The Patient E-Book

Linda Thackeray

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Four hundred years ago, the elven realm lost their greatest magician to the modern world. Now, they are returning to avenge the forces that took him.

When the world was known as Avalyne, humans and magical beings lived in harmony. But over time, the elves retreated behind the Veil that separates the modern world from the magical realm.

In present day New York, psychiatrist Doctor Dan Ellis finds himself treating an elderly homeless man, brought in for vandalizing the imposing Malcolm Industries building. The old man insists on calling Dan 'War Dragon' but can recall nothing of his own past or identity.

Dan is not the only one interested in the old man's treatment. Malcolm Industries are keen for Doctor Ellis to hand the petty criminal over to them, for reasons unexplained.

Meanwhile, three elven brothers slip from behind the Veil to search the world for the evil that befell their greatest protector. But all is not as it appears, and it seems their allies are every bit as concealed as their foes.

As Dan struggles to reinstate his patient's memory, he discovers a secret that threatens not only his life, but the lives of those around him.

Can magic triumph over an invisible evil that has ruled the planet for centuries?

Leseprobe

THE PATIENT

BEYOND THE VEIL BOOK 1

LINDA THACKERAY

CONTENTS

Prologue

1. Moses

2. War Dragon

3. Phobias

4. The New World

5. Untimely Rescues

6. Swedish

7. Aggressive Therapy

8. Vulcans

9. Chase

10. Failsafe

11. Cosmic Turntables

12. New Skills

13. Avalyne

14. Arrows

15. Monolith

16. Basement Dweller

17. Revelation

18. Mael

19. Elizabeth

20. Celestials

The Veil

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2020 Linda Thackeray

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Susan Keillor

Cover art by CoverMint

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

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

PROLOGUE

ONCE UPON A TIME

There were wondrous kingdoms of men, so great that when they fell, nothing of them remained, as if history itself could not bear the memory of their loss. They survived only in the fantasies of those who do not die, who left our earth long ago for a distant place beyond the Veil. Those who remained, the ones with their finite lives, could only share vague memories to be told around the campfires.

So it came to pass that Avalyne vanished forever into the mists, forgotten in every way save the faint traces of sensation whenever one happened along its places of power. Of the Sacred Three, only Man the Explorer remained. The Immortal elves retreated to their realm, as did the dwarf Master Builders who returned to Tal Shanar and were seen no more. Without the Immortals to teach them, the short memory of Man forgot the stories of what had been. As always, their flames burned bright, but fleetingly.

As time moved on and Avalyne disappeared from their minds for all time, they went on believing themselves alone. They regarded the earth as their dominion, not a home they shared with anyone. Their cities rose and fell. Their empires spread out across the land in conquest and then retreated again until they were conquered themselves. Man's reach spread to all corners of the globe and though they sensed something was missing, they did not know what it was. Still, they longed for the magic that once filled their eyes with wonder.

Avalyne, the golden age of Man, was dead, and no one remembered it.

The glorious kings, like their kingdoms, faded into the ages. Existence became a bitter struggle, devoid of wonder and magic. The sons who followed in the aftermath were a breed apart from those who emerged from Lake Tijon where Sireth gave them life. They were ambitious and driven to master their domain in every manner possible. If there was land, they conquered it. If there were beasts, they tamed them. They destroyed their enemies with such savagery it might have given even the foulest of goblins pause.

It seemed Man's grandest moments often accompanied his bloodiest.

Yet they craved the beauty of Avalyne, even if they carried no recollections of it. In their hearts, they felt its absence and often wondered when the starlight had vanished from their lives. They sought to recreate it in their endeavours, either in reaching for impossible goals or replacing it with myths of their own. Ill-constructed, too often these led to more bloodshed and violence, lacking any actual value. Man concluded there was no such thing as magic. It was a fanciful illusion best abandoned.

Innocence burned away and what remained was indifference.

Once discarded, man continued his existence with a juggernaut of change, not always for the better. An insatiable need arose to conquer all frontiers, and when exhausted, the snake began feeding upon itself, threatening implosion. It was only a matter of time before someone took advantage of this chaos to turn the march of industry into the spiral of Armageddon.

