Sybil

CYNTHIA FRIDSMA

Sybil

2019

Copyright © 2019 by Cynthia Fridsma

Th Edition License Notes

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

More information about the writer can be found on

www.cynthiafridsma.com

Photo: Cover photo by Sandratsky Dmitriy

Cover Design & artwork: Cynthia Fridsma

First Printing: 2019

Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1679454455

Dedication

To the people of Boston and all those who were affected by the Boston Marathon bombings on April 15, 2013 and to the victims of the Holocaust and all those who’re affected by hate crimes.

Introduction

During the annual Boston Marathon on April 15, 2013, two homemade pressure-cooker bombs detonated near the finish line of the race, killing three people and injuring several hundred others, including sixteen who lost limbs.

It filled my heart with horror when I watched the news broadcast about the bombings in Boston. It was back then that I decided to work on a story involving the Boston Marathon bombings in May 2013, and hopefully make people aware of the horror and insanity of terrorism.

After four revisions on my part, I contacted junior editor Amanda. Together with Amanda, I worked on the project from June 2014 until April 2015. I was about to publish The Black Widow when my mother suddenly passed away on May 12.

Heartbroken, I put my project on hold until July. Before the publication of The Black Widow, I contacted my proofreader, Tami Adams, and sent her the first three chapters of my book.

On August 6, Tami warned me about the poor quality of the editing process. Tami’s reply was a lifesaver—otherwise, I’d have published an amateurish version of The Black Widow in 2015.

Instead of going back to my junior editor for a final draft, I decided to hire a professional. I contacted Danielle Seybold on August 6. Danielle turned out to be a great help and finally, on May 14, 2016, I published The Black Widow.

After completing The Black Widow, I wanted to work with Danielle on my third project, Help, but Danielle wrote: For your third book, I think it’s best if you find an editor who specializes in your genre. As you guessed, vampires are not really my thing. It was definitely challenging to work on a manuscript featuring something I’ve never read before. Your book deserves someone who can be really excited about the story. I know there are editors out there who love vampire novels. Good luck!

So, for my third project, Help, I contacted the nice people from FirstEditing.com.

On April 21, 2016, I sent my first chapter to editor Virginia (from FirstEditing). In response to my first chapter, Virginia wrote: Dear Cynthia. Thank you for this opportunity to provide an edit of a chapter of your book. I also very much appreciated the style sheet, so thank you for providing that as well. This looks like a great story. I love the premise of a vampire investigator. Well done.

Virginia turned out to be a great help, and the ongoing story was doing well. Then in March 2017, after sending the first chapters of the final act, disaster struck when I received an unsettling phone call from FirstEditing and they informed me that editor Virginia no longer worked for FirstEditing. After what happened in 2015 with The Black Widow and Amanda’s poor editing, I thought, This is it. No more book writing for me.

Then FirstEditing suggested a new editor, Lee Ann, a New Englander who had worked in Boston for a decade—so not the end of the line then!

Thank God this setback wasn’t the end of my writing career, because when I glanced at the first chapter(s) done by my new editor, Lee Ann, I realized she did a good job and has proved to be a great help. It’s been an honor working with Lee Ann and FirstEditing ever since.

Together with Lee Ann’s help, I finished my writing projects: Help, The Lost Planet, Nightbird, Vanished, and Susan – volume 1.

Nightbird and the ATU are, of course, fictional.

Cynthia Fridsma

Preface

Sybil is a vampire who is desperately trying to live as a human. She has to give up her humanity when she faces the Angel of Death and the Black Widow in this story that begins in Boston, when two bombs go off. Sybil’s friends, Jack and Catherine, find themselves at the center of the carnage.

Jack works for the Anti-Terrorism Unit (ATU), while Catherine works for an altogether different organization that deals with the supernatural. They must find out who planted the bombs, and soon they discover a vampire is behind the terrorists setting off the bombs at the Boston marathon. The vampire’s next plan is to have the terrorists set off a biological-virus bomb that will kill thousands.

When Sybil finally faces the vampire behind the terrorists, a new evil is released when Dr. Josef Mengele—the Angel of Death—escapes from Hell.

Sybil is an exciting, dark fantasy, horror based on real-life events and was previously released as two separate books: The Black Widow (in 2016) and Help (in 2017).

Sybil

Chaos

* April 15—2:49 p.m. *

T

he annual Patriots’ Day marathon had started four hours ago in Boston. The streets were full of day-trippers and residents talking excitedly while they waited to welcome the runners. The sun was doing its best despite the chilly wind, so it felt warmer than fifty-two degrees when the wind died down for a little while. Jack was near the finish line along with his girlfriend, Catherine. He stood next to her and leaned in. I bet you a kiss that the second group of runners show within five minutes.

Catherine smiled sweetly at him. OK, I’ll give you a kiss if they appear within five minutes. But if you’re wrong then you’ll have to kiss me instead.

Jack looked at her and smiled. Glad she was with him. He’d known Catherine for just a month now, but in his heart, it felt he’d known her all his life. The pair had been through a lot together. Their dreadful adventures near the Cedar Grove Cemetery still brought shivers down his spine. He stroked the soft hair that hung loose around Catherine’s shoulders in playful waves, the way he liked it most. He embraced her and together they checked his watch. Six minutes elapsed before the runners appeared.

