| THE ANNUAL PHILADELPHIA Advertising Board Reception and Gala had been a huge success the night before. For the first time in memory‚ nearly every member of the PAB was present and the group was of course honored to have Mayor Jeremy H. Skuda in attendance. While the men at the gala enjoyed their cigars‚ fine liquor‚ and catching up with old school mates and business associates‚ it was the women who most looked forward to the annual soiree to show off their latest fashions and fur wraps. But to Stella Hendrickson‚ the wife of Ross Hendrickson‚ it had been a special night for another reason. Board President Allan Kent announced that Ross had been selected by the Board of Governors to receive the prestigious Caldwell Steiner award for Outstanding Advertising in the Public Interest‚ namely‚ the City’s See Philadelphia First campaign. Ross Hendrickson was late as he walked briskly through the Harper Building’s double glass doors and cautiously made his way down slick marble steps to the street below. He paused to light a cigarette and glanced at his Rolex. It was eight o’clock. He chastised himself for not calling his wife. Stella would be upset since he rarely worked beyond seven without calling. Adjusting his grip on the weighty briefcase‚ he made a mental note to cull its contents the next day. He scanned the area as yellowed street lamps pushed vainly against the gloom of the night. Hendrickson had become a successful businessman and looked the part‚ taking pride in his business wardrobe of sharply tailored pinstriped suits from Strawbridge and Clothier‚ striped silk ties‚ glossy wing-tipped shoes‚ and a sizable collection of matching snap-brim hats. Ten years had passed since he established his office in the Harper Building after graduating from the University of Pennsylvania. At the time‚ The Seventh had been a good choice for his fledgling advertising business. Since then though‚ existence there had become an increasingly risky proposition. He’d seen a steady increase in abandoned houses and bankrupt businesses adding to the inventory of run-down graffiti covered structures proliferating the community. Only a week ago‚ after receiving a tip that he would win the Caldwell Steiner award‚ he’d signed a lease for an office in a newly gentrified section near Eighth and South Streets. It was time to move his business to a safer location. The early evening downpours finally relented in South Philadelphia after dutifully sending all manner of street debris swirling into the underground storm tunnels beneath the streets. Known to locals as The Seventh‚ the neighborhood seemed to be at continual crosshatch with itself. Universally bleak and decaying‚ it was rapidly moving from seedy to a shabby slum. Its few parks were now crack havens where drab slabs of concrete had replaced any vestige of greenery. Most homes seemed alike‚ lined up in monotonous rows abutting the sidewalks. All faded‚ soot-covered‚ and dreary. Their individuality made evident only by fronts covered with red brick‚ faux-stone‚ or a drab stucco. Rush hour had come and gone leaving the streets eerily quiet‚ muffled by a dense blanket of fog‚ with only the sounds of faceless voices and music filtering from the houses lining the sidewalk. He hurried up the street‚ not relaxing until he passed under a comfortingly familiar blue neon above the sidewalk advertising a second story dance studio. About to burn out‚ the ancient sign flashed and buzzed in the mist‚ then brilliantly surged to life—only to fade again. He shook his head. Typical for The Seventh, he thought. Flicking the half smoked cigarette into the gutter‚ his heart leapt when a pack of rats clangorously abandoned an overturned garbage can as he stepped around it. When the parking lot lights came into view through the swirling mist‚ he removed his wallet from his inside jacket pocket to tip the attendant. Then suddenly‚ silently‚ a silvery loop flashed in front of his eyes. “Oh no!” he gasped. Quietly‚ inexplicably‚ another man vanished from the streets of The Seventh. § Later that evening‚ Jacob Rellison posed a curious figure brooding on his throne in a trash filled hovel in the fourth floor room of an abandoned South Philadelphia shirt factory. He was a massive man‚ seven feet tall with stringy black hair falling far below his enormous shoulders. His