Devil of Hemlock Trail

By Jeremy Fulmore

Renowned expert of the occult, Dr. Walter Prine, is summoned to a town in West Virginia to interview nine survivors of an unimaginable holocaust. They claimed that an angel had killed all but nine for failure to deliver a man named Jericho Black. As the sessions intensify, Dr. Prine learns that he is the true target of the vengeful angel, for hiding one of the most precious possessions in existence: An apple from the Garden of Eden taken from a world without sin.

But Prine suffers from amnesia at the hand of God as punishment for his treachery and does not remember anything about the apple. Prine soon finds himself in the middle of a search between Heaven and Hell to find the omnipotent fruit that might end the war between good and evil forever.

But the cost may be the end of life itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 21, 2005
• ISBN: 9780595818808

Jeremy Fulmore

For the past fifteen years Jeremy D. Fulmore has studied the teachings and rites from over thirty different religions, all of which share an apocalyptic end to life and humanity. He chose to concentrate on the world of angels because of their universal appeal. Jeremy Fulmore is the author of The Blind and the Caged.

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DEVIL OF HEMLOCK TRAIL

Copyright © 2005 Jeremy D. Fulmore.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-0-5953-7487-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-0-5956-7512-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-0-5958-1880-8 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 04/11/2024

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1 Jailbreak

Chapter 2 A Strange Request

Chapter 3 The Illusionist

Chapter 4 The Clairvoyant

Chapter 5 Holocaust

Chapter 6 Rage of the Devil

Chapter 7 A Familiar Fiend

Chapter 8 A Girl of Convenience

Chapter 9 Footprints

Chapter 10 Pursuit

Chapter 11 From the Beginning

Chapter 12 To Kill a Devil

Chapter 13 The Right to Face Your Accuser

Chapter 14 Questionable Details

Chapter 15 Search for Survivors

Chapter 16 Maze of Bodies

Chapter 17 Intruder

Chapter 18 Narrow Escape

Chapter 19 The Black Eye Patch

Chapter 20 Follow the Leader

Chapter 21 A Plan for Escape

Chapter 22 The Angelic War

Chapter 23 The Apple

Chapter 24 A New Hell

Chapter 25 Raphael’s Fears

Chapter 26 Lucifer’s Bodyguard

Chapter 27 Jericho’s New Ally

Chapter 28 Saved by Circumstances

Chapter 29 Arrival of Trouble

Chapter 30 Ground Attack

Chapter 31 Jericho’s Dream

Chapter 32 Deadly Rain

Chapter 33 The Floodgates

Chapter 34 The Nightmare Continues

Chapter 35 Do You Know Where Your Children Are?

Chapter 36 Too Late for Help

Chapter 37 Eight Survivors

Chapter 38 A Moment in Time

Chapter 39 A Lost Love

Chapter 40 All of God’s Creations

Chapter 41 Looking Back at the Future

Preface

Think men change?

They do not.

Think that I can get them to do things that they would not have normally done?

No, I cannot.

Horrible acts that are committed originate in the hearts of the men that commit them. These are things that they had thought about, feelings they harbored, acts they suppressed. But the deeds originate in their souls. This is how they truly feel; for these are the acts performed without limitation or restraint.

Am I evil because I released the restraints of man..? Because I let them swim in the dark river of their own intentions?

I am not the criminal. I did not put those feelings in their hearts to begin with. They were already there: The envy of what a neighbor possesses… The intoxication of power and dominance… The desire to hurt someone they dislike… All of these things are present within the hearts of men without someone like me whispering in their ears.

How many times have you heard the similar story of a man who awakens one day to slaughter his family? It happens quite often. But more fascinating than the act are the interviews with the people who knew him. Friends and neighbors often say things like: He was a great guy.

He would give you the shirt off his back.

Never in a thousand years would I have imagined he could do such a thing.

