On Babylon's Throne

ON BABYLON’S THRONE

By

Colleen Forté

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

© 2004 Colleen Forté All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 09/20/04

ISBN: 1-4184-9190-X (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-1911-2 (eBook)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Cover Illustrator: Deneen Wilson Lingo

Forever Thankful to:

Frederick- life

Kathleen- sisterhood

Karen- acceptance

Shirley- humor

Em- mirror mate

Sons- my heart

Dearest Friend- refuge

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Prologue

About the Author

Prologue

Carlin, Nevada 1961

Hushed whispers traveled over the ragged edge of the faded jewel toned blanket. Its geometric symbols slanted off kilter and loosely hung over a makeshift wooden bar, closing Frannie out. Waves of humid air oppressed the darkened room with the faint smell of garlic and foul cigar smoke. The morning sickness still came on occasionally but the foul odors in the tiny room retched sour bile up to her tightened lips.

But Mrs. Costello, she’s at the end of her third month.

Frannie’s ears picked up on the sound of the strange Indian inflection intensifying the woman’s voice. The conversation twisted her stomach. Without warning nausea erupted gushing hot liquid onto her clenched hand. Frannie wanted to run. But where?

She managed to pull a crinkled tissue from her shoulder bag to wipe away the vile mess. Her knees wobbled as she pushed closer to the curtain desperately straining to hear. Hatred consumed her as she listened to the quiet mumbles recognizing her mother’s voice … pleading.

This will ruin her life! Your name was given to me. Iris Cantwell told me you could do it safely and that your people have magic. I’ve got the money. A high-pitched whine rose in Mrs. Costello’s voice.

Cars passed on the nearby street – whooshing sounds of traffic driving to their normal destinations, unaware of Frannie’s terror as she sat frozen in the claustrophobic tomb. With the thickening of her waist and the darkening of her tender nipples, Frannie loved the baby that grew deep inside of her. The physical changes were reminders of Nicky, and she longed for the simple freedom of holding his hand and looking into his eyes. But her mother had stolen that away. Frannie’s mind raced to the day her mother discovered her condition. In a wild fury, she ranted for two days abusing her father beyond human endurance. Frannie trembled at the memory when her mother finally settled on a method to uproot her family. It was done within hours with a vindictive vengeance placing the family’s house in a realtor’s hands. Only the necessities were piled into the old Chevy station wagon.

It had been a long miserable ride with her father keeping the brim of his hat low over his eyes as they headed to Elko County in the northwestern corner of Nevada. Frannie could remember harboring that icy feeling for her mother as she landed her brood one dismal, morning at the broken front steps of her older sister’s run down ranch house.

It was miles from the neighboring town and the harsh reality crushed her. She mourned the thought it was eons away from Nicky. Her Aunt Iris clucked with disapproval while her uncle eyed her up for spoiled goods.

Frannie hated the nights listening to the mice scamper up and down the insides of her bedroom wall. She shook in her burlap-covered mattress sensing the uncle was creeping outside her door, waiting for an opportunity to sneak into her room. The only saving grace was his love of the bottle. A common bond with her father and luckily that kept them both out at the corral each night … drunk.

A part of her could not shake the conversations she overheard from the two sisters in the dark hours of the night conniving a way to save poor Frannie. It was Aunt Iris one night that shared the information with her sister about an old Indian woman from Owyhee who could do it and would not ask for too much money.

Frannie pounded the flimsy mattress with her clamped fist, wondering how she could escape their sordid plan.

In the dark recesses of her mind she understood this would impact her life forever. But she was only sixteen. Where would she go? There was no choice. She sighed and trembled, remembering how she ignored Nicky and then how he stopped coming around.

Anger grabbed her by the back of her head and gave it a good shaking. Her spine stiffened with strength. He had abandoned her when she really needed him. Frannie decided then in the darkness of Aunt Iris’s cold bedroom that she would never need anyone again.

