ERIK'S JOURNAL - SEQUEL TO THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

I've tossed this idea around in my head for a long time. Let's see how it works. This is only the Prologue, but please let me know what you think.

Therefore, please R&R. Enjoy!

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PROLOGUE

Paris, France 1881, 28 January

I don’t know what ever possessed me to allow Christine and the Vicomte to leave together. My heart is breaking, even as I write and all I can do is sit and record my feelings in this miserable journal.

Writing my life’s history was foolish. I know that now. Who will care? I have no family or friends, only sweet memories of the woman I loved, but who could never love me back. I savour the moments we shared together, brief as they were. For only an instant I believed Christine, my beloved, would stay with me. I can still feel her body next to mine. The sweet scent of a woman is most intoxicating, as can be my voice in song, so she has often reminded me. Then again, she often said my voice led her to me, compelled her to stay, but she did leave. Who can understand the feminine mind?

Feeling her beneath me, feeling her all around me; I wish I’d never let her go. I should have killed the boy, but then, I cannot change history, as the prophecy so painfully reminds.

If her husband knew all, he would kill her and most assuredly make sure that I was dead. My plan has worked up until now.

I’ve spent so much time writing my music and this wretched journal, that it seems a pity that all must be destroyed in the end. Should the contents of this journal ever surface to the light of day, there would surely be a blood bath.

The pain which gnaws at my insides will soon devour me if I do not leave soon. Yes, leave. Leave this period of time or leave this life, I’m not sure which. My plans are not yet clear. Perhaps I should have died the day my beloved Christine engaged the wall to seal me in this tomb I’ve called a home. Once upon a time, I would have given anything to live this life in isolation of others, including the extortion of money from the managers of the Opera House, playing tricks on the ballet rats and stagehands, and of course spending hour upon hour composing my music…my music, for her.

Don Juan Triumphant is complete and will be buried with me. No one, but my beloved should ever hear it. Never once had I thought being the Opera Ghost would be so traumatic. I’ve lost both the women I’ve ever loved and now, life means nothing. Even with the ability to “walk through dimensions”, thoughts of leaving life altogether is far more appealing. Another life would only bring more pain. No matter what year or century, life still mocks man like an insolent woman, leading him on to ecstasy, then mocking and putting him to an open shame.

I have one last thing to accomplish before deciding what to do with myself. And I must act quickly before half the men of Paris meet the same fate as Odyssey’s men at the hand of Circe, the siren.

Closing this entry is your obedient servant,

O.G.

Ooo, a new phic, Fay!! I like this, it is very intriguing.

A little typo I caught: "...leading him on to ecstasy, then mocking and put him to an open shame."

Great opening! This definitely looks promising.

Ange de Musique thank you for the lovely compliment. I was hoping you would like.

Thank you for the feedback. It is always appreciated.

More coming soon.

Well now, I'm certainly hooked. I wonder what the one last thing might be...

Please do continue, I'm very curious.



D

Slitherliggie so happy to see you and to know you enjoyed the Prologue which in itself is an entry of Erik's Journal. Thank you for the kind words.

Some of this I'd written a little while back but only a few pages. It's not complete like Through the Looking Glass. So bear with me it there are rough spots and grammar errors.

More will be coming shortly.

Oooh, love it! I`ve always been fascinated by what happened after POTO closes. Those moments right after Christine left with Raoul. So far, very exciting, I can`t wait to read more

Thank you Gabby81. Once again, so happy to see you. Yes, I am going to show a twist is this sequel as well. Raoul will not be a drunken wife beater, Christine will not be an airheaded twit, in fact, she's not in here at all, and now you get to see how the real Erik and Mae are doing. So who's writing the journal? If you read at least the ending of Through the Looking Glass, there will be no doubt who O.G. is who is keeping the journal.

More to come. So please don't go away!

Many thanks to all who have read and reviewed. Your comments are greatly appreciated.

Now for you reading pleasure, I give you the first chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 1

Los Angeles, California-Present Day

Another year has come and gone for Erik Mason and his wife Mae. It’s hard to believe a year and two months have passed since they met, married and shared the adventures of living two lives in two different centuries.

Erik had not always been the happily married successful architect living in Los Angeles. Born a deformed outcast he lived, loved, and hated in the bowels of the Garnier or the Paris Opera in the late 1800’s. His ability to create illusions and walk in shadows undetected soon dubbed him the Opera Ghost, also known as the Phantom of the Opera, the creature of darkness Gaston Leroux wrote about in his famed novel and immortalized in film, television and stage.

Erik Mason, tall, lean and more handsome then any pin-up boy
sat in his favorite recliner with his feet up reading a third rate tabloid of bizarre articles called Other Worldly News, while his wife, Mae prepared Sunday breakfast.

Comparing the two periods of time seemed impossible. The present day gave Erik the life he’d only dreamed of, and never hoped to achieve. A little Persian magick and the love of his wife cured him of his deformity and brought him into her century to live like any other happily married man, who would take his wife out for Sunday rides, where he could truly be loved for what he was.

Golden sun beams streamed through the living room as Erik
continued reading his weird tabloid. He’d stop now and again and smile as he’d listen to his wife humming in the kitchen.

Occasionally, she’d call out to him and ask how he wanted his eggs or if he preferred orange juice to tea. He never cared much for coffee, even the decaffeinated type. Nothing beat a steaming cup of tea to calm or invigorate a person, depending on the kind of leaves one steeped.

With a loving smile and the look of content on his face, Erik returned to reading the tabloid; enraptured to be with the woman he loved, in a place where he could do the job he loved, besides sing, architecture.

Mae entered the dining room with two plates of bacon, eggs
and toast. As she sat the plates on the place mats, she eyed her husband lovingly. Her dark eyes flashed with the light of love and her sweetheart looked up from his paper and gave her a look that drew her to him.

As she came closer, her husband tossed the tabloid on the
nearby sofa and grabbed her, pulling her down on his lap. They were still newly weds and acted like it. In moments, they melted into each other’s arms and locked lips in a burning kiss of never-ending passion.

Gently, Mae pulled back a little and reminded him that his
breakfast would get cold, but he could hardly think of eating food with her in his arms.

Finally, she persuaded him to come to the table. Remembering the article which caught his eye, Erik grabbed up the tabloid from the sofa and pointed to an article entitled, “Journal of Famed Phantom Found”.

They claim to have found my journal,” he pointed to the article. His wife took the paper from him and read for a moment and then burst out laughing.