In their minds it fails to make sense. The raving, screaming asshole… now there is someone they could easily accept: The one who tells you exactly what he thinks… the one that wears his emotions on his sleeve, ready to toss his can of beer to the curb and get in your face. Now he is someone that you could imagine would do terrible things to others without remorse or regret, but the hard working family man is someone that people would have a hard time accepting as a cold blooded murderer.

Why?

Because on the outside he appears to be good and the other is evil!

But the screaming lunatics on the outside seldom commit such heinous acts of violence. Sure, they quickly engage in fist fights, but hacking women and children to pieces…? That’s rare.

The person who releases his rage as it rises is better off. The one who discloses his displeasure before it builds feels better. The one that releases his lust can handle temptation. The one who openly expresses in what way you hurt him, frees himself of pain.

But this is not the behavior of good Christian people. God fearers are humble and polite, attend church every Sunday and always speak kind words. But inside, their true feelings never die. No matter what attempts they make to kill it with kindness, the original thought never goes away, like garbage stuffed in a closet. You can slam the door shut and lock it, but inside the smell of stink gets more putrid. All it takes is for something to open the door and then all that trash comes pouring out into the rose garden… like a large steaming pile of filth.

This is the filth that ferments deep within the hearts of men.

Am I the evil one… simply because I opened the closet?

Unknown

CHAPTER 1

JAILBREAK

Brock Daniels had just settled into the place he would be calling home for the next few years: a square room with a musty bunk bed and a view obscured by iron bars and a cinder block wall. The eight-by-eight foot cell was painted charcoal gray, with a sink and a stainless steel toilet in the corner. Cockroaches marched along the sink and floor in a most interesting example of role reversal: The Cell block was their home and Brock was the annoying pest that they preferred to see exterminated.

Brock Daniels once believed that he would never become accustomed to the gray concrete walls stained with human excrement and other filth. But now, on just the third day after his arrest, the wall that so disgusted him now left him indifferent. The urge to vomit was gone. His repulsion had been replaced with acceptance. Brock was far from being a battle-hardened prisoner, but it would take more than dirt to chip away his urbane persona. Still, at least the rancid smell of the jail cell no longer turned his stomach.

Brock was not alone. He shared the cell with a friend of his, an ex-Marine who (as of a few days ago) was the Sheriff of his home town. Sheriff Cooper, had almost lost his desire to speak. He would speak maybe two sentences a day. He would laugh on occasion, daydreaming about something in his past, then he would fall silent again. During the day he could be seen with his head against the steel bars, straining to look down the narrow hallway toward the deputy’s station.

It must have been hard on him, Brock thought. Sheriff Cooper used to be in charge of all of this. Now he had to ask permission to change the television channel in the common room. One could just imagine the humiliation.

Brock and the Sheriff were being held, without bond, on forty-three counts of homicide. The church burning was regarded as mass murder; it was just the kind of blasphemy those in league with the devil would perform. In this day and age, being prosecuted for Devil Worship was as barbaric as trial by ordeal. But murder was punishable by death…no matter the era.

Sheriff Cooper pressed his head between the cold iron bars. His eyes strained to focus down the empty corridor. At the end of the hallway was a white door with a small glass window at the top. To the side of the door was a coded entry system. The indicator had turned green about five minutes ago, yet no one came through the door. It was most peculiar.

Something is wrong, said Sheriff Cooper. We are overdue for lunch. My deputies—I mean… The deputies are never this late.

Brock stared at the ceiling. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. They no longer have you to crack the whip on them. They’ll be along any minute now.

Sheriff Cooper went back to staring down the hall. His white hands gripped the iron bars so tightly the backs of his hands were turning red. There was not a sound to be heard, not even from the other cells.

Relax, Brock said to the sheriff. The guys will let us out for lunch any minute now.

Sheriff Cooper removed his head from the bars and turned to his friend. His eyes were wide with fright. In a matter of seconds perspiration had formed a shiny coat on his skin. "

BROCK!

" he said.