The shrill honk of a passing car brought her tormented mind back to the stench of the seedy room. Her head jerked up to the swish of the drape. It broke her reverie. She weakened at the sight of a jet-black haired woman with eyes that pierced into her frightened soul. Frannie’s wired inspection centered on rounded shoulders that drooped magnifying the drag of the old woman’s leg. It made her appear off balance. The sway of a turquoise necklace hid between the crevice of her large unbound breasts hypnotized Frannie’s stare. It flopped down to touch each breasts with her uneven gate, and a startled cry erupted from Frannie’s lips. Terror at what she beheld charged from her immobilized look- deep red stains marked a tattered apron.

A long yellowed fingernail plucked at her face then slowly curled to the darkened room behind the curtain.

Miss Costello. Come in.

PENITENCE

If our transgressions and our

sins be upon us,

And we pine away in them,

how should we then live?

EZEKIEL 33:10

Chapter 1

Hot pulsating fingers of fire squeezed at Frannie’s lower abdomen jerking her long legs into an embryotic position. She half twisted to her side having visions of lying unconscious in Aunt Iris’s third floor bedroom and bleeding to death unattended. Low lyrics of ‘IN THE STILL OF THE NIGHT’ rumbled in her head to sooth the high fever that consumed her weak body. That had been their song, hers and Nicky’s. A frustrated tear escaped at the thought of lost innocence and a future they could have had.

An instant of faintness past but her eyes remained blurred. Her ears picked up on a sound, if there was one it was gone now. Frannie sat up shakily, a sharp jettison of heat raced to her groin. Quivering spasms flopped her down onto the covers. She sensed a dark void trying to overwhelm her strength so her teeth clenched with determined force to fight whatever it was. She would not lose, no, she would not die.

Where was her mother? The need for her now was imperative and Frannie felt the anger boil in an accelerated contest with the blazing fever. Had she been abandoned in the higher level of her aunt’s loveless house? Shame and fear raised conflicting emotions for where she was and how she got there, treated as a leper and kept out of sight.

Frannie lay in the dark, looking out of the small rectangular window snuggled into the attic’s rafters. The smudged panes bounced back off the curve of the glass. A glimpse of moon light traced the warm flood of salty tears swelling the lids of her eyes. Life seemed frightening but with every bit of iron will that remained in her body she struggled to hold onto to it. Life was all she knew no matter how fearful it was becoming.

When the last shudder left her, a muffled voice reached to the top of the landing leading into the attic enclosure. Frannie held onto the sound of humanity with a nearly panicky grip. The voice was masculine so not her mother’s. A spark of fear entered her foggy mind praying it was not her uncle.

She’s going to die!

The voice boomed to deafen Frannie’s solitude, exploding within her an unknown emotion of self preservation.

No! That can’t happen to our daughter. Iris went to get the Indian woman. Low sobbing moans followed her mother’s protest.

Why would you do this to your only daughter? Was it worth her life?

Frannie’s heart swelled with rejoice and it told her firmly and without question that this was the first time she heard her father hold his own with his wife. But the elation crushed to a smoldering halt with the sharp screech of the shrew. She knew that shriek all too well and in measured movements lifted her burning head from the rough cotton pillow.

Come on, Dad. You can do it. Fight back! The words came out ragged from her parched throat.

He countered the assault as if he had ingested his daughter’s words. Stop your damn screaming. It’s not going to work. Not this time!

Get away from me. I smell you, you drunken Irish pig! You ask why? Because I’d rather have her dead than end up like me, pregnant and married to a lazy, no good …

It was the slap Frannie had been waiting to hear her entire life and it had been a good one to ricochet up three floors. A sad smile came to her flushed face. Its stay was brief. The stabbing pains that doubled her over chased it away.

How dare you hit me! Her mother vented, in a surprised whine.

And how dare you drag our daughter to a butcher to satisfy what you want! For God sake, she’s a child! What have you done to her? A loud sob of anguish broke his sentence.

I didn’t know she would be so sick. Iris will bring the woman and she’ll make it better.

