Sapphic Voices Fantasy

When Amazons Dream

Part One Of A Three-Part Saga
Dream I: Chainless Souls

Disclaimers: `This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the Author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.'

Cautionary Note: This Story is not suitable for underage readers. If it were a movie it would likely be rated `R'--no one under eighteen admitted.'

Library of Congress Registration: Oct. 2004

DREAM I: CHAINLESS SOULS

And if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is, `Leave the heart that now I bear,
And give me liberty!'

From the poem: `The Old Stoic'
by Emily Jane Bronte
March 1, 1841

Chapter I

Front-page photographs of the strange symbols not only sold newspapers, they stirred the imagination; and the shrewd editor in chief of the city's premier source of investigative reporting was on a personal campaign to solve the mystery behind them.

"You have an urgent call on line two," the secretary's voice blared through the intercom. With her eyes still glued to the latest photo hot off the wire, Loren Cross pushed the speaker button on the phone.

"Cross here," she answered.

"Guess who I had a little chat with down at seventh precinct this morning?" a deep voice blared.

"Your bookie?"

"Very funny. You want the goods, or not?"

"Spill it."

"Sam Jarvis."

"The DA?"

"The very one, and oh so eager to please."

"Cut to the chase, Brass," the prickly editor barked, preempting the veteran newshound's penchant for cat-and-mouse games. She heard him take a drag on his cigarette, but refrained from lecturing.

"There's a witness," he said from inside a lingering exhale. Loren sat up straight, her heart drummed in her ears.

"You don't say," she casually responded in a concerted effort to at least sound blasé when nothing could be further from the truth. "And why would Jarvis leak this to us?"

"Let's just say his re-election campaign is in trouble."

"So who's this witness?"

"Some chick down in Hecate's Cove."

"What's her name?"

"Sam wouldn't give her up, but the upshot is she was walking her dog along the beach and saw the whole thing."

"Exactly what did she see?" Loren asked, barely able to contain herself.

"Beats me."

"You've got to get me her phone number."

"Even if I could--and I'm not saying I can--she won't talk. Sam says she's not exactly a friendly witness."

"Let me handle that. Just get me the damn number."

"I'll do what I can, chief, but..."

"Listen, Will, I don't have to tell you what a scoop like this will mean to the bottom line around here."

"What's in it for me?"

"For starters, you get to collect a pay check next month," Loren sharply replied and hung up.

The editor in chief was drawn once again to the latest aerial photo from Tanzania. A detail she hadn't noticed before popped out and hit her squarely between the eyes. She grabbed the ragged tome on aboriginal cosmology and began to leaf through its musty pages.

It wasn't just the bottom line or prestige that had the ex-war correspondent obsessing night and day about the rash of disappearances. The fact that the missing were all women struck a deeply personal chord, and the latest incident so close to home cranked her search for answers into overdrive. Missing person reports had been coming in weekly from every continent on the globe, and because evidence of foul play was yet to be found, the disturbing trend had captured the attention of sleuths worldwide, not to mention mystics and kooks.

2013 had been a particularly bad year for women. Aside from the commonplace tragedies of husbands killing their entire families, all kinds of misogynist atrocities had been committed under the auspices of religious fervor not seen since the Spanish inquisition. Working from the hypothesis that open warfare had in fact been declared on women everywhere, the chief followed leads to various paramilitary groups involved in mass rape and murder. But all were dead ends.

Undaunted, she dug into the backgrounds of the missing, and The Cascade Guardian was the first to print a profile. Although they came from all age groups and backgrounds, the women were dedicated to activism of one kind or another. Consequently, they had been branded heretics, infidels, or subversives by various fundamentalist and political demigods.

In interviewing countless investigators worldwide, there emerged a few clues that both puzzled and fascinated the intrepid editor. First, the women were tracked to coastal areas and, secondly, wax drippings were found in the vicinity of the mysterious symbols. Furthermore, and most intriguing, at several locations along the Tanzanian coast odd symbols freshly etched on cliff walls and rocks were strikingly similar to those found on both North American coasts, as well as on the coasts of the Baltic, Mediterranean, Caspian and Arabian Seas.

"I'll be damned!" Loren shouted after turning to a picture of an eight thousand year old artifact. She sprang from behind her desk and bolted through the perpetually open door of her office.

"Marty. Drop everything," she ordered as she entered the small but always tidy cubicle. The cub reporter abruptly ended her phone conversation and followed the chief into her office.

"Look at this," Loren said, motioning for the young woman to step behind the desk. After studying the picture in the book, Marty looked puzzled.

"We're doing a story on ancient history?"

"Listen up. I want you to take this stack of site photos and see if you can find more matches in this book."

"What's the angle?"

"When you find a match, summarize the text about it. I'll need the results by quitting time."

"What about my piece on rising sea levels--the deadline's this afternoon."

"I'm very aware of that, but this takes priority."

"But I've been working on it for weeks and..."

"It can wait." Loren unceremoniously piled a stack of books into the reporter's arms. As she headed out the door, Will Brass was charging through it.

"Oops, sorry, doll," he said and elicited a frown from the attractive Latina as she squeezed by him. He watched her disappear behind the partition of her cubicle.

"Brass, stop ogling my staff and get in here!" Loren demanded. Grinning ear to ear, Will stepped up to the desk.

"She's nuts about me. She just doesn't know it yet."

"Keep it up and she'll show you how much she knows about harassment law."

With a snort, the fifty-something ex-bureau chief perched on the least cluttered corner of Loren's massive desk.

"Can't a guy appreciate a beautiful woman anymore?"

"Drooling is not the way to a woman's heart, my friend. Besides, she's spoken for," Loren added.

"How do you know?"

"I just know. Now, cut to the chase. My interview--where's the number?" Will jumped up and closed the office door.

"So who's the lucky guy?"

"What?"

"Marty's boyfriend. Who is he?"

"You're pathetic," Loren grumbled.

"How do you know she's spoken for?"

"I know all and see all," Loren had to grin. Will waved a piece of paper in front of her face. When she grabbed for it, he withdrew it.

"Ah--ah--ah. Not so fast. Tell me her story and you get the prize," Will taunted, stuffing it in his shirt pocket. Loren's patience was paper thin. Any other day she would have humored the man who twice saved her life in the bunkers of Iraq.

"Tell you what. You give me the goods and I'll let you keep your job." Loren leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on her desk.

"Oh, now I get it--you want her for yourself."

"Give me the number and I'll forget you said that," Loren shot back with a mean scowl. Will stood, took out the prize from his shirt pocket, wadded it, and tossed it on the massive mahogany desk his boss had inherited from her father, a no nonsense prosecutor who died of a stroke while his oldest daughter was dodging RPG's in the horn of Africa.

"I'll just have to find out for myself, then," Will vowed and folded his burly arms across his chest. Loren grabbed the wad and smoothed it out flat.

"Good work, shylock. I knew I could count on you."

"That's Sherlock to you," Will haughtily said and headed for the door.

"Hey, Willie. You might be interested to know that Marty's honey picked her up for lunch yesterday."

"You don't say. Was he tall, dark and handsome, like me?"

"She was tall, dark, and mighty fine." With relish, she watched god's aging gift to women twist his shit-eating grin into a sneer.

"What's this world coming to?" Will scoffed.

"It's senses, I hope," Loren chuckled. "Close the door after you."

Will saluted his one-time rookie reporter and withdrew mumbling something inaudible. Still chuckling, Loren dialed the number. After several rings, a woman answered.

"Hello? Is this Mariana Morgan?"

"This is her mother. Who's this?"

"My name is Loren Cross. I'm with the Cascade Guardian and..."

"How did you get this number?!"

"I would like to speak with your daughter, ma'am, if she's there. It's very urgent."

"Absolutely not!"

"Women are disappearing by the hundreds all over the globe, ma'am, and your daughter could help get to the bottom of this terrible trend. Please put her on and let her speak for herself." There was a loud click. "Dammit," Loren hissed, slamming the receiver down. She drummed her fingers on the desk, then buzzed Marty, who promptly knocked on her door. "Come in, come in!" The instant Marty stepped inside, the obsessed chief bounded from behind the desk and threw on her jacket.

"I'm driving to the coast. You and Will are in charge. Let him know."

"What about the symbols thing?"

"Keep working on it and tell Will to hold the presses until I give the word."

"Do you know when that'll be?" Marty asked with a worried grimace.

"Don't sweat it, kiddo, I'll call before I head back."

"Should I sit in your office?"

"Suit yourself, but don't go snooping around through my desk," Loren teased with a wink.

Marty returned to her cubicle and began gathering her research materials. After another futile attempt to charm away Sadie Morgan's fierce maternal instincts, Loren stopped at Marty's desk on her way out.

"Anymore matches?" she asked.