“My darling husband, look where the article is? It’s right between “Aliens in Your Carpet” and “Giant Monkey Boy Seen Again”. You’ve got to stop reading this stuff,” she smiled and kissed him lightly on the lips.

“Yes, yes, I know, but did you read the article? They’ve found one of my journals. But how? I burned all but one, and I brought that one with us. I had started writing it when I
met you.”

A wave of seriousness and fear washed over the young woman. Again she read the article. “If you didn’t write it, then who did? You don’t think it was Doone, do you? I mean…” she puzzled.

“If it wasn’t me, then it had to be him.”

“Maybe it’s a joke. I mean look at the articles around it…”

“I know, but the article says that the journal tells the true genealogy of the Phantom and how he made a fool out of the local authorities. I need to see the journal. If Doone did write it and if he wrote the absolute truth, then I must find the journal before it’s published or worse,” Erik stared at the article a moment. His wife could feel the gravity of the situation, but still wondered why and couldn’t help but ask. What about his genealogy? What if he did elude being captured? Wasn’t that what Erik had done for so many years before she met him and before Doone took his place as the Phantom.

“What would possess him to write anything? And you dare ask why it’s important? Who would care? France would care. The de Chagnys would care. I care! It’s a matter of pride, my dear. We Frenchmen are very proud and we would kill anyone who tried to humiliate us!” That last sentence stung Mae and she turned away abruptly. After all this time, he would still mention the word “kill”? Once he put away the Punjab lasso, she thought for good, but now, in that tone of voice, she might be wrong.

That wild-eyed look of a madman flared up in his face and she shuddered when she recalled the time he shoved her into the torture chamber and forced her to view its hideous details; simply because she asked about the room. She knew all too well what he was capable of, and prayed he would not retrieve his signature weapon and continue the life he had once lived.

They ate in silence as Erik read the article over and over again. How disturbing it felt to his wife, who said nothing.

Mae began to clear the table, when she felt his long, thin fingers wrap themselves around her wrist.

“You didn’t eat much. Have I upset you?” her husband’s quiet voice broke the silence and made her tremble a bit.

“I wasn’t very hungry.”

“I’ve frightened you again, haven’t I?” His voice reverted back to that of the Phantom, cold and calculating yet filled with love. It’s said the eyes mirror the soul. If this proved true, then what reflected made her blood run cold.

“I must know about this find,” her husband said quietly. Upon releasing her wrist, he thumbed through the paper and found the telephone number of the publisher and noted the name of the reporter who wrote the article.

Even as Erik punched in the numbers on the telephone, he watched his beautiful, voluptuous wife clear off the table. He hated to see her upset, like this, but finding the truth of this journal seemed imperative. When he lived as the Phantom, he walked through the Opera House as a true ghost, melting into shadows, vanishing through trapdoors and secret passages, and frightening the performers with all of his illusions, never to be caught, and seen only when it suited him.

He noted details of his life before the Opera House in his journals and briefly sketched in the original novel. The secret he guarded with his life appeared to be more than him being the Opera Ghost; the actual truth which would cause a blood bath-the knowledge of who he really was.

Mae once read some of his journals, but she missed the one which gave away the truth behind the mask and the man with whom she had fallen in love and married. For this he rejoiced. What she read satisfied her curiosity for the time. And as of late, she never asked about his parents.

The outgoing message from the publisher of Other Worldly News reminded him they would be open from 8 am to 5:50 pm Monday through Friday. With the rag published in Florida, a three hours difference existed. All of these modern differences boggled the mind if he let it. Muttering to himself, Erik punched 0 for the operator and requested the telephone number of BC Hamilton, the reporter who had written the article. Miami had several Hamiltons, but none with those initials. He would have to wait until tomorrow to reach the editor.

At last, his wife emerged from the kitchen and stared at him a moment. Erik motioned for her. She hesitated a moment, but obeyed.

“You have a semester break from college, correct?” he asked with an unnerving quality in his voice. Mae nodded. “Then we should take a visit to Florida to meet this reporter. I should like to speak to him face to face.”

“What about your job? Aren’t you in the final phase of building that shopping complex?” She didn’t want to look at him when he acted like this, but he made her look, then he tenderly brushed his lips against hers and whispered menacingly, “I shall take the vacation Ray Pastigo has been begging me to take.”

Ray Pastigo became the main reason Doone had no desire to return home. Being Doone’s architect father, he wanted someone to walk in his footsteps, not drop out of school and write music. Needless to say his father didn’t miss him. He barely asked where his son had gone, and signed with relief that he’d never return. Erik and Mae felt sad and hurt at this. How could a parent be so heartless and cruel? Yet, deep down, Erik felt Doone’s pain and understood why he wanted a new life. He had felt the same way.

Strangely enough, Ray had welcomed Erik with opened arms. Despite the age difference, of which he had no knowledge of, Ray seemed glad to have someone with such vast knowledge of architecture and skill ask him for work. The former Opera Ghost could be quite charming and soon became Pastigo’s right hand.

“You’re going to Florida? Why? You haven’t even talked to this reporter.” Mae puzzled, but drew back, in fear of her husband’s anger.

The former Opera Ghost pulled her to him and growled softly in her ear, “We are going to Florida. I would never leave without you, my beloved.” Though they had a deep love for each other, it seemed that Erik now became obsessed with finding the journal, which brought out a raw, primal beast in him. It had been a long time since he had frightened her like this. The young woman closed her eyes as she trembled at his touch.

Wow, this seems like it's going to be very good! Very realistic, I can actually see the two of them.



Please continue soon, I can't wait to see what happens next.



D

Excellent work, my friend! I enjoyed reading this, you portray Erik in a very believable, Leroux-like manner.

A few typos I noticed: "With a loving smile and the look of content on his face..."

This sentence felt like a run on to me: "With a loving smile and the look of content on
his face, Erik returned to reading the tabloid, enraptured to be with
the woman he loved, in a place where he could do the job he loved,
besides sing, architecture." Also, I believe the italicized word should be 'singing.'

"That wild-eyed look of a madman flared up in his face and
she shuttered..."

Other than that, phantabulous work!

Thank you to Slitherliggie and Ange de Musique for your kind words and feedback. I really do appreciated it.

Please R&R the next chapter. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER TWO

Paris, France 1881

Night’s velvet mantle gently dropped over the city and aroused the denizens that lurked in the darkness. Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny, moved swiftly and quietly through the mist herald by nightfall and made his way on foot to the residence of a known sorceress named Brianna. Their past association had been long forgotten when Doone took the Phantom’s place of the ruling opera spectre and led the Vicomte and Christine
back through the mirror to the late 19^th century where they belonged.