Sometimes the tone of a person’s voice speaks volumes. Anger, happiness, and fear can all be detected through the minutest of inflections. But there are times when the emotion runs much deeper, and a person’s soul can say what words cannot. When the sheriff called his name, Brock Daniels felt the fear in his voice.

Brock sat straight up in his bunk. What is it?

He needed only to look through the iron bars to find his answer.

A being around six foot five hovered about an inch off the ground outside the cell. He was bald and his skin was so pale it was light gray. His face was long and thin and his lips were deep purple. The being was dressed in a dark jacket made of a mysterious material, with an oversized turtleneck collar that came up to his chin. His fingers were abnormally long, around twelve inches in length, with large knotted joints. In proportion to his hands, his fingers resembled the limbs of a daddy long-legs arachnid. The pants he wore ended just below the knees. His calves were bare and his feet were shriveled, with his toes curled and deformed. He did not need his feet to walk, as they seemed never to touch the ground. But of all things, the most frightening was his eyes. His left eye was a brilliant blue color; it was deep and reflected tiny waves of light like a swimming pool in the summertime. His right eye was an iridescent red, as though there were a raging fire trapped behind the iris. In the dark shadows, his blue and red eyes glowed like beacons. He was the angel Zachariel.

Mephistopheles tells me you two were the ones who destroyed my work in the church, said Zachariel.

Brock Daniels and Sheriff Cooper said nothing. Their minds were still trying to process the image of the demon standing before them.

Perhaps you did not hear me clearly, said Zachariel.

Slowly he floated forward until his body rested against the iron bars of the cell. Zachariel pressed forward, pushing against the bars. The iron started to creak and his body squeezed through the bars like Play doh being pressed through a spaghetti maker. The grotesque sound of grinding meat and bones echoed through the tiny cell as he forced his body through the iron bars. Halfway though, his face and body began to reform into its hideous features. By the time he was inside the cell with Brock and Cooper his body had reformed completely.

I am sure you will be able to hear me better now, said Zachariel.

It felt as if the eight-by-eight foot cell had shrunk by four feet. There was absolutely no way to escape. Brock scooted against the filthy wall beside his bunk. Sheriff Cooper backed all the way into the far corner until his buttocks hit the ceramic sink. Zachariel was the angel who had performed the atrocious act in the church last spring. Both men had witnessed the aftereffects. I say again, said Zachariel. You are the ones who destroyed my work in the church, are you not?

Sheriff Cooper’s heart felt like it was about to burst right through his chest, but he answered. That was me. I burned it down.

Good, said Zachariel. He looked down at Brock, cowering against the wall. And what about you; did you play a part in it?

No, it was all me, the sheriff answered.

A part of Brock refused to remain silent. Brock did take part, and he knew what the sheriff was doing. Wait, he said, before he even knew why he spoke.

Sheriff Cooper made a career out of saving lives. Brock was his best friend. Yet, after all they had been through, Brock felt it was wrong to have the man who decided to defy the fallen ones die alone.

I took part in it too, Brock continued. I helped him.

Believing that the next step was death, Sheriff Cooper felt Brock was both brave and stupid. He felt proud that his friend would stand up to devils in order to prove their friendship, but he also cursed the loyalty Brock displayed.

Very good, said Zachariel, bringing his long fingers together. Let us see how many others you are willing to save. Follow me.

Zachariel drifted back toward the cell bars. Again he pressed his body through the cold steel and the sound of squishing muscle and snapping bones echoed through the quiet jail. When he was outside the cell, Zachariel turned around to see confused looks on the faces of both men.

Oh, you don’t know what is going on, do you? Well, it goes like this. You two are chosen to be the witnesses. Everyone except nine people must die. You two are included… so that leaves seven others to chose from. Come, let’s inspect the town and see which seven you think worthy of survival.

It couldn’t be true, Brock thought. He’s lying. Brock looked beyond the bars of the cell with tears in his eyes. That murderous bastard was so nonchalant about the whole thing that it could not be true. No one, devil or not, could promise the death of thousands as casually as placing a dinner order.