"I think I found one." Marty opened the tome to a photo of an ancient shard found in southern Spain. "This double spiral here is from a vase more than ten thousand years old. The text says it represents the `womb of creation' and the infinite cycle of life, death, and rebirth."

"What about the symbol I matched earlier?"

"That's called a labrys, the sacred symbol of the Amazons."

"Interesting. Keep at it, Marty. And don't worry, your piece on sea levels will get front page in next week's issue. That's a promise."

"Thanks. Oh, chief? Can I tell Brass where you're going on the coast?"

"He'll know. Gotta roll--have fun."

Loren flew out into the hall, punched the elevator button, paced like a tiger in a cage, and finally opted for the stairs, where she half-stumbled down six flights and out the rear entrance into the pouring rain.

Chapter II

"The doctor will see you now," the receptionist announced to the patient slouched on the couch in the dimly-lighted waiting room. Keeping her eyes glued to the floor, she shuffled down the hall to an open door bearing the name Theodore Kurdiz, M.D.

"Come in, Mariana," he softly urged. The redhead looked up briefly, then slipped inside and sank down in an overstuffed chair across the desk from the grey-bearded psychiatrist. The doctor closed the door and began emptying his pipe into the ashtray on the edge of his desk. He waited, but Mariana, as usual had nothing to say.

"Your mother tells me you refuse to take the anti-depressants I prescribed. Is that true?" Mariana remained mute. "Speak up, now."

Mariana darted her eyes around the room and finally replied barely above a whisper, "Yes."

"You were doing so well. Why did you stop taking them?" Dr. Kurdiz asked.

"Headaches," she muttered.

"Yes, well, as I explained to you last week, those will subside. Is that the only reason you stopped taking them?"

Mariana clenched her fists and murmured, "No."

"I'm listening," the doctor reassured his longtime patient. Mariana folded her arms tightly across her chest and stared up at the acoustic tiles. She silently began counting the holes. "Mariana?"

"They...they gave me nightmares," she finally responded with a deep sigh. Tears started to pool in the corners of her emerald eyes. Dr. Kurdiz came from behind his desk and offered her a box of tissues, which she refused. He set it on the arm of her chair and pulled up a footstool.

"How long have you been coming here?"

"A coupla years?"

"That's right. Do you trust me?"

"I guess."

"Well, now. I think it would be a good thing if you told me exactly what's been bothering you this past month. You know what happens when you keep things locked up."

"I don't think clearly?"

"That's right. Now, when people are distressed they revert back to old patterns of behavior, but you have a choice, Mariana. Just tell me what's got you so upset today and I can guarantee you things will go much easier." Mariana unfolded her arms, sat bolt upright, and glared at her psychiatrist.

"You can't guarantee that," she hissed and abruptly stood. She walked to the rain-streaked window, clenching and unclenching her fists. Encouraged by the spontaneous expression of emotion, Kurdiz perched on the arm of the overstuffed chair.

"You're angry," he reflected.

"So what?"

"Are you angry with me?"

"With you. With my mother...with the whole fucking world!"

"There's plenty to be upset about these days," the doctor calmly mirrored.

"You got that right, but what good does it do?"

"It?"

"Being angry. What good is it?"

"It's part of being human."

"I hate being human," Mariana said and stared hard out the window. Dr. Kurdiz joined her at a safe distance.

"Sometimes, so do I," he sighed. "We've made a terrible mess of things."

"Fucking men," Mariana muttered under her breath.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing." Mariana wiped a tear with her sleeve.

"A person would have to be crazy not to feel discouraged," Kurdiz said with a chuckle.

"Well, I'm both," Mariana bitterly asserted. She walked back to her chair and fell back between its plush arms. She plucked a tissue and blew her nose.

"You're not crazy, Mariana."

"Detective Dodd thinks so."

Kurdiz leaned against the window ledge and put his hands in his pockets. "Since when did he get his shrink license?"

"He didn't say it in so many words, but I knew what he was thinking."

"And what was that?"

"That I'm a nut case."

"You saw six women jump from Raven's Bluff. That's his problem if he can't find the bodies. Everybody knows those rip tides..."

"That's not what I saw."

"Oh?" Kurdiz took his hands out of his pockets.

"There were six all right, but they..." Mariana began to tremble. "Are you sure I'm not crazy?"

"Absolutely sure."

"Then, I actually did see six women jump from Raven's Bluff into thin air?" Mariana's catlike eyes searched her doctor's for the slightest sign of disdain. Kurdiz approached and lay his hand gently on her shoulder. Mariana started to hyperventilate.

"Remember, now...deep and slow. Atta girl."

Mariana gradually recovered enough to continue. "I saw one holding a lantern over her head, like the statue of liberty. The Sun had gone down and a Full Moon was just coming up over the tree line. The one with the lantern shouted something--I couldn't make it out. Keeper, he yelped and yelped, like somebody was kicking the devil out of him, and then they jumped."

"Into the water?"

"No! I told you! They disappeared!"

"I don't follow."

"They just evaporated, like smoke on the wind. Right afterwards, Keeper he ripped the leash right out of my hand and ran lightning fast for home. See?" Mariana showed Kurdiz a nasty cut on the palm of her right hand.

"What happened then?"

"I climbed up on the rocks and looked and listened for survivors, but I didn't hear or see a thing. The Moon went behind the clouds. It was getting dark and the tide was coming in, so I ran home. But something strange happened just as I turned up the path to my house." Mariana shuddered.

"Go ahead, you're doing fine," Kurdiz hypnotically urged, his watery gray eyes had dilated black.

"I heard this voice. At first I thought it was mother calling for me, so I kept walking, but, then I heard it again."

"What did the voice say?"

"It was a girl's voice. She told me she saw my face in the..." Mariana suddenly put her hands to her ears and winced.

"Stay with it, Mariana."

"It's that ringing again...eoow, it hurts!" Mariana doubled over. In moments, the ringing stopped as abruptly as it started. Mariana sat rigid, staring at the floor. "I need to go home," she repeated like a mantra.

"Of course. But before you do, I want you to hear me. Look at me, Mariana," Kurdiz' voice was caring but firm. Mariana's dilated eyes darted around the room, but never once landed on the good doctor's. "I believe you, I believe you saw something extraordinary that night." He hesitated, cleared his throat. "Do you believe in a higher power?" His patient frowned, shrugged her shoulders.

"Sometimes we must have faith in the unseen," he said. Mariana squirmed in her chair, then, much to his surprise, tentatively reached out. Kurdiz clasped her cold trembling hand, the first human touch his patient had allowed in months.

Out in the waiting room she asked, "Do I still have to take the antidepressants?"

"It's your choice," the psychiatrist replied with a warm smile.

"Then, I choose not to."

"Very well. I'll see you next week."

"Same time?"

"Same time--and Mariana. Do yourself a favor. Between now and then, have a little fun. Can you do that?"

"I forgot," she said, shrugging her shoulders.

"Think how much fun you'll have remembering," Kurdiz said with a wink and ducked back down the hallway.

For the first time since she began seeing Dr. Kurdiz Mariana Morgan left his clinic with a smile on her face. As she walked past the quaint little shops along the main drag of Rocky Beach, the Sun broke through the thick layer of dark clouds. She closed her eyes and bathed her face in its fleeting warmth. Tension drained from her freckled face and broad shoulders. Snap shots of happier times floated across her mind. One in particular drew her to the tourist trap's star attraction, the beautifully restored carousel.

Mariana walked briskly towards the beach, then broke into a jog out on the boardwalk. When the antique treasure came into view underneath it's sturdy wooden shelter, she wondered if it was a dream, for the carousel was in motion. The brilliant colors of the ornately carved horses, some lurching up and down, others stationary in their merry rounds, made for pure enchantment. Mariana stepped up close to the railing and scanned the wooden herd. The metallic gold mane and flowing tail of a white steed caught her eye. The fiery look in its eye especially appealed to the accomplished equestrian for whom horses were nothing less the last remaining extracts of beauty in an ugly world.

Entranced, Mariana watched it glide by for several revolutions until the carousel creaked and groaned slowly to a stop. It was then she realized there were no riders. Her heart sank when she noticed the sign `closed for the season.' She wandered along the railing to her favorite, and without a second thought, ducked under the chain and stepped up on the platform. The horse worshipper made her way to the handsome relic and ran her hand along the intricately carved forelock, then down the muzzle to the day-glo pink of flared nostrils.

"Aren't you a beauty," she said, peering into the amazingly life-like glass eye. Before she knew it, she had slipped her left foot into the stirrup and was about to swing aboard, when a gravelly voice startled her from behind.

"Can't you read?" With lightning speed, Mariana jumped from the carousel. She was set to make a quick getaway when she heard, "Hey, miss! You dropped something!"