nose large and bulbous‚ his teeth yellowed and crooked‚ his eyes disturbingly large and piercing. Furrows of scar tissue ran tight around his mouth. He was a demential paranoid‚ a cripple from birth‚ amounting to nothing more than a small time criminal and loser for most of his thirty-five years. Once several years ago‚ he believed he came face-to-face with the Lamb of God. It was at the same time he found his mother in bed with one of the devil’s henchmen. The Lord ordered him to slay both defilers and offer a sacrifice by burning down his house. On that day‚ Rellison became a righteously consecrated man and a fierce soldier for the Lord. Tonight‚ as before‚ everything had fallen into place. The storm rumbled through with its gusty winds and drenching rain and dark empty streets where he found another of the devil’s disciples out and about doing his evil work. He roared with laughter as his bedlamite mind recalled the gleaming steel wire‚ the grasping hands‚ the bulging eyes‚ squeezing‚ squeezing‚ ever tighter. Then down a nearby manhole where he dragged his vanquished foe from hell through the storm drain into the basement and a pit prepared for him in the soft sand. And‚ the hated briefcase with its demonic works was now safely ensconced beneath his throne. § Lake Okeechobee‚ South Florida‚ on the southern edge of the Everglades. The third largest freshwater lake in the United States‚ Okeechobee covers an area of 730 square miles and is relatively shallow with an average depth of only twenty feet. On this day‚ occasional wisps of warm‚ moist air meandered in from this great expanse of water stretching beyond the horizon. Miniature wavelets ran up on the beach leaving twisted trails of foam dissolving in the white sand. Cackling gulls circled high above as slender legged water birds scurried up and down the glistening shoreline‚ uncovering tiny shelled creatures with their long curved beaks. The fierce afternoon sun busily scorching everything the angry lake had deposited on the beach during an earlier violent summer storm. The shoreline was deserted now‚ unlike earlier when a gathering of curious onlookers crowded around an unconscious man some children found on the beach. The man‚ Sheriff’s Deputy Charley Banyon‚ was now in an ambulance as it raced against time across the vast expanse of wetlands to a hospital in West Palm Beach. Twenty-two hours had passed before he opened his eyes again to see Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Detective Sergeant Jack Jefferson in a chair alongside his bed. Before he could gain his attention‚ a compulsive shiver quaked through his aching body as his thoughts flashed back to the crazily churning water‚ swimming‚ barely making it to the beach‚ and then the merciless sun. His movements caught Jefferson’s attention. “Hey! Charley boy!” he said‚ jumping to his feet. Just then‚ an attractive young nurse entered the room and noticed he had awakened. She rushed back out saying something about notifying the doctor. “Man‚ that’s one gorgeous nurse.” Jack said. That’s Jack‚ Charley thought‚ smiling tentatively under his bandages. The detective leaned closer. “You probably don’t remember much old buddy‚ but you’ve been through a pretty rough time. Seems some kids found you on the beach just in time to save your life.” At thirty-three‚ Jack was a rare native Floridian‚ married‚ with no children and his work his hobby. Easy going‚ almost six feet‚ a little thick around the middle‚ he was known for his endless collection of string ties. He had a full head of reddish hair‚ a broad‚ ruddy face with a perpetual smile. His case clearance rate was the best in the sheriff’s office and was most at home with the good-ol’-boys on the west side of I-95 in West Palm. Jack and Charley’s friendship began one night while working through some mean county roads. They were heading north in a sheriff’s cruiser just off the Military Trail in West Palm after finishing a grid survey for Charley’s project called Intelnet‚ short for Intelligence Network. “This area’s called Bronksville‚” Jack’s rasping voice broke over the tired Ford engine’s lamenting whine with its speedometer coming up on 20‚000 miles—the second time around. “It’s home base for every illegal activity going. I’m telling you Charley; there’s no hope for this butt-end of the county. If