Author
Jon Henn

CHAPTER 1

THE END OF THE BEGINNING

 Alaska – The Frozen Tundra

It was like being thrust into the middle of the ice age. Snow blanketed the ground and there wasn’t a sign of life for miles around.
     Or was there?
     Carson’s snow-shoed feet trudged through the icy wasteland tracking a feint trail of footsteps that stretched out beyond his sight. In one hand, he carried a brown leather suitcase, in the other, a handkerchief soaked in her blood.
     Violent images, like white hot needles, stabbed at his tortured mind--screaming finger, baby hammer, flopping kitty litter corpse. The harder he tried to reject them, the deeper they cut into his brain. Raw fingers, scraped and bloody, stroked small glass shards in his wounded face.
     Where is she? the voices whispered. Find her or she will die.
     A gust of wind shoved him sideways. Carson swayed and stopped to rest‑‑a fragile speck of life in a sea of deadly white. The bitter cold hurled ice picks of air that chipped at his fevered flesh. His breath broke out in steamy, ragged gasps.
     He hoisted his parka about his stout body; the suitcase dropped to the chalky ground. Her terrified face haunted him. Attackers … Kim … the ransom note. Memories of her abduction flitted in and out of his delirious brain.
     Scanning the vast terrain, Carson’s vision blurred. His muscles ached from hiking, yet he felt numb to the pain.
     “I killed them,” he muttered to no one. “They told me and I killed them.”
     Find Kim, the voices murmured. Only you can save her. Time is running out.
     Dark clouds gathered in the overcast sky. A tear rolled down his cheek; the bloody handkerchief blew out of his hand, tumbling away in the robust wind.
     Urged on by emotions he neither understood nor controlled, Carson grabbed the suitcase, lifted his snow-shoed feet and plodded along the meager trail. He prayed he would find his wife‑‑bound and gagged and left to perish in the snow‑‑alive.

At the bottom of the icy ravine, Kim held a rusty knife in her mouth. The ice-cold blade hurt her teeth as she sawed at the rope that bound her hands. Several cuts on her wrists bled crimson, stinging reminders of her grim plight. Smearing her own blood upon her face, she twisted her head from side to side, forcing the encrusted blade to cut deeper into the rope. She wore a parka, a snowsuit and boots. Her thick black hair, stuck to her face, was matted and caked with blood.
     Several grueling minutes later, the last strand broke. Kim wept. Shivering, she grasped the knife in her numb hands and attacked the rope around her feet, her tears dripping on her boots.
     The rope snapped. She was free. She looked up to the top of the steep gulley where her kidnapper had scaled a knotted rope after leaving her to die. The crest was a good thirty feet above her. She looked for the rope; it was gone, only the black iron stake it had been tied to remained. Rising, she thrust her hands under her armpits and took her first weary step towards the slope. The muscles in her body sang a tune of stinging pain.
     Kim climbed the slippery embankment stopping six feet from the top. Strands of rope trailed from her wrists and ankles. She glanced at the grooves in the snow beside her. Three times she had tried to scale the ravine, three times she had failed and slid back to the bottom.
     Exhausted and freezing, all she wanted to do was die.
     A voice inside her echoed, the baby … Carson’s got to save the baby. If not …
     Kim clamped down hard on her anxious thoughts. Her precious son was with the Stranger, the one who threatened to harm him if they didn’t pay his price.
     With the strength of a desperate mother, Kim’s arms pawed at the snow. Legs churned as boots forced their leathery hide into slick white powder.
     Five feet to go … four feet to go … three … the top was nearly within her reach ….
     She began to slip down the slope; snow plowed into her nose as despair consumed her heart. The image of the Stranger invaded her mind. Holding a knife, he approached her baby, prepared to do the unthinkable.
     Kim’s heart beat out of control; her mind was clouded by a chemical rush. Willing herself forward, she clawed her way up the embankment, her body burning with need.
     Heaving herself over the top, she collapsed, utterly spent; her face lay sideways on the glossy snow. The sharp cold bit at her blood-boiled flesh, but she didn’t care, she had escaped her captor’s death sentence.
     Momma’s coming, Eric. Momma will save you, my love.
     Blinking snowflakes off of her eyelashes, Kim raised her head. In the distance, a figure stood wearing snow gear. In his arms was her baby boy.
     Eric. Carson. Thank heaven, they’re alive.
     Raising herself up, Kim frantically waved her arms.

