Last week’s blog introduced the prologue to Pure Lies, and gave you a sampling of the historical section of the book.  This week in Chapter 1, I begin the modern story line.  In both instances I introduce the key characters, the backdrop and settings, and a smidgen of the mystery to come.  You’ll easily see the connection between past and present and, hopefully, will be tempted by that connection to turn the page.  However, how do tragic events in 1692 place people in jeopardy in 2006?  You’ll have to read on.

As always, ideas welcome.

Chapter 1

Washington, D.C., December 15, 2006

Professor Ernie Parks gulped down the last dregs of tepid coffee and grimaced.   He turned back to the pile of books and papers on his desk and the opened tome before him, Witchcraft in Salem Village, by Winfield Nevins, 1892.  He’d had a hell of a time getting the copy.  A friend who owned a used bookshop managed to snag this classic somehow. . . for a steep price.  But, Parks thought, it was worth every penny.  Fascinating.  A Victorian view of sorcery in the colonies.  From prudes to Puritans.  Ha.

He leaned back in his beat-up swivel chair and gazed without seeing at the jumble of books and journals stuffed into old wooden bookcases, more stacks of the same rising in every corner of the room like crooked skyscrapers.  Not an inch of wall space remained to display his degrees or articles of acclaim.  The sole ornamentation in the office sat on his desk: a photograph of his wife and young son.  His son.  Jesse. Now two years dead.  Whenever his thoughts drifted in that direction he spurred himself to action.  Anything but dwell on Jesse.  He strode over to the window and looked out at the campus square.  Snow had begun to fall and the flakes twisted and spun in a whirlwind of white.  The ground was already covered, so much prettier than the brown grass and gray concrete six stories below.

Those righteous Puritan pricks, he mused.  Oh, they were clever.  But he was on to them.  More than three hundred years later, the truth would come to light.  And Ernie Parks, history professor ordinaire, would be famous.  An academic star featured at conferences and colloquia around the world.  A poor black kid from the slums of the District would change history.  Yes.

As if in a blink daylight faded.  He returned to his desk and switched on the small lamp.  A glance at the wall clock near the door told him he had wasted twenty minutes daydreaming — it was already five o’clock.  Doris wouldn’t be expecting him for at least an hour.  Right now she’d be sailing through the front door of their tiny house, tossing legal briefs on the hall table and hustling up some dinner without changing out of her courtroom suit.  The professor smiled as he thought of his wife of ten years.  Parks still wondered how such a beauty could end up with a homely guy like him.  Doris always said he had panache.  He grinned.  She’d be proud of him now.

Without warning, his eyes began to blur and he realized suddenly how tired he felt.  Not just a normal tired from teaching and research all day, but bone-weary tired.  His fingers felt numb.  So did his toes.  He stretched his arms and shook his hands, thinking they’d fallen asleep.  But the tingle started to crawl through his body, up his calves to his thighs, which tensed in spasms, then up his spine.  Parks pushed himself to his feet but his legs wouldn’t support him.

“What the hell?” he murmured, as his body sank back into the chair with a will of its own.

His eyes began to close and at that moment he knew.  He watched his hand reach for the coffee mug as if in time-lapse images, stutter-motion.  The mug tipped over and a small rivulet of grainy liquid pooled on the desk.  Parks lowered his head on his arms as the world went black.

The door to the office opened with a tiny squeak, the only sound in the building.  The intruder knew that every year at this time, faculty and staff of the Georgetown University History Department got together to celebrate the holidays.  No one would return to the campus that day.

The intruder hesitated a moment then closed the door softly and turned off the light.  Professor Parks’ office appeared dark to the outside world, just like the other offices in the History and Economics Building.

But wispy moonlight filtered into the room providing enough light for the mission.  Snow –fell heavily beyond the window and the visitor unlatched and raised it.  Cold air whistled in.  He slapped Parks’ face and it brought no response.  Good, oblivion.  He propped the professor up in his chair and swung it over to the computer.  Using gloved fingers, he cleared the screen and opened a new Word document.  Then, manipulating Parks’ fingers to press the keys, he typed the message.

Doris – I’m sorry, but I miss him too much.

The intruder nodded at the words.  He left Parks slumped in his chair while he grabbed the coffee mug off the desk and wiped the spill with a handkerchief.  Tucking both the cloth and mug in his overcoat pocket, he looked around to see what might have been missed.