we had every deputy on the force working in this crack-head haven we still couldn’t civilize it.” “All the more reason to have some eyes and ears here‚” Charley said. Gives us a peek into hell—so to speak.” As they drove from the last vicinage‚ Jack noticed a problem in the rear view mirror. “Oh shit!” he said‚ “now I wish we’d held out for a new cruiser this morning.” “Why?” Charley asked. “We’ve done picked up a shadow!” he said swinging the Ford into a skidding right turn. Some creeps are on our ass!” After a few more screeching turns‚ the black Buick Regal still loomed up hard on their tail. Jack grabbed the radio mike. “Code 20 (assist officer)‚ North Street heading south at Eighth Avenue. We’re being dogged by a black coupe.” Charley released a riotgun from its cradle and feverishly jammed a handful of 00 buckshot shells into the magazine as the aging cruiser labored in vain to lose the tail. “Keep your head down‚” Jack yelled. “They’ll probably have Uzis.” “What the hell do they want?” “To intimidate us…to warn us out of here. Shit! Maybe they wanna kill us.” No sooner had Jack cradled his mike when another car whipped out from behind the trailing Regal‚ laying down a cloud of black engine smoke as it passed both cars. “Tighten your seat belt buddy!” Jack said‚ “we’re in for a roller coaster ride!” The second car swerved in front of the cruiser‚ forcing Jack to mash down on his brakes to avoid a collision. He made a code 30 call (officer needs help). “Shit!” he said. “Now we’re boxed!” BLAM! A fearsome jolt boosted them from behind. The Buick had smashed into their rear bumper‚ forcing them over the curb and blowing out the front tires. The airborne cruiser careened across the sidewalk and burst through the window of a Laundromat‚ spraying glass and debris into the building. The battered Ford slammed against a bank of washers strewing hot sudsy water over several terrified patrons before they could retreat. Wet‚ soapy clothing covered the room with several waterspouts pounding the ceiling. They bailed out and took cover behind an overturned table. Shortly‚ a hulking silhouette appeared standing above them. From the corner of his eye‚ Charley saw a glint from the shiny blue Uzi machine pistol and heard the unmistakable click of a slide mechanism. “Look out Jack!” he shouted as he raised the riotgun’s barrel a few inches and squeezed the trigger. The blast pushed their assailant back a dozen feet. Then the long cavernous room echoed with the sounds of automatic weapons as bullets spurted around everywhere. They hugged the floor behind the table. Finally‚ as wailing sirens of responding cruisers filtered into the neighborhood‚ the firing stopped. There were sounds of footfalls‚ car doors slamming‚ engines starting‚ and the squealing tires of rapid accelerating cars. They sat still for a moment and then burst into laughter. “There’s your peek into hell!” Jack said. Meanwhile in the hospital‚ Charley raised his chin motioning for his friend to move in closer. “Where are we Jack?” he said haltingly‚ his voice trailing off. “Good Samaritan Hospital in West Palm.” “How long have I been here?” “This is your second day off that beach.” “Oh yeah‚ the beach. What happened?” “They said you’ve got some burns and severe dehydration.” Charley couldn’t see clearly. “What about my eyes?” “Sunburn buddy. They say it should clear up in a few days. You’ve lost a lot of fluid and were in shock when they brought you in.” “The Captain?” Charley asked. “Suppose he knows about all this by now.” “Yeah‚ he’s been here‚ along with a bunch of the other guys—but you weren’t receiving visitors. And by the way‚ a fisherman found your boat and towed it back to a fish camp. I borrowed your keys and had a couple of badges drive over there. Your Firebird and the boat are tucked away safe and sound at your place.” The door flew open and the nurse returned‚ followed by a heavyset silver haired man in black horn-rimmed glasses and a white smock. He studied the patient chart while the nurse took Charley’s pulse and then moved around to the bedside. "I’m Doctor Gallagher‚” he said‚ placing his hand softly on Charley’s shoulder. “We’re glad you’re back with us son.” “Thanks‚ I’m glad too.” “Is this bozo bothering you?” the doctor asked‚ smiling and tilting his head toward Jack. “He’s okay‚” Charley