Hurry up, said Zachariel. I don’t have all day.

Sheriff Cooper walked with trembling knees. His worst nightmare had come to fruition, but if this creature was going to let him witness it, he was willing to go. A few feet from the cell bars Cooper motioned for Brock to follow. If the entire town were to be wiped out, then the loneliest place on earth would have been that cell. Brock maneuvered his slightly portly body and slid off the mattress.

Sheriff Cooper looked at Zachariel through the cell bars. His body was fully intact and unharmed.

You are going to have to unlock the cell door, said the sheriff. We can’t do what you do.

Zachariel’s face expressed the angel’s intolerance for sarcasm. The door has been unlocked for half an hour now, he declared.

With a gentle nudge to his right, the sheriff slid the cell bars open.

Zachariel drifted forward. His shriveled toes hovered inches from the ground. Time to see what you can do.

CHAPTER 2

A STRANGE REQUEST

A vehicle with government license plates coasted through the campus of Northern Virginia College and came to a stop in the east parking lot. The dark colored Chevy Caprice was the car of choice issued for field use, but Agent Lillian Molina detested FBI protocols. She would much prefer a small red convertible, a vehicle that radiated rich sentiments from its lustrous paint. Instead, she had to drive a vehicle whose body style was as dreary as its color; one that screamed Feds when pulling into a parking lot.

Sliding out of the oversized sedan with feline grace, the agent donned her dark shades and took a look around campus. With her shoulder length black hair, vibrant olive skin and dark hypnotic eyes, Agent Molina turned heads as she stood by the hood of her cruiser. A gust of wind rushed down the front of her chest before she could button her wool coat. She clutched the front of her coat together with one hand and waved down a wandering student with the other.

Excuse me, she called out with a slight Hispanic accent, I was wondering if you could tell me where to find… She paused to retrieve a notepad from her pocket… Professor Prine.

Young male college students appeared so truckling to a mature woman. The wild haired student with a backpack looked as if thinking was painful to him. I have no idea, but the teacher’s lounge is that way. He motioned to the building on his left, whipping his head and hair in that direction.

Agent Molina took a quick glance at the three-story brick building. It was one of many. A classic structure of its era, it had been built over eighty years ago, with long concrete columns and protective gargoyles carved from stone. Gray slate stairs wrapped around the front of the building leading up to the foyer. The front doors were large and solid.

Thanks, said the agent, smiling flirtatiously.

The Northern Virginia Campus had many large grassy fields with perpendicular paths leading to each of the main buildings. Agent Molina walked with her stylish leather boots pounding the pavement with a purpose. Students were conversing on park benches and off in the grass. Some students where gathered in front of the buildings while others formed small groups in the parking lot. The campus was alive with young students socializing and studying. Agent Molina flashed her million-dollar smile at anyone who made eye contact with her until she found one young student who knew the professor.

Thank you so much, she said to her escort.

This time she had hooked an older male. Willing to please, the middle-aged man eagerly accompanied the agent to Dr. Prine’s office. I am pretty sure he is in there, he said, allowing his eyes to take in her charming features a bit longer.

I bet you’re right, she answered.

For the agent, this was a one-time shot. The man she was seeking had cooperated with the bureau before, but had rejected any and all subsequent requests for assistance. Professor Prine had a young son named Lexington who possessed unique paranormal abilities. The father and son team had a perfect record: three missing persons cases, three people returned safely to their families. But the pressures of hunting malevolence began to take its toll and the professor had withdrawn. However, this was no common case and standard procedures had come up empty. The professor was the bureau’s last hope.

Dr. Walter Prine was sitting at his desk. He wasn’t one of the more privileged professors, so he shared an office with two others. The room was about the size of an average bedroom with two large windows and a giant poster of Auguste Rodin’s The Thinker on the adjacent wall: a nude man seated on a rock with one hand on his knee and the other under his chin. Private spaces were sectioned off by blue cloth cubicles. Dr. Prine’s desk was in the middle. There were several newspaper articles pinned to the inner walls of his cubicle, one of which was one of his own about medieval lore and its misinterpretation in today’s society. A large white calendar on the desk was scattered with notes and coffee stains. Toward the center were three pictures of a young boy. The pictures seemed to have been captured on impulse: one playing a game of chess, one at the beach, and the other shaking another man’s hand while receiving some sort of award.