It was the hunt for the very thing lost that allowed this catastrophe to find its root in the present, long after Avalyne’s day.

The quest for Magic had birthed Evil.

Behind the Veil separating one world from another, the Immortals lived in a strange sort of stasis.

They enjoyed beauty and tranquillity in a realm unchanged for over a hundred thousand mortal years. For the most part, they were content. Every so often, some took to leaving their enchanted home. Their curiosity of the outside world compelled them to see what had become of Avalyne in their absence. Most returned soon after, others did not return at all. Eventually the stories revealed the same thing. There was no reason to venture forth.

The world was spoiled by men, and it was best the Immortals washed their hands of it.

Instead, they devoted themselves to their own pursuits, removed from the harsher realities of existence in their sanctuary realm. The tragic times of the early ages melted away to a distant memory. After a while, it was difficult to remember they once battled such creatures as Mael, his servant Balfure, and their Primordial armies.

While the Celestials became even more unapproachable with the passing ages, the Elves who shared the Veil with them were a little more grounded.

They remembered with fondness the world left behind and mourned the changes suffered since their departure. They thought well of men, understanding it was unfair to judge a race whose lives were so finite when they possessed all the time there was. Mortals were not evil, they were young, and the nature of their existence ensured they would never live long enough to gain true wisdom. Even when the Immortals roamed Avalyne, they accepted the younger races as children needing guidance. Sequestering themselves behind the Veil for thousands of years did not change this belief.

Perhaps it was because they were so removed from danger and evil, it took them by surprise when it reappeared. Tremors of chaos rippled through their land, not even the barrier separating their realms keeping it away. It was like the sun stealing behind the clouds for a moment, taking with it the heat and leaving a brief interlude of cold. All suffered the chill, even the Celestials. Although they remained ignorant of what caused it, they knew something was emerging, something dark and terrible was taking root in the outside world.

In the aftermath, there were many rumblings of discourse emanating from the High Castle, the mansion of the Celestials. The Immortals held their breaths in anticipation as the Celestials debated what to do. While the cause of the disturbance was unknown to them, its urgency was undeniable. For the first time since the Primordial Wars, the caretaker gods were shaken out of their complacency, though what might cause this was something the Elves could not fathom.

After much deliberation, Enphilim the King God chose his most trusted servant to go forth into the world once more, to deal with the danger capable of consuming all the realms. He set this task to Tamsyn, a seraf who distinguished himself during the downfall of Mael's black servant Balfure. As always, Tamsyn accepted the duty before him without question and prepared for his departure across the Veil.

The warrior prince Aeron offered to accompany Tamsyn on his noble mission, but the seraf declined. The world beyond bore no use for Elves and might not receive Aeron well. Tamsyn suspected Aeron's presence would complicate an already perilous quest, and so he set out through the mists alone.

For a time, the Celestials sensed their agent in the other world, heard his thoughts as he conducted himself on their behalf. Then, without warning, their connection to Tamsyn was severed. From then on, he became as profound a mystery to those behind the Veil as the one prompting his journey. They knew he was not dead, for a seraf’s soul would return to his Celestial masters in such a situation.

Wherever Tamsyn had disappeared, he remained lost there for the next four hundred years.

ONE

MOSES

It started with a phone. Specifically, his.

In the haste to leave work the night before, Doctor Daniel Ellis forgot the cell phone he’d placed in the top drawer of his desk while with a patient. By the time he met up with his college buddy Stuart at a local sports bar and remembered his mistake, it was too late to go back to the hospital. Now he would have to come into work, instead of catching up on a dozen projects at home. Dan swore at himself because failure to keep one's phone within arm's reach in the twenty-first century was tantamount to sacrilege.

To avoid compounding his sin any further, Dan woke early the next morning and drove to Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital where he was a physician on staff. He wanted to get the device, so he did not waste the rest of his day. There was paperwork he needed to catch up on, the football game he’d taped last weekend and, if the weather held out, a plan to wash his car.

Dan left his Dodge Ram in its usual place in the parking lot, not feeling guilty about arriving in jeans, sneakers, and a t-shirt. When he met patients, he wore the respectable white coat over what he considered his grownup clothes. The doctor still thought it annoying he had to look the part when it should be enough that he was a doctor. His gold hair was not exactly long, but it wasn't short either. Despite nearing forty, there were many times Dan was mistaken for someone younger.