Frannie’s searing mind shot to the old woman and it closed down at the memory of her. She knew she would die if the hag ever touched her again.

There’s some things you can’t do to people especially your own flesh and blood. Why would you listen to your damn sister? What the two of you have done to Frances is illegal. We should take her to the hospital, now!

That jarred Frannie up to a half- sitting angle. Hospital, Oh God, no! She would climb out from the bed and hide somewhere first before she would go there. The escape plan began to formulate in her feverish mind. Her brain went on overload and a lapse of cognitive understanding kept her still. Blackness overcame the process of fear and pain and lulled her into a sweet truce of unconsciousness.

* * *

A slow methodical kneading to her stomach urged Frannie from the deep oblivion. She screamed and tried to pull free. The loosened skin of a grave, dark-skinned face drooped no more than six inches from her own. Frannie’s stare locked on the swaying movement of the baggy jowls keeping in rhythm with the massaging of her tender belly.

She sat up slowly. A deep gasp sucked to the back of her throat with the startling recognition of the Indian woman. Her body relaxed with the cool evening breeze that filtered through an open window. The one that had been closed not so long ago, now drying the sweat on her brow. Her shoulders contorted to rid the touch of the strong burrowing hands. A quiet shush flew tiny particles of spit from the healer’s mouth impelling Frannie to lie flat on her back.

A strong smell of strange odors attacked her nostrils and forced her eyes to wander anxiously over her prone body. The stench reeked from a poultice laid strewn between her bare opened legs. Repulsion gagged a reflux of acidic liquid that surged a molten fire through her windpipe. Frannie needed to scream for her mother but words would not come.

Shush. The brown woman commanded when there had been no sound coming from Frannie’s mouth.

Where’s my mother?

Crushing the magic seed. The face gnawed by age bore closer yet her hands maintained the oscillating strokes. The woman’s hollow eyes glanced down at the dressing separating her patient’s thighs. Magic to pull the poison from your body. Your mother crushes the seed with love for you.

My mother can’t love me when she has done this! Frannie’s words croaked watching the thin lips pull back to expose darkened teeth jutting from the old woman’s mouth. It was a decayed smell rushing from the woman’s widening jaw that barraged Frannie’s face. Her head thrashed back in revulsion to the top of her shaking shoulder.

With age you will know she did this for love. With age you will thank her for saving your youth.

With age? I’m dying, you, old stinking, woman! Spasms of tight coughs riddled her thin breaths.

Shush, now! Her right hand calmly rose and stroked Frannie’s brow, slow, tender sweeps. Frannie’s head stirred in lingering movements with the dark rough palm. Where is the father, my child?

Panting, Frannie whispered, Baltimore. She sensed an undercurrent of caring in the caress of the repulsive figure ministering life back into her dying soul. Compassion surged from the old woman’s eyes. Something she could not remember in the room behind the curtain.

That is a long way from here. The strong grip of her left hand never ceased the circular rotation over her patient’s abdomen. Frannie followed the movement of the thick wrinkled fingers reaching for a dark wooden bowl.

Yes, a very long way. Weakly, Frannie gulped the warm potion offered to her. It went down smooth and coated her throat with a bittersweet taste.

The drink is life, child. It can be biting or it can be pleasant. When you swallow it together, it will blend and only then will you learn to survive. You are going to live, I feel this. Does the father know of the child?

Frannie perceptively guessed the reason for the questions. It was to divert her mind from the painful procedure. Yes. He wanted to marry me but I don’t think that is what I wanted. Her head shook with hesitation. But I know I never wanted this! This was my mother and aunt’s doing. She was noticeably agitated, drips of perspiration sprung from her upper lip.

This is not a bad thing, girl. It is the saving of one child with the loss of another. Your baby has given you a precious gift.

An incredulous stare froze Frannie’s face taut, and her heart thumped rapidly. Gift? I have killed my baby. No! You have killed my baby! She dragged her body up onto the back of the bed’s tarnished brass headboard and pulled away from the woman’s hold. It was you and my mother that did this, not me! Her scream carried her pain throughout the house.