You’ve lost! she shouted and grinned at him with her bright green eyes.

OK, he surrendered and rewarded her with a kiss. She closed her eyes and he did the same. This was a bet he didn’t mind losing. Around him, the crowd cheered. Clearly, a new runner had arrived. He didn’t care. All he cared for was this woman in his arms, the love of his life. Nothing could go wrong today. All the doubts and worries of last month slipped off his shoulders. He wanted them to enjoy each other without thinking about the next day. His substitute Tony took care of his tasks at the ATU, Anti-Terrorism Unit. Catherine’s aunt Sybil had nothing to report; she wanted them to have a nice day. He enjoyed the warmth of Catherine’s lips. It had been a long time since he’d felt so good with a woman. After his divorce from Dorothy, he hadn’t expected to fall in love again. He felt filled with love when he was with Catherine. She made him complete and there was still so much to discover. Jack toyed with the idea of taking a week off to explore the West Coast with her. A loud explosion shredded his daydreams. Alarmed, he let her go and looked around. A second explosion followed. Instinctively he dropped to the ground and pulled her with him. He covered her body with his to protect her against the glass shards and flying debris. He used his hands to protect her face. His gut twisted and he wanted only one thing—keep her safe! When he no longer felt debris raining down on him, he lifted his hands and anxiously inspected her face. To his relief, he only discovered a few scratches on her. Nothing serious. Thank God. He saw the fear in her eyes and wanted say something to reassure her. He wanted to tell her that there’s no need to worry but he couldn’t hear his own voice. Everything around him sounded dull against the ringing in his ears.

Stay calm, he shouted. He didn’t know if she heard him. Jack stood up, while Catherine didn’t move, and pulled the gun he always carried, even during a day off, with him. A police officer ran toward him and aimed his gun at Jack’s chest. The cop shouted something. Jack, still suffering from tinnitus, couldn’t make it out. The cop came closer while Jack carefully raised his left hand to get his ATU badge. The cop nodded when he saw Jack’s badge—since the dreadful killings in the cemetery last month that also costs the life of two cops, everyone at the Boston Police Department knew about the ATU—and put his gun in his holster. Again, he said something and Jack made with a small gesture clear that he could not hear so well. The cop nodded, gestured around him and walked away. Worried he looked at Catherine, who hadn’t moved. He bent to help her onto her feet, putting his arm around her shoulder. Feeling something wet on his neck, he touched his spot and then looked at his fingers. Blood!

1

Jack walked unsteadily to a first-aid station, followed closely by Catherine who didn’t say a word. He sat down in a folding chair. A nurse looked him over and prepared to close the gash on the back of his neck, even though everything still sounded dull, he could hear well enough to use his cell phone. He grimaced at the first stitch and called Tony.

Rodrigues.

Hi Tony, it’s me. I was nearby the finish line and suddenly there were two explosions. Do you know what the hell is going on?

Tony exhaled. An attack. Terrorists placed bombs along the route of the marathon. Two other bombs are diffused. I asked Vanessa to analyze the videos. She hopes to report the results within half an hour. Vanessa was a computer wizard at the ATU. Jack had hired her as a data analyst two years ago and never regretted his decision because she’d proven herself a valued team member. Jack closed his eyes for a second and wondered if he should stay here or head to the office. Someone’s scream made the decision for him. He gritted his teeth. I’ll see if I can offer my help around here, otherwise I’ll come to the office. He hung up and turned to Catherine with sadness in his eyes.

Duty calls.

I know, Catherine said. Her eyes were moist and he wished that he could comfort her. She bent over and gave him a kiss. After the nurse was done stitching, he stood, keeping his eyes on Catherine. She worried him. He put his arms around her. Do I need to take you to Nightbird?

Jack, I know that you want to see if you can help. I’ll go back to Aunt’s Sybil’s hotel by myself. I think that this attack has to be handled by the ATU rather than by Nightbird.

She was right. Still he didn’t want to let her go. Not now with all the bombing and terrorists out there. Suppose that something terrible happened to her. He would never forgive himself; she meant the world to him. His world would collapse if he lost her. The thought proved that even though he’d gone through many life-threatening situations, it didn’t mean that his heart was bulletproof. Instinctively, he wanted to protect her but he knew that she was an active member of Nightbird and she proved herself last month when they’d fought all kind of hell beasties and yet, terrorism had nothing to do with the paranormal activities that Nightbird looked into. Finding terrorists and bringing them to justice was his department. Not hers! He wanted to take her to the office to keep her safe but he knew that she would only be in the way. He balled up a fist in a powerless gesture. A deep sigh escaped from his mouth.

I guess you’re right. But I hope to see you soon.