The psychiatric ward was busy today.

On his way to his office, Dan noticed the non-violent patients wandering through the hallways escorted by orderlies and nurses. Most appeared lost in their own psychosis, awaiting evaluation before transfer to either state-run or privately funded psychiatric hospitals. Security remained visible, keeping a close eye on them while hospital staff hurried from place to place armed with charts and medication.

It was disheartening seeing so many patients in need when the hospital appeared bursting at the seams. At what point he would become indifferent to their plight was a mystery, but he knew he was not there yet. Dan supposed he was a late bloomer in this regard. He’d never developed the calluses doctors were supposed to grow over their feelings to maintain professional objectivity. The discipline seemed easy enough to achieve in theory, except Dan always failed to do it.

"Doctor Ellis!" Dan heard his name echoing down the hallway from behind him. The voice was familiar to him because he knew most of the people on staff and could narrow down the possibilities.

Dan turned and saw Warren Sheldon, one of the second-year psychiatric residents on staff. It was early morning and judging by the bleary-eyed look on Warren's face, it appeared the kid had been on call last night. Warren was able enough, but Dan was sure his plans after completing his residency would not involve the hospital. The sum of his psychiatric practice would include listening to rich matrons telling him what was wrong with the world, and how breast implants would cure all of it.

"You're still here, Warren?" Dan said with some measure of surprise because someone else should have taken over Warren's shift by now, and the kid looked like he needed the sleep. Warren tried to smooth his crinkled black hair by running his fingers through it, looking more weary than usual. "Shouldn't Doctor Lee be on duty by now?"

"She's got the flu." Warren frowned rubbing the bridge of his nose. "But I'm glad you're here. I wanted to talk to you about a John Doe the NYPD brought in last night."

"Oh no, I'm off today," Dan protested, guessing Warren was about to refer him a case that was too much for the resident to handle. Then again, when could Dan ever say no to a challenge or refuse when a colleague needed the help? "All right, all right, what's his story?"

"Thanks," Warren said appreciatively. "He's an old guy about the same age as Moses. Anyhow, NYPD picked him up last night for causing a disturbance outside the Malcolm Building. He's experiencing severe hallucinations, and it took two cops to get him into a squad car."

"Pretty strong for an old guy . . ." Dan raised a brow, noting the folder clutched in Warren's hand. "Is that his file?"

"Yeah." Warren nodded and handed it over. "We tested him for chemical abuse, and the only thing of note was the amount of nicotine in his system. The guy should have lung cancer by now, but instead he's in fairly good shape for someone that age."

"What about any neurological abnormalities?"

"Nothing." Warren shook his head. "No irregularities whatsoever. It's not the wiring."

Dan gave him a look. "That a professional opinion, doctor?"

"I mean, he has all the symptoms of schizophrenia," Warren explained, a little flustered. Dan suspected the hours were catching up with him. "But it just doesn't sit right with me."

Dan studied the file. He could not deny there were gaps preventing them from making an accurate diagnosis at this point. The patient had come in with no identification whatsoever, so there was no way to access any previous medical history. Dan could see why Warren was reluctant to act on his own and needed to consult someone far more experienced than himself.

"You get some rest," Dan answered after a moment. "I'll go see John Doe. Is he lucid?"

"Yeah. When he calmed down, he was pretty coherent, but any discussion about where he came from agitated him."

"Enough to be violent?"

"I'm not sure," Warren shrugged with uncertainty.

"Sounds interesting." Dan frowned, not up for this today. He sighed with resignation because the plans for his day off just got shot to hell. Still, this was his job, and he did it because he enjoyed helping people. There was no caveat he could only do it on his days off. "On your way out, get a nurse to move him into my office. I'll see him as soon as he's ready."

A short time later, Dan stared across the floor at the man designated John Doe.

