Never Alone

Brazilian Rainforest—1938

The dead remain dead. However, memories of them live on through those they knew and loved. Bartolomew Bras remains alive in the memories of his son, Juan. But the good thoughts are crowded out by the evil. At fourteen, Juan watched in silent horror as his father was murdered. Murdered in an unspeakable way. The boy witnessed a death so brutal that an unheard scream still remains embedded in his mind. He remembers every sound, smell, and movement of that day. And every time he shuts his eyes, he sees the creatures that tore into his father’s body.

Juan wasn’t supposed to be there, standing alone in the thick foliage. But he was. He was supposed to be with the porters his father had sent back to the safety of the expedition’s main camp. Instead, Juan had stepped off the trail unnoticed by any of his father’s men, who were too scared taking care of themselves to worry about a young boy. So there he stood. The only living witness as the strange Amazon creatures struck. It was all over in the blink of an eye. Juan didn’t blink; he stood wide-eyed with fear and stared.

The attack was precise. There were no wasted motions. It was well coordinated and swiftly executed. However, in Juan’s mind it all happened in agonizingly slow motion. The men of the expedition had been arguing one second and clutching at their bodies the next. Each man seemed to succumb to the same spasm as they jerked and grabbed at various spots on their bodies. It took Juan a moment to realize that they were clutching at feathered darts protruding from their clothes.

He saw it all. He saw each and every one of them being struck, but his father’s strange movements were the center of his vision. Bartolomew’s right hand suddenly jerked up and pulled at his left shoulder. Before he could even relieve himself of the stinging pain from the first strike he threw his left arm behind his back and groped furiously. Juan watched his father as several more darts struck the man’s chest, sending him to his knees. Bartolomew’s arms fell slack to his sides and he let out a burst of air, settled back as if to sit on his own legs, and was motionless. Juan stared at his father, whose bulging eyes stared back. Juan was sure his father saw nothing at all.

Other members of the group had succumbed to the same paralyzing fate and simply lay around the desecrated burial jars. It was then that Juan noticed the first of the creatures. Up to this point the silent darts had originated from the foliage surrounding the sacred site. The attackers had remained unseen, easily blending into the greenery of the jungle. Now two of them moved into view and stood like sentries by the broken funeral pots. Juan saw them but nothing about them seemed right. They were men—or were they?

The boy remained motionless as other creatures quickly moved around the fallen members of the expedition. He was just as perplexed about their movements as he was about their appearance. Each stood over a fallen man and kicked at the bodies. Those lying on their backs were propped up by one of the creatures as another kicked at the paralyzed forms. It wasn’t until one of the creatures approached his father that Juan realized what they were doing.

Bartolomew was a statue. He was still resting on his haunches. Two creatures were around him, one behind him and one in front. The one behind his father held the frozen man by the shoulders. In a quick motion the one in front seemingly kicked Bartolomew in the mid-section, but it wasn’t really a kick. It was more like a swiping motion. At first Juan thought the creature had missed his father, but soon realized his mistake. The boy stared in horror as his father’s stomach opened up and his guts plopped to the ground. Even though he was still riveted to his spot in the undergrowth, Juan’s entire body shook. And he couldn’t stop the shaking. His mouth was open to scream but nothing came out. His eyes wanted to leave his head. He didn’t want to watch, but he couldn’t turn away.

He had been hunting with his father enough times to realize what the man-creatures were doing. They were dressing their kill for transport. Not only had they killed all the men of the expedition for their indiscretions, they had killed them for food. His mind began noticing things about the attackers his horror had overlooked. They wore no clothes yet there was no sign of their gender. The killers’ naked bodies were colored like the foliage. Their hair seemed to be plastered to their heads and some seemed to have the same matted hair on their shoulders, their upper backs, and chests. To a man they couldn’t have been much taller than Juan himself and each was slight of build. Their heads were oddly shaped and their eyes, the ones that would stare back at him from his nightmares, were catlike. And then Juan saw him.

Standing, leaning against a tree, not moving, was James. James was his friend. James, the young American who had joined the expedition at the last minute, was seemingly frozen in place at the periphery of the clearing. And two creatures approached him. Juan wanted to yell a warning but the fear still clutched his throat. James’ eyes were motionless as one of the hunters of men held him by his shoulders from behind.