No worries, I won’t walk away, she said. She smiled bravely but by the look in her eyes, he knew she didn’t want to go. A hoarse voice pulled Jack’s attention from Catherine, and he looked over his shoulder. The nurse was taking care of someone who stared at his feet and wondered aloud who would set off bombs in the middle of the marathon. Jack felt the same way. At least he had the chance to do something about it; he swore that he would get the offenders who had done this. Let the law take care of them. He knew that the death penalty was declared unconstitutional in Massachusetts. If it was up to him, the terrorists deserved the death penalty. A little calmer, he smiled at Catherine. He gently rubbed her cheeks and caught a teardrop.

She said, Promise me that you’ll be careful.

Like always, he answered with a gut-wrenching feeling. She gave him a kiss and went. He watched her go, and said a brief Thanks to the nurse who was too busy to hear his words.

2

He walked to Boylston Street, staring at the havoc the bombs caused. People ran across the street, disorientated. To the left he saw a couple of people running in panic and to the right, people running toward wounded runners and bystanders. He followed them while his inner voice cursed the terrorists. He glared at the blood on the street. His heartbeat quickened and he wished that the terrorists were in front of him so he could release his anger on them. He cracked his knuckles, heat flushed through his body, and closed his eyes for a second. Staying angry was no good, he realized. It would cloud his judgment. Jack’s hands trembled and he took a deep breath, trying to calm down. He wetted his lips and listened to the sound of a siren, the cries of people in pain and the panic. His gaze went from left to right, and he spotted an injured woman lying partly hidden under some debris. A thin layer of smoke circled above her. Was she still alive? Worried, he stooped and pulled off the debris. He worked quickly and soon she was free. He put his fingers against her neck and exhaled in relief when he felt a faint heartbeat. She’s alive, thank God! She needed medical attention immediately. Quickly, he inspected her body for visible injuries. It was something he’d learned in the military when he served in Afghanistan and later in Iraq. When he saw that her foot rested in an unnatural angle, with a deep cut and covered in blood, he feared she might lose it. His breath sped up as he untied his tie and wrapped it tightly around her ankle to stop the bleeding. Carefully he lifted her up. Something snapped. Sickened he looked at her foot. Just as he feared, it had almost come off. Sonofabitch! There was no way to support it; he had his hands full as he carried the poor woman. A cry for help didn’t get anyone’s attention. In the center of chaos, nobody noticed him. He thought he saw an ambulance through the smoke that covered the street. Ground zero. The thought flashed through his mind and he forced himself to stay calm.

He hurried toward the ambulance with nothing to help him but hope. She was still unconscious. Perhaps it’s for the best. He relaxed a little when he reached the ambulance. Two EMTs were trying to resuscitate a victim. Jack shouted for help and one of them looked up. Seeing the woman in Jack’s arms, he gestured to his partner and got up. Jack waited for him while he took a gurney from the ambulance. Together they put her carefully onto the gurney.

The paramedic sighed. What a mess. He glanced at Jack. Who would do things like this?

I don’t know. I wish I knew.

The paramedic carefully opened the woman’s eyes.

She’ll make it, he predicted. Can you give me a hand?

Jack nodded and climbed into the ambulance to guide the gurney in. Inside he saw another bombing victim. This man had lost both his legs. Jack bit his lower lip and balled his fist. The medic gestured for him to get out. Both victims needed medical care in the nearest hospital. It rode away with blaring sirens. Jack watched the ambulance go and noticed the paramedic who stayed in place and was now helping another victim. When he turned, he saw people pushing a wheelchair, carrying a wounded man. Everything around him reminded him of the days he was in Iraq where he almost hadn’t survived a suicide attack. His cell rang and he saw that it was Tony.

Jack, we have a possible suspect.

Good. Send me the intel.

After he hung up, he studied the picture of the suspect. Tony had informed him that the man, Kamal Ben Quarish, was wounded during the bombings and was in a nearby hospital. He ran to his car, turned on the police lights, and pulled into traffic with squealing tires.

3

At the hospital, he asked a nurse for Kamal Ben Quarish. She looked suspicious. Are you a relative? He replied by flashing his ATU badge. She frowned. Jack sighed impatiently. She looked at him. Without a word, she brought him to a man whose head was bandaged. Jack nodded to the nurse and took a seat near the patient’s bed. Are you Kamal Ben Quarish?

The man looked at him. Yes.

I’m Jack Hunter, and I am investigating the marathon bombings. He showed his badge.

The man tried to sit up straight. Am I a suspect now? He reacted in a hoarse voice and drew his eyebrows together. Only because I’m Arab? Jack studied the man’s face and didn’t answer his question.

If he’s involved in any way, then . . . The nurse interrupted his thoughts. Don’t you see that this man is hurt? Her eyes narrowed and she put her hands around her hips.

I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but we’re under a terrorist threat, Jack said sharply. It’s my job to prevent worse, and I need to know if Mr. Quarish has anything to do with the bombings.

The nurse let her hands fall from her hips and her eyes widened. I-I thought the explosions was caused by a kitchen accident. B-but please lower your voice. Mr. Quarish has a slight concussion.

If you let me do my job and give us some privacy then I’ll be out of here before you know it.

The nurse nodded and looked at her patient. She shook her head in disbelief, looked at Jack, and closed the curtains around the bed. I can’t give you more privacy than this, she said.