Now that they were face to face, Dan estimated John was in his late sixties with a scraggly pepper coloured beard. He appeared to have lived rough, with gaunt cheeks and too many lines across his face. His blue-green eyes seemed a little dazed, but Dan expected this after the dose of Thorazine administered the night before. Enough time had passed for the full brunt of the drug's effects to wane so Dan could evaluate his patient and get further information. His previous violent behavior warranted an orderly being posted outside Dan’s door just in case John acted out.

Doctor and patient stared at each other for a few minutes as if a mutual assessment were being conducted. Dan sat in his chair with a note pad in his hand, watching the man react to being observed. He tried to picture this old man causing a commotion outside the Malcolm building and could not deny being skeptical that he would try to harm anyone. Something deeper than instinct told Dan the patient was ill, not dangerous.

"May I have a glass of water?" he spoke, his first word croaked into an articulate English accent.

"Of course." Dan poured him a glass.

"I am uncommonly parched," John commented before taking the glass and adding his thanks to the end of his statement.

"Thorazine can do that," Dan offered in understanding.

"I dislike the concoctions you doctors put in my veins," John grumbled, giving Dan a look of annoyance after draining the contents of the glass.

"You were dangerous," Dan explained, not about to apologize for anything. The best way to gain a patient's trust was to be honest. He found nothing worked better - no psychiatric buzzwords or patronizing tones of empathy, just plain sincerity. "We had to give you something to calm you down."

"Yes, yes," the man rumbled, shifting restlessly in his seat, denying nothing. "So, they tell me."

"You don't remember?"

"No."

"Do you often have memory problems?"

"I don't know," John shrugged. His lips quivered as if he were nearing a place he did not wish to be. "The benefit of having memory problems is one does not remember it."

A smile cracked Dan's lips, and he made a mental note to pull back to safer ground for the moment. "Good point. What do you remember?"

"Nothing before waking up in this place.” His attention shifted away from Dan as his gaze swept across the room. "Nothing more."

"You don't know what you did yesterday?"

"No," the patient bit back.

Dan could see John was just as unhappy about this as everyone else. His reaction sparked the doctor's curiosity and Dan felt for this patient in his blue hospital pajamas, looking so out of place, not just in his office, but anywhere. There was something about him Dan could not put his finger on, convincing the doctor he wasn't dealing with any run-of-the-mill schizophrenic. If that was what John was. The patient's eyes seemed a little glazed, but that was due to the medication administered.

"You weren't in any condition to give us your name last night." Dan moved on to a safer subject. “Care to tell us what it is? I don't want to keep calling you John during our sessions."

A furrow appeared above those gray eyebrows, and blue eyes stared at him with hesitation. "I don't know what I am called. I told you I remember nothing more than what I have said. Is badgering me with foolish questions your way to help me, War Dragon?"

Dan blinked. "Excuse me?"

John looked back at him just as perplexed. "What?"

"You just called me by a name," Dan pointed out.

"I did?" The old man regarded Dan with disbelief.

"You called me ‘War Dragon,’” the doctor reminded his patient. “Who is that?"

"I don't know." John met his eyes and Dan could see the sincerity in his answer, not to mention the genuine puzzlement. "It just slipped out. It seemed…appropriate."

Dan arched a brow at that statement and made a note of it. The patient did not seem violent, but then he was not about to underestimate the effects of 400 mg of Thorazine on a person either. He wanted to see what John was like with no medication because Dan couldn't make a diagnosis from one session alone.

"We will have to think of something to call you. If we are going to continue talking to each other, I think I would prefer to call you something other than John."

"How many of these talks are we likely to have?" John eyed him with suspicion.

"I'm not sure," Dan confessed. "Until we find out what your name is and why being outside the Malcolm Building upset you so much."

The patient’s body tensed. Relaxed hands clenched into fists, his back straightened and the muscles of his jaw ticked. He was angry and barely able to restrain himself, Dan realized.

"You seem disturbed," Dan probed, doubtful he would get an answer that made any sense. "Is there something about the Malcolm Building that bothers you?"

"It is a place of darkness!" John snapped, rising to his feet. He seemed to tower over the doctor as his voice altered, becoming deeper and more forceful. It was a voice that made Dan beware, not for his life but because for a brief insane moment, he was almost ready to believe the old man.

"Sit down," Dan ordered, determined to regain control of the session. "Please," he added with a kinder tone.