Before the other one could strike, another of the creatures approached them and stood in front of young James. There was an exchange of words that didn’t reach Juan’s ears. Whatever the smaller one had said was heeded by the others and the one in front of James bent and hoisted him on his shoulders. They may have been small, but the creatures were strong and the motion seemed effortless as James was carried off into the bush.

Whether the blood suddenly returned to Juan’s brain and limbs or the adrenaline finally broke through his shock, the boy immediately realized two things. One, the creatures he was staring at weren’t men of any kind—and he knew what they were. And two, they were sniffing the air as if they had suddenly caught a scent on a breeze, Juan’s scent. Without further hesitation, Juan turned on his heels and ran, his fear of the creatures that had killed his father propelling him forward.

* * * * *

Chapter 1 -- Enquiring Minds

Jackson Reed moved toward his prey as soon as the delivery entrance door opened. It had taken a lot of planning to orchestrate this moment, and he would do whatever it took to make it pay off. He would get his story. Jack’s partner, Christine Baum, started snapping pictures from her perch on a retaining wall, the whir of the camera drive spurring her on.

Hey, Leander, Leander Davis…can I ask you a few questions? Jack’s voice was polite, pitched just to get the man’s attention; he was saving his verbal attack for the right moment. Davis slowed, looked in Jack’s direction, and scowled when he saw the tabloid journalist. Christine’s camera continued its rapid whir.

Man, don’t you guys ever leave anyone alone? What are you doing out here? Joline, get the baby in the car while I get rid of this scum. Jack had been called much worse. In fact, scum was a kinder term than he had heard in quite a while. Not that it mattered. Name-calling was par for the course in his business.

Joline Davis, with the wrapped bundle she carried, headed for the passenger side of the Mercedes and right into Christine’s line of fire. Six-foot-ten, power forward Leander Davis, three times an All-Star, headed to intercept Jack Reed.

So Leander, how’s it feel to be a new father…again? Jack’s tone had turned snarky. It was time to get the money shot.

Leander stopped in his tracks. What? What are you up to? I’m just trying to get my family home without making it a circus. Leander made no attempt to hide the rising anger in his voice.

Come on Leander, Jack goaded as he held out the tape recorder, tell me what it’s like to have a new baby with your wife while still supporting three other kids around the other NBA cities.

Christine had been snapping off pictures of Mrs. Davis and the new baby boy, Antowain Dashmet Davis, when the commotion caught her attention. Leander Davis was seizing Jackson Reed by the shoulders. Christine grabbed her backup camera just in time to catch all of the action. She couldn’t make out what was being said, but the verbal assault must have matched the physical one.

Leander’s wife, her baby safe in the car with a nanny, was coming around to the back of the Mercedes, yelling at her husband. Just get in the car Leander. This is what he wants. You’re giving him his story. Leander, please get in the car!

Come on Leander, a physical guy like you can do better than that, Jack taunted the outraged new dad. Just tell me about that college girl and how she feels about your new son. What was her name, Carmen? Jack fired off questions with the same kind of intensity he had used back when he was a real reporter.

It was at this point Christine got the action shot of a lifetime as Davis bodily picked up Jack, lifted him to chest level, and tossed him in a nearby dumpster. There, right where you and the rag you work for belong. The menacing shot of Davis shaking his fist at the dumpster as Jack poked his head above the rim of the waste control container would be award winning.

Davis’s wife got him back toward the Mercedes with Jack’s words following the couple. Leander, don’t you think Heather in Milwaukee or Venus in Atlanta would like to see their new little brother?

The slamming of the Mercedes’ door and the revving of its engine cut off Jack’s words. But they were picked up by Christine, who had made it down off the wall with the intention of helping Jack get out of the dumpster. A light came on in her brain as she jogged to Jack’s rescue.

You set all this up? You said this was just shots of the new baby. What’s all this confrontation bullshit?

Hey, our readers want the Jerry Springer version of life, not the Hallmark version. Now, give me a hand out of here.