Finally, Jack could focus his attention on the suspect. He smiled faintly and read the intel Tony had sent to his phone. Jack was well aware that he was stalling. If the suspect was anxious and unprepared for an interview, he’d be more likely to betray himself. He glanced at Mr. Quarish. Mr. Quarish’s fingers restlessly rubbed his wrist as he glanced back at Jack.

Please be patient, Mr. Quarish. I’m just reading some background information about you.

Kamal Quarish was a middle-aged shop owner. He migrated from Iran in 1981 and sold fruit and vegetables. He had a son, and his wife passed away last year. It was not the profile of a terrorist, but it could be a cover up.

He turned off his phone and looked at Mr. Quarish. He looked upset—perhaps because he felt wrongly accused or just maybe he had something to hide. Jack decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. I just want to ask a few questions. It will only take a few minutes.

Well, there’s not much to tell, mister. I was nearby the finish line and BANG! He coughed.

Jack handed him the cup of water from the nightstand next to the bed.

Thanks, he murmured.

You’re welcome. Now what happened after the explosion?

I don’t know. I just woke up in here. My head hurts. He frowned as he touched the bandage.

Jack nodded. Was there, before the explosion took place, something out of the ordinary that drew your attention? Even if it was only for a second?

Mr. Quarish looked up at the ceiling for a moment. No, sorry. Nothing that I can recall. I was watching the runners the whole time. Last year I was with my wife. Being at the marathon gave me the feeling she was with me. I know it sounds crazy, but—

No, I get it, Jack said holding up his hands. He thought of his daughter, whom he hadn’t seen for almost two years. There were times he had the feeling she was with him. In his gut, he knew this man was an innocent.

Thank you for your time, Jack said and stood up. If you do recall something notable, please give me a call. Jack gave him his card and left.

4

Outside the hospital, Jack pulled out his phone and dialed. Hi Tony, it’s me. I interviewed Mr. Quarish and he has nothing to do with it. Is Vanessa done with the video analysis?

Not yet. It’s a lot to go through, Tony said.

OK. Well. I can’t do much around here. I’m heading to the office.

Jack climbed into his car and exhaled loudly. Well that was a wild goose chase, he mumbled, turned on the siren, and gripped the wheel. He accelerated to a high speed even though the light at the intersection turned red. He was in a hurry and with a wailing siren and flashing lights, no one could miss him. In his rearview mirror, he saw a car stop just in time as he crossed the intersection. He tuned in on the police frequency on his scanner. Dispatch to all units near— He turned it off because it didn’t tell him anything new and looked at the people running down the sidewalk. He parked the car at the ATU building in downtown Boston.

Richard

* April 15—2:39 p.m. *

A

fter everything Richard McKenna had been through last month in London, he expected to have enough inspiration for his book. Alas, no such luck! He couldn’t put anything on paper. Deep down inside, he compared himself with an empty shell. Richard looked up from his laptop and stared out his six-floor window. He’d stayed in Boston despite the many dreadful moments he had experienced in Sybil’s hotel on the outskirts of the city. His shoulders curled forward at the thought of her hotel. He took a deep breath, forcing himself back to the present. He’d found this furnished, top-floor apartment online and signed a month-to-month lease. Beyond the parking lot immediately below him was a park, framed by tall buildings, nearly skyscrapers. During the day, the park was mostly dominated by children. He could even hear their enthusiasm up here in the living room. They are probably playing baseball he normally enjoyed watching because of their enthusiasm. But he refused to get up and look. So much for the view. Anyway, he hadn’t rented the place two weeks ago for the view. He loved the Back Bay neighborhood that was not far from where he lived. The Victorian brownstone homes were lovely, and he’d spent a fair amount of time at the Boston Public Library. The lion statutes at the main staircase in the McKim Building and the paintings on the wall were nourishment to his soul. Richard turned back to his laptop, but instead of writing, he thought about Glory Maryland. Although he’d been madly in love with her and made plans to get married, she never loved him back. Instead, she’d used him for his talent, lied to him, and drove him away from London. It was because of her he had to try his luck in Boston. Otherwise, he would still be in London. They told him she’d passed away two weeks ago in a London prison cell. Suicide, that’s what they said. Finally, some justice served. Tired, he looked up from his laptop. His neighbors were arguing and he could hear their voices through the thin walls of his apartment. Always arguing. He grinned. It’s like a living for them. If they were yelling when he was in the bathroom, it sounded as if they were literally in his apartment. Here in the living room, he couldn’t follow their heated conversation. Despite all that, he felt at home. After everything he had been through, hearing his neighbors made him not feel so lonely.