After all of this, a distant memory of knowing the sorceress remained in the back of his mind and pushed him to seek audience with her this evening. He chose to come alone and leave his carriage and driver parked several buildings away. No one need know of their meeting since le Vicomte had a reputation to protect.

One of Brianna’s cohorts and lovers greeted him at the door. Landru had the looks of a model with ash blonde hair, and the body of a Greek god. The warlock never possessed powers to match those of his mistress.

The meeting had been scheduled and rescheduled several times, since Raoul had not wished anyone, especially his wife, Christine, to discover his interest in the power of magick.

Brianna waited for le Vicomte in the lavish parlor of her rather expensive and ornate flat, where she lived with Landru and Etienne, the dark-haired pinup-boy, who was not only a childhood friend and fellow warlock to Landru, but also, the second lover to the ravishing witch.

In her presence Raoul removed his hat and bowed with respect
as a gentleman should before a lady. Brianna stretched forth her delicate pale hand that beckoned for the lips of the handsome young man. Again he bowed and took her hand to his lips. The witch looked most beautiful with her luscious curves and silky, ebony colored hair that draped her shoulders and caught at the back of head with a jeweled clasp. She eyed the young man with the delicious evil of a lioness going in for the kill.

“Please sit down, monsieur le Vicomte. I am curious to know the urgency of this meeting. I thought you were a skeptic, a non believer of the occult,” Brianna laid back on the daybed she cherished and hoped to coax the young man into a night of lewd revelry rather than business.

As uneasy and nervous as he felt, Raoul gingerly sat on the sofa adjacent the witch and explained his urgency.

Ever since Christine returned from her last visit to the Phantom’s lair, declaring Erik was truly dead an odd spirit seemed to possess her. She claimed to have sealed him in his home by the lake forever. Even with the birth of their first child, Michel, something didn’t feel right.

The sorceress reached for the prophecy orb we’ve come to know as a crystal ball, which Etienne set before her on a tiny footstool. Passing her hands over it she chanted something in a language unknown to le Vicomte. His face grew an ashen color and his hands trembled. Evil haunted the witch, he knew it, but yet something compelled him to seek answers from her, a decision he knew he’d regret.

The crystal clouded and glowed with the iridescence of a million distant candles. “Your wife keeps secrets from you, monsieur. The child she bears is not yours, yet he is of your blood. Death dances in the tomb of the boy’s father.”

The words angered yet confused the young man. He understood the child was not his, but what did she mean “yet he is of your blood.

‘Death dances in the tomb of the boy’s father’ really made no
sense. Death haunted all tombs.

“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, but if the child is not mine, how can it still be of my blood?” Raoul leaned forward trying to make out what she saw in the crystal.

“I have answered your question. When you desire answers, look for the question instead. The answer walks hand in hand with the question. Go to the tomb and see if I have told you the truth or not,” the beautiful temptress leaned forward to show off her luscious cleavage, and grabbed the confused young man. The closeness of her body stimulated his own to say the least, and her scent intoxicated. Try as he did to pull away, he fell under her spell and gave way to her will for a kiss.

In a short distance, Etienne and Landru watched in disgust the evil of their mistress. They knew she had only thoughts to seduce the young Vicomte like she had the last twenty-five young men of Paris, and then suck him dry of all free will and love of God, until he would be no more. This reenacted a devilish spell to obtain the power she felt she was cheated out of by the Phantom’s now deceased business partner, Maurice D’Auberge.

In the deathly quiet of the Phantom’s house by the lake, five cellars beneath the Opera House now sealed by a wall which once known as the portcullis, the legendary Phantom of the Opera scrawled out a few more lines in his journal. Dressed in a loose fitting ruffled shirt and dark pants he shook back the smoking jacket he wore over everything. His trade mark black death’s head covered his face, even though he sat alone. Now and again he picked up a chocolate colored book of spells the young gypsy named Micha had given him. Of all the spells, the most intriguing one the book called “Through the Looking Glass: A Walk through Dimensions”. He’d read it over and over a million times, and yet something made him hesitate in using it.

Just like the story, “Huis Clos” or “No Exit” by Jean Paul Sartre, the Phantom had the means to leave hell, but wouldn’t use it;
much like the way all flesh. We suffer and suffer the torments of a fiery inferno. Soon it becomes the topic of conversation with all we meet. Yet, even when deliverance presents itself; we ignore it, like an insignificant insect, until it finally goes away. Human nature despises change in any fashion, even if it means going to Heaven.

While the resident Opera Ghost scrawled his thoughts and emotions over the blank pages before him, the faint scratching and scraping in the distance broke the crypt –like silence.

Rats first came to mind. He’d had trouble with them in the past. Perhaps he should set traps for them again or get a cat. But no human, let alone a cat wanted to reside with a ghost.

This time, when he read the “walk through dimension” spell,
he chanted the incantation in front a beautiful old full-length wardrobe mirror with an antique gold leaf frame. Instantly, the mirror grew clouded with roiling clouds.

Before the tall, thin framed masked man could utter another word, a loud “crash” sounded in the next room; the torture chamber! Quickly he ran to the organ and snatched up a small bag and drew out a key.

When he reached the Louis Philippe bedroom, he reached out to open the door with the key, when yet, another loud “crash” echoed. The Phantom whipped around and ran back the way he came but too late, Raoul, le Vicomte de Chagny, hovered over the journal and the spell book. The mirror still contained the roiling clouds.

“Boy! Why are you here? You are trespassing!” growled the Phantom in low menacing tones, as he reached inside the smoking jacket for his
signature weapon.

“Why are you alive? It was all a lie. You deceitful monster! Everything was a lie. Why didn’t you tell me?” Even though the masked man inched toward him, le Vicomte would not back down.

“My silence was for your own good. Who told you the secret?” demanded the Phantom.

”You mean ‘secrets’don’t you? I know about the child.” Raoul’s face flushed red with anger and his body shook with a desire to kill his rival.

“Child?” came the question. “What child?”

At this, the young Vicomte laughed like a madman and mocked the masked man. “She didn’t tell you, did she? Baby Chayce was born three
months ago. She was with child when she came to bid you a final farewell,” he taunted.