answered. “You know‚” the nurse said‚ “he’s been with you almost since they rolled you in here. I don’t think he’s been away for more than a few hours.” The doctor examined Charley’s eyes. “Thanks to those kids who found you‚ your eyes are healing nicely. I think you’ll be just fine in a week or so.” “A week!” Charley said‚ trying to rise from his pillow and wincing with pain. The nurse moved quickly to ease his shoulders back onto the bed. “Yes‚ a week‚ if your burns heal the way we expect them to.” Later‚ while alone‚ Charley’s thoughts ran back to his ordeal on the lake. The sudden wind‚ that devil of a storm hitting without warning‚ clutching to the boat’s gunwale as a huge wave roared in like a runaway train‚ smashing into the craft and throwing him headlong into the waves. The whole ordeal had left him depressed‚ much as the day he graduated from the University of Maryland‚ up until then the worst day of his life. After the ceremony‚ Dean of Men Harold Morganthaller approached him along with a Maryland State Police Trooper. Charley would never forget the grave expression replacing Dean Morganthaller’s normally jovial countenance. They walked to a nearby bench. Slowly and sympathetically‚ he related the dreadful news of how Charley’s parents‚ along with his two sisters‚ died in an airline crash on their way down for his graduation. The trooper told him the crash occurred on landing at the Baltimore-Washington International Airport‚ reportedly caused by a violent weather phenomenon known as wind shear. Somehow the graduation invitation in his father’s coat pocket survived the fire and that led the State Police to him. Charley hadn’t been concerned when his family didn’t show for the ceremony. He figured his father probably cut his time too close again and they missed their flight. The old fellow was an eccentric‚ always a little late for everything. The family home was in Camden‚ New Jersey‚ where Charley grew up through his high school years. His father‚ George Charles Banyon‚ was a retired CIA Station Chief who‚ from time to time‚ still did some free-lance research work for the Company. His mother Mary‚ a professor who taught ethics at Rutgers University in Camden‚ retired several years before. His younger sisters were attending Radcliff College‚ Kathleen a senior and Ann a freshman. So‚ with no reason to return to Camden and three years of Army ROTC behind him at the U of M‚ Charley traded his Nikes‚ Levi’s‚ and plaid shirts for a second lieutenant’s uniform. On the week following the funerals he went on active duty‚ hoping to forget the tragedy in the newness of military life. At twenty-eight‚ Charley Banyon was a handsome‚ trimly built fellow. Standing a little over six feet tall‚ he had a full mustache and dark brown eyes complimenting a suntanned face. His thick dark hair was tapered neatly down to his collar. He carried himself rather stiffly with a commanding air‚ a quality held over from the Army where he served five years and rose to the rank of Captain. After his first overseas assignment as Commander of a CIC (Counterintelligence Corps) detachment in Frankfurt‚ West Germany‚ he returned to the States. His last assignment was at H.Q.‚ CIC‚ in Washington‚ DC‚ where he served as a command intelligence officer. After finishing his military commitment‚ he joined the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office where he easily qualified for the newly created position of Intelligence Specialist where the Sheriff gave him free range to develop a new intelligence program for the prevention of crime. He’d landed the position because of his Army CIC background‚ which was nothing like his last assignment in the Army where he ran human assets against the Soviet’s insatiable appetite for American military secrets. Whenever a Soviet contacted a member of the American Army‚ civilian‚ or military‚ his job was to coordinate with the FBI should the contact be judged exploitable. Thought to be exciting and glamorous‚ the job for the most part was a tedious routine involving countless hours of strategy meetings‚ boring surveillance‚ detailed debriefings‚ and endless preparation of written reports. § Three days after his hospital admission‚ he was visiting with his boss Under-Sheriff Wilson Bradshaw Noonan on an open-air balcony just off the hospital’s recreation