His biggest fear was the night. When he went to sleep, he kept his lamp on and the window open to hear the street noise. Still, the nightmares kept coming. Zombies, vampires, and other hell beasties wanted to kill him in his sleep. Sometimes he had the feeling that they drained his blood. His blood had been the key to destroying the Necronomicon. Sybil had shown him that his blood consumed the book of the dead. She’d saved his life—along with the help of that doctor. What was his name again? He frowned a moment. Carl Meaning. He had devised a blood transfusion so that Richard could donate his blood safely to destroy the book of the dead. If the book hadn’t been destroyed, then he would be in Hell instead of here. Every day he woke up sweaty and alone. Empty. He went to the Sleeper Street Cafe where Dolores made his breakfast. She was in her mid-thirties and always nice to him, standing behind the bar and serving him a nice cup of tea with milk and sugar. Her lovely smile was the finishing touch. A few hours ago, she had asked him if he would go downtown to watch the marathon. Richard hadn’t known there was a marathon and although the idea of standing among the crowd appealed to him, he didn’t want to go. He wasn’t much into sport anyway, unless it was Manchester United. In his heart, he was still British. Perhaps one day he would return to London. After all, the IRA wasn’t chasing him, nor Al-Qaeda. That was a bunch of lies the Marylands’ had told him. They’d put him under pressure. Yes, they forced me to work on my third book. He closed his eyes and recalled the horrible night at the Maryland residence. His former publisher, Donald Maryland, had threatened to kill him. Donald and his wife—Glory—told him that terrorists were out for his blood. His London apartment was destroyed by a bomb.

It wasn’t terrorists!

It became quiet all around him. The neighbors had stopped arguing, and the children had stopped playing outside. Was it his imagination or had the traffic noise silenced as well? Embarrassed, as if he stood in front of an audience, he cleared his throat and shouted, I am sorry for the interruption. Please carry on!

The silence made way for ordinary daily sounds. The neighbors were arguing again. He just smiled. Back to normal. He thought again of Dolores. She’d told him she wanted to be at the finish line to cheer for the runners but her boss didn’t want to give her the day off. So he’d promised her to keep her company at the cafe in the afternoon and watch the marathon together on TV. Richard looked at his watch. It was nearly three ‘o clock. He was late—he’d promised to be there at one. He’d been staring at the blank screen of his laptop since ten a.m. He sighed and turned off his laptop. Just another fruitless day without writing.

In the kitchen, he got a bottle of water from the fridge, and drank it until it was almost empty. The plant on the windowsill needed some water too. Or else it would become a weeping willow, literally. The last drop of water was for the poor plant. At the front door, he paused and stared at his face in the hall mirror, disliking his weary look. If the nightmares would stay away, his face would go back to normal—he hoped.

5

I thought that you forgot our date. Dolores grinned when she saw him. Richard looked at her, comforted by the way she always wore her dark blonde hair in a slightly messy ponytail.

He smiled briefly.

I will never forget a date with you. Is there a winner already?

He sat down at the bar and turned his attention to the TV mounted near the ceiling in a steel frame. A fan above the bar softly hummed. He asked Dolores why she always had it turned on, since it wasn’t even warm outside. Dolores shrugged. I like to have the cool air blowing on me. Richard doubted if the fan made a difference because it spun slowly. He noted nothing.

Lelisa Desisa has reached the finish line in two hours and ten minutes, she said.

He ran nearly twelve miles an hour, Richard said, shaking his head in admiration. I can’t imagine.

Here you go, Dolores said, setting a glass of soda in front of him. On the house.

Thank you, Richard said, touched. She smiled and turned to the television. A few runners appeared.

To your health, Richard said, and took a sip.

An explosion sounded. Smoke plumed on the screen. A few runners looked back. A second explosion. Richard’s face went pale. Oh my God, he said. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the many life-threatening moments he’d been through last month.

Dolores arched her eyebrows. I have goose bumps.

Richard rubbed her hands. Me too.

She picked up the TV remote from under the counter and turned up the volume. They could hear screams through the speakers. A few tears trickled from her eyes and Richard felt sorry for her. With a napkin, he gently dried her cheeks. She looked at him without speaking. Although the announcer on TV said it was too early to jump to conclusions about the nature of the explosions—it could have been an accident—immediately Richard thought of terrorists. Judging by the look on Dolores’s face, he guessed she thought the same thing: it’s 9/11 all over again. Richard swallowed a lump in his throat and took her hand once more. She was beginning to take great gulps of air.

Come here, he said in a calm voice, even though he didn’t feel calm. He helped her to a table. Richard returned to the bar and found a towel, which he moistened and brought back for her forehead.

Breathe slowly, he advised.

Involuntarily he thought back to when Harry Brown paid him a visit at the hotel. Harry had threatened him with a gun and forced Richard to commit suicide. It was as if the gun barrel was pushed against his temple. He looked around. There was no sign of Harry Brown. How could there be? He was dead. Dolores’s panting brought him back to the present.

Close your eyes and try to calm down.

How can I calm down? she asked. All those innocent people have just had their lives turned upside down. Maybe some are dead by now. Oh, my God! She looked at him. I know that you have nothing to do with it. She sighed. Once upon a time I was involved in a car accident. A car hit me when I was crossing a street. The driver got out to check if I was still alive. Then he just drove off while I lay in the street, with a broken hip and in a lot of pain. It was raining. I was alone, and no one came to help me. Luckily, my cell phone was intact and I called 9-1-1 myself. She shuddered and stared at the TV. Those people out there are helpless too.

I’m sorry that happened to you, Richard said, looking over at her. And I’m sorry this is happening to them. Unfortunately, we can’t do anything for them. Though I wish we could.

