The Dark of Time: The Black Ring Chronicles

By Andrew T. Kovel

Newly graduated political science major from Boston University, Dennis Paxton finds himself thrown into a chaotic swirl of personal crisis and political intrigue immediately upon graduating. Before having an opportunity to enjoy success and chart his own course for the future, he has to deal with the harrowing reality of the loss of his twelve-year-old brother.

In returning to his home in South Hooksett, New Hampshire, in order to attend his brothers funeral, he immediately gets hooked into a job offer that is provided to him by his meddling Uncle Dan. Not just any offer, it is a position of high importance working for the Republican candidate for the presidency of the United States. Encouraged to accept by his best friend and fellow graduate from Boston University, Thereasa Berman, and other family members, Dennis reluctantly agrees to the position, even though he is a fervent Democrat. In accepting the job, he is whisked away to New York City to meet the charismatic senator from Massachusetts who is to be his new boss, James Meirden.

In his reluctance to accept this role, Dennis Paxton never could have imagined where it would take him. He quickly finds that he is so discouraged by the state of American politics that he no longer desires to be a politician. Beyond that, in acting as a financial liaison between the senator and his largest contributor to the candidates campaign for presidencythe largest pharmaceutical company in the world, Wycell PharmaceuticalsDennis discovers an unbelievable conspiracy thats been in operation by the United States government over the last forty years, a sinister mind-control program that no one has any clue about. In investigating the conspiracy, Dennis goes from a person with political aspirations to a whistle-blower who is required to place not only his future career at stake but his very life. In order to bring the information to light, he must rely on a combination of new acquaintances and associates to his closest friends and family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781532009037

Andrew T. Kovel

Andrew T. Kovel is the brand-new author of The Dark of Time novel. He is a fledgling author who writes in his spare time. He is a working father of four children. He lives with his kids and his girlfriend in Western New York.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 Andrew T. Kovel.

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.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-0902-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-0903-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016918192

iUniverse rev. date: 12/02/2016

CONTENTS

Part 1 Shadowed Past

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Part 2 Murky Present

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Part 3 Obscure Future

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

To my three beloved children: Jason, Isabel, and Aria. No father has ever been prouder to produce such wonderful offspring.

When you feel you are at your most forlorn, the things in this world that hold beauty somehow emit even more elegance.

DISCLAIMERS

• Vaccination failures and adverse effects are well documented. Health authorities credit vaccines for disease declines and assure the public of their safety and effectiveness. Yet their seemingly rock-solid assumptions are directly contradicted by government statistics, medical studies, CDC reports, and reputable research scientists from around the world.

• Wycell Pharmaceuticals is a fictitious company with fictitious motives. It is based structurally on an existing pharmaceutical company.

• The MMR (measles, mumps, and rubella) vaccine is a perfectly viable vaccine. Alterations involving mind control are pure fiction.

• The MK-Ultra Program was an actual government-run program that was in operation between the years of 1950 and 1973. The use of scopolamine and LSD on willing and unwilling individuals alike is factual. The program was eventually scaled back extensively in the late 1960s and terminated. The CIA destroyed most of the program’s records in 1973.

• The secret entity referred to as the Black Ring Society is fictitious and is the product of the author’s imagination. It is based on previous theories of similar groups that exist, such as the New World Order and the Bilderberg Group.

• The Broad Scope Project, which involves government mind control upon citizens, is a product of the author’s imagination and is pure fiction. Reports and rumors persist that such similar attempts by the government have been made, however, such as the use of fluoride in the water supply and the MK-Ultra Program itself.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to start by sincerely thanking my partner in all things—as well as my love, friend, and confidant—Mary Belville. Your assistance as a stenographer, frontline editor, and sounding board was invaluable to me throughout the creation of this book. Without it I would still be mired in the throes of creation. I’ll always be eternally grateful for your presence in my life.

I wish to gratefully acknowledge my sister Molly as well. The research you helped me with was vital, and the steady stream of encouragement you unwaveringly provided to me throughout the long years of taking a stab at being a novelist truly helped to keep me going. Thank you for your support; it’s been a tremendous boon for me.

I would also like to take this opportunity to thank the team at iUniverse. When I first started this project, I never could have imagined that self-publishing could be such an appealing way to present my work. I’m very appreciative of what your company provides for fledgling writers such as me. I especially would like to thank Eve Carson in sales for being such a wonderful source of information and a true professional. Also I would like to thank Diane Lee for your patience and assistance throughout the publishing process.