Accelerated thumps hit the stairwell’s wooden planks and her mother bellowed, Frances!

"Quiet, girl. You bring your mother to a place that belongs to only you. This is your doing. Her voice commanded Frannie’s attention. You made love and you made the baby and somehow you pushed the father away. Did you not?"

Mrs. Costello reached the narrow opening that slanted into the dusky room. Her breaths were short, she was noticeably winded. Bulging purple veins popped from her hands with the stranglehold grip on the door’s unpainted molding. Frances, are you all right? Hesitant steps inched her toward the bed.

The healer said, in a quiet murmur. Leave us and tend to the magic seed. That is where you are needed. Tell your mother this. An arduous bend of her head swept from Frannie to Mrs. Costello, her wise and determined eyes searched for obedience.

Frannie had been on the edge and was slipping over yet her complex emotions narrowed on an awareness of her mother’s motive. Maybe, the old Indian squaw hit a nerve. This was her doing and not her mother’s. Her mother did this act, Frannie comprehended to save what had been stolen from her, the gift to be young and free from the burden of children.

Go, Mother. I will be OK. Nothing is your fault. Her face grimaced holding back a strangled sob as the constriction of another squeezing cramp burned into her pelvis.

Oh, Frannie! Mrs. Costello crouched down to the foot of the bed anticipating the worst for her daughter. Her eyes glazed with guilt and her bent body seemed paralyzed in her awkward position.

Go! Mother! Frannie’s cracked lips spit the command.

Go, Madam. Tend to the magic seed. I will need more for the compress. Your daughter is strong. Please, leave us.

Barely out of the room, her mother reeled around to blow a faint kiss from her trembling mouth. I love you.

Frannie passed a palm across her fiery face and took a stark look at her mother’s aged features. The thought of being old and never having experienced life alarmed her to draw harder from her weakened spirit. Knowing her own light was dimming inspired a fortitude of grit to grunt down as the old woman kneaded her swollen midriff. She then felt a tremendous flooding of a warm liquid course down her opened legs.

This is good. This is good. The low melodious voice of the Indian matron chanted. Her rounded body leaned back and gathered warm cloths to clean the young girl. Go! Bring me hot water and put the mashed seed into it.

Her mother obeyed and climbed down the confining steps, not wanting to look at the silent need in her daughter’s eyes anymore.

Life stays with you, young, child. You have courage to fight. This is good. Yes, this is good. The woman said.

A quickened flutter moved Frannie’s lids and rolled her eyes to the back of her head. Before she lost consciousness, she knew she destroyed the last link to Nicky, the baby. Yet an exhilaration of being whole within herself allowed hope for life to enshroud her gracefully.

She felt the strength of life battle the evil murk that was mutely ebbing away. Frannie tried to repress the wondering of her future and how all of this would impact her life. A surge of triumphant survival cast its soothing spell over her tired mind.

She found herself sinking into a warm, safe sleep yet a lingering doubt floated as a last conscious thought. Who would ever want her, now?

Chapter 2

Terre Beaux Ranch, 1966

Dawn shadowed the end of night. Its pale golden light traced the soiled blotch along the bedroom’s uneven ceiling. Frannie’s stare analyzed the exceptionally large yellow mark meandering around the lopsided overhead light fixture. She imagined each time Luke lay rutting on top of her that the splotch took shape of the face of a Barnum and Bailey clown. It jeered down at her with a knowing that she sold herself cheap and married the first man that asked her.

Her husband reeked of alcohol- she held her breath trying to block out his day old body odor. She nearly made a comment before she stopped herself. It was no use. There would only be a fight so she turned her head allowing her eyes to close on the hot tears. It would take him forever she knew after he had been drinking but her gaunt body braced the pounding and waited for him to finish.

God, girl! You’re no better than a stick. He grunted heavily. Move, a little, will ya?