She faintly smiled and touched his face with her hand. You’re sweet.

You too, he said. Can’t you close up for today?

Felix would never approve that.

Maybe he’ll make an exception if you call him.

I’ll give it a try.

6

Richard opened the door to his apartment and waited patiently for Dolores. He never expected that he’d invite someone in. Let alone a woman like Dolores. All women he’d been involved with were slim and could be models. Unlike Dolores. It didn’t matter to him. He quickly locked the door behind her and hurried to the living room where he shoved some papers away that were spread out on the sofa. Dolores sat down.

Do you want something to drink?

Yes. Coffee, please.

Richard rummaged in the kitchen cabinets for coffee and was relieved to find some. He scooped tablespoons of coffee into the filter of the coffeemaker. Somewhere he lost count but he guessed it was enough.

Wow, I didn’t know you wrote books, Dolores called.

Huh? Oh, right, he replied. I have written two books. My first book even made it to Hollywood, he added with a note of pride. After he pressed start on the coffeemaker, the water didn’t fill the pot. As usual. With a sigh, he tilted the coffeepot to a slight angle, so the water ran through—he’d gotten it from Sybil but had a small defect with the water flow.

7

Back in the living room, he saw Dolores standing at the bookshelf. He tapped her gently on the shoulder.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop. I love reading myself. I’m always curious about what other people have on their bookshelves, she said a little awkwardly.

What do you like to read the most? he asked, amused. Richard turned his head. He heard the coffee simmer—he recognized the sound, dripping water on the hot plate. The coffeemaker is having one of those days. I have to take a look in the kitchen, he apologized. This time, he held the coffeepot at an angle and waited until the coffee was ready.

You could also buy a new coffeemaker, she suggested with a chuckle, coming to stand beside him. He grinned. I could do that, he said and grabbed two cups. Only then you get coffee without a soul. He smiled as he poured the coffee, holding the cups over the sink and spilling a little. I’m a bit of a klutz today I’m afraid. He chuckled.

That’s all right, Dolores said and took a cup from him.

So Felix gave you a day off? he asked as they walked back to the living room. He put his coffee on the coffee table.

Yes, but only for today, she said, taking a seat next to him.

He nodded. I’ll put on some music. What do you like?

Do you have Madonna?

Maybe— He stood and browsed through his CDs. He had bought so many during his first week in Boston. Finding one he thought was Madonna, he put it on the stereo, London Rain began to play. He looked at the CD cover and frowned. "Oh no, wait. This is Siren by Heather Nova."

Heather who?

Heather Nova. Her music is soft rock. You must have heard her at least once. I just love her voice. You know. She’s from Bermuda. He’d gotten the CD from Sybil’s niece, last week—when she’d come with Jack Hunter to visit him. It was her welcome to Boston gift. Not long ago, he used to listen to Chopin. But he was no longer in the mood for classical music. He tried to shrug it off. He returned to his seat next to her and took a sip from his coffee. He grimaced. Is it just me, or is the coffee maybe a bit too strong?

Maybe it’s for the best to leave coffee making to the professionals, she joked while she set her cup next to his. Dolores settled herself next to him and he put his arm around her. It had been a long time since he’d felt so relaxed. Even when he was with Glory, he hadn’t felt like this. True beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. Her face is beautiful and if she loses some weight, then . . . They sat there for a while, listening, until she leaned in to kiss him.

Memorial Service

C

atherine walked to the main entrance of the hotel with a twisted feeling in her gut. The feeling wouldn’t go away. She had trouble holding back tears; what began so beautifully had ended in a total nightmare! She walked into the foyer and saw Felicity, Frank, and Sybil watching news on the TV in the foyer. Seeing Aunt Sybil and her friends from Nightbird made her feel miserable. Jack had wanted to watch the marathon on TV, but no, she had insisted on standing at the finish line with him because it would feel more real among the crowd cheering for the runners. With a deep sigh, she took a seat on the corner sofa, across from her friends. Sybil glanced at her before turning off the TV.

Poor girl, she said, getting up. Would you like a drink?

Yes, please, Catherine said hoarsely. She closed her eyes and gently rubbed her fingers above her eyebrows to soothe the headache announcing itself. Sybil poured her a glass of whiskey that she got from the hotel bar.

It looks like you sure could use something strong.

A faint smile touched the corners of Catherine’s mouth as she took a sip. She leaned forward and held the glass in both hands.

I won’t ask how your day off was. We have all seen the news, Frank said. His tone was kind, even understanding. Yet it tore a sob from her. The attention her friends gave was just too much, and she could no longer hold back her tears. The glass fell when she covered her face with her hands. She sniffed and looked up. It started wonderfully, but then there was this explosion, she said in a trembling voice. The twisted feeling in her gut grew stronger.

Dammit! Tears streamed down her face as she bent forward. The broken pieces of glass at her feet made her feel worse. Sybil took a seat next to her and, putting her hand on Catherine’s shoulder, gently squeezed. Frank offered her a tissue while Felicity sat on her haunches in front of her, mindful of the glass.

I talked with Vanessa. The ATU haven’t found the terrorists yet, Felicity said softly. Catherine nervously wiped her tears and Felicity touched her hand.