PROLOGUE

Offices of the Still Globe News Media Team

12:39 a.m., November 1, 2012

T ime—what is it about this elusive concept that gives it such power? It is said that time can heal all wounds. Ask anyone who has suffered some great trauma in life, and he or she will most likely tell you that the only thing that truly helped to lessen the pain was time. Time moves through history and works its inevitable will upon all things, forcing them to adapt, to change, to evolve, and to die. And now perhaps the most powerful of all of time’s aspects was bearing down on Dennis Paxton like a final verdict. Time was running out.

A large bead of sweat fell from the sharp slope of Dennis’s forehead, originating from somewhere along the slope of his receding hairline. It fell upon the small device he held in his unsteady hands, expanding to cover much of the thing in moistness. Hastily he produced the purple-and-black handkerchief that he always kept in the front left pocket of his trousers and dried the precious technology that held the secret he had struggled so hard to protect. Liquid, he mused to himself, was ever the bane of modern technology.

Hearing a door slam shut behind him brought him back to the urgency of the situation he was now in, and it caused him to spring into action. Navigating safely through the vast open space before him that was riddled with office furnishings was a challenge. Without the directions he had been given earlier, he wouldn’t have been able to manage.

It took a few precious moments to locate Theresa’s desk in the dark. Dennis knew that it would be a mere matter of seconds before he was found by his pursuers, and then his time would be up. He had no wish to cut the duration in half by risking a light source. His small, nimble fingers dexterously surveyed the underside of Theresa’s desk, locating the area she had told him of just a few hours before.

Crossing his fingers and gritting his teeth, he applied force to the area, hearing a satisfying click as he did so. He blew out an enormous sigh of relief that helped him to slow down the rate of his racing heart by just a beat. A twin pair of giant beads of sweat plopped simultaneously down upon the top surface of Theresa’s desk, falling from either side of his temples. The taste of salt filled his mouth as he carefully positioned the thumb drive into place inside the carved-out cubbyhole. He snapped the mechanism back into place and stepped away from his friend’s desk just as the door to the office was kicked open.

The white light that shone through the doorway streamed directly into Paxton’s eyes. He had only enough time to notice its source was attached atop a semiautomatic rifle before he was blinded by its brilliance. Several men dressed from head to toe in black spilled into the office space of the Still Globe newsroom and deftly spread out around the vast area, effectively boxing their prey in, offering him no escape. After the blinding light, the last sensation Dennis Paxton felt was a sharp pain in his chest as a silent shot from one of the men in black ripped into him. His consciousness then quickly gave away to utter darkness, and he felt no more.

Search him for the information. A deep voice issued in command. Two pairs of gloved hands riffled through Paxton’s garments with practiced care. Within moments, one of the men breathed through his dark ski mask, Here—this must be it. His gloved hand held up to the light of the agent’s gun what he had located inside Paxton’s inner jacket pocket. It was a small device, roughly the size of the digit that had given it its nickname of thumb drive.

Hand it over, a different younger voice commanded as he swiftly flipped open a laptop computer he had brought along with him, releasing it from its mesh pocket that was belted to his hip.

The agent who had discovered the device did as he was told and passed it on to his fellow. In receiving it, the commander quickly plugged the flash drive into the USB port on his computer. Within moments he was scanning its contents.

Are we good? the agent who had first entered the room with his blinding light asked. A broad toothy smile that beamed in the luminescence of the gun’s light was all the answer he needed to his query.

Gather the fugitive, the commander barked. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the entire squad had departed the office space, leaving virtually no evidence behind of them having been there at the scene.

PART 1

SHADOWED PAST

ThinkstockPhotos-486935699.jpg44829.png

CHAPTER 1

O h, come on now, sweetheart, it’s just a moment’s discomfort; a small pinch, and it will be over with before you know it. The adolescent boy wasn’t buying his mother’s appeal. He knew his mother well enough to know when she wasn’t being completely honest with him. She had recently tried to console him in a similar manner over a much more horrific occurrence. When his beloved grandfather lay dying in a hospital bed, he was simply informed by her that the elderly man had only fainted and was ill, though he knew all along that it was much more serious than that. Thinking on that past deception ignited his anger to unreasonable heights.