Give you a hand! I’ll give you a hand, photographer Christine Baum reached up and slammed the top down on the blue dumpster. Fortunately for Jackson Reed, his journalistic instincts were sharp enough to avoid a battered brain.

Sammy, what time is it? Jack Reed’s patience ebbed with each sip of beer.

Two minutes later then the last time you asked. Relax, she’ll show.

As if on cue, Christine Baum swung through the door and into Sammy’s Bar and Grill, allowing daylight to storm the dark sanctuary preferred by daytime drinkers.

Well, it’s about time, Reed greeted her as he swiveled to face the young photographer.

Christine took a bar stool one away from Jack. Hello to you too, she said, sliding a manila envelope down the mahogany bar top.

What’ll it be, Christine? Sammy asked, placing a cocktail napkin in front of her.

Long Island Iced Tea, please.

Hey, what’s this? Jack had the photos out of the envelope and spread on the bar before him. Where are the pics of Leander’s assault?

Christine took a sip of the tall drink Sammy had placed in front of her. Didn’t turn out, camera mechanism wasn’t advancing the film properly. I got nothing but blurs out of it. Those came out because they were from the first camera.

What! Bullshit Christine, you check those damn cameras out before every shoot. What gives?

I guess it must have been the pressure and stress of realizing you lied to me…again. Christine’s eyes fixed on Jack Reed, daring him to respond.

Oh, come on Christine, be professional.

Professional? Look who’s talking about being professional for chrissakes, mister-we’re-just getting-photos-of-mom-and-baby.

That’s right, that’s all I was after.

Liar, liar. You went there to confront Leander Davis about his illegitimate children in front of his wife while they were trying to take their newborn home. You knew how he would react.

You two want to hold it down, you’re disturbing the other customers. Sammy’s attempt to inject levity—there was only one lone figure nursing a beer at the end of the bar—was met with icy cold stares from both combatants. Sammy raised his hands in surrender and retreated toward the cash register.

Jackson Reed had once been an award-winning journalist with a legitimate newspaper. His column, Reed Between the Lines was destined to become syndicated; that was before he was caught in bed with his editor’s wife. During the ensuing turmoil it was discovered that Jack had bedded the couple’s eighteen-year-old daughter as well. Getting a broken nose and being fired were the least of his troubles. Rumors were soon spread that many of Jack’s protected sources from his award-winning works were fabricated. Professional wags in the industry, jealous of Reed’s former prominence, began referring to Jack Reed and his columns under headlines such as Reed Between the Sheets and Reed Between the Lies. Job opportunities quickly dried up for the forty-eight year-old discredited writer. After rejection and a long bout with the bottle, Jack finally turned to the tabloids.

Jack slid over next to Christine. In a calmer voice he started in, Chris, I went there with the intentions of a straight piece. Christine started to blast that notion out of the water only to be stopped as Jack raised his hand. Honest Chris, those questions just popped in my head and out of my mouth. I couldn’t help myself. Besides, Leander Davis has pushed fatherhood around the league like Johnny Spread-my-seed and has enough money to keep most of them buried away. It just riles me, that’s all.

Christine sipped her drink and looked up into Jack’s imploring blue eyes. Bullshit.

What? Christine!

Jackson Reed, you’ll bed anything remotely female. If anything, you should be the president of the Leander Davis fan club and feel good society. You went there to get him. You were depending on his notorious temper to produce the results you were after. But what’s worse is, you knew I wouldn’t go along with it if I knew the truth. You used me once again. And I trusted you.

Photographer Christine Baum was three years out of college and still hoping for a break into a career in photojournalism. Not an easy market to break into. The rejections quickly mounted up. Tired of photographing screaming children at Tiny Tots Portraits at the local mall, she teamed up with Jack Reed. A chance encounter at Sammy’s, where her sorrows and sensibilities were being drowned in Iced Teas, led to Jack’s hotel room. The next morning she had a hangover and her first real photo assignment.

Maybe real was the wrong word for it. Jack had set up a photo opportunity in the deep woods of Washington State without Christine’s knowledge. He led her to a certain spot and guided her every movement. Christine walked out with a once in a lifetime picture of two Sasquatch mating. It was a long distance shot, which somehow became grainier and grainier in each tabloid Jack sold it to, along with his story, Big Foot’s Mating Ritual.