The Phantom said nothing. Hatred and anger welled up within him and he whipped out the deadly Punjab lasso; the cat-gut noose used to eliminate his victims. Raoul stared wild-eyed at the sight of the sickening yellow weapon. He knew what would happen if he didn’t act fast. He’d only planned to steal the journal and escape, but instead of snatching the journal, he grabbed the spell book instead and just as the clouds in the mirror stopped roiling and parted to open a vortex, Raoul made a mad dash for the mirror, leaped into the portal and vanished as the lasso lashed out in vain.

“Curse you!” screamed the Phantom. He ran to the mirror and pounded on it, cursing le Vicomte for all he was worth. The clouds in the mirror dispersed and now the mirror became just a mirror.

Tears flowed from his eyes and dampened the mask. He was a father and she had never told him. What a devastating blow! After all, he pretended to die to release her. That one stolen moment of true bliss resulted in a child, a son he would never know.

For hours tearing the place apart as he ranted and raved, screaming infirmities that would shame a sailor. As the ranting and ravings turned into tears and heartbreaking wails and sobs, a voice from the mirror sliced the moment and interrupted the mournful cries.

“Stop crying, you big lunk! Stop the sorceress before she strikes again. The boy only acted under her spell. Look deep into my refection and see what she showed the young Vicomte,” the mirror darkened and then became clear as images began to form.

Where is everybody? No readers? No reviews? Ahhhh! I am alone!

I shall post the next chapter anyway.

Please, please, please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 3
Paris, France Present Day

A chilled wind blew in and around the famed City of Lights, as a black Mercedes screeched to a halt and parked in front of the Paris National Archives. The distinguished looking man they called Philippe de Chagny, descendant of le Comte de Chagny from the Phantom of the Opera legend. Modern Philippe, in his late thirties or early forties emerged from the backseat and paused a moment to take in his surroundings. He smoothed back his slightly disheveled hair and made sure each dark blonde strand fell in place before entering the building with the two hulking bodyguards. Palmer, the giant of a man from England drove, while Orlando, the craggy-faced monster rode as a passenger.

Inside the Paris National Archives an armed security guard sat at a desk watching tentatively as the French noble and his men moved to him and asked to see specific files. Philippe produced ID and the guard nodded and pressed a button that unlocked a door for them to enter.

A mousy-looking librarian-type woman in her mid to late forties, wearing horn-rimmed glasses greeted then and asked how she could be of service. Philippe asked to view the files on l’Opéra Garnier which included the one on the de Chagny family. An odd look spread across her face followed by a long pause before the woman spoke.

“I regret that we cannot comply with your wishes, monsieur,” she said abruptly in French and started to walk away.

“Wait! I’ve come quiet a distance. I can pay you well,” Philippe spoke in English with a light French accent. The woman recognized him as a noble, even in modern times, but she truly could not help him. Two or three weeks prior, the files went missing. It seemed inconceivable that such a thing could occur with the archives heavily guarded and under camera surveillance. Yet it did happen, and to this day, no one knew how they disappeared, or so she said.

Philippe didn’t believe this, but at the moment, he could do nothing. As they left the archives, the noble instructed his men in what to do. They had to get inside. He had to have a look at that file. Rumor said it contained the journal of the legendary Phantom of the Opera and if it said what he thought it did, he would have to destroy it before it destroyed him.

Old Philippe who ruled as count during the Phantom’s reign of fear was said to be the elder brother of Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny, who later disappeared with Christine when the Opera Ghost released them. This same Philippe who died the night Christine vanished from the stage in her farewell performance as Marguerite in Faust.

Rumor of the newly discovered journal spread like wildfire and threatened the noble name of de Chagny and the local authorities. No one but the modern day Philippe and the French authorities could understand the seriousness of the matter and so he turned to his cell phone and called a trusted associate for advice. As he spoke into the cell, he settled back in the seat of the Mercedes and sipped an alcoholic beverage of choice.

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Several miles away, a young boy in his late teens dropped his back pack in the middle of the living room floor and sprawled out on the nearby sofa of his uncle’s French provincial style apartment. Antoine Livigne closed his eyes and wished he existed anywhere but here with his uncle. How could a seventeen year old live with an old man of forty-five? Impossible! Antoine only wanted to finish school and become a famous musician. He dreamt of being a concert pianist or even a rock star. But since the death of his parents in a car accident three years ago, his uncle, Lucas McCleary, became his guardian and set him about tasks no child should undertake, especially, stealing government documents and restoring them, if necessary and then selling them to the highest bidder.

Lucas McCleary made a living from working for unsavory people and with a young boy in his teens under his roof, life just got easier. No one would suspect a child of stealing government documents. No one would think of hiding such secrets from a teenaged boy. What would he do with it? Ah, the naivety of mankind!

Antoine rummaged in is back pack and drew out a monstrously thick file of yellow, brittle papers and leaned back to thumb through the documents. Along with snatching the files his uncle had requested, the boy found a myriad of papers which spoke of Charles Garnier, who last reconstructed the opera house and a journal claimed to be found in the bowels of the building in the old lake house allegedly built and occupied by the legendary Opera Ghost.

“I hope that all went well?” The lightly accented voice of Lucas McCleary broke the silence, as he entered the room and sat across from his nephew. He hailed from Scotland, but had taken up temporary abode in Pairs.

“Yes, no one suspects. I suppose we will be moving again, as usual?” The question drifted absent mindedly from the boy’s lips as he reviewed the papers. His speech seemed laced with a French accent and muddled with a hint of the Scots.

“I thought you were going to let me restore the journal. There is much water damage,” Lucas cocked his head to one side, in an effort to decipher the boy’s thoughts.

“Of course. Whatever you say. How long do I have to work with you like this? I just want to finish school, but we never stay long enough for me to get through one year. I am so far behind; I will never graduate.” Finally, the boy locked eyes with his uncle and they both just stared at each.

“And don’t argue that I have traveled the world and seen more than many my age. So what? I have learned to open any lock that was ever created. I can turn off the power in any building I desire and disarm any alarm set before me, but I cannot solve a single algebra problem. I’ve never read anything that doesn’t have to do with locks, alarm systems and codes. I don’t even have a girlfriend!” And with that, the boy tossed the yellow, brittle papers to his uncle and got up to leave, but Lucas called out to him.

“Please, Antoine, one more. Just one more job and then you can finish school.”

His nephew stopped dead in his tracks, but didn’t turn around. “Do you mean it? One more job and we stop so I can finish school?”

“I mean it.”

The young boy turned and eyed him suspiciously. “If you keep your word, I will surely know my prayers have been answered.”