John looked at Dan with a start, as if he remembered where he was, and the burst of anger subsided, once again replaced by confusion.

"Why do you think it's a place of darkness?" Dan could not believe he was using such a melodramatic term. People used speech like this when describing the plot to the latest George Lucas epic, not a psychiatric session.

"I don't know." John shook his head, his expression strained. "I know nothing. It is just something I sense."

"It's all right, John." A surge of sympathy filled Dan for this old man who seemed so lost. Who was he in the world when he was far away from this place? Did he have a wife or children or even grandchildren? He was old enough for all those possibilities. "You don't have to tell me until you're ready."

"I want to tell you," John whispered. "I think I need to tell you. I've been away for a long time, and it's important I come back."

"Admitting you have a problem is always an excellent start." Dan offered him more assurance than was customary, but John appeared to need it. "We'll find the answers together, I promise you. In the meantime, I hope you don't mind if I don't keep calling you John. You're not a person who doesn't exist. You’re here, and you're my patient. How does Moses sound to you?"

"Moses?" One gray eyebrow flew up. "You are naming me after a man with a terrible sense of direction and masonry skills?"

"A terrible sense of direction?"

"It does not take an inordinate amount of sense to realise he was wandering on that mountain for forty days because he was lost. Not enough to dedicate an entire testament to his affairs." At that moment, John sounded very much like a cantankerous old man accustomed to waving his cane at young children from his porch.

"All right then," the doctor laughed at that, "you tell me what to call you."

A loud harrumph followed before the patient spoke again. "Moses will do. I suppose under the circumstances I am in no position to take the high ground for sanity."

The ship had appeared out of the mists in the middle of the North Sea almost two months before Doctor Dan Ellis faced the patient he called Moses.

Its arrival went unnoticed because people avoided traveling through the North Sea during the winter months. It was icy cold on a pleasant day, let alone during winter. Hazardous sheets of ice drifted above the black water, pieces of flotsam jettisoned by the arctic pole sure to spell death to any ship unfortunate enough to encounter them. Icebergs, mists, and turbulent waters made the North Sea a most inhospitable place, even for those who spent most of their lives on the ocean.

If anyone had been present, they would have seen a ship not unlike a Roman trireme, with a trio of large sails as gray as the mists it had just escaped. The vessel was crafted from wood, but the skills of the carpenter were unlike any seen in centuries. It was a thing of beauty, crafted not by shipbuilders but artisans. It sailed across the choppy water as if gliding on the waves, trailing a bed of foam as it surged towards its destination. Amidst the singing voices of humpback whales, the ship did not seem real, and anyone who saw it would most likely wonder if they were dreaming.

There were only three passengers on the craft that would seem big enough to accommodate more.

Three was enough, because this was a journey a century in the making. With a galley stocked with enough food and water to reach their destination and back again, so far, the trip had taken place without incident. If anything, it was dull until they pierced through the Veil and sneaked into the world they left behind so long ago.

Once they left the Veil, their trip became a little more exciting as it had been smooth sailing until that point. Where they had been, the sun shone, and the water was still. There was enough breeze to power their sails and keep the air fresh. It was idyllic.

Now they were outside the Veil where the waves could rise almost as high as their masts, where it was gray and gloomy even though they could see the sun above their heads. Wind lashed at the travelers with sheets of rain, and the periodic rumble of thunder and lightning required reacquaintance. It was a stark reminder of how far away from home they ventured. Those left behind had advised against the journey, calling it foolishness to leave a place of safety into an unknown grown more barbaric since their departure.

Aeron stood at the bow of his ship and saw nothing ahead but the horizon of a gray sea against a similar colored sky. The wind was so cold he felt frozen but leaving the open space for the shelter of the craft's innards did not occur to him. It was too long since he had experienced anything as adverse as weather, and he was rather enjoying it. Eden Hallas's perfect weather was so constant he no longer knew how to appreciate it. A few months of this and he would be happy to return home again.

"You should come inside," a voice advised.

The prince glanced over his shoulder and saw his older brother Syannon wrapped in a thick warm cloak, seeing he had also brought him his own.

"Thank you Syn, but I prefer to remain out here a little longer," Aeron said, gratefully taking the garment and slinging it over his shoulders before facing front again.