Mariana turned around to a rotund man dressed in greasy overalls. He was dangling her car keys close to his ruddy face. She cautiously approached and plucked the beaded ring from his greasy fingers.

"Thanks," she muttered.

"Say. You look awful familiar." The mechanic wiped his hands with a red oily rag. Mariana remained guarded as he studied her face. "Well, I'll be. Yer that Morgan gal from Hecate's Cove. I saw yer picture was on the front page of the Gazette just last week." Mariana turned and started to walk away. "Hey, whoa up there! I didn't mean to scare you none. My name's Riles--Victor Riles. You probably don't remember me, but I used to work on yer dad's fishin' boats way back when. I remember when you was just a little tyke, you used to ride your pony right into the surf and drive your poor mama to distraction. How is your mama these days? I never see her in town no more."

"She's OK," Mariana coldly replied, avoiding the mechanic's probing eyes.

"That's good. I was real sorry when I heard about the accident and all. Darn shame the way these kids drive like there's no tomorrow. I sometimes think about all those times at sea we couldda drowned in swells as tall as the Space Needle, and your papa steered us home safe and sound every time, and then to have some fool kid... aah shoot, excuse my manners, missy, I didn't mean to stir up no bad feelings."

"The accident was a long time ago, Mr. Riles."

"I suppose it was. Seems like yesterday. Time sure flies at my age," Riles said with a grunt and leaned heavily on his driftwood cane.

"I better go." Mariana turned to leave.

"Say, Miss Morgan. If you ain't in too much of a hurry, how would you like to go ahead and take a spin on the ol' rig? I think I got 'er fixed, but another test run won't hurt none."

Mariana's first impulse was to take the old man at his word, but she didn't trust him, nor any man, except for Dr. Kurdiz who after the morning's session proved himself at least temporarily worthy. His prescription to `have fun' repeated softly in the redhead's ears as she studied Riles' twinkling eyes.

"Are you sure it's OK?" Mariana asked, gripping the railing. She let her gaze wander to the white steed with the metallic gold mane and tale. Her obvious enchantment didn't go unnoticed by Riles.

"Come on, young lady. Climb aboard," he insisted and limped towards her favorite. Mariana eagerly leapt over the railing and onto the carousel. Riles slapped the pint-sized saddle with his gnarly mitt. "He's been a waitin' for ya. Better hurry before he gallops off," he teased with a gap-toothed grin.

"Just a short ride, then." Mariana took hold of the thick rein with her right hand.

"You just give a holler soon's yer set in the saddle," Riles said and squeezed through the little door to the inner workings of the calliope. The moment he disappeared, Mariana gracefully swung onto the inanimate dream horse and jammed the toes of her boots into the child-sized stirrups.

"Ready!" she shouted. The carousel lurched, then quickly picked up speed as the calliope churned out a charming lilt Mariana recognized, but couldn't name. She closed her eyes and surrendered to the rhythmic motion. Images of a vast expanse filled her imagination:

All decked out in armor astride a white mare, Mariana imagined herself leading a massive army into battle. When the enemy swarmed down from the hills, she shouted the command, `charge!' Over the shrill cries of the galloping horses, she heard a woman's voice shriek something in a strange language. And not until she saw the obsidian eyes of her enemy did Mariana understand. But it was too late. Nearly half her army was killed during the first few moments of battle. Badly wounded, she tried to gather the rest for retreat, but their horses had spooked and plunged them all over a cliff. Mariana's steed came within inches of the precipice before she could rein her in. Blood flowed from her mount's gaping nostrils, and with one long hideous gasp, the great war horse collapsed. Then, the air turned black.


"Miss Morgan! Oh sweet Jesus! Miss Morgan! Can you hear me?!" Riles frantically patted Mariana's flushed cheeks as she lay in a heap on the platform clutching the broken rein. When the mechanic's mustachioed face came into focus, the still dreaming warrior sat up with a start and pummeled it. Before he could subdue her, poor Riles suffered a bloody lip. By that time a couple of cops, having heard screaming from blocks away had shown up, which only made things worse for the old man, since they suspected foul play. Riles ended up face down in the sawdust with his hands cuffed behind his back. Mariana, still dizzy, sat on the edge of the carousel.

"Are you all right, miss?" the female officer asked. Mariana nodded. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"I fell," Mariana, still groggy, replied.

"What were you doing on the carousel?"

Mariana looked over at Riles who was sputtering and begging the other officer to let him up. "Mr. Riles let me on. Why is he in hand cuffs?"

"You were struggling with him when we arrived. Did he attack you?" Mariana abruptly stood and teetered a bit.

"The rein broke and I slipped off the stupid horse, that's all." The other officer helped Riles to his feet.

"That's right, Ned," Riles piped up to his brawny captor. "Come on. You know I wouldn't do a thing like that. Get these here cuffs offa me...my arthritis is on fire," Riles pleaded, wincing and unsteady on his bad knees.

"Why were you hitting Mr. Riles, Miss...?"

"Morgan. I...I didn't mean to." Mariana was desperately trying to make sense of the unfortunate turn of events. A trickle of blood flowed from a nasty cut on Riles' lower lip. The female officer signaled for Ned to unlock the cuffs. Mariana spotted the old man's cane and rushed to give it to him, but the wary mechanic recoiled.

"I was just trying to do you a favor," he growled at her, gingerly touching his swollen lip. Mariana dropped the cane, slipped through the railing, and ran.

Five blocks later, the female officer caught up with her as she was getting into her car. "Hold it, Ms. Morgan," she said breathless and grabbed Mariana by the arm. "You and I both know there's more to the story."

Mariana struggled. "You're hurting me. Let go."

"Promise not to run?" The officer released her grip.

With a deep sigh, Mariana nodded. "That's better. Now, tell me exactly what happened."

Mariana, still a bit dizzy, steadied herself against the front fender. "He offered me a free ride on the carousel. I guess I must have gotten dizzy. Next thing I know I'm flat on my back and...I...I start hitting him because I thought I was in danger...but he was only trying to help me. I was out of my head. Is that so hard to believe?"

"Do you have blackouts often?"

"Never," Mariana sharply replied.

"I think you should get checked out before you drive."

"No, dammit! I mean, I live just a few miles south."

After checking Mariana's license and registration the officer acquiesced, but not before writing a warning citation for over-parking in a one-hour zone.


During the trip back to Hecate's Cove images from the battle scene made breathing difficult, her ears began to ring. Mariana had to pull over twice to recover. She poked around in her glove compartment and found her stash of downers. Just knowing it was still there gave her enough confidence to negotiate the final hairpin down the south side of the mountain.

As she pulled into the sleepy town, she managed to find humor in the carousel incident and decided she would leave a message for her shrink about the price to pay for having just a little fun. The epic battle scenes she decided to record in the journal she began after her mare died.

Chapter III

A sliver of light on the western horizon cast a pink glow over the glassy Pacific. Loren, a bit frazzled by a near collision with a log truck near the summit of the coast range, was relieved to see the sign for `101 South.' Although her stomach growled ferociously, she decided to take on the steep climb over the mountain to Hecate's Cove while there was still some lingering daylight. She hadn't been to her favorite getaway in over a year and was feeling a bit nostalgic over its charm, especially the Sand Dollar Inn, the site of many an amorous rendezvous way back when she made time for such things.

Pulling into the tidy hamlet was like slipping back in time. The narrow main street with its renovated storefronts, some more than a hundred fifty years old, and antique street lamps made the occasional neon sign seem grossly out of place. Hecate's Cove, once the gem of the fishing industry, had reinvented itself as the premier destination on the north coast. Main was the only street where motorized vehicles were allowed. Most of the town's permanent residents didn't even own a car. If they needed to drive, they either borrowed or shared ownership in one, but preferred to take advantage of the electric shuttle connecting Hecate's Cove with nearby towns.


All residences were heated with solar and/or wind power. Wood burning required a very expensive permit. The town's beloved mayor, a tree-sitter in her youth and the bane of many a developer, was serving her fifth term. Her motto: "anything wild trumps anything man-made" resolved the age-old conflict between jobs and the environment by tapping into the universal human longing for all that had been lost in the name of progress.

Hecate's Cove boasted the largest grove of Sitka Spruce in the world and a native species restoration program second to none in the country. All the forest within a five-mile semicircle of the town had been put in a land trust supported in part by stiff fees and toll taxes gladly paid by the throngs who visited. It was said that in many ways Hecate's Cove was one of the last outposts of sanity left on Earth.

Loren was met by a cheerful attendant on the north end of the celebrated town. "Evening, ma'am. Welcome to Hecate's Cove. Are you just passing through or staying a while?"

"Actually, I'm here to see a Miss Morgan."

"We have more than a few Morgans in town. Do you have the first name?"

"Mariana," Loren answered, fingering the precious slip of paper Will had given her.

