Prologue

"Suppose a man died with the dearest wish of his heart unfulfilled.
Do you believe that his spirit might have the power to return to Earth and complete the interrupted work?"

• Jerome K. Jerome "Ghost Story"

November 17, 1971 - Santa Venetia, California

It was an ordinary ranch-style house on a typical, quiet Californian cul-de-sac; a perfect moonless, starry night… until the explosion. Even that was muffled and neighbors would later claim they didn’t hear a thing. If they had been watching, they would have seen the firestorm roll through the front room and crack the big picture window.

A few hours later a 1960 Pontiac convertible rumbled around the corner onto Hacienda Way, the couple inside giggling like teenagers. The girl driving was only eighteen, but the man pawing at her was old enough to be her father. He was also a semi-famous sci-fi author, but that meant nothing to her. She had other reasons to be interested in Phil.

"Stop it," she pushed him away, "You smell like greasy burger and onions. You know that stuff will give you bad dreams."

"Not tonight, baby," he whispered, then sensuously flicked his tongue on her neck as Stephanie parked the car on the street. "It's perfect," Phil breathed heavily into her ear, swaying to Carole King's light and breezy voice on the radio. "Let’s do it right here."

"Nooo," she whined, tossing the keys to him. Then, teasing, "Let’s go in and do it on the floor."

Phil’s girlfriend-of-the-moment hopped out of the car and pulled him from the passenger seat. He nuzzled Stephanie's neck and playfully tugged at the buttons on her blouse as they staggered up the walk-way to the front door. Phil had never actually "done it" with her, but liked the idea. Since his last divorce, Phil hadn't technically been dating anyone. Stephanie was one of several young druggies he let crash at his house. He actually bought dope from her.

In the Bay Area, in 1971, everyone was buying and selling dope. Phil didn't care that much about hash or coke, but was a considerable consumer of white cross tabs. His need for speed was also a way to keep Stephanie around, and keep an eye on her. Phil fancied himself her savior. The truth was Stephanie was the one taking care of Phil. Someone had to.

Phil was prone to terrible bouts of depression and paranoia. He was also agoraphobic, and needed someone to drive him to the grocery store or burger joint. But, on this starry, starry night, Phil was happy for a change and focused on the possibility of making it with this young dark-haired girl.

"Vincent," he whispered in Stephanie's ear while fumbling with the key to unlock the front door.

"Man, you are stoned," she stopped and frowned. "Are you a homo?"

Phil smiled, "It's a song. Fabulous." He sighed, "Brand new album. Wait til you hear..." He pushed the door open with his hip and was about to give another push toward Stephanie, but she moved to flip on the light switch. Before he could finish his thought, she shrieked, "Jesus! Phil, look!"

For a moment, Phil couldn’t comprehend the devastation. "What the…?!"

A million tiny pieces of white debris covered everything – the carpet, furniture, the drapes and it was even sticking to the walls. As his eyes darted toward the adjoining den, his writing room, where chunks of metal were strewn among the bits of white. Phil pushed past Stephanie, who was frozen in place, to his study and saw the mangled remains of his fire-proof file cabinet.

"Shit," he cursed aloud, rubbing his eyes and temples. "Damn, I knew it!"

He could see pieces of wet towel among the debris. The force of the explosion had blown slivers of steel into the side of his oak desk. Bits of canceled checks, and other unrecognizable paper and plastic particles swirled together into a sickening stew of debris that used to be his only safe haven.

Although Phil allowed friends to come and go, smoke pot and generally make a mess of his house, no one was allowed in the writing room. It was strictly off limits and he kept it neat and tidy. It was the only way he could organize his thoughts and have any privacy to work on his novels. Now, his mind was as cluttered and confused as the mess around him. But, he knew one thing for sure – his latest and most important manuscript was gone.

Stephanie found Phil in the study, surrounded by debris, just standing there staring blankly.

"Thank God I’m not crazy." he said aloud and then erupted into a crazy, maniacal laugh that scared her.

"I’m calling the cops," the girl said, looking around for the phone.

Phil grabbed her forcefully; "No you’re not." The wild look in his eyes scared her. "No fucking cops, you hear?"

She began to cry and shake.

"You need to go home tonight. I’ll deal with this." Phil practically shoved her out the door and then felt bad. It wasn’t like him to be mean, especially to a crying woman. But, he was about to cry himself and he didn’t want anyone to see that. He collapsed in a heap on the living room floor, and curled up right in the middle of the mess. "Damn," he sputtered aloud. "I knew the sons of bitches were after me."

For hours Phil sat on the floor, rocking back and forth and playing over in his mind theory after theory of who would go to such extremes to steal his writing. It was a carefully crafted, professionally executed explosion. They knew to use heavy wet bath towels to muffle the sound and contain the contents. "The bastards," he thought, hoping they got a soggy wet manuscript and that maybe one of them blew a hand off in the process. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep, still curled up in a half-sitting, half fetal position.

In the light of day, the scene was even more disturbing. It hadn't been a dream. The mess was real. Stiff and foggy, Phil got up and stumbled to the phone, which was in the other room and still intact. He found the number of a guy he knew -- a demolitions expert who had served in the Special Forces. Carl knew all about explosives, as well as code-talking and wire tapping. Once he got Carl on the line, Phil identified himself and mumbled something cryptic. He got the point across; in less than hour there was a knock on the door.

Phil cautiously peaked through the peephole. The guy standing there was definitely not one of the hippies that liked to hang around Phil's place. It was a six-foot-five, two hundred and forty-pound square-jawed muscle-bound dude still sporting a marine-style buzz hair cut.

--------- what happens next? Gotta get the book ;) Coming Spring 2010