"How long do you think it will take us to cross this sea?" Syannon asked as he sat down on the deck behind Aeron.

"I do not know. A hundred thousand years have passed since we entered the Veil. Such lengths of time can reshape the world. We sail what was once the Brittle Sea, but we do not go east but farther west than anyone has traveled during our time in Avalyne. We are most likely bound for what was once the eastern coast of the Uncharted Lands."

"Are you sure that is where we must go?" Syannon asked with concern, aware that more than just their quest drove his youngest brother.

"It is the only clue we have to begin." Aeron shrugged, unable to deny the difficulty of their mission. They knew little of where Tamsyn had disappeared to, and they were emerging into a world that most likely remembered nothing of their kind.

"He could be dead," Syannon pointed out. This was a volatile subject to discuss with his brother. However, Syannon and their older brother Hadros had placed themselves at risk, just as Aeron had when they accompanied him on this journey. That earned them both the right to speak their mind and make Aeron aware of the reality of the situation.

"If Tamsyn were dead, his soul would have returned to the High Castle. It has not, so he must still live."

"Aeron, no one wishes to think the worst, but you must prepare yourself for the possibility. Much has changed in Avalyne. We may find the reason there has been no word from Tamsyn is because something worse than death might have befallen him."

"I refuse to believe that." Aeron shook his head, his eyes fixed on the gloomy horizon.

"You may not wish to, but you must at least entertain the possibility."

"I will speak of this to you no more." Aeron stood up to leave, aware he was running away like a child.

"Aeron . . ." Syannon stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "People die. It is an unfortunate reality of what they are. We must accept it."

Aeron turned to his brother, his features softening a little because he could not deny this truth was at the heart of his pain, driving him to find Tamsyn. "I have accepted the price of immortality is to see the deaths of all I love. I held Melia's hand when her life slipped beyond my reach, and I sat at Dare's bedside when he passed. I will not be the last of us that still lives, Syannon. I refuse to lose another person. Tamsyn is alive, and I will find him."

Syannon could appreciate Aeron's grief for he knew all too well what it was like to care for mortals and be helpless to prevent their eventual demise. He loved Dare as much as Aeron, who was not the only one who lost someone close to his heart. "I understand your fear of losing the last of your friends, but we have all lost. I have seen mortals I loved pass to Sireth’s hands."

Aeron saw the sorrow in Syannon's eyes and remembered friends like Arianne. So many of the former queen's words remained with him, even thousands of years after her passing. To this day, her mother Lylea still mourned her. The High Queen of the Elves would light a candle on the day of Arianne's birth, as she had done every year since Aeron brought her the news her daughter was at rest with her king.

"It does not have to be this way for you, Aeron," Syannon continued. "I know Melia is dead, but Sireth promised the race of men does not live one life. They may not have immortality, but they are blessed to return until the End of Days.”

"Stop," Aeron warned, not wanting to discuss the open wound that was Melia, his wife.

Syannon's words rang true, however. Even Tamsyn told him once of Sireth’s plans for men, who in their own way received a kind of immortality because their souls could return to the world to lead new lives. A hundred thousand years had passed, and Aeron waited, praying his Melia would find her way back to him, and still he was alone, mourning her.

It would never happen, and he had reconciled himself with that long ago.

Tamsyn was in trouble and needed help. The Celestials would send no one else, and Aeron suspected they were reluctant to do so until they knew what had become of him. For four centuries, Aeron waited with growing impatience for his old friend to return, but with another millennium passing, he knew it was time to act. Syannon and Hadros volunteered to accompany him, aware he would go alone otherwise. Aeron intended to find Tamsyn because he would not be the last living member of their circle of friends.

"I cannot abandon him brother." Aeron looked Syannon in the eye. "I refuse to."

"I know." Syannon admired his younger brother's determination if not his stubbornness. Defeated, he rose to meet Aeron's eyes, standing a little taller, before squeezing Aeron’s shoulder in comfort. "If he is alive, we will find him, Princeling."

"He is alive," Aeron insisted, smiling at that old nickname used when he was a child. "If I were lost, Tamsyn would find me."

Syannon hoped it would be as simple as that.

