Chapter One
The clock flashed 5:45 as Tom’s head peaked up over his pillow. He kept his small clock radio tuned to Howard Stern. Howard annoyed the hell out of him and it was the only sure-fire way to get him up in the morning. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the cracks in the ceiling waiting for the whiney voice to infuriate him sufficiently to force him out of the bed and into his wool slippers. It had been almost two years yet he still slept on the right side of the bed, leaving the left untouched. Once something becomes habit, it’s incredibly hard to break; or maybe he just liked what it used to represent. Howard began to simulate sex with his former wife and Robert was up.
Tom had been living in this house for seven years. He didn’t glance at the pictures on the walls as he made his way to the garage. In truth, he hadn’t looked at them in months. They only reminded him of a past he would still be getting over years after his final mortgage payment was due. The house was clean, if not a little sterile, thanks in most part to the lady who came by every second Tuesday. She cleaned in the day while Tom was at work and left before he returned and that was the way that Tom liked it. The process had become so automatic in his mind that he barely registered the fact that he left a crisp 50 on the counter twice a month. The garage door had just started to rise when the cell phone he clipped to his belt began to ring. He checked the caller-id before flipping it open, bracing himself for what was sure to be a much chipper voice than he had hoped to be hearing this early.
“Harper” he answered, as his late model Chrysler pulled into the street. “I know who I’m calling Tommy, you think you could say Hello once in a while, I know you knew it was me,” the caffeinated voice replied. “I’m betting you’re merging onto the 110 right now.” “You have a gift Boggs,” said Tom as his sedan idled at a stop sign in his suburban neighborhood. “Someday you’re going to have to tell me how you do that.” “Creature of habit man, that’s why I like you,” replied Boggs, “but your gonna want to get off at Alameda and turn that piece of shit around.” “What’s going on?” “Well,” said Boggs, his eyes looking out over the dark blue of the Pacific, “I’ve got another case I think you might be interested in.” “Where are you?” said Tom as he flipped a switch on the dashboard. “Venice pier, duty officer’s name is Jacks, he’ll bring you to the tape. And Tom, you know I wouldn’t call you in on something like this but it looks well, very similar to the Markinson boy.” Tom’s Caprice pulled sharply around the corner, the blue of the strobe light intermittingly hitting his face.
The Markinson son boy that Boggs referred to was the one who had made all the papers. Brian Markinson was a 22-year-old economics major from the University of Chicago who had disappeared 16 months ago from his dorm room on the university campus. It’s not unusual for seniors to take rooms on campus as the surrounding areas have high crime rates. You would think this could explain Brian’s disappearance but in fact, in response to this, the school had become a closed campus and was generally considered one of the safest institutions in the country. Getting through the gates is harder than getting nail clippers onto a 747. With the electronically encrypted identity cards and physical searches, no one could understand how a 22-year-old without any known enemies could simply vanish from the room he had been seen in the night before inside such a secure location. He hadn’t been seen leaving his room or the dorm or the campus for that matter by any of the 1800 undergrads, and faculty or by the more than 300 security cameras that blanket the grounds.
It wasn’t until a week later when a student who lived directly below Markinson announced that there was a mark on his ceiling he couldn’t explain. He noticed it the morning Markinson was reported missing but had been reluctant to come forward because he thought that during a drunken stupor one night, he had accidentally burned his ceiling. He eventually came to the conclusion that there was no way, regardless of his mental state, that he could have reached the 10 foot ceilings in his room let alone hang around long enough to burn a symbol into the plaster. Upon removing the wall-to-wall carpeting in room above, the police found an identical, albeit reversed, symbol in the floor, directly above the symbol in the ceiling. This puzzled the police considerably as the removed carpet did not bear marks of a burn anywhere and with the exception of a few explainable stains, seemed to be in perfect condition. It was then that all attention turned to the unusual symbol and subsequently Thomas Harper.