No comment. Lucas did ask why he took this file he held in his hands. His nephew shrugged and carelessly replied, “I’m a big fan. I some times wish I were the Phantom of the Opera or at least knew him. Life for the Phantom was so simple.” And with that he left the room.

Lucas not being the marrying kind never desired children, and then Antoine came along. He had grown to love the boy, but did not share his love of school or learning. As a child, Lucas wanted to travel, see the world and be obliged to no one. But after listening to his nephew’s plea for an education and a normal life, he wished he had married and settled down.

Carefully, he handled the brittle pages as he moved to his workroom. Here the special lighting allowed him to carefully evaluate the amount of water damage to the journal so he could go about restoring it. The first page did not look so clear, so he had to get busy keeping his promise to his nephew.

The process used did not appear difficult but time consuming and sometimes it took a day or two to successfully treat one page.

Very very good, my friend! Sorry for taking so long in reviewing, life's been hectic these past few weeks.

Interesting concept you have here. I can't wait to see what happens next. Please post again soon!!




D

Slitherliggie, my friend and faithful reader, good to see you. Thank you for a wonderful review. So happy you. Guess I'll go ahead and post another chapter. Any other late comers will have to catch up.

Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 4

Erik’s and Mae’s home; present day.


When Erik finally reached the offices of ‘Other Worldly News’, he heard that BJ Hamilton who wrote the article about the Phantom’s journal would leave on another assignment later that day and probably wouldn’t have time to talk. However, Erik pleaded until finally the receptionist took his telephone number with a promise to give the reporter the message.

The woman’s words didn’t sound promising, as Erik shook his head and looked to his wife, who sat half scared, half curious. It had been a long time since Mae had seen her husband so obsessed and crazed. She cringed when he brought out the dreaded Punjab lasso and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Planning to use that, are you?” she asked, afraid of the answer, but before he could say a word, the telephone rang. It was the Hamilton, the reporter.

Obviously he sounded surprised anyone expressed interest in his little article and commented that had he known it would be so popular, he would have taken better notes. Then he invited them to come to Florida to talk. What he had to say should not be relayed by telephone.

With the meeting arranged, Erik hung up. They took the next plane out of Los Angeles. He had vacation coming to him from Max, Wilby and Pastigo, the architectural company that hired him. Pastigo never once asked where Doone had gone or why he never wrote. No wonder Doone, the current Phantom in the late 19th century Paris, contemplated his own demise. His life seemed worthless no matter where he went or when.

The beautiful state of Florida had weather which could be brutal storms or warm tropics. Even though it seemed warm and humid at the moment, the evidence of a brewing storm will soon reveal itself. Erik and his wife waited at the coffee shop the reporter had suggested. Out of college for the summer Mae’s plans for summer classes got shot to pieces by their hunt for a mysterious journal her husband knew he didn’t write. How very confusing!

Her beloved did realize he’d been less then kind and totally thoughtless to her feelings. He’d have to make it up to her later. She simply did not understand the importance of knowing if the journal really existed.

Finally, after their second lemonade, BJ Hamilton, a six foot tall, sandy haired man in his late thirties drifted into the coffee shop and plopped himself down at their table. He dressed rather casual wearing jeans and a gray half-zipped pull over.

“You’re the Masons, right?” he asked with a grin.

“Yes, we are and you are Hamilton?” Erik seized him up. Reporters appeared the same in any period of time. They all had an insatiable appetite for news, even if they had to create it themselves.

“That’s me,” he answered, still grinning, as he hailed a waitress and ordered a Pepsi, along with a burger and fries.

Erik detested burgers and fries he could never get use to. Beef should be a fine Chateaubriand, cooked to taste and served with wild mushrooms and capers.

Hamilton looked more than happy to relate the details of his find. Paris drew him to the National Archives in search of a different story, when he discovered a huge file on the Garnier, the old Paris Opera House, which included a mass amount of information on Charles Garnier and a water damaged journal penned by O.G.

“I couldn’t make out everything, but the journal spoke of the parents of Erik, the Phantom and his relationship to the Chagny family. There was also some crazy talk about walking through dimensions or something like that. Maybe it wasn’t dimensions, maybe it was mansions. I don’t know,” explained Hamilton between a bite of burger and chew on his fries.

Erik frowned. “Walking through dimensions?”

“Like I said, it was pretty fuzzy. The ink had smeared. Could have been mansions or detentions. Couldn’t be sure,” the reporter finished his burger and washed down the last of his fries with the Pepsi.

“I thought milk shakes went with a burger and fries,” Mae said sarcastically.

“Shakes are bad for you. All that sugar you know.”

“But caffeine and grease are okay, huh?” Erik shuddered at the reporter’s eating habits.

“Here are the only photos I had time to take, but they weren’t good enough for the paper. Poor quality,” the reporter drew a cell phone from his pocket and called up the first photo, which revealed a close up on part of a page. The smeared ink looked pretty faded, but selected words definitely stuck out.

The next picture showed a crest or coat of arms if you will, embossed on the front and back of the journal. Without a doubt the crest belonged to the Chagny family.

“I asked that we speak in person because you are the third person who has asked about this article.” Erik and his wife exchanged looks.

The reporter continued, “The first was a young French boy who had seen my article in the French edition of ‘Other Worldly News’, published about three or four months ago. The second caller was an aristocrat, who questioned me on what was said about the Chagny’s in the journal. I was vague, because no one ID’d themselves, except you two. You made me feel I could trust you,” the reporter sat back in his chair and downed more Pepsi.

“Then you never showed these photos to anyone but us?” the young woman reexamined the pictures within the cell phone.

“Nope, just you folks.”

“Would you be willing to return to Paris and show us the journal?” Erik asked.

Mae grew astonished. He really wanted to return to Paris after all they had been through? Her husband wouldn’t look at her, but took her hand and squeezed it gently.

“I’d return in a heartbeat, but I am on an assignment that will take me to Boston. Maybe another time,” as the last word fell from his lips, Hamilton’s cell phone rang and after excusing himself, he took the call.

The caller didn’t take long, but as soon as he disconnected, several gun shots fired into the window, and everybody hit the floor. The manger of the coffee shop immediately called the police and ID’d the shooter’s car as a black, late model Mercedes.

Hamilton, a carefree, happy-go-lucky guy, usually took life as it came, but the warning on his cell unnerved him more than the shots.

A crowd gathered around the coffee shop as a squad car pulled up. In the midst of all the hubbub, a very lost Raoul de Chagny wandered past them, clutching the spell book he’d stolen from the Phantom. Everything appeared strange to him and the language very difficult to understand. If he had heard Standard English used by the Queen, then he may have understood, but all the slang and phrases used by the locals just confused him more and more. Fortunately, not many people stared at him, for plenty in the neighborhood dressed stranger then him.