"Oh, yes. You can park at the far end of Main and walk there, although it might be a bit of a hazard in the dark."

"The thing is, I don't quite know exactly where she lives. Could you direct me?"

"It's quite a climb. Perhaps you should call first and let her meet you half way."

"She's not expecting me. I'm an old acquaintance and I'd kind of like to surprise her. So if you could just give me directions, I'd be very grateful," Loren said, tightening her grip on the steering wheel.

"You betcha. Just follow Main to the parking area. You'll see the wooden stairs at the south end. When you run out of stairs, there's a path to your right that will take you to her front door."

"Thanks," Loren said and rolled up her window. She was about to pull away when the attendant tapped on it. Trying her best not to show irritation, the impatient news hound rolled it back down.

"It's seven dollars to park," the attendant said with a smile.

"Seven bucks?!"

"Or you could pay three and park at this end of town," the attendant, a forty-something woman with a pale complexion and kindly eyes, explained. She pointed to a nearby graveled area.

"How long can I park for the seven bucks?" Loren curtly asked.

"Are you staying overnight?"

"I might--if there's room at the Sand Dollar."

"There is. Now, if you stay the night, you can park free until noon tomorrow. If not, you have six hours."

"Fair enough," Loren said and handed the attendant a ten.

"Put this on the dashboard," the attendant said. She gave the visitor a parking pass and change.

Loren noticed her name tag and had to ask, "Hey, Sally, just out of curiosity, does everybody get the third degree, or am I special?"

"Have you been here before?"

"It's been awhile."

"Everyone who drives a gasoline-powered vehicle must abide by our rules. Now, if you were driving a non-emissions car, you could park and recharge for free."

"I'll keep that in mind, if I win the lottery."

"I don't follow."

"Have you priced electric cars lately? Who but the wealthy could afford one?"

"I have one and I'm not rich," the attendant said. "I co-own it with five friends."

"What if you have a medical emergency and someone else is using it?"

"There's always somebody happy to help."

"One of the perks of small-town living, I suppose."

"That's what happens when need trumps greed," Sally cheerily said and tipped her hat.

"Sounds dangerously subversive to me," Loren said with a grin.

"So be it. Oops, gotta go--I have another customer. Enjoy your visit and watch those stairs. They're real slippery from all the rain we had this morning."

Sally stepped back inside her booth. Loren wasn't fond of motherly advice; her first reaction was to ignore it. But, unlike the usual small talk between strangers, Sally's concern struck her as genuine and gave credence to her title: `Gate Attendant.'

Once through the iron gate, Loren diligently obeyed the 15 mph speed limit. As soon as she spotted the Sand Dollar Inn, she slowed to an imperceptible crawl. The warm glow from the table lamps along the dining room windows beckoned. When she noticed the `Vacancy' sign hanging conspicuously on the heavy oak door, the closet romantic pulled up in front and cut the engine.

Just as she stepped down onto the cobbled street, a teen leaning against the porch pillar warned, "You can't park here."

Loren stepped boldly up on the boardwalk anyway. "Hey, don't sweat it, kid. I'll just be a minute." She opened the heavy front door.

"You'll get a ticket," the boy persisted, hooking his thumbs in the frayed pockets of his baggy cut-offs.

"You let me worry about that," Loren retorted and stepped inside. The aroma from the kitchen triggered a memory of the typhoon of 2011 during which she and the then love of her life spun plans to retire in the South Pacific. Although bittersweet, Loren was glad to see that the cozy table in the darkest corner was still there. The grotesque grizzly bear trophy, however, had been removed. In its place was a fabulous Sunrise photograph of Tahoma, popularly known as Mt. Rainier.

Loren, lost in reverie, was visibly startled when a male voice inquired too close to her ear, "May I help you?"

"You scared the sh--heck out of me!"

"Excuse me, ma'am, but the dining room is closed," the balding desk clerk said in a softer voice. He wedged both thumbs in the pockets of his pin striped vest.

"Something sure smells good. I'm starving."

"We serve dinner at seven. Feel free to come back then," the clerk said. His cold gray eyes peered over wire spectacles resting precariously halfway down his wide nose. "I see. How about a room, then?" Loren stepped from the dark corner into the light of a wrought iron fixture hanging from one of the hotel's massive log rafters.

"Is that your car parked outside?"

"Yup."

"I'm afraid you'll have to move it to the designated lot at the end of Main. Surely, the attendant directed you."

"She did, but I was only going to be a minute and didn't see any harm in bending the rules just a little."

"Not even the mayor gets to park on Main street, ma'am. The constable is very strict about that. I suggest you move your vehicle immediately."

"Even paradise has its downside, I see," Loren, whose patience was hanging by a thread, said with a forced unrequited smile. On her way out the door she turned and asked, "Do you have a single available?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good--I'll be back in a flash." Loren saluted the desk clerk, who remained completely immune to if not disdainful of Loren's notorious charm. As it turned out, his cold-fish demeanor saved her the expense of a hefty ticket. The constable pulled up on her bicycle just as Loren opened the van door.

"Good evening. May I see your parking permit?" she asked and dismounted her bike, which she leaned against a nearby light pole. Except for a small billy club, she was unarmed and wore no uniform. On her gray gabardine jacket lapel a small round badge was inconspicuously pinned. It resembled a child's toy rather than anything official. Loren snatched the permit from the dashboard and handed it to the constable.

"You must park at the end of Main. Not.."

"Yeah, yeah, I know--not on the street. Old habits are hard to break, especially when there's parking meters everywhere you look." Loren pointed up and down the street.

"Most of those are gumdrop machines, ma'am. Visitors gladly put up with a little inconvenience in exchange for quiet and fresh air." The constable returned the permit. "Are you spending the night?" Loren's veneer of patience had all but disappeared, but she managed a civil answer to a question that she firmly believed no American citizen should ever have to answer, at least not in her own country.

"I was thinking I might."

"In that case, the cost of parking will be deducted from your hotel bill. Enjoy your stay."

The constable hopped back on her bike and peddled casually down Main, waving at every pedestrian and bicyclist she encountered. Loren wondered if part of the lanky constable's duties was that of town crier, or more likely, chief gossip.

"This place is starting to creep me out," she muttered as she fired up the engine of her gas-guzzling van. She slipped a hard-rock CD in the player, but thought better of it. "They probably have a law against that too," she said to herself.

After stopping three times at deserted pedestrian crossings, she finally pulled into the parking area and came to a stop next to three other cars parked under the ghostly light at the bottom of the steep stairway. She cut the engine and turned off the lights. Except for the distant roar of the ocean, there was an eerie silence. And in spite of monster hunger pains, the veteran reporter, who for a solid decade had survived the horrors of guerilla warfare throughout the Middle East, was spooked. She dreaded the dark solitary walk back to the Sand Dollar Inn.

Loren envisioned making a mad dash up the stairs to Mariana Morgan's house, charming her way in, extracting the bare bones of the story, maybe mooching a piece of bread and hunk of cheese, and high-tailing it out of Hecate's Cove to the nearest roadside greasy spoon to savor the scoop of the century before racing back to the city for a couple of stiff martini's at her favorite midtown haunt.

To Loren Cross, patience was not only a sin, it was the kiss of death. She always trusted her instincts. And when it came to getting a story, lady luck had been a staunch ally. Taking risks was for her a way of life, practically a religion. Yet, there she sat staring at that dimly lit stairway, unable to decide between grinding hunger and journalistic duty.

Curiosity, as always, won out. A growling stomach notwithstanding, Loren slipped from behind the wheel and slammed the heavy door. She negotiated the first flight of stairs with ease, but nearly slipped over the edge of the second landing when her loafers hit a thick patch of moss.

"Holy shit!" she yelled, her voice echoing conspicuously against the rocky cliffs. She made a quick recovery and pressed upward past barking dogs and motion-detecting floodlights, until, gasping for air, she climbed the last few steps to the final landing. The dim light from a rustic lamp attached to a nearby coastal pine only hinted at the narrow walkway to the Morgan front porch. "And me without my flashlight," she muttered as she felt her way along under dripping cedars. The next thing she knew, she was on her hands and knees in a fresh puddle. "Son of a bitch!" she yelled. The porch light to the A-frame came on, followed by the ominous creak of the front door.

"Who goes there?!" Sadie Morgan called out. She aimed a hefty inordinately bright flashlight into the darkness and caught Loren trying to get to her feet.

The blinded news hound, spitting out pine needles and bits of dirt, managed a polite reply. "Sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for the Morgan residence."

"You found it. What do you want?" Sadie gruffly asked, keeping the beam zeroed in on Loren's eyes. Mariana came out on the porch with a towel wrapped around her wet hair.

"What's going on, mother?"

"Seems we got ourself a prowler. Call constable Cravets," she said.