Both symbols turned out to be a single symbol that appeared to be charred into the wood and plaster of the floor and ceiling. It was as though a controlled fire had burned directly through but the lines of the image were perfectly crafted, down to the millimeter. The symbol was a circle, three feet in diameter and with lines exactly an inch in width all leading to the center like spokes in a wheel.
Tom had been living in this house for seven years. He didn’t glance at the pictures on the walls as he made his way to the garage. In truth, he hadn’t looked at them in months. They only reminded him of a past he would still be getting over years after his final mortgage payment was due. The house was clean, if not a little sterile, thanks in most part to the lady who came by every second Tuesday. She cleaned in the day while Tom was at work and left before he returned and that was the way that Tom liked it. The process had become so automatic in his mind that he barely registered the fact that he left a crisp 50 on the counter twice a month. The garage door had just started to rise when the cell phone he clipped to his belt began to ring. He checked the caller-id before flipping it open, bracing himself for what was sure to be a much chipper voice than he had hoped to be hearing this early.
“Harper” he answered, as his late model Chrysler pulled into the street. “I know who I’m calling Tommy, you think you could say Hello once in a while, I know you knew it was me,” the caffeinated voice replied. “I’m betting you’re merging onto the 110 right now.” “You have a gift Boggs,” said Tom as his sedan idled at a stop sign in his suburban neighborhood. “Someday you’re going to have to tell me how you do that.” “Creature of habit man, that’s why I like you,” replied Boggs, “but your gonna want to get off at Alameda and turn that piece of shit around.” “What’s going on?” “Well,” said Boggs, his eyes looking out over the dark blue of the Pacific, “I’ve got another case I think you might be interested in.” “Where are you?” said Tom as he flipped a switch on the dashboard. “Venice pier, duty officer’s name is Jacks, he’ll bring you to the tape. And Tom, you know I wouldn’t call you in on something like this but it looks well, very similar to the Markinson boy.” Tom’s Caprice pulled sharply around the corner, the blue of the strobe light intermittingly hitting his face.
The Markinson son boy that Boggs referred to was the one who had made all the papers. Brian Markinson was a 22-year-old economics major from the University of Chicago who had disappeared 16 months ago from his dorm room on the university campus. It’s not unusual for seniors to take rooms on campus as the surrounding areas have high crime rates. You would think this could explain Brian’s disappearance but in fact, in response to this, the school had become a closed campus and was generally considered one of the safest institutions in the country. Getting through the gates is harder than getting nail clippers onto a 747. With the electronically encrypted identity cards and physical searches, no one could understand how a 22-year-old without any known enemies could simply vanish from the room he had been seen in the night before inside such a secure location. He hadn’t been seen leaving his room or the dorm or the campus for that matter by any of the 1800 undergrads, and faculty or by the more than 300 security cameras that blanket the grounds.
It wasn’t until a week later when a student who lived directly below Markinson announced that there was a mark on his ceiling he couldn’t explain. He noticed it the morning Markinson was reported missing but had been reluctant to come forward because he thought that during a drunken stupor one night, he had accidentally burned his ceiling. He eventually came to the conclusion that there was no way, regardless of his mental state, that he could have reached the 10 foot ceilings in his room let alone hang around long enough to burn a symbol into the plaster. Upon removing the wall-to-wall carpeting in room above, the police found an identical, albeit reversed, symbol in the floor, directly above the symbol in the ceiling. This puzzled the police considerably as the removed carpet did not bear marks of a burn anywhere and with the exception of a few explainable stains, seemed to be in perfect condition. It was then that all attention turned to the unusual symbol and subsequently Thomas Harper.
Both symbols turned out to be a single symbol that appeared to be charred into the wood and plaster of the floor and ceiling. It was as though a controlled fire had burned directly through but the lines of the image were perfectly crafted, down to the millimeter. The symbol was a circle, three feet in diameter and with lines exactly an inch in width all leading to the center like spokes in a wheel.
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