Erik caught a glimpse of Raoul as he hurried passed the crowd. Not sure of what he saw, he moved to the front door. So, while his wife and the reporter chatted with the police, Erik slipped out of the building and through the crowd.

At a distance, he could see the dismayed Vicomte stumble when he missed the curb in crossing the street. He hurried to him, but the semaphore turned green and the passing cars cut him off. The ex-Phantom shouted out in French to the stumbling Vicomte, but every time he turned to look for the voice, a truck or bus passed.

Erik waved his arms as he jumped up and down, screaming out Raoul’s name, until finally, the confused time traveler spotted his old rival. Any other time, he would have been filled with venom, but as soon as he entered the vortex, he recalled everything, especially fighting side by side with the true Phantom and falling in love with his beautiful wife.

wow. I love how it's starting out. I can't wait to see how it ends.

Wow! A threatening phone call, eh? This is just getting all the more interesting, my friend.


Great piece of writing once again, please do continue soon.



D

Heart_Rose many thanks for the kind words and support.

Slitherliggie thank you for the compliment and undying support.

Here is chapter 5. Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER 5

Interior of the black Mercedes

Philippe of today didn’t look pleased with Orlando who missed hitting the stumbling Vicomte from yesteryear. Certainly he recognized his ancestor and knew about the possibility of time travel aided by magick. The noble only wanted the book the stranger embraced. No one cared for the man’s life. For all intents and purposes he didn’t exist. Death should have claimed him years ago. Who would miss him?

The book could possibly tell him where to find the journal or
at least if it really existed. Nowadays, no one seemed concerned about scandal, a soiled family name, or a less than
perfect ancestry. This didn’t concern Philippe either. An exhibit of the family tree would change his life and unseat and separate him from his power and wealth. This concerned him a lot.

The spell book he recognized by the plain dark brown cover
described in some other family journals. Being such a genealogy buff, the modern noble recognized Raoul le Vicomte from family photos. However, not a good welcome for an ancestor to be greeted with a hail of bullets. Philippe had to have the spell book! From the first moment he laid eyes on his
long lost relative wandering the streets of Florida, he knew he teetered on the edge of discovering the truth.

Orlando mumbled something in his mangled version of French. The man never finished grade school and took to the life of crime at an early age. Whether he hit the target now or later didn’t seem to matter to him. The rattled Vicomte would be dead before dawn anyway.

Palmer, a slick haired, more refined assassin shot a disgusted glance at craggy-face next to him. He never missed whether using a gun, knife, or sword. Philippe agreed, next time he’d let Palmer do the job.

Life meant nothing to this man and his henchmen. Money meant everything and that led to power. He needed to talk to the reporter. With the coffee shop in an uproar, it might make things easier. Palmer turned the wheels sharply and made a quick U as the Mercedes squealed an about face.

BC Hamilton emerged from the coffee shop full and contented with the excitement. Reporters lived for a story like this. With note pad and pen, he jotted down all that happened and the reactions of Erik and his wife, not to mention the oddly dressed fellow holding a brown book to his chest. Erik had been too honest in telling him the truth about Raoul and the book. Not that Hamilton believed in magick, time travel or spell books, but his readers would eat it up.

The squad cars cleared the parking lot while Erik and his peculiar group headed for their cars. Obviously he didn’t feel safe in talking to the reporter in a public place. On the other hand, the reporter felt so jazzed at the gun fire, he decided to scrap his plans for the next story and fly to Paris with them in search of the Phantom’s journal.

“I don’t understand the change of plans,” Erik narrowed his
eyes at the reporter and gave him a visual once over. His bones told him something didn’t ring right. Raoul stumbles into the 21^st Century carrying Doone’s spell book, somebody shoots at them and Hamilton decides to go hunting ghosts, an Opera Ghost to be precise. As Shakespeare said in Hamlet, “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark” or in this case Florida.

Carefully examining the water damaged pages of the stiff
worn book, Lucas McCleary shook his head and mumbled something barely audible. With a device much like tweezers only more flat at the ends, he separated the pages gingerly, trying not to tear or damage them any more than they were. Restoring the pages would take some time, but was it worth it? He did care for his nephew, Antoine. The young boy not only
helped in shady affairs, but brought him much joy. Maybe the boy’s happiness made his efforts worth everything.

Hours passed as McCleary meticulously processed and treated
each page in one chemical solution after another, then finally drying them with a device much like a hair dryer, but with less intense heat. At this point, only two pages appeared
legible.

Paris, France 21^st January 1881

Life still holds nothing for me. Death beckons each day. Yet, Father Orestes has requested my assistance in destroying the sorceress called Brianna. More than seventy deaths have been contributed to her. Every young man of marrying age coming in contact with her has succumbed to the she-devil’s will and has died when the life was literally sucked from their bodies. No science can explain, no clergy dare. Tomorrow marks the day of betrayal and death of a dishonorable creature.

McCleary scratched his head and blinked a couple of times
trying to figure out what this muddled piece of nonsense meant. The more he read the more confused he became
until he saw the name Philippe le Comte de Chagny. He knew the current Philippe who reigned as Count but of course things aren’t like they used to be. People didn’t depend on the count like they did in the old days and this modern one had paid him to restore many documents which Philippe later sold to the highest bidder.

Only one sentence mentioned his name. Without a doubt, he’d have to restore the following pages. Of course the old damaged journal may only speak of the former count that allegedly died searching for Christine and his brother Raoul, but then again…there maybe something more directly related to the present Philippe. The desire to know their content drove him mad, so he went to work feverishly to complete restoration on as many pages as possible.

Here is the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

***********************
CHAPTER 6

McCleary’s Basement Lab

The basement air stunk of a mix of chemicals and as Lucas McCleary scrutinized each newly restored page meticulously. A microscope aided in making the letters legible by magnification. The more he read, the wider his eyes grew and his heart pounded. With information like this he could unseat the Count from his title, wealth and power. From the scribbles in the later damaged book it seemed Philippe really shouldn’t have ruled as count. Therefore, the heir of the Chagny fortune in the present would fall upon the descendent of the real count.


Shaking his head, Lucas refused to believe his eyes. The Phantom of the Opera simply did not exist. A self-indulgent man whose dying career as an investigative reporter and novelist suffered until this grand piece of fiction hit the page. What he just read not only validated the existence of said Opera Ghost, but the genealogy of Raoul and Philippe de Chagny. Everything fell into place.