room. They were taking in the beauty of the Intercoastal Waterway and the exclusive island of Palm Beach on the far shore with its swanky homes and luxurious hotels. “What’s the Doc sayin’ ’bout you gettin’ back to work Charley boy?” the Captain asked. “He says I should stay out for a few weeks‚ but the way I’ve been improving‚ I’m planning on a lot sooner. Let’s see‚” he said‚ straining to see a calendar on the wall behind the Captain. “How about the 29th?” “Well‚ you just make danged sure you’re okay before you be acomin’ back son. And you know you’ll have to get past the departmental sawbones before you can be hitchin’ it up again.” He took a long stretch with his hands behind his neck. “Bet it was the hub-o-hell out on that there beach‚” he said shaking his head. “If you mean hot‚” Charley said gesturing with a swipe across his brow‚ “you’re right. God knows‚ I tried to walk out of that furnace‚ but that sun just sapped all my strength.” “That sun’ll do it‚ but—” Charley sensed a Noonanism coming. The Captain raised his hands. “Now don’t ya get all cross-legged about this‚” he said with a smile‚ “but a fella should always check on the native wisdom out there‚ specially on a demon lake like Okeechobee.” “I know you’re right sir.” Captain Noonan stood up to leave. “Truth is son; ain’t nothin’ that can’t wait fer you back there at the head shed. You just be takin’ things easy now.” They shook hands. Although Captain Noonan talked with a down-home twang‚ everyone who knew him respected him for his intellect. Holding a master’s degree in psychology from the University of Tennessee‚ he nearly aced the Captain’s exam‚ achieving the highest score ever recorded for the test. § Once discharged from the hospital and back in his apartment‚ Charley dozed comfortably in his bed until the sun’s warming rays filtered into the room. His eyes opened to the bureau clock‚ which read six a.m. After a quick shower he dressed and made his way across the street to Maria’s Loco Diner where he celebrated his parole from hospital food. He had a breakfast of zucchini-noodle pancakes‚ crispy bacon‚ blueberry muffins topped off with home made blueberry preserves and sipped on a Cafe Cubano; a strong‚ sweet coffee served in a tiny ceramic cup. Then he made plans to meet the kids who found him on the beach. He’d learned about them from Jack. Two boys and a girl ranging in age from seven to twelve who lived with their mother in Belle Glade‚ a small town near the south shore of Lake Okeechobee. It was an uneventful trip to Belle Glade except for a ten-minute brush with a torrential downpour served up by a fast moving thunderstorm. At a little after one o’clock he stopped his Firebird in front of a modest single story pink stucco bungalow with a faded red barrel tile roof. After gathering several packages of toys from the back seat‚ he proceeded up the front walk. The front door opened and a tall attractive young woman who appeared to be in her late-twenties stepped from the shadows of the porch and into the brilliant South Florida sun. “Hello‚” she said brushing her long hair from her face. “Hi‚ I’m Charley Banyon. Are you Ms. Ibson?” Recognizing him immediately‚ she smiled knowingly. “Yes‚ and I know you‚ but I’m sure you don’t remember me. You were in pretty bad shape that day. Please come in.” Inside‚ she tipped her head toward the packages he’d just put down. “What do you have there?” “Just some toys for the kids. You know‚ tokens of my appreciation.” They sat and talked for an hour while waiting for the school bus. He learned she was a widow whose husband had died in an automobile accident three years before. They had mortgage insurance on the house and a one hundred thousand dollar life insurance policy with a double indemnity clause for accidental death. With the mortgage paid‚ she got along fairly well living off interest from the insurance money she invested in U.S. Treasury bonds. Her parents still lived in Philadelphia where she grew up and were pressing for her to return since her husband died. But because the kids had so many friends in the neighborhood‚ she had resisted moving. She asked about him and for the next few minutes he ran through his life. “Then you’ve never married?” she asked. “No.” The squealing brakes of a school bus caught their attention. “That’ll be my kids‚” she