Dr. Prine? she inquired.

Professor Prine swiveled around in his chair and smiled. Agent Molina? It’s a pleasure to meet you.

What a great poster, she said admiringly.

It is probably one of the most recognizable statues in all the world.

"The Thinker, she continued. I guess it is fitting for the psychology department."

Professor Prine removed the small wire rimmed glasses from his face and admired the poster along with Agent Molina. That is my poster. I put it up several years ago but strangely enough its creator never intended for it to be the centerpiece of psychology. Auguste Rodin’s sculpture was meant to represent the poet Dante.

Dante? Agent Molina asked. As in Dante’s Inferno, the poem of the nine circles of Hell?

"Yes. Rodin was commissioned by the French government to make two huge doors of bronze for a new museum. He called the doors The Gates of Hell, but he was never able to finish them. However, he did duplicate 186 figurines for the museum. This is one of them. In time the centerpiece, known as The Thinker, took on a whole new meaning. Dr. Prine turned to his guest. Hell of a history lesson, don’t you think?"

The professor stood and offered his hand. Her eyes followed the length of his five foot ten inch frame as he stood before her. He was African-American with short hair and smooth brown skin… and very pleasing to look at. The professor was dressed casually, in blue Dockers and a long sleeved polo shirt. Even in his loose clothing she could see that the professor was lean and active.

Is there something wrong? asked Dr. Prine.

Nooooo! she responded. It’s just that most experts in the field are… she did not want to offend… "Older!"

Oh, said the professor. That doesn’t bother you, does it?

Of course not. Your reputation speaks for itself.

Dr. Prine sat down in his high back leather computer chair. He offered the agent a seat, but she stood uncomfortably instead. Prine noted the way her eyes shifted impatiently, the way her hand rested against her hip, and the manner in which she said, Ah-hem, patting her chest gingerly. His dating etiquette was a bit rusty, but he correctly determined this to be a woman who did not mind having a man attend to her.

Would you like me to take your coat? he asked.

Her mood brightened instantly. Why of course.

Agent Molina spun around to allow the professor to slide her wool coat from her shoulders. He rested the coat gently over one of the walls of his cubicle and held the chair for her. After performing his gentlemanly duties, Dr. Prine took a seat.

I am not quite sure what I can do for you, Agent Molina. But you went through all of this trouble to set up a meeting; the least I can do is hear your problem.

Well, you see… I am not really a field agent. I am an analyst. This is my first time in the field. I was sent here to try and convince you to look into a case for the bureau. A town in West Virginia is facing a crisis… and your presence has been requested.

Dr. Prine stood up from his desk and peered over the cubicle wall. The professor in the adjoining cubicle was off teaching a class and the desk opposite him was also empty. Although they were alone, Dr. Prine scooted closer and whispered, "If you are referring to the missing persons cases that were solved with my help we can just cut the crap now. Look, everyone who worked those cases knows that I did not solve anything… my son did. He’s an eleven-year old genius with clairvoyant gifts.

"I mean, the first missing persons case was a fluke. He had no idea what was happening. Then the other two were nationally recognized cases, so it attracted a lot of attention and a lot of praise for those who took credit for saving the girls in time. Now I know that if they sent you to ask me to take on another case it is because you are a young, beautiful and persuasive woman… and I am a single male who has not had a relationship in ten years. But the fact of the matter is: the reason I turned down the last fifteen requests to work a missing persons case is because I don’t want my son to be looked upon as some sort of freak. I am trying my best to ensure he grows up a normal, healthy human being. The FBI contacts me, and to protect him, I get the credit. So let’s just get past all of the charming details. The answer is no. This is not a business for a young boy. The psychological damage from seeing a great malefactor through someone else’s eyes will kill him before he is sixteen. The nightmares have already been depriving him of precious sleep… so no more! He will not become a burned-out statistic. I am not going to let that happen."