People are beasts, Catherine said suddenly. She tossed the tissue on the coffee table. They all looked at her quietly. God, I’m right aren’t I? Just think of 9/11 and the shooting just before Christmas in Newtown last year. Twenty kids in an elementary school were killed by a maniac with a semi-automatic gun. Catherine stopped herself and bit her lower lip.

Felicity stood up and Sybil looked Catherine in the eye. I would like to tear him down with my Uzi, but he killed himself. Bloody shithead!

Catherine stared at the angry expression on Sybil’s face. She knew her aunt loved her submachine gun. Again, a sob tore from her. Unlike Sybil, she felt lost. After a deep breath, she said, if it weren’t for those gun-rights activists last year who lobbied against gun control then this school shooting would never have happened. Or at least it would have been on a much smaller scale. Those rednecks are only supporting arms brokers and gun manufacturers who make a ton of money. Why can people still buy semi-automatic weapons? It’s because of the rednecks, I’m telling you! No offense. Sybil, I know you love your Uzi.

None taken, Sybil said.

So, when you say that people are beasts, you actually mean rednecks are beasts? Frank asked.

She frowned. Why did I start this discussion? Catherine looked up as she remembered something. Hey, don’t we have a memorial service for Harry tomorrow at four thirty? changing the subject eased her mind. She didn’t want to think about rednecks and beasts anymore.

You’re right. That’s tomorrow, Sybil said. Good old Harry. Shouldn’t we call it off? After all, there’s so much going on.

We can’t call it off. Without him, Richard McKenna would’ve been killed, Catherine replied. "Then The Necronomicon wouldn’t be destroyed." Harry had given his life to keep Richard safe. They destroyed the book of the dead with Richard’s blood—he was the chosen one. She took the tissue from the coffee table, wiped her tears, and blew her nose. The ceremony would take place in the church at the Cedar Grove Cemetery.

April 16—4:30 p.m.

T

he next day—on April 16—Catherine, Sybil, Felicity, and Frank, went to the memorial service. It had been a while since Catherine had been in a church, but little had changed. Churches always remained the same. She glanced around at the stained-glass windows depicting the resurrection of Jesus. She took a seat in the front pew. After the organist played a hymn, the priest walked in with an incense censer. Hating that smell, she held her breath. The priest walked up to the altar and spoke a few words of kindness. Catherine studied the large photograph of Harry propped up behind the priest. He looked proudly into the camera, a cigar in his hand. She smiled; he had been an incorrigible smoker. Felicity told her that he’d shot the smoke detector in his hotel room so he could smoke a cigarette. That was two hours before his death. She turned to see how many more people had come. At the back, she noticed a woman in widow’s black who blew her nose softly and looked down, a hanky in her hand. Catherine frowned. Who was that? As far as Catherine knew, Harry wasn’t married—but he might have been. After all, he was a secret CIA agent, and there was probably plenty, she didn’t know about him. She turned back to the priest, not wanting to draw attention to herself. He walked a few steps toward Harry’s picture and as he sprinkled holy water around, a few drops sprayed her face. She wiped them off, and when she looked up, she saw Harry standing behind the priest, wearing a white suit. He winked at her, lit a cigarette, and blew smoke into the censer, creating a huge cloud of mixed smoke. Catherine had trouble suppressing her laughter when the astonished priest stared at the censer. Harry walked toward Catherine. She glanced over her shoulder at her friends, but by the looks on their faces, she realized they didn’t see him. He pointed to the widow, his mouth wide open, and then he vanished. Catherine looked behind her. The woman was no longer there. She frowned. Was she a ghost?

There weren’t many people, Frank said. Catherine looked up. She hadn’t noticed that the ceremony had ended. Did you guys see Harry’s ghost? she asked, even though she knew the answer.

Come again? You saw his ghost? Felicity looked at her as if she was losing her mind.

Well, I saw him during the ceremony. He blew cigarette smoke into the incense censer. Harry pointed to a woman in widow’s black who sat in the back and just vanished. When I looked behind me, the widow was gone as well.

Catherine checked the guest book that stood on a small altar in the hall of the church. She stopped on one name and showed it to the others. Sally Hawley.

That bitch was here! Frank said angrily. If I’d known that I would’ve killed her! He drew his index finger across his throat.

We’ll get her sooner or later, Sybil promised.

The Brothers Azarov

"W

e won!" Adrenaline rushed through Vladimir’s body. His heart pounded in his chest. He’d never felt this good. They had been celebrating their victory at his brother’s dorm in Cambridge, yesterday and now they were back on the streets of Boston.

8

Yesterday they were at the marathon to put everything in motion—all for the good cause and he honestly didn’t think they would pull it off. Not with so many cops around. When he put his backpack on the ground behind the bystanders, he thought that he and his brother would fail. He wanted to run as the pressure became too high for him, though he knew he had to stay calm in order not to betray himself. He walked away, glancing at his watch. He had only five minutes before the bomb was to go off. Although it wasn’t warm, his forehead was sweaty under his cap. Vladimir bumped against a man who carried a child on his shoulders. He mumbled an apology and moved on. He didn’t dare to look over his shoulder at his brother. When the bombs finally exploded, he felt victorious, as if he’d won the marathon himself.

