“Angelique, what are we doing here?” She looked at Randall. One of her best friends, Randall Osbourne, had just dragged her downstairs, hurt her wrists, died, and started rapidly decomposing. Then he returned to life.
“YOU BROUGHT ME!” “I know.” “WHY?” Angelique Fraser asked him.
“Platinum Eagle.” “Randall, what about a ‘Platinum Eagle?’ That’s a bullion coin.”
“The speaker said ‘Go to the Platinum Eagles.’ Not exactly words… Thought-words!”
“Who is THE SPEAKER?”
“I don’t know…” he replied, child-like. “Symbols? A big star, seven points?”
“Seven points. The Statue Of Liberty’s Crown, on the coins?” she asked.
“Don’t know… A picture. A mental image. Then, something said, ‘Go find the coins.’ It was a loud voice. LOUD like you!” He looked at Angelique, and reddened.
Angelique remembered the two metal discs resembling Platinum Eagles, but were not. The circles shone like dual beacons. The sinister visitors put them down on Edward Fraser’s desk at their home that day. The shorter one had removed its own eyes, which had turned into platinum discs, and left them behind.
A week later Edward C Fraser, HER Edward, parked his Porsche Cabrio on the green steel drawbridge crossing to the dunes, and leapt into the passionless Atlantic. His body was never recovered.
The entire incident had been recorded on security videocam, but too late. Mr. Edward C Fraser had washed out to sea, the authorities theorized.
Edward A James was ecstatic to be free of the octagon prison; but that was not the same as being outside. Where was this place? He didn’t think it was any part of Angelique Fraser’s Arielle Facility. That in itself cheered him up. It wasn’t Angelique that had him abducted.
He was one step closer to freedom. New turf to explore. They were incapable of breaking him. Should he return for the 1911 Colt 45 Pistol in the sleeping area? No time.
Midway, there were two secondary passages, constructed of darker stone blocks than here in the main hall. An absence of parallelism, except for at the two short ‘ends,’ prevented him from estimating how large or small the area actually measured.
Edward headed toward the closer end, which he’d designated ‘rear,’ with the finely crafted desk of tight-grained polished dark wood. The ‘check-in-area’ didn’t go anywhere. It terminated in a cul-de-sac. Edward was beginning to panic.
MY WILL BE DONE. Inverted logic; his ‘Fourth Level of Consciousness’ rebooting, freeing up RAM, running full-bore. Edward, in his seventh decade of parsing realms of mists, myths, and dark matter, never giving up on freedom; knew the remedy came from within.
Freedom came only from The Soul. Neither supplication, nor intermediary required.
TIME WAS FLYING. The octagon room had hurt him mentally. Shuffled his cards and thrown them back at his face. Stick to the task. Stick!
The large wooden table had no computers or controls or communications gear of any kind on its glass top surface. Only heavenly flower vases machine-spun to nano-inch tolerances, containing fresh live roses. They were real. These sweet roses helped him forget about the scent of death embedded in the rubine wool carpeting.
He took the left hand path around the desk. Intently imagined, pictured an appropriately 50’s style bakelite black, cloth corded, handset telephone. One with those edgy little finger holes he hated putting fingers in to turn the dial wheel. The materialization didn’t happen.
He peered beneath the counter, no luck. The damn thing was SOLID. No cubbies, drawers, or shelves. The ENDS of the wooden relic were tapered like a coffin, reminding him of Joule, his Gothic Custom Drag-Car.
Joule! An aluminum framed, Street/Strip Darth Vader Machine harboring electronic gear of greater complexification than an F-35 Lightning Stealth Fighter-Jet. Joule, equipped with the seven embedded Morrison Computer Cores. What happened to Joule?
Edward bought his Hot-Rod Hearse for cheap from Diane L Roth, a dabbler in White Magic, who lived in a tiny cottage near the peak of Ronne Ledge, Skyhaven, NH. Ms. Roth explained she was in a hurry to be rid of it. A ‘Metal Magister,’ known as Erich Douglas Morrison had worked on it; after that it frightened her. It was alive and evil she said.
Joule was solid, and heavy as a small tank. He and Joule would crash their way out of here.
The church-glass windows didn’t open. They weren’t windows at all. They were arranged like a triplet of flat screen monitors, solid and unyielding. The ‘glass’ was tempered, like a bezel on an expensive wristwatch timepiece. Edward tapped the surface with his hardened steel ballpoint pen, couldn’t scratch it.
The arrangement of pretend windows looked like a family portrait. Colors mostly basic bright primaries, some thin pastels, and those blazing auras pouring out of each one of them. In the center mural was a little girl holding a cloth bodied doll. Her sister, father, mother, brother. Potted tree plant. Pale Chartreuse walls, matching the main corridor.