With the instant agility of a five-year-old, he was out the door of the tiny examining room—one of many duplicate rooms that littered the first floor of the office building that housed South Hookset Pediatrics. The child was loose and on the run before anyone was aware of what was happening.

As the boy’s mother reached the doorway in pursuit of her nimble child, she was greeted by the crash of a metal tray encountering the tiles of the hallway’s floor, spilling its contents in a wave of embarrassment that splashed and rolled in a scatter-spray about the vexed nurse who had been induced into dropping them and had fallen to the floor herself as she did. The very vaccinations that were to be administered to her son were now lost. The mother’s distress was only elevated as she glimpsed her boy continuing on his path of disruption. She watched him turn the corner and heard the cries of alarm echo throughout the facility. Biting her lip, she deftly sidestepped the prone nurse and determined to get ahold of her child as quickly as possible.

That proved to be a much greater challenge than she would have guessed. The seemingly tireless and agile boy navigated the hallways like a minitornado. Swirling and dodging, jumping, and running around every attempt to stop him, time and again he eluded capture. It took a full five minutes, three doctors, a nurse, and, finally, his confounded mother to corner him. When there was no escape, when they finally had him and were about to put their hands upon him, the child did the unthinkable.

In his absolute recalcitrance toward being given a shot, as his mind reflected on the inevitability of it, of there being no escape, his body physically rejected the horror he perceived. He emptied the contents of his morning meal completely down the front of the nurse who had helped corner him—the same miserable woman whom he had knocked over previously in his mad attempt at escape. She stood there appalled in shock, drenched in the boy’s vomit.

Oh my God! the nurse screamed in a rage. Look at what you’ve done, you brat! She flung off the hand of the doctor who had placed it upon her shoulder in an attempt to assist her. The nurse retreated in disgust, seemingly to find the nearest sink, declaring as she did, This job is not worth it; that’s the third time I’ve been vomited on! Her muffled complaints continued on as she exited beyond hearing.

Are you okay, honey? the mother asked as she knelt down beside her child. The boy’s only response was a bewildered and feeble nod. His mother’s compassion quickly turned to anger. However, to the boy’s surprise, the anger wasn’t directed at him.

How dare that woman speak to my child in such a manner! she hotly stated to one of the pediatricians who stood in front of her—the one she knew best. She then cut off the doctor’s response with an uplifted hand, palm outward to stop him from speaking.

Forget it; we’re leaving, she said, as much for her son’s benefit as for the pediatrician’s. With a sharp sense of pride and dignity, she clamped her son’s hand and led him to the front doorway of the facility.

Speaking to her son but uttering it loudly enough so that everyone could hear, while lifting her pointed chin in the air, she said, Melody Wetbelly, evoking the name of the accosted nurse. What a ridiculous name! Maybe now it finally suits her!

Mother and son shared a chuckle as they exited the pediatric center. It created an instant moment of bonding between them. They never returned to South Hookset Pediatrics again.

* * *

The Campus of Boston University

May 3, 2012

Thinking back on this vivid memory had always made Dennis Paxton shake his head in wonder. It made no sense to him. He couldn’t comprehend how such a spirited and rebellious boy had grown into such a serious and cautious man, even though the reflection was about him. This memory, no matter how vivid, just didn’t seem to belong to him. It seemed like someone else’s adolescent history.

Being now a man of twenty-four years of age, going on twenty-five, he was indeed fully grown now in many ways. Standing at a mere five feet nine inches, Dennis had a slight physical stature with small limbs and smallish hands and feet. He possessed gray-blue eyes that brightened in color when certain moods or tones caught hold of him. He kept his black hair trimmed short and neat. His hairline had already started to retreat early into his manhood—a trait he usually got away with hiding by applying some product to the offending area. Though he did not possess a large number of desirable traits, his handsome face and striking eyes, matched with his very affable personality, often made up for his physical shortcomings.

Hello! Are you hearing me? It’s time to go. The acute voice startled Paxton from his recollections, penetrating his thoughts like a sharp knife piercing flesh. He took a half a moment to refocus his eyes, in effect refocusing his mind to the here and now.

The person who had uttered the announcement so succinctly was now standing before him with a look of severe irritation written upon her lovely face. The expression seemed to somehow rob her of her normally seemly countenance—a price she had paid several times while in in his company. Apparently that is the cost for being my dearest friend, he mused, for he had seen that look cast in his direction on a number of occasions—usually when he was day-dreaming.