OK. Frannie managed to move a very little. Repulsion kept her anger back and her mouth shut.

"Man, making love to you is like going to a B rated movie.

What’s with you? I remember when we were X rated, woman." His face hugged hers. Drool laced with whiskey slobbered down the side of her cheek. An echo throbbed in her left ear from the harshness of his voice.

Just a little tired. Mechanically, her hand patted his muscular back.

His head lifted with a quick jerk and stopped his crashing rhythm. A large smile spread across his face and he gave Frannie an interested glance. Are you knocked up?

His ignorance sickened her. No, she said icily and turned her head to the wall.

Hard calloused hands scraped her face as he yanked it back to look at him. Well, we’ve been married for over a year and when am I gonna have a son? This ranch needs hands, wife.

To her credit, Frannie maintained her cool even with the jab of guilt that pierced her heart. Luke never knew about the Indian woman or would, he. That was her secret buried deep until he mentioned children, ones that she understood she could never have.

Guess, we’ll have to keep trying.

Luke Beaux’s eyes narrowed to dark slits. You are good at turning everything around. Well, the way you’ve been trying ain’t worth the sweat. Should have stayed in town and found some good old gal that was willing. There’s plenty there, ya know. His naked body rose with cool calculation. She knew what was coming and her back arched and stiffened. With jagged breath he plucked her from the rumpled bed sheets and shook her like a rag doll, his face menacing and cruel.

Why ain’t you warm and loving? The way a woman should be! He roared, and flung her across the bed. She rolled to the floor in a boney heap and when she saw his maddened rush coming toward her she raised her forearm to shield her face. Tell me there ain’t no other man that’s making you act so cold. Tell me!

Frannie’s mind rushed to when she was sixteen and to Nicky and Baltimore, back to innocence and first love. A flicker of longing flooded her eyes. Luke instinctively picked up on it. She gazed at him with pity and somehow her heart found a way to understand his frustration, and then an inward command slowly lifted her to her feet.

There is no one else. Her words came out with soothing assurance and stopped her husband’s charge. The sun now fully risen radiated behind her back through the narrow bedroom window. The full brightness highlighted her golden hair. Luke caught himself in mid-step to stare in awe at her tall naked form torched in a halo from the morning sun. His wife was the picture of an angel and he fought back the revelation that she didn’t love him.

Frannie, I’m sorry. It’s just that … His shoulders slumped as if he had enough and turned to leave the room. Sucking back a remorseful cry he pivoted around, anger spewed from his mouth, Why the fuck did you marry me? With no other sound he fled from their bedroom.

It was always the same lately, she thought wistfully. Even though she felt trapped, she could not explain her complete unwillingness to leave Luke behind. Yet, each time they fought it was getting harder to hold on to her resolve. Maybe things would get better after the round up, she hoped.

* * *

She had a great deal to do in the next few days, because it was nearly Christmas. Frannie was almost glad, her husband spent most of his days in town. It gave her peace to prepare for the holiday dinner. She would entertain her immediate family, aunt, uncle and Luke’s Auntie Sarah. It was a gruesome group Frannie thought as she pulled down a cannister of flour from the pantry shelf. Except for Auntie Sarah. She was the only kind person Frannie could remember in Nevada. She’d grown used to the hard work on the ranch and Auntie had taught her many helpful things so she would become a good ranch wife. It was just that her heart wasn’t in it. Something had to be done, she sighed as she cut the lard into the flour for the Christmas pie crust.

Something, but what and when?

Suddenly, there was a high-pitched whinny from the south corral, Frannie’s stomach dropped. He was home and she knew that ended the serenity of her day. Depending on how many drinks he had would determine his mood. Frannie frowned at the sound of his boots hitting the back wooden steps then half heartily questioned herself if he had a woman in town. She had no feelings of jealousy if he did have a mistress. It made it easier for her. He had not made love to her since that morning three months ago, in fact he barely talked to her. Maybe, a sentence here or there about everyday things as if he were talking to a stranger.