TWO

WAR DRAGON

Detective Anna McCaughley stared at the body.

It had been floating in the river for some time now, before coming to rest against the embankment. The skin's deterioration had left it gray and mottled. Dumped upstream, it had floated down the river to arrive at its present location. Along the way, rotting leaves, twigs, dead insects, and the detritus of the waterway attached itself to the corpse like a morbid flotilla. The body had reached its latest resting place at the edge of an embankment, found hours later by a family of three.

It had ruined an otherwise pleasant morning.

Anna slipped on the latex gloves as she knelt by the body where it became snagged by reeds at the water's edge. Patrolmen kept the bystanders at bay while remaining at a distance to avoid compromising the integrity of the crime scene until forensics arrived. Anna didn't intend to wait that long. Initializing the voice recording app on her phone, Anna had developed the habit of making audio files when she investigated a scene. It helped when it came time to type the report.

Most of the officers recognized Anna McCaughley. She earned the reputation as one of the good cops who never handed off unpleasant chores to a patrolman if she could do it herself. She did not mind getting her hands dirty, nor was she squeamish about it.

She’d made detective on her first attempt because she saw details others missed and made accurate deductions with the scant information she perceived. She also had the right pedigree as a third-generation cop. Her father Elroy, who died of pancreatic cancer five years before, retired a sergeant. Her brother Alan, not as fortunate, was killed intervening at a liquor store robbery.

She wore little makeup and kept her brown hair in a neat braid, steel-rimmed glasses framing her blue eyes. Her appearance was fit and youthful, but she preferred not to take advantage of that, dressing conservatively to look the part of a New York City detective She had no need to prove herself to inspire confidence in her abilities. Her record of closed cases accomplished that.

"Detective Anna McCaughley – homicide," she began her narration. "Victim is a Caucasian male, five foot seven, one hundred seventy pounds, medium build with brown hair and blue eyes. His age may be anywhere from the mid-twenties to thirties. The cause of death appears to be a gunshot wound to the head. The facial injuries and the state of the skull appear to indicate a shot at point-blank range. The bullet entered through the bridge of the nose, blowing out the back of the skull. We can't confirm ballistics at this stage, but I'm guessing it's a high caliber weapon, a .45. The victim is wearing a suit and missing one shoe. Whether this is due to the body drifting down the river or the crime is difficult to say. The suit, despite its current condition, looks expensive. I'd say it's an Armani, so whoever he was, he was a professional of some sort."

"Detective McCaughley!" a patrolman called out to her. Anna disabled the app as he approached. She had sent him and several others to canvass the shore along the river in case anything belonging to the victim had ended up there.

She studied the surrounding park, covered in falling leaves and bordered by trees along the river. It was an idyllic place to go for a walk, and the winding path along the edge offered that invitation to locals. She imagined this tranquil setting for sailing model boats with your kids or picnics on the grass. It was too pretty for the macabre discovery of this morning. The patrolman, an officer named Perez, approached her with something inside a Ziplock bag. From the outline, Anna guessed Perez or one of his officers had found the victim's wallet.

"What have you got Sergeant?" she asked as he approached.

"This." He handed her the bag.

"By the river?" Anna frowned. The contents did not appear to have spent any time in the water. In fact, it was in almost pristine condition.

"No. We found it in a trash can along the path. It has a New York driver's license and a Manhattan address."

Anna did not answer for a moment as she reached into the wallet with a gloved hand and went through its contents, hoping to identify the victim. What remained inside had little monetary value, including a driver’s license signifying he was an organ donor. The face of the corpse and on the pieces of identification was the same, possessing bland features that would never stand out in a crowd. Just an ordinary person who did not deserve this end.

"His name is Robert Falstaff. He lives on Ninety-Fourth Street, Manhattan."

"I think that address is off Columbus Avenue," Perez agreed. "Wonder how he ended up as fish food on the other side of the river?"

"I don't know." Anna checked the dead man's pockets and found a cell phone. To no one's surprise, the phone was dead after being in the water for so long, but current technology ensured its digital imprint remained intact somewhere in cyberspace. The phone, despite its present condition, was one she recognized from the ads on television, and its presence on Mr. Falstaff's body revealed something glaringly obvious. "This was not a robbery."