Theresa Berman held a kind of girl-next-door appeal. Her face was small and round and just faintly freckled. Although it didn’t strike one with its beauty, neither did it compel one to look away. She was a classic-looking brown-eyed girl with long, curly brown hair. Small of build, she possessed a physique akin to a gymnast’s. Her mousy round face glared with concern directly into his.

The expression, however harsh, served to bring a smile to his lips that turned out to be instantly infectious to his companion. Her face immediately lit up with cheer, and her beauty returned to her as she let out a soft chuckle muffled by an exhalation. The feeling of mirth was a welcome change to the sadness that had dominated the majority of this morning.

See now, there is still plenty of room left for laughter in your heart. She purred enticingly as she put her left arm around the shoulders of her sidekick. She was truly relieved to see some light return to his face. It had been the first time she had noticed it since he had received the despairing news from the night before. She took several moments to study his visage closely, as if looking for answers from his demeanor, trying to augur how well her dear friend would pull through this fresh tragedy. Nodding in satisfaction, apparently she discovered what she was searching for in the response of Dennis’s bright blue eyes.

The pair were formally dressed. Dennis was wearing his only black suit. It was somewhat plain but would serve its function well. It seemed as if every time he wore this suit, it was for the same dreadful reason. A dark blue tie that complemented his eyes and a pair of worn black dress shoes completed the look. His female companion wore a simple but appropriate dress. Though it was conservative, it did much to flatter her slender figure, and Dennis thought she looked lovely. A pair of elegant black shoes with little bow ties attached made her appearance seem more splendid.

We need to hit the road right now if we’re to make it in time, she announced as she started toward the car that the two of them shared. Dennis pivoted on his heel and spun around in the opposite direction to take one final survey of what had been his home for more than five years. He seemed to be in no hurry to leave it.

Just a moment, Theresa, he said. She joined Dennis, taking her place beside him as she also took a long look upon the campus grounds. The pair stood together next to the flagpole, which appeared to somehow dominate the square it occupied even though it was surrounded by an impressive array of buildings—some made up of older design, and others more modern. The flagpole always seemed to draw the eye’s attention first. Its star-spangled banner flapped loudly in the breeze blowing in off the Charles River Basin from the north of the campus.

Boston University had been a tremendous experience for each of them. Dennis had been able to achieve what few students at this particular college had done before him. He acquired his master’s in political science, which had a PhD requirement. After acing all the qualifying exams and completing his first two semesters toward his degree, the program adviser and professors that made up the review committee decided to allow him to proceed toward achieving his master’s instead of halting his progress at the bachelor’s level.

He had submitted and defended his dissertation successfully, choosing for his subject the town of Salem, Massachusetts, during the witch scare and subsequent trials that resulted. He had convincingly argued that it was the town’s political leaders who had ultimately failed their citizens. If they had taken on a greater role of leadership and direction, Paxton surmised, the town would have come to reason before the deaths of thirty-one people resulted in 1692. The lack of a strong political figure that could see the big picture and more importantly help others in turn to understand was a major factor that contributed to the hysteria that took place.

In fact, the strongest political figure in the township, Cotton Mather, had been the individual who had the scare start in his very home with his own daughters. He only fanned the flames of hysteria even higher. This shortcoming came as no surprise, seeing that Salem was a small superstitious township of a hundred odd households made up of colonists who were ultimately ruled by a king who was an ocean away. The five faculty members who served on the defense committee that reviewed Dennis’s dissertation again were impressed by his outstanding performance, and his academic accomplishment was made complete.

Theresa had also earned her master’s degree during her subsequent time at the university. Her chosen field of study was journalism, particularly broadcast journalism. She had maintained a 3.6 GPA and had completed such a successful internship that in turn a position was afforded to her, which she eagerly accepted. This was in part because the place was a new-wave company that consisted of electronic media only. All of their news was broadcast over the World Wide Web. Theresa Berman would be the newest journalist of the Still Globe news team.

The name Still Globe was a blatant reference to there being no political spin to their news. Also they made every attempt to cast the news to every possible corner of the world. Being of the belief that newspapers were an obsolete thing, a dying media format of the past, Theresa was greatly excited to latch on to a company that she was convinced would be right at the cutting edge.