At that moment, a sharp knock came to the door.

Antoine.

He always respected his uncle and his work. So if he found the door of the basement closed, he knocked.

Quickly his uncle opened the door and pulled the lad in
closing the door behind him.

“Do you know what you have here?” the older man waved a few pages.

Puzzled the boy shrugged. “Erik’s Journal?”

“If any of this is true, then we might become the riches men in all Europe!” Lucas tried to contain his excitement. Antoine shook his head and stared at the pages in his uncle’s hand.

“What are you talking about? It’s just an old journal they found in some house beneath the Paris Opera. I was hoping it belonged to Erik, the Phantom,” he grinned.

“Stop with the Phantom already! There are more important things than this fictional character.”

“All right uncle, what are you talking about?”

“If this book is true than we can be rid of that self
absorbed monster, Philippe and make ourselves rich.”

The lad reached for the pages. Hesitatingly his uncle laid the delicate sheets on the stack setting on the table in front of him. Then grabbing the treated sheets of paper, he gently stacked them on ends to make them even and handed them to his nephew.

"Read for yourself. There are many more pages to come. But please, be careful and don’t tear them,” the old man made a face to extract pity. The boy smiled and nodded. If this had any information about his favorite story, then possessing the skill of stealing without getting caught made it all worthwhile.

***************************

BC Hamilton dotted his last “i”, as the black Mercedes rounded the corner. Erik’s head snapped up. This didn’t look good or feel right. Grabbing the rattled Vicomte, Erik dove to the ground with him and his wife as another hail of bullets sprayed the air. Not sure what just happened, Hamilton stood in dismay, unscathed and bewildered.

Unsure of what to think of the reporter’s stupidity, Erik pushed himself up first before helping Mae and Raoul to their feet. “Are you stupid Hamilton? Don’t you even duck when bullets fly?”

“Someone is really shooting at you? This will make a great story. Especially if one of you gets hit,” Hamilton spoke as he made additional notes.

"They could have killed you,” blurt out Mae. “In fact, how is it that you never got a scratch?”

“Lucky I guess. Now what did you say they might want? These
guys shooting at you…” The reporter asked without a hint of fear or concern for his own life.

Mae threw up her hands in dismay while Erik tried to calm the poor frightened Raoul.

“Look at me boy! How did you get here? You are supposed to be with Christine, not here,” Erik grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him gently, forcing him to look him in the eye.

“She had a baby. Chayce...” Raoul prattled. “A find baby boy…”

“You have my sincere congratulations, but what are you doing
here? How did you return? A spell? A mirror?” The former Opera Ghost questioned.

“You. You did the spell. Opened the mirror. You lied. Said you were dead. The child is yours...” his words faded as Raoul broke down and cried. Not knowing what else to do, Erik tried to comfort him with a pat or two on the back while he sobbed on Erik’s chest. Mae shot her husband a questioning look. Erik shrugged as the reporter took notes.

“I have no idea what he’s talking about. Remember, I never met Christine,” replied Mae’s husband trying to push Raoul back a little. “Stop crying! It’s not manly,” Erik chided.

Hamilton continued to jot down everything in his notebook. Fuming with anger, the former Opera Ghost pushed Raoul to Mae and jerked the pen and pad from the reporter’s hands. Then he shoved the reporter against a car and collared him.

“You will stop writing. We nearly got killed and all you can think of is getting a story. All you idiots are alike,” Erik snorted as he glared into Hamilton’s face, eyeball to eyeball. The reporter squirmed and begged forgiveness seeing if he didn’t he would get pummeled. Somehow the bullets didn’t frighten him as much as the thought of Erik rearranging his face. Much of the old Phantom gleamed through his modern exterior. Releasing the terrified man, Erik turned to his bewildered wife and sobbing Vicomte. What was he going to do with him?

By now the police had returned to the coffee shop and insisted the four come with them to police headquarters. After all the ruckus, they worried the shooter would return. They had to know why anyone wanted them dead so they could better protect them. Without a word, Mae’s husband fingered the deadly lasso in his pocket. He didn’t need help in eliminating a few vermin.

Erik and Mae protested all the way to the police station. When Hamilton mentioned a journal, the police detectives leading the interrogation puzzled. What did the diary contain that someone would kill for?

While the police questioned Erik and Hamilton, Mae sat in the waiting area with Raoul who now had a grip on himself.

“I do apologize for my sudden outburst. I now realize your husband is not the father, but that of his replacement,” Raoul shook like a leaf in winter. Mae felt unsure if he trembled from anger, fear or pain from a loss. Perhaps he suffered from all three.

“Do you know who I am?” asked Mae, not sure how to approach him.

“Once I went through the mirror I recalled everything, you, your friends and Doone taking the Phantom’s place. He really did, you know, in more than one way…” his voice trailed, as if the words caught in his larynx. After clearing his throat, he continued, “No matter what he looked like, she still fell under his spell.”

“You mean Christine, your wife?” Mae tried to understand. Doone had been a dear and close friend for a number of years. She couldn’t imagine him taking advantage of any woman, let a lone a young beautiful one.

“Of course I mean Christine,” the young Vicomte answered without looking at Mae once. Staring straight ahead, he spoke with no emotion or forethought. “I made a mistake, you know. I should have taken the journal, instead I got this thing,” he handed her the spell book. She recognized it instantly. As
she rummaged through it she found where Doone had marked the page ‘…A Walk Through Dimensions’.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Raoul continued, still looking dead ahead. ‘Époque said, “Erik is dead.’ I agreed she should return the ring as promised. I even went with her as far as Le Rue Scribe, where the Persian waited. They both asked if she could have time alone with him. I agreed. I never once thought he was still alive. Not sick and alive, but virile and healthy.”

Mae stopped him. She really didn’t want to hear the whole sorted details. “You don’t have to tell me this. I understand…”

“NO YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!” he shouted and turned in anger and faced the frightened young woman. “I’m not telling you this for pity. I’m telling you this because I want revenge. This is your fault and that of your husband. You’ve ruined my life and now I shall ruin yours!” And with that, he quickly arose, jerked Mae to her feet and with a hand clamped over her mouth, dragged her off to the stairs and out of the building.

“She had a baby. Chayce...” Raoul prattled. “A find baby boy…”

“You have my sincere congratulations, but what are you doing
here? How did you return? A spell? A mirror?” The former Opera Ghost questioned.