When Carson saw his wife alive he rushed forward. He dragged the suitcase beside him, plowing a groove through the knee-deep snow. Coming together, he embraced her fiercely; joy flooded every cell of his body.
     Kim cried out his name. Carson’s soul gave thanks to god. He didn’t care that the car was miles away, she was in his arms at last. He wanted to kiss her, to tell her he loved her. He wanted to touch her precious lips with his own.
     Carson pulled back his hood.
     Kim saw the beaming, scratched-up face. It wasn’t her husband--it was the Stranger! She looked for her child--Eric was gone! Where she thought he had been moments ago there was only an old, brown suitcase.
     She shoved her hood back and screamed, “Where’s my baby? Give me my son!”
     Carson blanched at her livid face; bile rose up in his throat. It wasn’t his spouse--it was the kidnapper. The one who killed his child … the one who seized his wife.
     “Where is she?” he demanded. “What have you done with her?”
     They pulled out guns from under their parkas and shot each other at point blank range. The thunderous blasts of the weapons echoed across the frosted plain.
     Pain flared in Carson’s chest. Smoke curled up from the Colt 45’s barrel. Then a veil sharply lifted and Carson saw what he had done.
     Kim gripped her parka. A cherry-red stream oozed over her fingers. Staring in shock at her husband, Kim slumped to the frozen ground.
     Horror pierced Carson’s soul. He had killed his wife, the woman he loved.
     Bleeding to death he toppled over, the smoking gun still clenched in his hand.
     Inches beyond Kim’s fingers lay a sleek, pearl-handled revolver. About her wrist was a silver bracelet, slender and smooth, with three gleaming black stones. Blood dripped out of her nose onto the cloud-colored earth, followed by a pebble-sized copper cylinder with writhing hair-like tentacles that plopped into the growing red puddle.
     The tiny creature inside emitted an eerie cry as it incinerated into ashes.
     The corpses lay still ... all was silent ... even the wind ceased to blow.
     Then, from out of nowhere, Opera music began to play.
     It was La Donne Mobile by Verdi, a merry, lively song. A whirlwind came, the suitcase burst open, a hundred thousand dollars whipped high into the frosty air. The money swirled about the bodies, slapping their faces, moving in patterns like a Las Vegas dance show. It formed two paper doll figures, which pirouetted, hugged each other, then joined together creating a beating heart.
     When the joyous music climaxed the heart exploded, scattering the money like confetti. As the tumbling bits of paper fluttered towards the ground they formed the words “love stinks.”
     A clapperboard materialized. On it were symbols not of this Earth.
     “Cut. Print it,” a gravely voice said. “That’s a wrap.”
     The Alien Reality Television camera crew decloaked, becoming visible.
     The Production Manager clapped his hands. “What a story, Herr Director. A magnificent work of A.R.T.”
     “Yes,” said the Director, peering at the bodies with half-closed eyes.
     “And it’s so funny,” exclaimed the Production Manager. “How on Earth do you do it?”
     The Director gazed at the green money as it soaked up the humans’ red blood. “I am a genius,” he said coolly. “I make death hilarious.”
     “But how …”
     “No more questions,” shivered the Director, flapping his elbows in the blustery wind. “It’s cold. Let’s get going. I want to sip a hot toddy and listen to Mozart. It’s been a long three months.”
     “Pack it up, people,” yelled the Production Manager. “We’re going home.”
     Rowdy music played. The cameramen whooped in delight. Grasping their remote control consoles, they made their cameras become visible and raced them through the air. The cameras flew in figure eights, spirals and loop de loops; they zoomed above the Director in formation trailing colored smoke in a formal salute.
     The Director nonchalantly waved in acknowledgement and spoke a command into his communicator.
     A sparkling energy surrounded them. The aliens and the guns vanished.
     A great blast of heat washed over the corpses creating a pond of water in which the bodies floated. The water refroze with the bodies half beneath the water line, a strange memorial to the police who would find them several days later.
     A short distance from the human remains, a strange geometric pattern the size of a house formed a deep depression in the dense snow. It looked as though it had been made by a giant cookie cutter.
     Slowly, gently, the fragile flakes began the long task of filling it in.