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  A public burial held at the local cemetery put Eli’s body to rest. Quelling the rise of local gossip, Robert concocted a simple cover story involving a fall and a fatal rattlesnake bite; hardly original, tediously routine. Not much different than the story circulated to explain Netty’s death. Accidents happen every day. People die every day; sad, but unremarkable.

  Robert sat in front of the fire in his library, contemplating his future. The emptiness in his life, exacerbated by the loss of Eli, continued to disturb him. The accumulation of wealth no longer interested him. Irrevocably securing his fortune and influence far beyond his dreams, he saluted the plan hatched fifteen years ago when he discovered Netty would become heir to half of the vast Woods’ fortune. He paused to consider how easily the gullible Woods swallowed Robert’s suddenly smitten sensibilities enough to marry a common country waif. Smiling, he remembered how he managed to find a few kicks to amuse himself with after the wedding, although her unfortunate broken nose and subsequent hair loss robbed him of his interest in forcing her to submit … time to move on. Let me see … what else? Ticking them off in his head he continued the auspicious list.

  His pursuits on the bench no longer interested him. The petty legal problems of the pedestrian public wore him down. Prohibition—soon down the tubes. (Not that he needed the money, but dabbling with thugs late at night gave him a worthwhile thrill.) He even found himself bored with his special evenings, the brutality of rape, no longer seen as powerful and exciting, now merely churlish and unrefined.

  Tapping his finger along the side of his imperial nose, a solution occurred to him; a concept that needed a little feedback. Rising from the sofa, he stuck his head out the library door into the foyer.

  “Martha, get in here, please.” An intriguing expression settled comfortably on his haughty features. Crossing to the burled walnut sideboard, he poured brandy into tiny crystal snifters.

  “Yes sir?” Martha stood at the library door, the bun on her head unwinding from the heat and labors of her bustling day, her apron wrinkled and stained. Robert grimaced, eyeing the apron.

  “Put your apron in the hallway won’t you Martha?” She stood looking at him with a blank look in her eyes. “The apron—the apron.” He waggled his fingers at her, the gesture dismissive. She quickly removed her apron, returning from the hall to stand before him.

  “Yes, yes, much better. Please sit down, Martha, I have an announcement.” Handing her a snifter, he directed her to the sofa at the fireplace. He took his customary seat at the other end. Martha sat, eyeing the snifter, looking as natural as a defecating woodpecker in her hand. Oblivious, Robert chattered on.

  “I have definitely decided to marry Miss Kathryn. I have yet to ask her, of course. But I do not anticipate a problem. It’s high time we fill this house with children. As you will agree, she is quite suitable. Drink up, my dear.” He again waggled his fingers at her. “Please arrange time, beginning next week, to sit with her to plan the arrangements. Give her anything she asks for. The wedding will be held here of course …” He glanced at Martha, still frozen with the snifter in her hand. “Martha, if you are to be my new major domo, you must learn to relax. Now, drink up.” Blinking slowly, he watched her raise an eyebrow, bringing the snifter to her lips as he continued to happily rattle on about his extravagant wedding and the new direction their lives would take.

  ###

  The years evaporated quickly. Robert and Kathryn, the toast of Norristown’s exclusive social whirl, found branching into New York City society presented many intriguing opportunities. Over the years, he converted his vast fortune into the banking business, burnishing his now impeccable reputation. No one ever condescended to peek under the veneer of genteel hospitality to the worm holes and rot in the foundation of his wealth and soul. Not even his wife, Kathryn.

  As the joyful celebration of Robert’s seventy-third birthday passed, he showed tentative signs of waning strength. He no longer cared to attend the season’s social calendar, choosing to closet himself in his library to pass the day. Kathryn proved to be a loving fertile wife, blessing Robert with five children. Their first-born son, Garrett, hard at work polishing the chrome of their 1972 Cadillac Convertible, planned to drive the family to Summit. Robert and Kathryn’s eldest daughter, Judith, having married at seventeen, needed to return to her home with her baby after enjoying a short visit with the family. Riotous laughter emanated from the car as they piled in. Robert fondly waved goodbye to his wife and five children from the wide, columned front porch, declining as usual to accompany them. Even though he adored his family, the fact that Judith’s husband Edwin planned a surprise unveiling of their new home, could not temp him to join the party.