It’s almost noon; we really have to get going if we’re going to make it to the wake by one, Theresa asserted, placing her hand gently upon Dennis’s shoulder. Her companion’s apparent resistance to leave was beginning to concern her. With one final long sigh and a reluctant shrug of his shoulders, Dennis submitted and took his place in the passenger seat, allowing Theresa to drive their vehicle.

It was a good car, reliable and fuel efficient, a ’93 Honda Civic that they had split the purchase price of in order for them both to have a means of transportation for those rare occasions that some care or need brought them outside the campus grounds. They had obtained it from a mutual friend of theirs who had graduated the year before. Bill Masterson had returned to his hometown of Nashville, Tennessee, where he was busy establishing his psychology practice. He had recently opened a new office and was looking to unload the trusty car that had seen him though his late high school years and all of his college ones.

What had started as a debate between Dennis and Theresa over who needed the vehicle most swiftly progressed to the agreement they now enjoyed. The fact that neither one of them could really afford the vehicle alone helped to bring them to this decision. The car was old but well made, and the body was still in good shape. It had well over two hundred thousand miles, but the engine was rebuilt by one of Bill’s friends from a CRX model and had only sixty thousand miles on it. Being a car that had spent most of its life in the South, it hadn’t been subjected to the brutal northern winters and the relentless onslaught of road salt that came with them, which would eventually cause a car’s body to rust out. The paint job had faded to a dull gray color from its original beige tinge as a result of exposure to the southern sun, but other than that it was in fine condition.

Theresa headed northwest off campus along the Massachusetts turnpike. It wrapped around to join Interstate 90, which before long would connect them to Interstate 93N. That course would take them all the way home to where the both of them had been raised.

They hailed from South Hookset, New Hampshire—a suburb of Manchester—where they had spent most of their lives. Dennis smiled as he thought back to the time when he and Theresa had first met in middle school in the seventh grade. They’d had one class together, which was science. During a biology lesson, they were paired up to dissect raw chicken legs.

The lack of interest and the revulsion that they both shared for the project was the stimulus that had ignited their friendship. Before that forced pairing, the two fellow students had never spoken. They discovered at that time a commonality within their gentle spirits that was still the strong foundation of their relationship today.

Dennis stared at Theresa, who was busy paying attention to the heavy traffic as he reflected on this. Finally she became aware of his prolonged scrutiny and glanced over in his direction. She flashed him a warm, gentle smile that only intensified his feeling of admiration for her.

What’s on your mind? she asked as she focused again on the task of driving.

Oh, just daydreaming again, he responded with a yawn. I think I’m going to try to catch a nap. He reached down and tilted the seat back to position it more comfortably.

That’s probably a good idea, Theresa responded. Before she finished speaking, Dennis had already closed his eyes. Within moments he was fast asleep.

* * *

In the upscale suburb of Boston known as Newton, Massachusetts, a large outdoor party was in full swing. The several acres of property that housed a single two-floor building complex made of orange brick and mortar was currently being almost fully utilized. Ordinarily, the spacious and undeveloped grounds that surrounded the solitary office building were little more than unused space that provided a pleasant aesthetic of natural beauty that was rarely put to any practical use. Today, however, was very different from the norm because of the special occasion that was being held here. All around the open grounds, large white pavilion tents had been erected that sheltered several portable tables and chairs. A large crowd of executive types mingled here and there, enjoying the vast spread of food and drink. They interacted in separate groups that indicated a loose structure to the gathering, as if nothing formal was currently transpiring.

One lone individual slipped away unnoticed from the gathering, casually distancing himself from the others. The phone in his private office had rung. Only one thing in his life had sufficient enough importance to pull him away from this event he had chosen to briefly abandon—an event that was being held in his honor: the ringing of that phone. It was in effect a summons, and one he couldn’t deny even if he desired to, which in this case he did not.

It very rarely rang, perhaps with as little frequency as two to three times per year. Always it seems to arrive with impeccably bad timing, he mused to himself. What time is ever convenient? He was an immensely important man with tight connections to the upper echelons of society. In truth, his schedule was usually so booked that any time that phone rang, it was likely to be during an undesired occasion. Nonetheless, whenever it called he always responded. He had no choice, really—not if he continued to value the significance of all he had accomplished in his remarkable life. He was swiftly transitioning toward his latter years, yet he meant to spend what time remained to him on solidifying a legacy.