All right, I lied, but you wouldn’t have gone along otherwise. You’re a great photographer, but you don’t have the paparazzi instincts this business demands. You’re too nice for this line of work.

Thanks, I think.

Sammy slowly approached the troubled couple. You two need refills?

You can hit me again, Jack answered.

No thanks, Christine responded. I want to be thinking clearly when I leave, alone. No one missed the emphasis on the last word, not even the old guy sitting in silence several seats away.

Chris, we’ve always kept our personal and professional lives separate. We need to…

Forget it, Jack. If you lie to me and use me in one part of our relationship, why wouldn’t it carry over to the other half?

Chris, I would never…

Really Reed, you are so pathetic and I must be even more so. Keep those, she pointed to the photos still strewn across the bar. A parting-of-the-ways gift from me to you. Just accept the fact the other photos, the ones you really set out to get, are ruined just like us.

Christine, Jack grabbed her hand as she tried to rise up and leave the barstool.

Don’t, Jack. You’ll find another photographer and another lonely female in this or some other bar. Let it be. Let me be. With that, Christine pulled herself free and headed for the door. She stopped and turned back.

Jack.

He looked at her.

Do yourself a favor. Try writing something real.

As the last of the intruding light left with Christine, Jack turned in his seat. He gathered the photos, selected one, and wrote something on its back. The chosen photo was inserted into an envelope. From inside his jacket pocket he extracted two computer disks. From these he took one and placed it in the envelope with the picture of Leander with his wife and new baby.

The straight piece? Sammy asked as he cleared away the empty glass and sodden napkin.

Yeah, it’s still an exclusive. Besides, I thought she might not go for the confrontation with Davis. I just didn’t think she’d leave to boot.

Jack retrieved the cell phone off his belt and punched in a series of numbers. As he waited for an answer he took a sip of beer and wrote instructions on the front of the envelope.

Blaine’s Courier Service, Harold speaking.

Harold, Jackson Reed. Listen, send a courier over to Sammy’s, I’ve got something that needs to be delivered to the National Enquirer.

Sure thing Jack, be a couple of minutes. I’ve got a guy in the area now.

Great. Oh, and Harold…?

Yeah, Jack.

Does that niece of yours still want to be a professional photographer?

So you’re a writer of sorts? The elderly gentleman from the end of the bar slid down and sat next to Jack.

Reed looked up as the old man stuck out his hand. Patrick’s the name. Why don’t you buy me a drink?

Jack was taken aback by Patrick’s blunt approach to mooching drinks, but his journalistic sixth sense began to twitch. Sammy, give my new friend another beer. Jackson Reed, he added as he shook Patrick’s hand.

Make that a Jameson’s, Samuel, and a double at that, Patrick said.

Jack nodded his head to affirm the order. What can I do for you, Patrick, besides wet your whistle? That would be Patrick…?

Just Patrick, me boy, just Patrick.

Ah, thank you, Samuel, Patrick said as the bartender set the double Irish on a fresh napkin. Patrick lifted the glass, saluted his benefactor and downed it in one large gulp. The nectar of the gods, Jack, the nectar of the gods.

So, besides the free drink, what are you after?

After? Me? Nothin’. It’s what I have to offer. Patrick cast a longing eye in the direction of the empty glass. The old man was no bum, at least he didn’t dress like one and he certainly didn’t smell of the streets. Iron gray hair tufted out from under his cap, wrinkles of time etched his face, and cool blue eyes shone clear as a bell. To Jack’s eye and quick assessment the guy was no flake.

So, what do you have to offer?

Well, I couldn’t help but overhear what was goin’ on between you and the pretty colleen. Patrick’s Irish accent floated to the surface from time to time, more so as the Jameson’s settled in to stay. Not that it was any of my business mind you. But the last part, about writing something meaningful. I take it you wrote like that once?

Once upon a time, yes. Jack was beginning to wonder where all of this was headed.

Something change?

Yeah, life.

Oh, I see. Life. There are many strange paths to follow in life. So tell me, you don’t write that way anymore?