9

What else did you expect? Nikolay asked. Everyone is in panic now. He smiled and opened a can of Coke. Want some?

No thanks, Vladimir said. If we want to live by the rules of Sharia law we have to ban all Western things. Even Coca-Cola. Everything had worked out just the way they’d planned. A few weeks earlier, they had made four bombs constructed of high-pressure pans, gunpowder, ball bearings, nails, and timers. The Black Widow—their handler—had given them what they needed for the bombs and explained how to put everything together. Vladimir looked at his watch. It’s almost five, bro. We need to go to our appointment.

Nikolay reluctantly turned off his portable radio and got into the car. Vladimir followed, hanging his binoculars around his neck. He made sure to keep the car a few miles under the speed limit, not wanting to draw too much attention. He parked along Milton Street near a gray house that was opposite the Cedar Grove Cemetery. The four steps that led to the front door creaked beneath their feet. He rang the doorbell and nodded at his brother Nikolay, who took off his sunglasses. A woman dressed in black let them in.

Do you want something to drink? she asked. She headed toward the kitchen. I have some soda in the fridge.

No thanks, Vladimir replied.

10

The two brothers took a seat on the sofa in the living room and waited for the Black Widow to return from the kitchen. She soon appeared with a cup that she put on the coffee table. The cup contained a red liquid and smelled a bit coppery but Vladimir didn’t give it a second thought. He just relaxed and stared at her, wondering again how she looked under her veil. He’d never caught a glimpse of her face. But she had such a lovely voice that he expected her to be pretty. Unconsciously, his body responded to her appearance. If she weren’t in a time of mourning, he’d make her his wife. She would be an excellent wife. He just knew it. She was the one who’d said America had to pay. He wet his mouth as he leaned forward, moving a bit closer to her, and slightly parted his legs. Again he wet his lips. In his mind, he kept seeing what a wonderful wife she would be.

I heard the news. Congratulations, she said, excitement in her voice. As promised, I detonated a bomb in the JFK library to create even more panic. The fire was pretty. It still is, she laughed in a wicked way, a decidedly witch-like sound.

Vladimir frowned. The image he’d had of her as a soul mate, who shared his visions smashed to pieces and was replaced by an image of an evil queen. Smiling at the brothers, she stood and said: Gentlemen, I salute you! Long live Chechnya! She lifted her cup in a toast before taking a long swallow, bowed toward them, and sat back down.

Thank you, Vladimir said, moved. The evil queen in his head faded, replaced by the face of an angel with an unsettling laugh. He hoped that she would never laugh like that again. He grinned and glanced at his brother to see his reaction, but Nikolay just leaned back on the sofa. He must be proud too, he told himself.

Our next step is a city of millions, the Black Widow announced. Her voice brought him back to earth. It was time for business and he leaned forward as she brought out a map and opened it on the table. The red pen in her hand circled a hotspot were many tourists came from all over the world.

And we’re going to use a different type of explosive.

What kind of explosive do you mean? Nikolay asked her.

It’s a biological bomb. After all, she said conspiratorially, we want to hit the whole nation. Thousands of people will die! America let our people bleed. Now we’ll do the same to them. You won’t need to worry about the danger of an infection because you’ll get an antidote. She pulled a small briefcase out from under her chair.

Inside you’ll find two needles containing the antidote. Inject yourselves before you set off the bomb. She slid the briefcase across the table to Vladimir. The Black Widow stood up, holding out a hand to shake. Vladimir hesitated for a moment. Shaking hands with a woman was not allowed.

When she no longer mourned she would be his wife, and then it would be OK to shake hands with her—in private only.

She handed Nikolay a dark weekend bag, which Vladimir assumed contained the biological bomb. As she walked them to the door, Vladimir saw the body of a woman lying in the kitchen. She was an infidel. I had to behead her, she explained.

Fire

T

he Black Widow watched, satisfied, as the two brothers placed the bomb carefully in the trunk of their car. Like an aunt, she stood on the doorstep, waving goodbye until they were out of sight. Everything had worked out just fine. Her mistress would be pleased to hear that the first stage of the plan had been a great success. Perhaps she’d heard it on the news—at least she hoped so because the Black Widow did not have time to tell her mistress about it herself. She had to make one last visit to someone special, someone she hated in her gut. Because of him, she’d lost everything. I’ll come for you, honey.

In a good mood, she went back inside. In the kitchen, she disconnected the hose from the stove. The gas escaped with a funny hissing sound. She smiled. It was the first time she would cover her tracks this way, and it excited her. On her way out, she decided that creating a gas leak wasn’t enough. It would take hours before something would happen. If anything at all. She went back to search for something to burn. Quickly, she moved into the living room, opened a few cabinets and finally, in a drawer she found a candle and a lighter. Her glance slid to the sofa. That will do. With an almost demonic pleasure, she put the candle on the sofa and used the lighter to light it. The smell of gas made her nervous and she bit her lower lip. A few drops of sweat streamed down her face.