  Robert returned to the sanctity of the library, ringing for Alice to bring him his specially blended licorice tea. Martha, having failed to achieve a modicum of the confidence he used to share with Eli, retired shortly after Garrett’s birth. Perhaps she had sensed his disappointment in her.

  As he awaited his tea, his mind catalogued the many highs of the last two decades since he reformed his life and married Kathryn. The list was prodigious. The highlights truly culminated with the birth of Garrett, his favorite son and heir. The boy, almost a copy of Robert at his age, truly showed promise as a financial wizard, an asset in the banking empire he planned to leave to him.

  The only bed bug in the mattress centered around the mysterious deaths (purely a coincidence, of course) of most of the men involved in the cover up on Lily Pond Road. Robert decided twenty years ago to edit the name of his first wife from his memory. He even convinced himself that the 2000 acres he stole from her passed to him legally. Unfortunately, his persistent dreams and sweats proved uncontrollable, refusing to allow him a single untroubled night’s sleep.

  Eli and Hudson’s deaths were only the beginning. Subsequent deaths befell three of his men; again, another shocker. The only thing left of the men he sent to the train station to pick up some freight was their skeletons. No clothes, no blood; just a macabre triangle of desiccated bones lying in the dirt. And heaping insult on injury, no witnesses. Son of a bitch.

  “Your tea, Sir.” Alice placed a silver tray with a filigree tea pot and one fine bone china tea cup on his partners desk.

  “Pour for me, won’t you, young lady?” The fifty-six year old housemaid poured his tea and returned to her duties, leaving him to savor the ambrosial fragrance in seclusion. Ah, yes, small pleasures. He sipped the sweet tea slowly, his face suffused with blood, warmed by the steam of the tea. His thoughts returned to the cause of his woefully inadequate sleep.

  The most disturbing death belonged to that of Simpson and his wife. They regularly worked late in their shop two nights a week with the help of a young female employee. Their bodies were found behind the butcher shop near the garbage receptacle. They protruded from a perfectly round hole in the ground that opened to a small tunnel that collapsed around the bodies. The coroner’s report blamed heart failure—both of them. When asked, their hysterical employee claimed she never heard nothin’.

  Robert’s blood froze in his veins every time he thought about the mysterious holes. He wondered why he remained alive. How long could one withstand relentless stress and sleeplessness? Perhaps his refusal to leave the house protected him. The commonality of the deaths suggest (they all occurred outside) he probably remained safe as long as he stayed inside. He could not know for sure but eleven years had passed since the last death.

  Discovering his teapot empty, he rang for Alice, requesting a refill and directing her to serve his dinner. As he waited for the tea, he happened to glance in the direction of the French doors that led out to the terrace and his glorious emerald lawn. The same French doors Netty fled through after first stealing his gold coin. Damn. He promised himself he wouldn’t think of her name. Concentrating on the glass of the French door, his squinty eyes widened as a looming form quickly disappeared. Was his imagination playing tricks on him? For God’s sakes. Rising to investigate, the
shrill sound of his telephone forced him to pause. Distracted, he picked up the heavy receiver, hearing the annoyed voice of his son-in-law, Edwin.

  “Hello, Robert; just a quick call. I hoped everyone would be here by now. They’re at least fifty minutes late. I wanted to take them to the new house before it got dark. I’m surprised at Judith. I made it clear to her she must keep on schedule. Did they depart on time?” Robert consulted his watch. Goodness, this was odd.

  “Edwin, they left earlier than planned, didn’t Judith call you? That was almost two hours ago. Perhaps they stopped to shop?”