"No?" Perez looked at the homicide detective, respecting her hunches from previous cases.

"No." She shook her head. "They made it seem like one, but it isn't. He gave up his wedding ring and his jewelry without a fight. I saw the tan lines on the index finger of his left hand but no scratches to reveal they took it off him. He doesn't look like the type to put up a fight if a mugger came up to him. There's no reason to shoot him through the face when he was cooperating."

"Then why leave the phone and wallet behind?" Perez asked, seeing sense in what she said, though this one point left him at a loss. "I mean if the shooter was doing it to throw us off the scent, why wouldn't he have taken those too?"

"I'm not sure, because you're right. There's no way a robber would leave a phone or a wallet. Look at it . . . " She turned the wallet over in the Ziplock bag. "That's genuine calf leather. Something like this you buy in Manhattan if you can afford it. Take it to a hock shop anywhere else, and you'll get a hundred bucks for it, easy. A mugger wouldn't leave this or the phone behind. He'd dump whatever isn't valuable to him and keep going."

"Maybe the mugger ain't that smart."

"True, but they're greedy. Robbers wouldn't leave this stuff behind if they could get money for it."

It was sheer impulse prompting Dan to drive past the Malcolm Building on his way home after his session with Moses.

For the rest of their time together, Dan allowed Moses to do the talking. The psychiatrist found Moses to be insightful about his perceptions of the world, what of it he remembered - except for the moments when he tried to remember his past. Then Moses would become agitated, and Dan was sure if not for the residual effects of the Thorazine, Moses might have become violent. Was this motivated by the need to hurt? Or was it the result of his frustration at being unable to remember?

In any case, Dan delayed Moses's transfer for a few days. He wanted more time with the patient.

Dan was convinced some deep trauma kept Moses's memory locked away from him. When he put a call into the NYPD, he learned the cops still had no luck identifying the man. In fact, it might be days before they exhausted all avenues of the search.

Due to his extended session with Moses, there was no point rushing home when his day was shot to hell. Instead, Dan opted to remain in his office, finishing his paperwork at his desk thanks to the Almighty Cloud. As he worked, Dan found his mind preoccupied with the odd phrase Moses had used.

War Dragon. It sounded like the name of a video game.

On his way home, Dan used the speed dial on his cell phone to contact the only person who might have access to the information he needed. For all he knew, it could be gibberish produced by Moses's damaged psyche. Still, Dan was working in the dark, so he had to use whatever clue was available, even if it was as slight as this. It did not take long before he made the connection.

"Hey Stu, it’s Dan," Dan announced himself to his friend, the college professor who taught at NYU.

"Hi Dan," Stuart returned. Dan heard the clacking of a keyboard in the background and surmised Stuart Farmer was still in his office at the English Lit department.

"You still working?" Dan teased, aware Stuart often spent too much time at work and forgot to have a life.

"Yeah, not all of us like to waste time driving around in our expensive cars harassing friends who do real work."

Dan grinned inside his car. "We still up for the game on Saturday?"

"I'm bringing the beer.”

"Great." Dan nodded, looking forward to seeing the game and his old college buddy. "Listen, I've got a question for you. You play video games, don't you?"

"Down to my twenty-sided dice."

Nerd. Dan thought with a smile.

"Why?"

"A patient of mine used a term today," Dan explained. "Kind of stuck in my head. I thought it might be a video game or something. I'm clutching at straws trying to identify it, and him."

"What was it?"

"War Dragon." The doctor turned his car into the street leading to the front of the building.

"Hmmm, I'm not familiar with it," Stuart confessed, "but I can look it up in the oracle of Google. Give me a minute."

"Thanks." Dan came to a halt at the curb and put the RAM into park.

Beyond the windshield of his car, he studied the towering glass structure officially known as the Malcolm Building.

Though not as tall as the Empire State Building, it was more imposing and had earned the nickname of the “Monolith” for good reason. Like the artifact depicted in the famous Kubrick film, tinted-black glass covered the outer facade of the structure, while black, marble made up its masonry. Against the night sky, it blocked out the stars, as if the space it occupied was some null field where they could not exist.