Escape to Death Read online

  Copyright 2016/This is a work of fiction. No part of this publication may be reproduced, shared in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means-by electronic, mechanical, photo copy, recording, or otherwise-without prior or express permission. All names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual places, events, and people, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  CONTENTS

  Preface: Laurel Canyon, near Los Angeles, California

  1: Pyramid hotel Casino, Las Vegas, Nevada, a few days later

  2: Metropolitan ghetto of Seattle, Washington

  3: Deep underground laboratory, campus of UCLA

  4: Washington D.C., White House oval office

  5: Hollywood Hills, bungalow of Lauren Silverman

  6

  7: White House press room, Washington, D.C.

  8

  9: PBS broadcasting building, office of veteran television personality Jennifer Whitehouse

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21: JFK airport, Washington, D.C.

  22: Mission Spear hospital, Orange county

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Conclusion

  PREFACE

  Laurel Canyon, near Los Angeles, California

  BELTANE, THE WITCHES holiday, was soon breaking, and death was the only escape from danger.

  Humid Hollywood night, furious neon glow muted beneath smog’s smothering cloak. From starry panorama above, a trident spear of lightning blazed down upon boulevard’s bustling traffic. Rainbows of light flickered and steadily dimmed: was there a sinister hand somewhere, turning a dial?

  All the way out from North Hollywood, young Clover finally emerged from the cab, Chinchilla coat draped about elegant swan-like neck. The isolated Canyon bungalow was perched beneath a lattice of oak branches. A chilled wind’s bellowing voice began to warn of omens, and with deliberation, Clover approached the front door. She had heard about ‘Sister’ Lauren Silverman, about the dark soul beneath sweet veneer. In a mere three seasons, Silverman had usurped Oprah Winfrey’s grand status as Queen of daytime television. A memory flashed, and she thought of her father back in Newville. She escaped from the small town and out to the big city, and lived to tell about it, so far. Those who couldn’t find love from their families had to run away and somehow find it somewhere else. Only now, her love came with a steep price tag attached, and there were many, including ‘Sister’ Silverman, willing to pay.

  “This gig should be a choice payday,” Clover considered, as she reached out for the silver doorknob.

  Looking back over her shoulder, she saw the cab roar back down the winding Canyon road, flickering taillights swallowed into the midnight murk. Stepping inside, Clover perused the drug fueled mayhem, half-naked human zombies stumbling and drooling, bloodshot eyes fixed into blank stares.

  “Good, you’re finally here,” a giddy voice lisped.

  Startled, Clover trained ebony eyes on the pale skinned scarecrow.

  “Hi, I’m Daryl,” the gregarious scarecrow lisped. “Lauren is waiting for you,” he said, casting a cocaine dusted finger towards a winding staircase. “In the room, upstairs.”

  Clover swept through the gathering and wobbled up the winding stairs in her candy apple red Jimmy Choo’s. Turning right at the top of the golden bannister, she saw the famous face peek out from the bedroom door.

  “Oh, yes,” Silverman gushed, smile slithering across her tanned face. “I think you’re going to be just what I need.”

  Proceeding into the room, Silverman quickly closed the door, azure eyes flashing like vibrant neon.

  “You want a glass of bubbly,” a gracious Silverman offered, pointing to a well-stocked bar in the corner. “I’ve got some vintage Dom Perignon.”

  Clover seductively cooed, flashing her alabaster teeth. “Whatever you want, sister. Because what I’ve got for you is just as choice.”

  Silverman pulled the bottle from the ice and filled a pair of frosted flutes. Clover drew close to Silverman while she poured, seductively whispering. “I got something you’ll enjoy better than the vintage champagne.”

  Slowly, the midnight black Chinchilla coat slowly fell to the plush carpet, revealing perfect pear shaped hips and long thoroughbred legs. Silverman seemed shocked silent. Excited eyes roamed over the magnificent young creature. Silverman drew close. Skin against sultry skin, they touched, tongues furiously floating behind devouring lips. Clover felt Silverman’s hand drift, fingers exploring the moist sanctuary between her parted thighs. Silverman suddenly jerked her hand away, something wasn’t right.