"No, please! I'm here to see Mariana Morgan. I mean no harm--please, let me explain." Loren picked at the debris and globs of mud stuck to her favorite suede jacket.

"Stay right where you are! What's your name?" Sadie demanded.

"Lor--Laurie Tate--I'm a friend--I'm a friend of Sally's, the gate attendant in town," Loren brazenly lied, hoping it would get her at least as far as the porch.

"Tate. I don't know anybody by that name. What's your business here?"

"I don't live around here, ma'am. Sally told me I could find Mariana Morgan here. Is either of you Ms. Morgan?" Loren innocently inquired, taking a couple steps forward. Mariana stepped to the edge of the porch, but her mother gently pulled her daughter back towards the doorway.

"If this is about the accident at the carousel, we already got things straightened out with Riles. There ain't no hard feelings and that's the end of it."

"I see. Truth is, ma'am--I'm an insurance claims examiner and..."

"Insurance examiner! What in sam hill is Riles up to?!"

"You don't understand, ma'am. I'm here to make sure no one has a claim."

"I just told you. Riles' busted lip was nothin'. Mariana's got a lump on her forehead, but she's fine. So we don't need to make no claim."

"Oh, that's good to hear, very good. Then, all I need is for you to sign a waiver to that effect and I'll be on my way."

It certainly wasn't the first time Loren Cross had resorted to false, always clever pretense to get her foot in the door. When Sadie invited her up on the porch, Loren's muddy and disheveled appearance softened the gnarly denizen a little, especially when the phony insurance examiner faked a shiver or two.

"For heaven's sake. You'll catch your death. Go put some water on for tea," Sadie ordered her daughter, who instantly ducked inside.

"That's real kind of you Mrs..."

"Sadie Morgan. Any friend of Sally's is a friend of mine."

"Thanks. A cup of tea sure would hit the spot." Loren faked another shiver.

"Come on in and dry yerself by the fire," Sadie insisted, motioning her unexpected guest inside. "Ain't you a sight. You'll never get those stains out."

"Would you mind if I washed up a little?" Loren sweetly asked. She looked as if she'd been dragged on her belly through the woods. Her handsome face was splattered with mud. "Just through that door and down the hall. You'll find a clean towel next to the sink," Sadie said and stoked the fire in the cozy stone hearth.

"Thank you so much. I'm so sorry to inconvenience you like this. It's been a long day. I haven't eaten a thing since breakfast, but I was in the neighborhood so I thought..."

"You go ahead now and clean yerself up," Sadie urged in a motherly tone. Loren made herself right at home in the large bathroom, which was tastefully decorated with several ferns, porcelain pots and elegant tiles. It was too dark to enjoy the view through the large window under which a grand claw-foot tub resided. All manner of plants and knickknacks were lined up on the cedar sill. An elaborately-tiled shower took up one corner of the room; it's curtain was dripping wet from what Loren deduced was recent use by the reason for her brazen charade.

In searching for a towel, the impostor noticed a photograph hanging on the cedar wall near the sink. With great interest, she studied the happy young girl who sat proudly astride a big bay horse; the red-haired man in the photo wore a captain's hat and was most obviously the girl's father to whom she bore a striking resemblance. Loren read the inscription etched into the bottom edge of the enamel frame:

"In loving memory of Dad. June 2008." The news hound studied the picture some more. `I know this girl. But how could I?' she mused. There was a light knock on the door.

"Yes?"

"Miss Tate? We got salmon for supper. Would you like a filet?" Sadie's voice rang through the bathroom door.

"I would indeed--if it's not too much trouble," Loren answered.

"No trouble. Now, you go ahead and use the shower if you want. There's clean towels on the shelf by the mirror."

"Thanks," `Miss Tate' said with her ear to the door. After Sadie shuffled down the hall, she gladly peeled off her muddy clothes and took a quick hot shower. By the time the impostor emerged from the bathroom, all squeaky clean in her soiled clothes, she felt a little self-conscious when she made her grand entrance into the living room, where Sadie was busily crocheting in her rocker.

"I feel clean, anyway," Loren said and moved to the fireplace.

"Pour yerself some tea," Sadie said, pointing to the tray on the huge burl coffee table that graced the overstuffed sofa. Loren disliked tea, so she filled most of the elegant china cup with cream and sugar before adding what amounted to a few tablespoons of the brew itself. While Loren sipped the concoction, Sadie kept on crocheting, the whole time stealing wary glances at her soiled house guest.

Mariana who'd been cooking dinner, poked her shaggy head briefly around the kitchen doorway and listlessly announced, "You can eat now."

Loren followed Sadie through the narrow galley to a nook, where Mariana, her face mostly hidden by a mass of curly red hair, sat at the far side of a round table with her hands folded in her lap. Sadie took a seat next to her daughter and tried to rearrange some unruly strands, but Mariana dodged her mother's primping and pulled her wet mane back behind her shoulders.

Loren, taken with Mariana's striking good looks, picked at the steaming filet.

"Dig in before it gets cold," Sadie scolded. "Honey, pass our guest the salad." Mariana evaded the news hound's bold gaze and passed the heavy salad bowl.

"Fabulous!" Loren blurted out, secretly referring to the redhead's piercing green eyes.

"She won't eat it herself, but she sure knows how to cook it just right," Sadie said with a wink at Mariana whose plate was piled high with salad. When Loren's stomach growled, Sadie had to chuckle. Loren apologized and took a bite.

"Mmm. This is the best salmon I've ever tasted," she said through a heavenly mouthful.

"It's wild," Mariana offered without looking up from her salad.

"Really? I thought wild species died out years ago," Loren said, chomping on a biscuit.

"Some escaped from the farms to the open sea." Mariana stabbed a chunk of lettuce.

Loren detected a slight edge to the comment and couldn't resist sharpening it. "Where could they possibly spawn? I mean, given the complete destruction of the forests, not to mention the irreversible pollution of every stream and river, I find it hard to believe this salmon I'm eating is actually wild. Just because it happened to escape from some fish farm doesn't make it wild," Loren challenged behind a sugar sweet smile. Mariana responded with more vigorous stabs at her salad.

"Well, now, Miss Tate. Seems you're real up on more things than insurance," Sadie jumped in. "Trouble is, you can't always believe what you read anymore or what you see on TV. My Mariana, she knows things about the forest you won't ever find in books, neither."

"I certainly didn't mean to upset you," Loren said to Mariana, who stopped eating and glared at the impostor.

"You have to excuse my daughter. She ain't been all that well since..." Mariana shot daggers at her mother and threw her napkin onto the table.

"Excuse me," she muttered and abruptly stood. Loren hurriedly scooted her chair over so her journalistic prey could squeeze past. The slam of the front door pressurized the already tense atmosphere inside the cozy A-frame.

"I really am sorry. I better go apologize," Loren said and pushed her chair from the table.

"No, no, now you just enjoy the rest of your dinner. She'll be all right. Mariana just ain't used to company. Poor thing is a little jumpy on account of what's been going on around here."

"Seems like a peaceful little town to me," Loren played dumb.

"Oh, it used to be, but you musta heard about all those poor girls that just up and disappeared back in September."

"Seems like I did hear something about that. That's right--they all disappeared at once--how many were there?"

"I don't rightly know. But one was Mariana's best friend."

"No kidding! I mean, how awful. Do the cops have any leads?" Loren asked with her heart lodged firmly in her throat.

"To tell the truth, Miss Tate..."

"Please--call me Laurie," Loren interjected, reaching over and patting Sadie's freckled arm.

"Well, Laurie, no they don't, but that's not the half of it. They kept Mariana for three hours down to the station house when they found out she was a witness. It was terrible, just terrible," Sadie sputtered. Loren watched her pale green eyes mist over.

"They think she had something to do with it?"

"They just kept workin' on her and workin' on her until she just broke down and told them everything she saw. But they still didn't believe her. I finally put my foot down. I was ready to come to blows with that snake, detective Dodd, I tell ya."

"How awful," Loren said, swallowing hard with sweet anticipation.

"What she seen was something no human being should never see," Sadie said, stifling a sob.

Loren patted her on the shoulder and had the gall to ask, "Do you want to talk about it?" Sadie pulled herself together and began to clear the table. Loren gladly helped. At the sink, Sadie turned to the unscrupulous newshound.

"Mariana made me promise not to say nothin'. But I think about it night and day."

"I can imagine," Loren offered in a show of empathy. Sadie sat back down at the table. She blew her nose on a tissue and motioned for `Miss Tate' to sit down.

"The thing is my Mariana was mindin' her own business walkin' her ol' dog like always and she saw something strange up on the bluff. Poor Keeper, he ran like the devil had a hold of his tail and we ain't seen him since. It's not like him, he's such an obedient dog. Now, anyway my Mariana, she told them detectives everything she saw, but they kept at her like I said. I can't tell you how scared I was when I walked into the jail house at Rocky Beach and saw her sitting all hunched over, her eyes wild-like. They still get that way sometimes. I swear it's like she's already left this world. I worry about her immortal soul, night and day." Sadie choked back another sob and crossed herself.