I write what people want to read. It pays the bills and buys nosey old guys drinks.

Jack’s slight insult didn’t faze Patrick in the slightest. Can you still write the other way or have you forgotten how?

Look, who are you and why am I even talking to you? Jack’s journalistic twinge was heading south on this one.

Maybe he’s your fairy godfather or something, Sammy interrupted. You two want another round?

I’m still nursing this one, but it looks like my new friend could stand another. I’ll invest in one more for him, but I don’t know why. So, just what does my hospitality buy me besides this inquisition into my professional abilities?

You haven’t answered my question yet.

Okay, yes, I can still write. However, no legitimate source will print it and something inside of me won’t let me write under anything but my own name. Is that what you want to know?

Just the first part, the rest is of no never mind to me.

Sammy set the new drink and fresh napkin down in front of Patrick. He picked up the Irishman’s empty glass, the old napkin, and, like the good bartender he was, gave the bar a quick wipe. He then retreated out of earshot.

Jack lifted his bottle in a mock toast that the old man returned. Patrick downed about half of the amber liquid and smacked his lips.

I have a true story no one wants to believe.

What’s it about?

In due time, in due time. This particular story began in 1938, but it’s still relevant. It will shock anyone who reads it and will be condemned as fiction by the scholars who think they know better. It’s an eyewitness account, but the source has been challenged in the past. To get the story out, the writer will have to follow its path and weed out the misinformation others have planted. He will also be labeled a liar, but if he pursues it to the very end he will find the story to be as real as mankind itself. As if parched by his own litany, Patrick finished his drink.

Reed was taken aback as much by Patrick’s sudden eloquence as by what the old man had to say. He sat silent, but his instincts were screaming for him to act.

Intrigued are ya? The thickening brogue returned to the old man’s voice.

You have my attention.

A sudden glow of light enshrined the two men at the bar. Is there a Jackson Reed here? a young man asked as he let the offending light follow him through the door.

That would be me, Reed informed him.

Harold sent me over, you got a package to be delivered?

Jack got up from his stool, envelope in hand, and met the courier half way across the room. The Enquirer will pay Harold’s fee, this is for you. Jack gave the courier the envelope and a folded ten.

Thanks man, I’ll get it right over.

You do that. Jack watched as the light returned and the courier left. Then he turned back to the bar to say something to Patrick, but the old Irishman was nowhere in sight. Glancing quickly around, Jack’s search finally settled on Sammy, who had his back to the room. Sammy was using a clipboard to inventory his stock.

Sammy, where’d the old guy go? Jack asked, heading back to his seat.

I don’t know. Maybe he went to the old guy’s room. Sammy shrugged and returned to his work.

Yeah, maybe. Jack sat, sipped his beer, and then focused his attention on the now empty seat next to him. A small package rested on Patrick’s stool. Jack looked about, reached over, and picked it up. It was solid to the touch, heavy for its size, wrapped in brown paper tied with a string, and had a cocktail napkin slipped under the knotted twine. The napkin was a note from Patrick. It said, Jack, write about this.

* * * * *

Chapter 2 -- Old News

Arriving at Sky Harbor airport in Phoenix, Jackson Reed headed for the rental car center. With only a carry-on and his laptop there was no need to stop at baggage claim. A short conversation, the flick of a credit card, and a swift signature placed him in a new Cavalier. Not the flashiest car in the world, but it got him out of the airport and onto I-10 heading for Apache Junction.

The object of Reed’s travels was one Peterke Jenci Keleman, Peter the Wellborn Gentlemen. At least that was Peter Keleman’s translation of his Hungarian name. He went by another name as well, Old News or just News as Reed called him. Jackson Reed was a cub reporter when he first ran into Old News. Peter Keleman was in charge of the morgue at the Chicago Informer before that illustrious paper folded. He maintained the files and clippings with such organization that any name or topic was at his fingertips. As Reed progressed through his career he realized half of what he wrote came from the files of Old News Keleman.

News, you in there? Jack Reed was pounding on the aluminum door of a doublewide trailer. Mobile homes, Reed thought to himself, there sure as hell isn’t anything mobile about this thing.