  “Not with the baby with them. She gets fussy before dinner. Judith would never nurse her in public. It’s unseemly. Woops, there’s the doorbell; probably them. Sorry to disturb you, Robert. See you soon.” And he hung up. From the distance he heard his own doorbell ring. Company … at this hour? Ringing the kitchen, he commanded Alice to see to the door.

  Anticipating a social visit, Robert ran his liver spotted hands through his still robust gray hair. He quickly donned his tweed sports jacket, covering the tea stains on his white linen shirt. To his surprise, Alice appeared, escorting two Norristown police officers. Their bearing was tense, their expressions tight.

  Robert felt a wash of fear, a growing pain in his right arm. He stood, as one of the officer spoke, hearing them clearly but failing to fully comprehend.

  “Mr. Doyle? We are sorry to inform you, there has been a tragic accident involving your family … all dead … skeletons … infant bones … no witnesses … undamaged vehicle …. investigation .…” the voices droned on as Robert’s ears filled with a white buzzing sound. His hand clutched at his chest, a feeble attempt to relieve the sudden pressure. As he tumbled over, his pain glazed eyes hesitated as they registered the specter of the looming mass hanging quietly over the top of the French doors, now undulating with golden striates. As he smashed his face on the corner of his partner’s desk, the excruciating pain in his fatally damaged heart could not prevent the despairing realization that Netty … somehow … managed to save her coup de grace for him.

  THE END

  Introduction to

  Species Intervention #6609

  Book 2

  Echo

  Synopsis for Echo:

  Netty’s influence transcends a full century as the United States evolves to a point of politically driven economic collapse. The year is 2033 as a young mother, abused by her shiftless husband, heroically decides to remove her two sickly children, Scotty and Abby, from the mean streets of their government subsidized tenement town of Short Hills, New Jersey to the hills and old farmland of Sussex County. There, they unite with a Latino family that adopted Jose, a young boy from Costa Rica, traumatized at the age of seven by the brutal murder of his parents and the kidnapping of his infant sister.

  The two families unite to pool finances, creating the love and bonds that will enable them to survive the psychotic attention of Armoni, a soul damaged beyond redemption, discovery of Baby’s miraculous offspring, Echo; and their subsequent body changes. Through the efforts of Echo who develops an unexplained passion for the curly haired dog, Barney, they flee the clutches of Armoni after the murder of Armoni’s sidekicks by Echo, to Sarasota, Florida, one of the last remaining enclaves of wealth in the U.S.

  Scotty learns to utilize Echo as a co-conspirator in his intrigue to thwart the efforts of heinous people that prey on the lives of creatures in their environmentally rich new home, where the insidious miscreant, Armoni, tracks them; dragging along Ginger Mae, a New York City prostitute looking for opportunity with her mute child, Daisy; bringing brutality and violence to all.

  Having fallen in love, the young Abby and Jose draw close, only to be separated by the transcendental Netty, who tries to use Abby as a conduit in her plan to rescue as much wildlife as they can before despicable political events bring on the specter of Armageddon.

  Bonus Chapters 1-3

  Chapter 1

  2033 AD

  Scotty slipped out his front door unnoticed, easily overlooked if you failed to notice his ringworm and impetigo scars. Barely three and a half feet tall, even at six years old, it put him in the underdeveloped category, another result of the wicked fall his mother took while pregnant with him. The fall initiated his premature birth, keeping him in a grossly understaffed neo natal hospital unit where his tiny body contracted a number of skin diseases that left him scarred and disfigured.

  To add to his misery, his left eye muscles refused to fully develop allowing his eye to wander in its socket, giving him headaches, vision problems and disfiguring facial affects. The fact that his father continued to deny responsibility for his mother’s fall, illustrated the truth of his sister Abby’s claims. His mother married a full-blown leachy weasel.

  Scotty looked up and down the bleak empty hallway, dirty graffiti walls, a testimony to the futility of the lives packed like termites in the ugly utilitarian monstrosity he called home.