A double shot of adrenaline rushed through Loren's veins. She knew she'd hit the mother lode, but at least had the sense, if not the decency to avoid probing the poor woman, who obviously needed an understanding ear to bend. The fact that the crusty fisherman's widow trusted a perfect stranger was a testament to the editor's uncanny ability to lure even the most taciturn into spilling the beans. The impostor was flying high.

Actually, Sadie's keen intuition sensed the tarnished heart of gold that raced beneath what Loren Cross liked to believe was her thoroughly unshakable news-at-any-cost persona. In spite of years of practice perfecting her game face, the ex-war correspondent looked much younger than her forty-two years. And as far as Sadie Morgan was concerned, `Miss Laurie Tate' had the eyes of a kind and generous soul. "My word! This ain't no way to treat a guest at my table! All our dirty laundry out in the open--please, forgive me," Sadie said and clasped Loren's arm. "Why, you're trembling." Loren gently slipped from Sadie's grip.

"I'm just trying to imagine what it must be like to see your daughter in such--agony." Loren wanted to explode with a million questions.

"She won't even tell me all of what she told those detectives. It's not right. Whatever she saw that day it was the devil's work. I can feel it in my bones." Sadie resumed clearing the table. Loren joined her at the sink.

"May I ask one thing?"

"Of course, dear."

"What did Mariana see up on the bluff--exactly?" Sadie stopped scraping dishes and looked into Loren's dilated hazel eyes.

"She made me promise not to breathe a word of it."

"Of course. I'm sorry--I don't want to pry. I thought it might help if you got it off your chest."

Loren humbly stepped back to the table and cleared some more dishes. Sadie sidled up beside her and said, "You're absolutely right. Secrets sure do eat away at the soul."

"Don't feel that you have to..."

"Seems there were six women..."

"Yes?" Loren asked, breathless.

"They were all part of some kind of crazy pagan cult. Mariana claims she saw them all join hands and jump right off of Raven's Bluff," Sadie continued in Loren's burning ear.

"You don't say!"

"Sssh! Now, you never heard it from me."

"Gotcha." Loren felt like doing a jig as she walked over to the sink. Suddenly, the front door creaked open. Sadie scooted to the sink and began running water.

"Well, now, Miss...Laurie. You don't have to do that. Mariana always does the dishes," Sadie nonchalantly said just as her somber daughter entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. "Did you enjoy your walk, dear?"

"I heard Keeper whimpering," Mariana answered and uncapped a beer.

"Now you know that can't be, honey. He's long gone and.."

"He's just hiding out. He'll show up one of these days," Mariana countered before taking a swig of beer. Loren, who hadn't taken her eyes off Mariana since she entered the kitchen, noticed fresh scratches on her hands.

"That's a great name for a dog," the impostor ventured, fully expecting to be ignored. To her delight, Mariana re-opened the refrigerator and took out another beer.

"Want one?" she asked, setting her gorgeous green eyes loose on Loren, who felt a telltale blush redden her cheeks and neck. If Mariana noticed, she gave no clue. She uncapped the beer and set it on the counter, then withdrew into the living room.

"Why don't you go and sit down, Laurie. I'll take care of the dishes," Sadie said.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure--now scoot!"

Far be it from Loren to look a gift horse in the mouth, but she was oddly uneasy about being alone with her prey. She found refuge in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair across the room from Mariana, who sat cross-legged on one end of the couch staring into the fire. Several moments of awkward silence passed before Sadie finally glided in with the beer Loren had completely forgotten about. With a sigh, she noticed her daughter, who at that point seemed to be teetering on the edge of sleep.

"Why don't you show Laurie your studio, dear?" Sadie pointed to a beautiful ceramic vase with dried flowers and proudly said, "Mariana made that for my birthday." Mariana sat upright and put her feet on the floor.

"It's lovely," Loren said through a frog in her throat. "Do you sell out of a gallery?"

"Not anymore," Mariana bitterly replied.

"I wouldn't mind seeing your studio, that is, if you're up to it," Loren cautiously proposed, catching a wink from Sadie. Mariana stood and absently shuffled to the front door. "Better put on your coat. It's pouring down rain," she said and stepped out onto the porch.

Loren threw her muddy jacket over her shoulders and followed Mariana down a narrow trail about a hundred yards to a small geodesic dome. By the time the reluctant host opened the Dutch door and switched on the bright overhead lights, Loren was soaked, yet no less intrigued by the impressive array of clay creations perched on a long worktable. An electric kiln stood in the center of the circular space and three potter's wheels of different sizes were strategically placed under each of the three skylights built into the cathedral-like roof of the structure.

"Wow! Did you build this yourself?"

"With my father," the artist answered, closing the door.

"You're a heck of a sculptor," Loren said. With almost giddy enthusiasm, she studied the figures, all of which were female in form. When Mariana turned on some track lighting, Loren immediately noticed the familiar symbols etched in the bellies of some. She recognized the labrys where the left breast of one was missing.

"An Amazon," she half-whispered and nearly jumped out of her muddy loafers when Mariana's voice filled her right ear.

"Artemis."

"Yes, I know," Loren nervously said, afraid to look into the eyes she was certain could see through lead.

"What do you know about her?" Mariana asked with disdain.

"The mythic queen of the Amazons," Loren replied, still avoiding Mariana's unnerving gaze.

"And what do you know about me?"

Loren recoiled at Mariana's frightening glare. "That you like carrousels?" she weakly answered in one last pitiful attempt to maintain her cover.

"I know you're no claims examiner," Mariana hissed.

"I'm not?" Loren heard herself ask in a girlish voice.

"Cut the bull. Who are you? And why are you here?" Mariana clenched and unclenched her fists.

"All right. Take it easy. The name is Cross--Loren Cross. I came here to interview you for my paper, The Cascade Guardian. Surely, you know your story is big news. What happened to those women up on the bluff has been happening all over the world. I was hoping you could shed some light on what it all means."

"No, I cannot! Even if I could, you'd be the last person on Earth I'd tell. You made a fool of my mother tonight, but I could tell you were a phony the second I saw that stupid grin of yours. Get out and never come back to Hecate's Cove! Do you hear?!" Mariana's voice was more desperate than angry, which didn't go unnoticed by the veteran inquisitor for whom commands like `get out' went in one ear and out the other.

"I'm not the only liar on the premises," Loren smugly challenged.

"Go to hell!" Mariana yelled and moved towards the door. She angrily flung it open. "Get out!"

"Not until you tell me what you saw down at the cove," Loren stood her ground and placed her hands on her narrow hips. Mariana reached down and grabbed a two-by-four.

"You have three seconds to get the fuck out of my studio!"

"If they all jumped, where are the bodies?" Loren pressed.

"I warned you!" Mariana threw the two-by-four just inches past Loren's head. It smashed the sculpture of Artemis into a thousand pieces. Mariana stood in the doorway shaking violently. Loren, always her coolest under fire, took that as an invitation to go in for the kill.

"I understand one was your best friend. How could you stand there and watch her commit suicide?" Loren dared from way out on a limb. She braced for a frontal assault, but none came. Mariana dropped to her knees.

"Andrea's not dead," Mariana mumbled with her hands over her face.

"What did you say?" Loren cautiously approached.

"Andrea's alive--they're all alive," Mariana sputtered. Loren stepped closer, but didn't dare touch.

"Where are they?"

"On the Serengeti plain," Mariana kept repeating as she rocked back and forth. When the wild-eyed redhead finally looked up, Loren watched her hopes for the scoop of a lifetime trickle away with the tears that streaked down that tortured freckled face. The key witness, Loren concluded, was clearly out of her mind.

"I'm sorry. It was a terrible mistake coming here tonight. I think it would be best if you tell your mother I had an emergency." Loren helped Mariana to her feet and ducked outside into a major downpour.

From the doorway of her studio Mariana watched the disappointed newshound make her way down the path towards the stairway. "They are all with the zebras!" she shouted after her.


At the top landing, Loren hesitated for a moment, then, recklessly negotiated the slippery steps down to the parking lot. With the engine running, she watched Mariana appear like an apparition in the headlights.

"Shit. This chick's certifiable," Loren muttered and locked her door. Mariana came around to the window and tapped. "I don't need this," Loren groaned before grudgingly cracking it about half an inch.

"You came for the truth, but now you run from it!" Mariana shouted over the howling wind.

"You told me to get out--remember?!" Loren gripped the steering wheel and revved the engine, desperate to take the edge off defeat with a pitcher of martinis.