News Keleman was 72 years old and seven years into retirement. A fair pension and good investments had provided him with more income in his declining years then at any other time in his life. As he often told Jackson Reed, Stay away from liquor and women and you’ll be a wealthy man. Once Jack got into trouble it was all News could do to keep from saying, I told you so.

Reed abandoned pounding on the front door and started to circumnavigate the trailer home, standing on tippy toe at each window and attempting to peer into News’ home. Whenever he found a window levered open he would call out his friend’s name. News, wake up in there. Chrissakes man, I told you I was coming to see you, where the hell are you?

Around behind the trailer, Jack climbed the stairs of a redwood deck News had added, making the trailer even less mobile. Outdoor furniture was scattered about, two chairs, matching metal table, a chaise, and one of those swing chairs suspended from an overhead beam. News had added a latticed patio cover as well. Jack approached the rear door and went back to his pounding method of introducing his presence.

Damn, you make enough racket to raise the dead. Haven’t you got any manners? You’re disturbing all of my tenants. News was standing on the bottom patio step.

Reed spun around and greeted his old friend with a cheerful, Where the hell have you been? I told you I’d be here at two.

Nice to see you, too. Get kicked off any good papers lately?

Jack Reed and Peter Keleman were like father and son in that they had a deep love for one another. Of course the individual nature of each kept them from showing it in any way save for the constant personal bantering. At News’ retirement party Reed had described the old man as the oldest piece of equipment the paper owned, and having more lines in his face than a column of newsprint.

You know, if you’d invest in a hearing aid I wouldn’t have to make so much noise.

By this time News was standing in front of Reed, both looking awkward. Been awhile, old man.

Yeah, but not long enough. Come on inside. I’ll see if I can find any of that scotch you left here last time. I might have used it all when I refinished an old dresser for the lady in number 7. News unlocked the back door, letting Jack into his home.

Trails End Trailer Court and RV Park was News’ retirement investment and it was paying him well. Fifteen units rented and twenty RV spaces that went for top dollar to the snowbirds. Old farts from back east migrated out when the first snows began to fall. News treated them all with courtesy and helped them whenever he could with directions and suggestions for restaurants and entertainment. His clientele returned, unlike some of the parks that were losing their travelers to the ever-multiplying resorts.

Sit yourself down. You want that scotch or a diet cola?

Those the only choices?

That and ice water. What’ll it be?

I’ll start with ice water and work my way through the rest. I almost forgot how hot it got around here. Phoenix, Arizona was Jack’s home base; he owned a home in the northeast section of the city.

So, did you get that information I asked you for when I called?

News clinked ice cubes into a tumbler, took a plastic container of water from the refrigerator and poured Jack a glassful. Setting it down on the table in front of Reed, he answered his old friend. Hell yes, I got your info. Was there ever a time I didn’t get your info? I’ve given you so goddamn much info over the years I should be sharing your byline. That is if you worked for legit papers instead of those grocery store rags.

Jack took a long, cool drink from the sweating glass. Never mind your guff old man, what have you got for me?

News left Reed sitting at the table and wandered into one of his back rooms. The double wide had three bedrooms. News slept in one, had his office in another, and wall-to-wall file cabinets in the third. The file cabinets were his gold mine.

Old News had hung around the newspaper game long enough to see microfiche and computers replace most of his morgue. As his clipping files became defunct or just never asked for, News would haul them home. When the small papers around Chicago folded he would acquire their morgues as well. News could actually rent out eighteen trailers, except three of them were full of his filing cabinets. Only News could find anything in his aluminum-protected maze of facts and stories.

News came back through the kitchen and laid a half dozen file folders down in front of him as he took a seat opposite Reed. The folders were spread out like a winning poker hand. Each had index cards attached to it with a paper clip. Some files seemed a bit skimpy and one was so fat it was held together with a rubber band.

Jack knew the protocol, but reached for one of the folders anyway. Moving with surprising speed, News snatched the targeted folder and used it to swat Jack’s hand. Damn, crazy old man. I can read for myself you know.

News ignored him and lifted the card off of the first file. "Before I give you what you want you have to tell me more about