  “Holy shit,” Silverman gasped. “You’re a goddamned tranny, Jesus.” she bellowed, eyes scorched with rage. “Crenshaw is going to pay for this,” Silverman hissed.

  CRACK.

  Champagne and shattered glass rained down on Clover’s head, blood seeping from torn skin just above her dark brow.

  The door burst open.

  “Lauren, I heard an awful commotion?”

  Silverman stood over the naked prostitute prone on the carpet, grasping the half-shattered bottle in her hands. Crenshaw looked down at the cell phone spilled from the prostitute’s black Gucci purse.

  “Whatever are we to do with this,” Crenshaw said, looking uncharacteristically befuddled.

  Feeling fear’s sinister specter beginning to slowly creep, Crenshaw suddenly knelt, feeling for a pulse.

  “Lauren,” he gasped. “The poor creature’s still bloody breathing.”

  “Well,” Silverman sharply replied. “She soon won’t be. Get all the girls together Crenshaw,” she schemed. “We’re taking her deep into the Canyon oaks. And the phone, we’ll bury it with her. We’re going to cover up the evidence-forensics, you know?”

  Horror steadily rimmed Crenshaw’s widening eyes as he stood frozen still looking over the gruesome scene.

  “Lauren,” Crenshaw gulped. “Even though I have the fire and police chief under my thumb, what if a loved one hires a cagey private detective? And, at any rate, just how do you propose to completely cover up the forensics, when you performed the dirty deed in the house. Someone is bound to find something, if they’re looking.”

  “We’ll burn the place down, of course,” Lauren explained.

  Crenshaw’s mind whirled askew. It was as if she were talking about something as simple as taking out the trash.

  “Steinmetz won’t miss it. He only uses it as a discreet hideaway, somewhere his wife won’t find him with his whores. The accountants will record it as a tax write-off. Now, let’s go Crenshaw,” Lauren stubbornly demanded. “Just play along, and do what I ask.”

  ****

  Kidnapped, Clover was taken far away, to some deserted canyon grotto, where swarming, black robed witches tied her down with thick rope to a behemoth onyx altar.

  Flickering candle flames pierced midnight’s impenetrable darkness.

  “Let the ceremony commence,” came the commanding wail from underneath dark hooded robe. “Oh, blessed Gaia,” the strained alto bellowed into the starry midnight. “We humbly prese
nt this sacrifice. That in partaking of the adrenochrome, magic elixir of eternal life, we might be accepted in holy fellowship. To be reborn from your protective womb of mother earth.”

  Fevered chants grew to a bellowing apex. Grasped within white knuckled grip, a deathly sharp blade hoisted heavenward. Breathless moment, and the blade trembled above the squirming sacrifice, shimmering in ghostly shards of scattered moonlight.

  Clover twitched and began to somehow gain back consciousness.

  “Am I in hell already,” she wondered.

  Stark recognition flashed in her eyes, bloodied head throbbing while terror’s adrenaline madly raced.

  With great force, the blade plunged, renting naked ebony flesh, imprisoned in sheets of cold sweat. Echoes of her painful wails were swept away, carried by a chilled zephyr to a ring of tall oaks bending boughs. Blood gushed into the overflowing chalice, passed from one set of hungering lips to the next, until, finally, all were sated.

  Gasping last breaths, an astonished Clover suddenly hovered over the scenes’ mad mayhem, watching as wild torch flame engulfed the blood drenched body. Merrily, the coven danced rings around the human pyre.

  Later, she watched as the man named Crenshaw supervised over a trio of lackeys burying the charred remains in the center of a ring of tall oaks. “What do you want to do with the phone Mr. Crenshaw,” mumbled one of the hulking lackeys.