Agent Molina thought for a second. Her playful stares bounced off Dr. Prine’s tough exterior. The pictures on the desk were of Lexington Prine. She now had a face to go along with the name. I don’t think I made myself clear, she said. This is not a typical missing persons case, and we are not interested in your son. I understand that you have helped the agency before with your occult expertise.

The professor’s apprehensive posture relaxed just a bit. That’s true. How could I forget about that?

It had been a defining moment in Dr. Prine’s life. He had been asked to use his knowledge of the occult to find a young girl at the request of her grandmother. That journey led him to a faith healing Minister, a serial killer, and the supreme forces of the supernatural. But most of all, Dr. Prine had gained insight into his own distinct ancestry. That had been three years ago.

Dr. Prine, the Bureau is asking you to provide us with your knowledge of religious and occult history to solve another problem, that’s all.

Agent Molina slid a manila envelope across the desk, holding it down with her hand. The black diagonal bars along the outer edges of the folder indicated it was a secret document. She was not about to let him see the contents unless he was on board.

Dr. Prine took notice of her smooth skin and manicured French nails. Then he noticed the engagement ring. She behaved in much too feminine a way to be a field agent, but then again, she admitted to being stuck behind a desk. Agent Molina was simply the messenger.

Before I agree or refuse, I need to know who is behind this, Prine demanded.

The agent smiled as if the question had been expected. You were recommended by the bureau’s new director, Mr. Jack Ward.

It was a name the professor was familiar with. Three years ago, Jack was the hotshot agent working the Pristine murder case and Dr. Prine was assisting him. The two had hit it off instantly, laughing and joking as if they had known each other for years. But when the case was over, Jack left without speaking another word to Dr. Prine.

I never blamed him, Prine thought. He saw things he never believed were possible. And I was the one doing it.

The Professor’s thought process was interrupted by Agent Molina.

Jack told me to use his name only if necessary. He told me this was right up your alley. He made sure to mention that I could trust you.

Agent Molina removed her delicate hand from the envelope.

Trust, Prine thought. At least I know his feelings about me don’t include betrayal. The professor looked down at the agent’s engagement ring once more then back at her face. He was tempted by her alluring smile. You and Jack are engaged to be married, he stated.

With her hand on her chest and her mouth open, Agent Molina displayed a look of total befuddlement. I though you said your son was the psychic. Not even people in the Bureau know that.

Jack was always a frisky old devil. It figured that his charms would eventually snag him a beauty one day… and his new position did not hurt either.

Jack sent someone he trusted—his future wife—to deliver the message. After all these years, Jack finally decided to put his fears aside and live up to his beliefs. But his method of contact meant he still wasn’t ready to confront what he had seen on the faith healer’s pulpit. Considering the terms on which Jack and the professor had parted, Jack Ward must have been all out of options.

I accept, said Dr. Prine, looking down at the envelope.

Dr. Prine’s attentive eyes scanned each document in seconds, flipping through each page and making strange facial expressions. After turning over the last page he paused, resting his elbows on the desk and sighing.

What is it? asked Agent Molina. Did you read through the documents that fast?

Without looking, Prine answered, This has to be some elaborate canard. It’s garbage. Where is Jack? I want to speak to him about this.

Agent Molina raised both hands as if it were not possible. You can’t…He…He can’t be involved in this. I mean, there can’t be any way to trace back his contact with you.

Look, this says that an entire town—all but nine people—have vanished from the face of the earth. Prine looked dumbfounded. Three thousand people gone without a word?

Dr. Prine closed the folder and handed it back to Agent Molina in disgust. This isn’t classified, this is mumbo jumbo.