  He cautiously peeked in the stairwell. Seeing it empty, he scrambled down the cold metal stairs, his tiny worn sneakers masking his footfalls. Emerging from the gloom of the stairwell, he recoiled from the sudden glare of an unexpectedly sunny afternoon.

  Scooting around to the back of his building, he dodged empty beer cans, used condoms and piles of dog feces to hide in the big cardboard box he currently used as his fort. Yesterday, Chang Appliance, the largest Chinese appliance chain in the world, delivered something to an exceedingly lucky tenant in his building. He and his buddy, Germaine, quickly claimed the treasured empty box, dragging it to the back of their tenement in the giant public housing neighborhood of Short Hills, New Jersey, hoping they could hide it from the big guys. At least long enough to have some fun with it.

  Short Hills, formerly a bastion of affluent homes in the early part of the century, no longer boasted anyone that could afford them. As a result, the Socialized Democrat Party strengthened the urban renewal and eminent domain laws. When the real estate market for large expensive homes (the most visible trapping of despised capitalist pigs) collapsed, due to the exodus of the wealthy to more welcoming countries, the homes were appropriated. After removing the squatters and gangs, the bulldozers made way for what some called inevitable progress. The kind of progress that produced nasty government subsidized housing projects; pretty ironic for a state once known as, The Garden State.

  Now, New Jersey blossomed with one huge hideous urban ghetto after another. Just like many other states undergoing a similar renaissance. Not everyone agreed to call this progress. Like his mother.

  She remembered the stories her grandmother related to her about growing up on a working family farm with cows and hay barns and wide open meadows, replete with the simple harmonies of sunrise crows, twilight crickets and the exceptional fragrance of newly mowed grass and wild wood violets. His great grandmother would spend her summers as a child delving into the woods, looking for wild strawberry patches and black caps growing along the side of the road, probing water holes and brooks for magical polliwogs, turtles, minnows, even snakes that she invariably dragged back to the farmhouse, a favorite pastime.

  Instead, Scotty lived with the perpetual smells of hot air brakes, big rig exhaust and alley rat infested garbage. He got the sounds of gunshots and screams as the bullies of the neighborhood beat on their latest victim. His playground consisted of hot smelly asphalt and discarded cardboard boxes as his playthings.

  Luckily, his mom knew of a few areas that missed out on the progress. Like Sussex County. Full of rolling hills, mountains, packed trout streams and bucolic lakes. It even bragged some surviving timid black bears that penis challenged hunters failed to eradicated in their perpetual attempt to prove their manhood by putting food out for bears in the woods as they waited in trees with their weapons, shot-gunning them down, cubs and all.

  Hardly convenient, the wealthy found the remoteness objectionable, leaving no albatrosses for the government to tear down. The lack of access to mass transit, actually th
e reason the area stayed rural; undesirable to the masses for the same reason.

  An hour before dinner, Scotty’s parents started fighting again; the same old thing. His mother, one of the four million polio victims in the United States from the epidemic of 2018, frequently tried unsuccessfully to convince his father to relocate. She dreamed about better healthcare and quality of life in a less populated area. Like Sussex County.

  His big sister, Abby, a dialysis patient, needed to get to the hospital three times a week. As a toddler, she developed chronic kidney disease, acute and undoubtedly fatal, requiring her to go in and out of hospitals since a baby. She really needed a kidney transplant but they didn’t have the money to buy one from China or South America like most patients of loftier financial means.

  When the country decided to worship at the altar of socialized medicine, an understandably desperate shortage of doctors ensued. Over utilized emergency rooms with a standard back up of 36 hours on any normal day before the polio epidemic, suddenly morphed into requiring an appointment to get in. Dying before your appointment became common, creating a huge underground market, selling your appointment to the highest bidder. Family allowances limited the amount of doctor visits per year. Inevitably, rationing became as necessary as breathing.