  “Bury it with the rest, under the oaks. Lauren wants it done that way, something about a ley line and the blessing of bloody Mother Gaea,” Crenshaw suggested, sarcastic.

  Clover found this fascinating, she was there with living humans, still able to observe everything. And yet, she couldn’t interact with them, as if some invisible line or barrier had been drawn. But, what was it this British guy, Crenshaw, said about a ley line?

  “I’ve got to find a way to break back through,” she thought.

  Somehow, death allowed her to notice things the living could not, or seemed at least completely oblivious. She watched the workman hoisting shovels into the dark loam, lowering her remains into the shallow hole. Then, one of them tossed her phone into the open grave, before they sealed it over with some boulders collected from nearby.

  “I’d say it’s done Mr. Crenshaw,” one of the workman grunted, tossing one last clump of dirt.

  “Very well gentlemen,” he acknowledged, sighing with relief. “Lauren shall certainly be pleased.”

  “At last the pain is now over now,” Clover happily thought.

  1

  Pyramid hotel Casino, Las Vegas, Nevada, a few days later

  VELVET DUSK FELL over the vacant Nevada desert. Charlie Starker stood outside the Pyramid casino, observing the Vegas strip transform to neon soaked Valhalla.

  “The world’s playground paradise for adults,” Starker drolly observed.

  Inside, Starker saw the slot machines lined up like shiny soldiers in an obedient queue. Without hesitation, he approached the one at the end of the line. Quickly, he pulled the lever and the machine merrily beeped. Stone faced, he watched the tumblers turn over at light speed. He stepped back, waiting in intense anticipation. Brilliant lights flashed-red, green, blue, silver and gold. The tumblers abruptly thudded to a stop on triple seven, and the machine signaled his sudden triumph, vibrantly squealing. A sly smile drew across Starker’s lips as he lowered his broad shoulders, reaching down with an ursine paw to collect his ample winnings.

  “Looks like old Lady Luck hasn’t abandoned old Charlie yet,” Starker said under his breath.

  The machine’s lights gleefully flashed in congratulation. Stepping back away from the machine, Starker admiringly turned a handful of golden tokens in his palm. Looking up, he gazed over at the abandoned black jack table. A trio of Japanese business men were departing back to their hotel. Starker’s brain pounded with a steady drum beat of delighted anticipation. The petite dealer behind the table beckoned from afar with a curt smile. Starker jutted out his proud chin and began to trot in her direction.

  “I see you’re feeling very confident today Sir,” the dealer said, crimson lips blooming into a wide grin.

  “I think I’ve got what it takes,” Starker remarked, stridently stepping up to the table.

  Starker slapped down a stack of lavender chips.

  “Go ahead and hit me sister,” Starker said, hulking frame shot ram rod straight.

  The dealer skillfully shuffled the deck of cards. Two auspicious suits, both seven of hearts, suddenly slapped against the felt green table.

  Starker jutted out his cleft iron chin.

  “Hit me again darling,” a brusque Starker demanded.

  The dealers hand sprang forth like a vicious snake.

  SMACK.

  Jade green eyes gleaming, Starker unleashed wild, cathartic laughter, stoned skinned face flushed with raw excitement at the seven of spades, perfect black jack.

  “Lady,” Starker exclaimed. “It’s been a genuine pleasure.”

  Triumphantly, he scooped up the tall pile of chips.

  “The longer a sucker plays the more he pays. I’m quitting while I’m still on top, before my luck runs out.”

  “You don’t look like you rely on luck,” the dealer keenly observed. “You’re not that kind of man.”

  Now at the cash out cage, Starker thumbed through the plethora of triple digit bills.

  “Maybe I’ll have my fishing charter in Florida after all.”