He had been alerted to the call via an automatic text message that had been sent to his cell, triggered by a contingency placed upon his private office’s phone. If he was not in his office to respond to the call, then it was of the utmost urgency that he be notified so that he could do so as time permitted.

Luckily the event that was being held in his honor was taking place just outside his office. It was springtime, and the people of the northern community were eager to enjoy the outdoors after a long, dark winter. It had been a simple matter of ducking behind one of the two large tent pavilions that had been erected in order to break away undetected by the crowd. He now briskly ascended the large stone steps that led to his office building’s front door.

His shiny black shoes caused the abandoned front hall to echo with their hasty clopping. The rhythmic beat they played as he scurried up the side stairwell of the entry hall that led to his second-floor office sounded like a rehearsed tap that filled the empty space’s acoustics completely. Being alone in such a large work space that was illuminated only by the late-afternoon sun and the artificial light of computer monitors created an eerie feeling that lingered about the entire entry hall. The man’s hurried steps increased slightly as he suddenly longed for the security of his comfortable office confines.

He entered and at once closed the door behind him and then locked it securely. He allowed himself a few brief moments to relax and acclimate his being to the familiar surroundings. He stepped behind his desk and gazed out a grand window behind it that overlooked undeveloped fields that stretched for acres. He often lost himself in those fields; his imagination created a plethora of images that had always been soothing to overworked nerves.

He allowed himself only a few brief, blissful moments before forcing his stare to shift from the subtle ambiance of the nature outside his office window back to the flashing red light that continually pulsed from the base of the black handset of his office phone, indicating a message had been left. He didn’t bother to listen to the message; instead he picked up the receiver and immediately began dialing the long number that would connect him to the highly influential man he knew had placed the errant call. It took a few moments for the international call to connect, but once it did, it rang only once before there was an answer on the other end of the line.

There you are. We have been patiently waiting for your response, the voice on the other side of the world stated without preamble. His speech was thin, and it had a slight rasp to it. Despite the great distance, it sounded as if the person speaking were in the same room as the man who had just placed the call.

Yes, I know, he began to explain. I’ve been occupied recently.

Yes, we heard, the voice on the line rasped dispassionately. Congratulations are in order.

The praise sounded forced as it was issued to him from half a world away. He had no doubt that his personal endeavors held little interest to the grand assemblage the man on the phone represented. Their only true passions revolved ceaselessly around their own schemes and mechanisms.

Not at all necessary, he responded to the mock praise. It’s just another transition—one that will make me more accessible, and thus more valuable, to our organization and the world at large, he explained with a hint of drama in his deep verbiage.

Do not overestimate your value. The response on the other line came after a few moments of pause. He got the impression that there was an audience greater than one listening and responding to the conversation. This came as no surprise; the enormously powerful group that this man represented rarely had any task performed by a lone individual, no matter how menial.

Now, to more important matters, the raspy voice continued. We assume that the obstacle in the way of your inheritance has been removed?

Yes, the man responded definitively. That obstacle has been eliminated.

Again there was a pause at the other end of the line. After a few more moments, the voice returned, sounding anxious, as if it held some doubt to the validity of his claims. What of the final piece of your legacy? You have no children. At this point only one possible choice remains. The rasped voice returned again to one of indifference. You must solidify that choice or step down from you current position.

* * *

When Dennis Paxton awoke, he felt a lingering cloud of anguish hovering around his heart. He was certain he had been dreaming, but no matter how much he struggled to do so, he could not recall even a fragment of the dream. His head lingered in a malaise of sleepiness. He was sure, however, that his dream had been unpleasant—not a nightmare, but more like a trauma. He surmised the raw emotion he had been feeling over the last few days was spilling out from his subconscious mind.

He reached down beside his car seat to grasp the handle there in order to reposition his torso upright so he could get a better look around at the scenery to help him gain his bearings. He rose just in time to witness the interstate sign notify him that they were entering the township of Salem, Massachusetts. His surprise at the current location felt a bit ironic.

Wow, I dozed off for a little while there. We’re almost home, he said languidly, still trying to shake off the effects of sleep and his dream.

Yeah, you were really out of it! Theresa informed him. You should have seen yourself—head straight back, mouth wide open. You were snoring so loud I had to turn the radio on.