"That was before you forced my hand. Yes, I was there and yes, my dearest friend was part of the group. They all really did jump off Raven's Bluff and...and...I swear on my father's grave that they never hit the water. Keeper yowled and ran. I haven't seen him since and every night I have nightmares about the future and dreams of the distant past. Today at the carousel I saw a terrible vision of what's to come. There isn't much time!"

"You're right about the time!" Loren shouted, checking her watch. The rain was coming down in buckets, but she wasn't about to invite a lunatic into her van.

"I know what you think of me and you have plenty of company. But I'm telling you the truth. You can help prevent total destruction of...."

Loren interrupted with a snort and again revved the engine. "Look, honey. Now is neither the time nor the place for doomsday scenarios. I can stroll down to the city square anytime of the night or day and get an earful from any number of demented zealots. It's hardly newsworthy and, frankly, I don't believe in visions and all that malarkey. Joan of Arc had a ton of visions and look what happened to her. So, before you drown, I'm going to end this soggy conversation. Thanks for a lovely dinner and please apologize to your mother. I'm sure she'll understand."

Loren rolled up the window and left Mariana standing in the eerie glow of the security light. Although she was tempted, the foiled editor in chief never looked in her rear view mirror.

Chapter IV

"You look like hell," Will said to the chief when she showed up at the office late the next morning.

"If I want your opinion, I'll ask for it," she snapped before sneezing. She slammed her brief case onto her cluttered desk.

Will cocked his head sideways and read the titles of the books stacked neck high: "`Goddess Cultures of the Ancient World'. `Artifacts from the Isle of Lesbos.' Any pictures?" He began to leaf through the latter. Loren angrily yanked it from his hands and switched on the intercom.

"Marty. Come in here," she barked and shooed the bureau chief out. He couldn't resist ogling the lovely cub reporter as she squeezed past him.

"What a waste," Will muttered, shaking his head.

"Knock it off, Brass! I expect the layout by noon. And shut the door behind you," Loren snapped and impatiently motioned for Marty to sit down. "Where's that report I asked for?" she gruffly asked her top reporter and opened her briefcase from which she took a bottle of aspirin.

"I think it's underneath your briefcase," Marty replied.

"Summarize it for me." Loren swallowed three tablets and chased them with tepid coffee.

"I found every symbol except one."

"Which one?"

Marty stood and looked through the stack of photographs.

"This one," she said, handing her boss an aerial photo of a huge design carved into the sod of a flat desolate landscape. The sight of it turned Loren's face ashen.

"Is anything wrong?" Marty asked.

"I'm not sure, but I think I've seen this before."

"Where?"

"On a shattered sculpture," Loren replied.

"A what?"

"Never mind. Where was this taken?"

Marty turned over the photo. "In Asia--Upper Mongolia to be exact. It came in over the wire early this morning." Marty handed the enigmatic image back to her crankier than usual boss. "And it's nowhere near a sea," she pointed out.

"Interesting. Speaking of which, how's your sea level piece coming?" Loren asked, still eyeing the photograph.

"The proofreader has it. It'll be ready by this afternoon."

"Good. I look forward to reading it. In the meantime, I want you to drop what you're doing."

"But Will needs that piece on prison riots."

"Who's the boss around here?!" Loren took Marty's head off. Loren, shocked by her own venom, went to the young reporter and put a hand on her shoulder. "Hey, I'm sorry, kiddo. I'm not myself this morning and given what I went through yesterday… No let's not go there. Listen, don't worry about Will, I'll smooth any ruffled feathers. What I need for you to do right away is take this photo to Cheng's down on fourth. Tell him I sent you and see if he can identify the symbol."

"It does kind of resemble a Chinese character," Marty said.

"Exactly. Oh, and while you're at it, pick up some won ton soup, and something for yourself." Loren handed Marty a damp crumpled twenty from her suede jacket. The reporter of course noticed its muddy condition, but she wasn't the type to say anything, especially to her idol whose armor of rapier wit was rusting, if not showing signs of coming apart at the seams.

Marty enjoyed a balmy six-block walk to Cheng's Pagoda. The unseasonable warmth was part of a weather pattern that brought near-freezing temperatures at night and mid seventies by day. What used to be a temperate climate had for seven years in a row been a roller coaster of unpredictable extremes. Marty, who always dressed in layers, was overheated when she pulled open the heavy ornately carved door of midtown's oldest restaurant.

Stepping from the bright light of day into the darkness of the place was blinding, and she cracked her knee on a large urn in the entry. An impeccably attired Asian woman came from behind the counter and politely asked, "Are you all right, miss?"

"Oh, sure," Marty said, wincing and rubbing her right knee.

"May I seat you?"

"No thank you. I'm here to see Mr. Cheng."

"Which one?"

"A..the owner?"

"Very well. May I say who wishes to speak with him?"

"He doesn't know me, but tell him Loren Cross sent me."

"And your name?"

"Marta Callado."

"He's in the back," the woman assured and motioned to a waiter, who disappeared behind the swinging doors of the kitchen.

"How is Miss Closs?"

"Very busy."

"You tell her we give big discount to her and all her friends this Friday for happy hour. Tell her Sunyi Cheng said so."

"I will. Oh, she wanted me to get some won ton soup to go," Marty said, still rubbing her stinging knee. "Do you have egg foo yung?"

"Oh, you bet."

"I'll get some of that to go, as well," Marty said as a frail grey-haired Chinese man in a cook's apron shuffled up to her.

"Papa, this is Miss Callado, she works for the chief," Sunyi said in a thick Chinese accent. Marty limped forward.

"Hello," the cub reporter said, clutching the envelope with the photograph inside. The old man bowed and wiped his right hand on his apron.

"You friend of the chief?" He vigorously shook Marty's hand.

"Yes. I work for her paper. She wanted me to show you this." Marty extricated her hand from his, took the photo from the envelope, and handed it to the old man, who, with considerable trouble, managed to put on a pair of old wire-rimmed glasses. His puzzled look prompted Marty to add, "She was hoping you could identify that symbol in the field there. It's from..."

"Mongolian steppe," the old man interrupted, then with a broad smile added, "Somebody very good artist."

"Do you know what it's supposed to be?"

"Ma. Ma, ma, ma." Cheng repeated and, chattering in Chinese, showed the photo to his daughter, who brightened when she saw it.

"It means mother?" Marty inquired.

Old man Cheng and his youngest had a good laugh, while Marty, good sport that she was, chuckled along. Finally, Sunyi came from behind the counter and stepped up close to her.

"This is ancient Chinese character--`ma.' It means `horse.'"

"Oh, I see. This could be a tail, I suppose," Marty said, pointing to three parallel protrusions from the main design. Sunyi nodded and rotated the photo.

"Where did you get it?" she asked.

"It came in over the wire last week."

"Crazy things sure happening this year," Cheng said, removing his glasses and slipping them into his apron pocket. "I get call from brother in Hong Kong the other day. He very scared about the market--he lose shirt and have to go back to mainland--work in rice paddy and live like dog."

"Now, papa, don't talk like that. He worries all the time over nothing ever since mama died. Besides, our customers don't want to hear all our problems. Pardon us," Sunyi addressed Marty, who wasn't listening; she was deep in thought about the significance of horses in the scheme of things.

"Huh? Oh, that's OK. Things are rough, no doubt about it. We all have to stick together, help each other as much as we can. As for me, well, I do my best to keep people up on what's happening."

"I used to read your paper, but now, I don't know. It's all bad news--no more Hollywood stories," Sunyi said with a sigh.

"You miss all the dirt, huh?"

"My daughter loves only the movies," Cheng chimed in. "She watch cable all the time until I give her job down here. Movies are for dreamers," he scolded, pointing to the collection of old movie posters plastered on the wall behind the front counter. "Ask her. She tell you anything you want to know about movie stars. She has many autographs, too," Cheng added with a big laugh. Sunyi, who was fighting a frown, stepped back behind the counter to answer the phone.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Cheng for your help with the picture. Is there anything else you want to say about it before I go?"

"You want Chinese calendar?" he asked.

"Sure."

Cheng motioned for Marty to follow him to the cash register, where a complimentary stack of wallet-sized calendars sat next to a bowl of minted toothpicks. "You take one--take two, one for chief," he urged with a grin. "Each year is different animal. See?" he said, pointing to the colorful illustrations that bordered the edges. "Next year is year of horse. See?"

Marty studied the list of years next to each animal.

"Oh, I get it."

"Next year very good year--lucky for horse people. I think you one of those people, Miss..."

"Marta Callado."

"Missy Matta, horse very big mover...bring you much fame and fortune."

"I don't know, Mr. Cheng. I'm more of a cat person."

"You can't ride a cat," the old man quipped inside a contagious laugh.

"True," Marty chuckled.