Agent Molina tried to think of a way she could convince the professor that the report was real without having to compromise her fiancé’s position. Her smile was gone. Her seductive glances were replaced with indecision. She raised her soft hands to her lips in a pose of prayer. Agent Molina’s last attempt was to try and appeal to the professor’s sense of compassion. Pushing the folder away, she spoke from the heart.

"Listen, Jack did not send me here. I came here on my own. I don’t want to see him buckle to bureaucracy and become responsible for the biggest mistake in history. The document is true. An entire town had vanished; all but nine people. And the survivors have a story to tell that no one is willing to believe. The agents have combed through every fact, figure, scenario, and circumstance within reason. None of it makes sense. It’s been three weeks and no one from that town has been heard from or seen. The government has been doing its best to cover it up until they find an answer, but how in the world could you explain something like this to the rest of the country without inciting nationwide panic? The fear of terrorism already has this nation in its grip. Can you imagine if people were to believe that the population of an entire town could be eradicated overnight?

Listen to me. If you go to that town you will be able to see it first hand. There is a section of road where the cars became gridlocked. The cars behind the blockage were trying to ram each other in order to get out of there. It was chaos—telephone poles were knocked down, litter and trash everywhere, and the remnants of tragedy and panic are in every home on every street corner. But as you look around and sift for clues you realize that there are no bodies, no money missing from people’s accounts, no trace of them anywhere. None except the nine survivors that we are holding in detention in the civic building in town.

Dr. Prine stood, rubbing his head vigorously and placing his glasses back on his face. Some of the most intelligent realists work for the Bureau. This was not some crackpot group of high school kids doing the investigating. These were specialists, with the most sophisticated technology at their disposal. No doubt each of them experienced the same disbelief as Professor Prine. For it to have progressed to this point, conventional wisdom must have failed—Dr. Prine had been summoned to provide some unconventional wisdom.

Wake up, will you? Agent Molina pleaded one last time. There is an unexplained disappearance of three thousand people. When someone comes looking for answers it is not a question of who is at fault; the question is who will take the blame. This is the government. In this era, security within our borders is what matters most to Americans. Shit has started rolling downhill, Dr. Prine, and it is beginning to pile up at my fiancé’s door. Please help him—he is your friend. For a man in his position, you can understand why he can’t be connected to someone with your kind of talents.

Agent Molina stood and Dr. Prine helped her with her coat.

I will give you a few days to get your things in order, she continued. "Then I will take you to Bloomsburg. Talk to the people left behind, and hopefully you will come up with a solution. I’ve spoken to some of the people you have helped before. One woman said that you are a messenger of God. For my fiancé’s sake, I hope that is true."

CHAPTER 3

THE ILLUSIONIST

The winter in Southern California usually brought about its fair share of rain, so much that mudslides were a normal and often dreaded occurrence. From a distance it appeared that the area was full of mountains, but the locals were quick to point out that those were hills made of earth and soil, vulnerable to the elements, and unforgiving. But despite that there was no place they would rather be; the sun, the atmosphere, and the Pacific Ocean quelled all notions of living anywhere else. However opinions differ there was one thing about California that everyone could agree on: You either loved it, or you hated it… there was nothing in between.

Serena Capistrano had just finished a refreshing drive down Highway One from Oxnard to Venice Beach, through the lavish homes erected in Malibu on her way to the shops located on the strip. Today was a warm day and Californians did not pass up the opportunity to bask in the sun. The temperature was a very reasonable seventy-six degrees and the sun shone high in the sky with not a cloud in sight. Around noon, Venice Beach was like a carnival full with people and performers eating, rollerblading, shopping, and lying in the sun. She took a moment to breathe in the fresh salt water air of the beach, however her presence was not social, and her mindset quickly turned to business.

Just off the basketball courts Serena spotted a small crowd gathering. There was a man with a dark tan and slender build performing magic tricks… or more accurately described as illusions. His card tricks were gathering interested spectators, inciting awe as he gained momentum, after trapping a card in an unopened bottle of Coca Cola. He