He dimly noticed the audio streaming from the dashboard for the first time since he woke. A ’60s rock song played while Theresa thumped along to the beat with her thumbs upon the steering wheel. Dennis swallowed for a moment in embarrassment. Visions of his mother passed out in the passenger seat in the same repose he had just enjoyed, while his father drove, filled his head. Every time their family traveled somewhere distant, his mother could be counted on to fall asleep in the same manner that he just had. It had always been a source of amusement for his family, and apparently he had inherited the behavior.

While Theresa’s performance rose to include singing along with the lyrics, Dennis quietly took in the surrounding view. Something about the New England countryside, and especially Salem and its surroundings, always seemed to make his heart sing. The old architecture, some of the oldest in America, surrounded by nature seemed a perfect balance to his sense of texture.

As he watched it go by, he thought of his dissertation. He envisioned the ghosts of the past meandering about, trying to establish a firm foothold in the New World. The old scene of tragedy still seemed to linger somehow in the background, as if it were the foundation the town was built upon.

The emotion reignited the bad feelings of his dream and immediately brought his consciousness to the freshness of his own recent despair. He momentarily shook his head in a futile attempt to dispel the thoughts. He knew the majority of the remaining day would be filled with them, and he had no wish to entertain them now. He pushed them back as best he could but felt them hovering about him just the same way as he felt the tragedy that lingered over the town.

A new song came on the radio—a poplar tune that everyone seemed to know well. He joined Theresa in singing the melody. She smiled happily at him as he did. Together they accompanied the singing in harmonization, belting out the song in full throat. Immediately Dennis felt better, and he was grateful to have such a wonderful person to be his closest friend. They spent the remainder of the trip singing along to the radio, feeling good until they hit the state line.

As they passed into New Hampshire, Dennis became suddenly disappointed when Theresa switched off the radio, apparently so she could concentrate. What was it about finding your way in a car that required the radio to be silenced? Dennis wondered to himself. It seemed a strange requirement of the brain that would assist it in its attempts at focusing.

Without the electronic stimulus, the mood immediately turned more sober. The silence in the cabin of the vehicle seemed to hang like a thick veil of substantial discomfort. Dennis loudly cleared his throat but could think of nothing to say. Butterflies were beginning to creep into his stomach. He lowered the window next to him to get some fresh air, but that did next to nothing to alleviate the feeling.

Look at how splendid the city looks, Theresa announced, drawing Paxton’s attention back through the car’s windshield. As he shifted his gaze, he was immediately struck by the brilliance of the scene laid out before him. From their viewpoint upon the interstate, approaching Manchester from the east, the high noon sun hung directly above the city, sending an array of light cascading down upon it like a rainbowed waterfall; it dazzled the eye as it reflected off the myriad glass windows that adorned the high buildings. In the foreground of the picturesque view, Derryfield Country Club and Derryfield Park foreshadowed their approach, giving the city an overall impression of duplicity, as if it were a futuristic place where tall, grand architecture mingled with the sumptuous life of a natural setting.

The view seemed to lift Dennis’s spirits again, much the same as the music on the radio had previously done. In some ways, he was glad to be returning home again. He couldn’t help but notice that when he was feeling his most forlorn, the things in this world that held beauty somehow emitted even more elegance.

* * *

James Meirden, senator of the great state of Massachusetts, had just completed securing the nomination as the Republican Party’s candidate for the presidency of the United States. He wasn’t the official candidate yet; that would come later at the Republican National Convention in August. He had just become the presumptive candidate by winning the Indiana state primary. With the delegates that this state gave to him, along with winning the Iowa caucuses and taking the states of New Hampshire and New York and six out of the nine states that had been up for grabs on the first Super Tuesday in March, his victory was all but assured.

The senator was a strikingly handsome man who wore his middle-aged years well. He was incredibly fit as a result of to a steady regimen of proper diet and high-tempo workouts each morning. In fact, he often remarked to his staff that he wished to have a more impressive six-pack abdomen than the current occupant of the Oval Office. His hair was light brown, mingled with a sprinkling of light silver that blended dashingly with his short-length cut. His bangs were brushed back straight over the top of his head and had caused many to wonder over the years just how he kept it so perfectly intact. He possessed a dazzling white smile, and his olive-green eyes were so appealing that they were often the first thing people noticed about him. He always seemed to be tan, despite the time of year, and the few wrinkles he possessed only served to accent his distinguished appearance.

He was currently en route to give a precursor to his acceptance speech. Those within his entourage were in a celebratory