Satisfied, he took hold of Parks’ arm and hoisted him out of the chair.  Hugging Parks around the waist, he half dragged, half carried the unconscious man to the window.  He leaned him against the windowsill and took one last look outside.  The Quad was devoid of life and the newly fallen snow smothered sound like thick fur earmuffs.

The intruder clutched the professor’s shoulders and turned him.  Facing Parks’ back, he shoved the man out the window to the pavement six stories below.  The body seemed to float in slow motion. Even when it slammed into the ground, the effect seemed softly surreal.

For a moment the intruder felt panic, a burning in his throat, an ache in his gut.  Too late now.  But nothing stirred and an eerie silence filled the void.  How could someone die so violently and the world not notice?  He stared as the body bled out onto the silvery fleece.  Its position, arms and legs outstretched at odd angles, reminded him of a child’s angel in the snow.  A bloody black angel.

The killer spun around abruptly, rushed to the bathroom and spewed up his last meal.

December 16

Maggie Thornhill pressed the elevator button for the tenth time.  She eyed the door to the staircase but had no intention of walking up six flights to the top floor.  The lift arrived and Maggie entered, pressed six, and tapped her foot in agitation.  Finally, the doors opened and as she stepped out, a man flew into her, knocking her bag off her shoulder.  Contents went careening across the tile floor.

“Shit,” she muttered and dropped to her knees.

“Maggie?”

She looked up.  “Frank?”

“Damn, I’m sorry.”  He knelt to help her collect. “Lotta crap in here.”  He handed her a squeezy ball that looked like the planet Earth.

“Yeah, well hello to you too.”

They both stood.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“You mean, what’s a philistine like me doing in the history building of Georgetown?”

She scrunched her face, then turned to the commotion down the hall.  Her heart lurched at the sight of yellow tape and a swarm of crime team investigators.  She knew the sight well since she often worked with the police as a digital analyst.

“What’s going on?” she said.  “God, that’s not Phillip Ambrose’s office, is it?”

He narrowed his eyes.  “You know Ambrose?”

“I have an appointment with him,” she glanced at her watch, “in two minutes.”

“No, that’s not his office.” Lieutenant Frank Mead pointed to another door down the hall.  “That is.”

“Whose office is that?”

“Dr. Ernest Parks.”

“What?  No.  Oh no.  What happened?”

“Did you know Dr. Parks?”

“You said ‘did.’”

“What?”

“You said ‘did I, not do I’, past tense.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Mead said, pulling out a roll of Tums and popping a few.

“He’s dead?”

Mead crunched.

She did a spin and slapped at her leg.  “God Almighty.”

“Back to my question, did you know him?”

“No, but I was going to.  He was to be one of my advisors on this dissertation.”

“Finally going for the Ph.D., eh?”

She sighed, leaned against the wall.  “Yeah.  Coursework is all done.  Just had to complete the final project.”

“Which is?”

“Oh, Frank, it was so perfect.  Howard Roth, the History Chair, finagled this for me, not an easy thing, seeing as the documents are so valuable, and he was able to pull the strings with Boston Historical Society and it was so –.”

“Perfect, yeah, right.  So what’s the project?”

“I’m going to digitize all the Salem documents from 1692, you know, so they’ll be in electronic form and last forever.  Preserving the past, so to speak and –”

“Salem, as in Salem witches?”

She grabbed his roll of Tums from his hand and popped a few.

“Agita?” he asked.

“And more if this project is kaput.”  She pushed her fingers through her wild mop of hair.  “Frank, what happened to Dr. Parks?”

He hesitated, looked around.  “He was found dead, six stories beneath his window last night.”

“He jumped out of his window?”

“Maybe.”

Maggie opened her mouth, closed it.  They looked at each other.

“You’re homicide.”

“Bingo.”  Frank waved his hands.  “No, hold on.  We don’t know what happened yet, so don’t go making assumptions.”

“Have you talked to Dr. Ambrose yet?”

“Yup.  Just leaving.  You meeting him?”

She nodded.

“Well, he’s a bit shaken so don’t be surprised if he cancels. Said he was going to visit Mrs. Parks.  Guess they’re long-time friends.”

Maggie didn’t know what to say.  She picked up her bag that was sitting beside her on the floor and started moving toward Ambrose’s office.  She hadn’t even met the man and she was dreading this meeting.

“Frank, would you let me know what happens?”

He chomped on his Tums.  Then he nodded and headed toward the crime scene.