"All right, then. You all set for today?" Cheng said, stuffing his hands in his apron pockets.

"I need an order of won ton and egg foo yung to go," she replied, fishing around in her jeans pocket for the twenty Loren had given her.

"Ah-so. Comin' right up," Cheng said and darted back into the kitchen.

Marty walked back over to the waiting area, where Sunyi was chatting away on the phone in Chinese. The knee was still throbbing, so the reporter sat down on a bench and casually thumbed through a stack of comics. At random, she picked out one that happened to have an illustration of a rearing black horse ridden by a beautiful young girl in ancient Chinese warrior garb. The warrior brandished a curved sword on which three white doves perched. Her fierce eyes had Star-shaped centers that radiated beams of red light.

Marty, a lifelong devotee of the comic book genre, eagerly perused the inside, where detailed images showed the warrior vanquishing everything from dragons to unflattering caricatures of Genghis Khan. Time flew.

"Your order, Miss Callado," Sunyi announced, holding her hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone. Marty quickly closed the comic and set it back on the stack.

"Thanks," she said and stood. She handed Sunyi the twenty. While Sunyi made change, Marty casually asked, "What's the name of the heroine in that comic book?"
"Which?" Sunyi placed the receiver on the counter. Marty plucked the comic from the stack and held it up.

"Oh, that is Kuan Yin, Compassionate Warrior."

"That's a bit of an oxymoron, isn't it?"

Sunyi shrugged her shoulders and gave Marty her change.

"Kuan Yin power is very great," Sunyi said. She handed her customer the white sack of take out. "Thank you velly much. Have a nice day," she said, then put the receiver back to her ear.

"How do you spell it?" Marty pressed. Sunyi looked a bit puzzled, if not irritated, as she scrawled the name on a napkin.

"There you are, miss. Thank you. You come again."

Marty grabbed the napkin and stuffed it in her jacket pocket before slipping out into the balmy November sunshine. As she sauntered along, she found herself chanting the Chinese name like a mantra. Inside her wild imagination, the comic book image of Kuan Yin came alive, charging at full gallop towards an unseen enemy whose identity the investigative whiz was compelled to find out.


Back inside her cubicle, Marty did a quick search on line. A myriad of sites came up for Kuan Yin, but they all described her as a revered goddess of mercy and compassion, hardly the warrior type. She added `comic book' to the mix and came up with a site showing thousands of cover thumbnails. The obsessed sleuth was busy scrolling through them, when a hand landed on her shoulder. Marty turned to Loren's tired face.

"Is this my won ton?" she asked, pointing to the white sack resting on the edge of Marty's desk.

"Jeez. I completely forgot."

"What's this?" Loren peered at the images on the computer screen.

"I'm researching a Chinese goddess--her image was on a comic book cover at Cheng's."

"I see, and what do the funny papers have to do with the price of tea?"

"You know how one thing leads to another and to another, until you end up with more questions you never dreamed of asking?"

"Curiouser and curiouser," Loren quipped with a sardonic snicker.

"Yes, and I'm onto something. I can feel it."

"Be in my office in ten minutes, Sherlock," Loren commanded and plucked the container of lukewarm soup from the sack.

"Yessir," Marty dared sass when Loren was out of earshot.

Things were more than `curious' for the chief. She had just gotten off the phone with Sadie Morgan, who vowed to sue for any number of things, not the least of which was physical and mental endangerment of her daughter, who lay in a hospital bed with pneumonia.

According to Sadie, Mariana never went back home after Loren left her in the parking lot. The constable found her at dawn perched topless on a rock at the south point of Hecate's Cove raving and ranting at the rising tide. To make things worse, Mariana inflicted some severe blows before the dedicated constable Cravets was able to cuff and drag the raving lunatic back to town.

What Loren didn't know was that Dr. Kurdiz had twice in the past six months, managed to save Mariana from the horrors of the state hospital. As she sat behind her desk sipping her won ton, the beleaguered chief was tormented by an alien sense of shame over the entire fiasco. Sinking to cheap pretense was one thing, but to leave that hapless girl standing in the rain was unforgivable. As much as the she tried to deny it, however, a nagging hunch that Mariana could be telling the truth was the real cause of Loren's own tenuous state of mind. A call from Rocky Point Mental Health Clinic caught the chief in a rare moment of emotional vulnerability.

"Loren Cross?"

"Yes," she answered weakly.

"This is Dr. Kurdiz. One of my patients has asked me to contact you."

"Who?" Loren asked.

"Mariana Morgan." Loren sat bolt upright.

"How is she?" she asked through a frog.

"You'll have to speak up."

Loren cleared her throat. "How is she?"

"Stable, but serious."

Even though the word `stable' begged for it, Loren didn't feel like wisecracking. "Good. How can I help you?" she went for the casual even though she squirmed from a vague sense of dread.

"That remains to be seen."

"Meaning?"

"In the past, Mariana suffered tremendous trauma. I can't reveal the details, but you have to understand that as her psychiatrist, I can say with certainty that she is not, I repeat, she is not insane. She suffers from PTSD. Do you know what that is?"

"I've heard of it."

"She's highly sensitive, as most talented artists are. And, until a few years ago, she was leading a productive life, a successful sculptor with a wide following. Until recently, she barely left her house or studio, speaking only occasionally to her mother. She was just starting to see a bit of light at the end of the tunnel, beginning to trust in herself and life again, when you come along and..."

"Whoa, there! I don't know what you're angle is, but it's not my style to inflict pain or suffering on innocent people, especially someone like her. I wanted an interview, that's all."

"And that justifies a cruel hoax, I suppose. Have you no sense of decency?"

"Look. I'm not proud of what I did, but you make it sound like I set their house on fire and left them for dead. I still happen to believe in a free press. The search for truth sometimes calls for creative..."

"Save your self-righteous speech for somebody who gives a damn. Right now, I care about my patient, who may never recover from your cheap pursuit of sensationalism."

"You're coming awful close to slander, doc. By the way, did you know that women all over the globe are flat-out disappearing without a trace? Perhaps like most men I know, you just don't give a hoot. After all, women die by the thousands every week of disease and all manner of violence. But I happen to care--very deeply--and I certainly don't have to justify my quest for answers to you. I had a tip that Ms. Morgan was the break I've been looking for. I was wrong and, believe me, I'm sorrier than you can imagine. So if you and some money-grubbing lawyer want to make a federal case out of my impersonating an insurance examiner, then I guess I'll see you in court."

"You needn't lecture me. You really are a piece of work, Ms. Cross. It was a mistake contacting you."

"Out of curiosity, doc, what's the real reason you called?"

"I told you. Mariana Morgan requested it."

"To harass me?" Loren dreaded the answer.

"Her exact words were: `Tell Loren Cross not to give up.'"

"I don't know what that means. Tell her I'm sorry about what happened and I wish her a speedy recovery." Unexpected tears softened the chief's tone considerably. "And tell her not to give up, either."

"I will...and, Ms. Cross, I'm one man who does care. Good day."

Loren dropped the receiver and did something she hadn't let herself do since the last in a long string of lovers left town without so much as a good-bye: she wept. There was a light knock on her office door.

"Go away!" she yelled. Frantically looking for tissue, something she never kept on hand, the chief wiped her face on her shirtsleeve.

Marty knocked again. "Chief? Are you busy?"

"Of course I'm busy! Come back in half an hour!" Loren retorted.

"I can't. I have a doctor's appointment. You said you wanted my report."

"All right, just leave it on my desk and go!"

Marty found her boss gazing out the grimy window with her arms wrapped tight around her rib cage. She laid the material on one corner of the cluttered desk and ventured, "I hope you find this useful." Marty then slipped out quiet as a mouse. As soon as the office door clicked shut, Loren lunged for the report. Her bloodshot eyes focused like lasers on the color copy of the comic book cover. She read aloud Marty's impeccable handwriting. "Kuan Yin, Great Goddess of China and Compassionate Warrior. The symbol in Mongolia is a Chinese character for the word `ma', meaning `horse.' Next February is the Chinese year of the horse, which highlights travel to distant exotic places."

Loren collapsed into her throne and stared at the powerful image of Kuan Yin aboard her coal black warhorse. Memory traces of the sculpture of Artemis, of Mariana standing alone in the rain filled her with a rush of feeling. Loren's core belief in hard facts was beginning to crumble. Her steel-trap mind became a tangle of questions.

The more she tried to disdain what she could not see, touch, hear, taste or smell, the weaker her grip on pent-up emotions. All those years of putting herself in harm's way for the sake of a front-page by-line, like so many molting chickens, were finally coming home to roost.


Continued in  Chapter V

If you have enjoyed Keeper's "When Amazons Dream - Dream I: Chainless Souls", then please be certain to e-mail her at  ghwriter[at]msn.com  and thank her for posting this Story.

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