffers III, as he was also known, was rich. Came from a rich Southampton family, had been married to Jennifer Albers, an heiress of immense wealth, and inherited most of her money and property. In addition, he made a bundle every time he made a movie or appeared on television. Tom Farley sighed. He hoped he had chosen right by snatching Laurance and not one of his children. He had debated with himself about it, but Squirt wanted Jeffrey so he agreed, and so far it was working out well. All they had to do now was let the family stew for a while, then call them up and make their demands.

Two

Brad Vermeer walked into his house. Mom, why would Uncle Jef go off with five men and ride in their trunk?

Marcie was peeling potatoes. What did you say, Brad?

"Uncle Jeffrey. He