Lol thats a good line. This is very good Fay. Keep going.

Amazing Fay!!! keep going your doing a great job. i love it

Very very good, Fay. Sorry for taking a while to read, was kinda caught up with the studies.

I do like where you are going with this. It's getting more and more interesting as we go along...


Please continue soon,



D

great

Well, beside the poor Raoul being all delusional, great chapter, can't wait to see what happens next. I just hope that, when Erik does find them, he will show a tiny bit more mercy than he is planning to... Seems to me Raoul needs some help rather than getting killed.


Please continue soon, my friend.



D

GerardButlerisawsome01 thank you for the kind words.

Slitherliggie thank you for a grand review. Poor delusional Raoul. He's got a lot of issues.

Here is the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

********************************

CHAPTER 8

Motel Room as Raoul and Mae Chat

Raoul sat with head in hands spilling out his most private concerns for his wife and himself. At the mere mention of Brianna, the sorceress they’d had confrontations with, Mae cringed and he shuddered. Obviously both knew how very wrong it was for him to solicit her help. But after all, he found she spoke the truth about the Phantom being alive and Christine telling a lie. For a moment they both grew silent as Mae glanced about the dingy motel room hoping Erik would soon appear.

“How can you be sure the child is not yours?” Mae tried to be positive.

"I wasn’t until I saw his reactions,” replied le Vicomte.

“His reactions, you mean Doone?”

“I mean the Phantom. He’s not Doone anymore. Whatever is left of your friend is no longer visible.”

“What were his reactions to having a son?” More than anything Mae was curious. Could her old friend have completely changed? Had he mentally taken on the attributes of the legendary creature that killed without a conscience, obsessed over what he could not have, enough to take it by force? Doone, the light hearted Valley boy who always played the clown, dropped out of school all for the love of music, now a true fallen angel? She couldn’t believe her ears.

Raoul met her gaze. The incredulous stare emanated from her pretty face.

“He screamed out curses and began tearing the place apart. When I saw my chance to enter the vortex I grabbed the spell book and jumped into the watery doorway and here I am. Brianna is after the journal.” That last statement hit the nail on the head. If Raoul had taken the journal and brought it to the present, then it couldn’t fall into the hands of whoever was trying to kill them. However, if Brianna wanted it, and acquired it in the past, what damage could she do and have done?

“Raoul, please answer my first question. What’s in this stupid journal that certain people will kill for?” The young woman feared the answer, but the truth had to be known.

“My lineage for one. Whether or not Doone was born the Phantom, he is he for all intents and purposes. This makes him Philippe’s and my elder brother.” For a long moment, no one spoke. The young noble wondered how Mae felt about the information he’d enlightened her with. Actually, Mae wanted to run and hide. Where the hang was Erik?

Poor Raoul really felt sinful lusting after Mae his true sister-in-law. He really wanted to do the right thing. At the moment, she was the only one he could talk to. Erik, the real Erik still felt unapproachable. What else could he do?

Erik’s wife stared at the floor trying to think of what to say. Erik and Raoul brothers? No! Can’t be.

“You don’t believe me,” Raoul interrupted the silence. “Whatever spell the Persian cast on your husband has made him normal. He’s not like he used to be. Without question Erik was quite mad. Now it is Doone, the current Phantom who haunts our lives in madness. Several times he goaded me to kill him. Yet I refused to be manipulated like a common marionette.”

In silence his sister-in-law arose from the bed and moved to a chair at the table. Once again this all seemed surreal. No kinder, gentler man ever lived than lighthearted Valley boy Doone. What could have possessed him to commit such acts of wickedness? What would drive a man to want death instead of life?

As Mae sat in silence with Raoul looking on, the door suddenly burst open with a pop and a crack as Erik now stood in the middle of the room with his deadly lasso in hand. Before anyone could utter a sound, the noose lashed out and caught the young Vicomte around the neck and brought him to the ground. Mae jumped up and tried to pry the lasso from Erik’s grip.

“NO! ERIK, DON’T KILL HIM! He didn’t hurt me.” But he only stopped when she caressed his broad chest and shoulders. Upon releasing the noose, the young man fell with a hideous thud to the floor. Quickly Mae knelt beside the unconscious man to see if she could revive him.

“Is he dead yet?” came the deathly calm question.

“No, but he needs air,” she leaned in as if to kiss the young man, but Erik grabbed her shoulder and yanked her back.

“What are you doing?” he asked angrily.

“Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. We can’t wait for paramedics. He’ll die. If you don’t give him CPR, I’ll have to,” his wife glared in horror and panic.

“I’ll do it. Tell me what to do,” whined her husband. She had him kneel and lay Raoul flat on the floor. Then she had him tilt the man’s head back a little and open his mouth.

“Now cover his mouth with yours and blow air into his lungs quickly or he’ll die,” came the final direction. Erik made a face.

“Cover his mouth with mine?”

“He’ll suffocate. DO IT NOW!” Mae shouted. Reluctantly her husband obeyed. At that moment, BC Hamilton entered the room through the splintered doorway.

“What the…” then he turned to see Erik administering CPR. “What happened to him?”

“Erik tried to kill him.”

One last deep breath rushed into the young man’s lungs making him quiver and cough. Mae gave a sigh of relief. Raoul’s eyes snapped open to see Erik’s face leaning very close to his.

“What…what are you…doing?”

“Something called CPR,” Erik still hovering over him.

“CP…what?”

“My mouth over your mouth blowing air into your lungs,” Erik gave a lopsided smile.

“Ewww!” Raoul protested and violently pushed Erik back. “Next time, let me die with dignity,” he sputtered wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I tried, but my beloved wife protested,” mused Erik as he sat on the floor and leaned back. The look on his face seemed indiscernible. No one could be sure if Erik wanted the man dead or now regretted nearly killing him. Or did the incident really just amuse him?

“I take it you two know each other?” Hamilton puzzled. The two nodded in unison. “Are you always at each other’s throat?”

Erik snickered. “Generally I try to kill him, but for some reason my wife always prevents me. One day, one day she won’t be around…”

“ERIK! Apologize.”

Indignantly, Erik arose, dusted off his clothes and flatly refused to apologize.

“It was a natural mistake. I thought he had hurt you.”

“Well, you two had better stop your squabbling. You’ve got something worse to worry about. That black Mercedes is lurking around the entrance of the motel,” Hamilton looked nervous.

Mae peered out the window. Without a doubt, the Mercedes waited for them under a shady palm. The air felt warm and sultry. What a beautiful day for a shoot out!