said. Soon‚ they heard laughing and chattering as the children scampered up the steps and into the house. They halted abruptly at mid-stride when they saw a stranger sitting in the living room with their mom. “Kids‚” she called out‚ motioning for them. “This is Deputy Banyon. He’s the man you found on the beach.” They looked at Charley and then starred blankly at each other for a moment. Then Tim‚ a tall freckled redhead‚ and the oldest boy said‚ “But you look different.” “I guess I was in pretty bad shape when you found me.” “The deputy stopped by to thank you for what you did for him that day‚” their mother said. “I want to thank you for saving my life‚” he said‚ standing up and moving over to the packages he’d set on the floor against the couch. “Here‚ these are for you.” Little Samantha‚ who was called Sam‚ ran over and hugged his legs. Then the kids rushed over to the couch and began tearing open the packages. Charley and June walked out on the front porch to some weathered wicker rockers while the children enjoyed their bonanza. The sky was clear and blue with patches of billowing white clouds. But on the ground a hot‚ sticky‚ oppressive atmosphere‚ a typical summer day in South Florida. “I hope it’s not uncomfortable for you out here‚ with your burns and all.” “No‚ I’m just fine. Today’s nice compared to that day on the beach.” She smiled. “I sure remember that day. I was walking on the beach with Sarah‚ a friend of mine. The kids had gone ahead and then came back screaming about a dead man in the sand. It terrified us. But I imagine you want to just forget the whole ordeal.” “I’ll never be able to forget it. And it wasn’t all bad. After all‚ it was my ticket to meet the Ibson family.” She smiled. As she listened to him‚ she felt sensations‚ long held dormant within her. She found herself extremely conscious of his virile appeal and felt like a breathless girl of eighteen. Charley studied the attractive woman. She was tall and lithesome‚ with a soft captivating smile. Her wavy brunette hair trailed down beyond her shoulders and ended with little upswept curls. The yellow metal belt on her faded blue jeans revealed a narrow waist. A tan cotton pullover hinted at an ample figure. Her wide brown eyes complimented a smooth porcelain-like completion. He stood up‚ politely moving away from her‚ pressing his fists into his pockets. “Ah…I’d better be on my way back to West Palm.” “Will we ever see you again Deputy Banyon?” she asked in a half-shy manner‚ her eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “You know you’re always welcome.” “Sure‚ I’ll call you—I promise. How about your number?” He wrote in his notebook as she recited it. “Thanks again for the children’s gifts‚” she said. “I hope you won’t forget us now that you’ve found us.” “No danger of that‚” he replied with a grin. As they said goodbye, there was no denying that there was a stirring of emotion between them. Closing her eyes as he slowly drove away‚ she felt a sudden emptiness. Later that evening‚ in the drowsy warmth of her bed‚ she replayed his words in her mind. I’ll call you‚ I promise. It was her last waking thought before drifting off into a dreamless sleep. Charley had only one serious romance before. Her name was Millie and she was from Charleston‚ South Carolina. It all happened while he was a senior at Maryland. They were deeply in love and planned marriage after graduation. During their last summer break‚ they left each other to go home and pave the way with their parents for their engagement. But Millie never returned. While in Myrtle Beach where she’d gone with some girlfriends to celebrate her engagement‚ she fell ill and collapsed. An abdominal aorta aneurysm had ruptured and she lost so much blood internally that emergency surgery proved unsuccessful. Her death had left Charley heartbroken. After that experience he avoided personal relationships and rarely dated. The loss of Millie and the tragedy that struck his family on graduation day had left him emotionally empty. He was on the verge of serious depression when his Army ROTC Colonel suggested that he go on active duty. On that special day‚ when Charley felt such warmth and love in the little house in Belle Glade‚ he had no way of knowing what was developing a thousand miles to the north‚ and how it would affect his life.... |
 |