Frannie! Luke hollered from the porch.

She let out a troubled sigh when the old screen door slam against its frame. The first round she whispered silently to her herself, wishing she was somewhere else. In here, she timidly called.

His entrance was more of a swagger than a walk, yes, she thought he’d been bending the elbow good today. His lips hiked up into a jeer. And she was ready for the viciousness she knew was coming.

What ya doing? Preparing a feast for your horse faced family of moochers. Little Miss hostess without the mostess. You’re looking pretty poorly, girlie, don’t ya know?

Frannie dusted the counter with a sprinkle of flour and flattened the dough ball with a hardy punch. Half of her wished it was his face.

No, I didn’t. Her head stayed bent as her hands pushed the rolling pin over the pie crust.

Sure you do, he needled. You are homely as sin. Never wear no make-up or fix your hair.

She sensed he was pressing closer. Her knees went weak, she discovered with the feel of his hot breath on her bent neck. She whirled around to glare into his glassy eyes. Her hand gripped the rolling pin at a threatening angle. Guess, I’m not like your hussy in town, all painted up and ready to trot.

Whoa! Getting feisty, woman? Maybe that’s not half bad. Then we would have some excitement in these four walls.

Haven’t you had enough for one day? Her back pushed into the counter for support, her chin tilting in defiance. You don’t seem to want or need anything in these four walls, do you?

His glance noticed her slender hand tightened around the wooden pin. Her eyes were shiny and fierce and he wondered why that excited him.

I want you real bad. His glare softened with a genuine tender stare. And that broke her heart. It was so much easier hating her husband than pitying him. But her compassion spun to a crashing standstill as he jerked her into his forceful arms and roughly grinded his body into hers.

Violently, her voice came out high pitched and strangled with raw emotion. Back away from me, Luke or I’ll land this rolling pin across your face. Won’t that ruin your looks for your hot little tarts?

He staggered back but could not move any further. It was as if his feet grew roots in the cracks of the kitchen’s old wooden floorboards. Then as she came closer, he understood Frannie meant what she said. He could not say yet what, but something was taking over his wife and he shuddered at what she was becoming. And, what he might lose.

Frannie, stop! His eyes cleared to, dead sober.

She leaned against the counter, sweating and dropped the rolling pin down to her side. Yes, Luke. We have to end this awful joke. Something is very wrong with us.

His gaze slid across her softening face sensing her weakness. He sprang forward twisting the intended weapon from her hand and dug his jaw against her cheek. His flesh felt hot against hers. She pulled in a whimper.

You are my Goddamn wife, and I’m no joke. You are here for life, do you hear me?

Cool eyed, Frannie stiffened but did not break her stare. Emotionless she answered, Yes. But, her mind tumbled to how she would escape all of this.

Chapter 3

Frannie understood she had to be careful as her hand snaked into the highest drawer of the antique chiffonier. She heard Luke’s splashing in the claw foot tub. The splatters of water came down the hall interrupted with his occasional whistling and she guessed he was already three sheets to the wind. He would shake her silly if he saw the newspaper clipping she withdrew from the hidden crevice in the back of the shallow drawer.

It was by accident she came upon the article in the Sunday paper the day after Christmas. Her fingers stroked it lovingly and every time she felt fear or anger she gravitated to its alluring pull. It pulsated in her grasp as if it held a message from a disciple that would lead her to a place of refuge.

She didn’t even have to unfold the thin paper. The article was branded in her memory. She recited the copy silently: Milton Prell, one of the owners of the Sahara Casino purchased the King’s Crown for sixteen million dollars. He invested another three million for renovations and created Aladdin’s Casino. The picture of a serrated canopy and a fifteen-story sign of Aladdin’s lamp costing $750,000 dollars headed the newspaper clip. It was this image in black and white that caught her attention and captivated her yearning to find a place where she could be free. Maybe, she had found a way.

"Frannie! Now you hurry and dress for this