  Out towards the red carpeted casino lobby, Starker removed his wallet and carefully stuffed the bills safely away. For a moment, he glanced at the laminated pictures stirring dark visions from the past. Long ago, he and Camille had been high school sweethearts. Friends had warned her about marrying a cop, but in the end, she wouldn’t listen. “You were always stubborn,” Starker reminisced. “Just like me.” Vivid, but bittersweet memories charged forth, from a time before old age swept swiftly in like icy winter, before cynicism’s plague grew epidemic. Soon after making detective, assigned to narcotics, he investigated some bikers moving large shipments of cocaine over the border. The investigation led him to a crack kingpin by the name of ‘Freeway Rick Ross’. The investigation pointed to those at the highest levels of government involved in the international narcotics trade. But, it turned out, Starker got too close.

  “I’m urging you to drop your investigation now kid,” he recalled the anonymous warnings from Washington. “You break this up, it will ruin commerce, and a lot of people are suddenly unemployed-judges, cops, feds, and our friends in the private prison rackets out of business,” he remembered the strange man detail. “Back off now, kid. Without drugs, the entire American economic pyramid collapses.”

  Ross was protected by the feds, specifically a shadowy CIA sub-department called ‘Golden Dawn’, connected with FBI Division Five. Though the chief pressed Starker to back off, he instead persisted. And for that, the Feds protecting the scumbag crack dealer hired some murderous thug, taking Camille’s young life, to get him to finally relent.

  “I’m going to knock off all the evil with one pistol,” Starker vowed, finally folding up the wallet. “Until finally, nothing but good is left standing, honey.”

  He heard the classic rock ring tone sound from the inner pocket of his long black leather jacket. Pulling it out, Starker narrowed his thin dark brows at the frantic voice on the other end.

  “Starker,” he answered.

  “Good afternoon, Charlie. Sorry to bother you on your vacation. But,” the urgent voice pleaded, “though you’re on the private payroll and no longer with us, I know you still bleed true blue. The department needs your help.”

  Starker’s face flashed recognition. It was his former boss at LAPD.

  “What have you got for me chief?”

  “We’ve got a report about a missing person,” the chief detailed. “Some young prostitute named Clover Black Orchid. The Madame said she answered a call out at the Canyon oaks a few nights ago, but hasn’t reported back to work. Says, Clover can’t be found anywhere
in the city. But, there is something else-”

  “There’s always something else chief, what is it,” Starker replied, striding through the revolving doors.

  “Well,” the chief related, “since our missing person’s unit is already swamped, her father wants you on the case.”

  “I guess the demons of crime never sleep in the city of angels,” Starker quipped. “Right chief? This is my vacation time here, but I’m always game for the hunt. I’ll grab a flight home as soon as possible. You got a number for this father of the missing girl?”

  As Starker briskly walked two blocks, he heard the chief sigh, rustling through some papers on his desk.

  “Yeah, his name is Pastor Robert Levine,” the chief revealed. “He’s minister of the first Baptist church down there in Newville, right near the border.”

  Something caught Starker’s roving glance-in the alley-long shadow of a pathetic figure hunched down near the urine stained apron of some fetid dumpster.

  “Oh, and Charlie, I wanted to remind, the service for Sergeant McCurdy’s nephew is next week. The Sergeant wondered if you might say a few words?”

  “Alright, chief, McCurdy is a good man. Tell him, I’ll be more than happy to say a few words to honor his fallen nephew.”

  Starker turned to investigate, footsteps echoing off the alley walls.

  “I’ll give this bible thumper a jingle when I get back into town, soon.”

  Halting just before the apron of the dumpster, Starker looked down at the haggard eyes, sallow face etched into permanent sorrow.

  “Looks like you’re having a tough time there, old timer,” Starker said with a reassuring smile.

  The ragged figure, propped against the damp alley wall, clad in ratty jeans, dirty T-shirt and moth eaten jacket, slowly panned sorrowful eyes upward.

  “I’m dry Mister, can you help me out?” he replied, voice harsh as sandpaper.

  With a sympathetic nod, Starker rolled out his wad.

  “Here you go pal,” Starker announced to the wide-eyed vagabond, peeling off a series of bills. “Don’t spend it all in one place, huh?”