1215 AD
Glencoe, Scotland
The rain was cold and the clouds low and dark. Thunder rolled throughout the desolate countryside with the smell of burning peat carried by a hard driving wind. Through the darkness, a weak light was detected coming from the solitary portal of the primitive hut. There was no other sign of habitation anywhere else upon the landscape. A man dressed in body armor, helmet and kilt withdrew from the little hill to report his observations to the Laird of the fife. After a brief exchange of words, the Laird and his troop dismounted their horses, withdrew their swords, and advanced on the little structure.
* * *
Around a single large candle within the crude hut thirteen women, all dressed in black, sat in a circle on the hard packed earthen floor. They passed around a wooden bowl from which each in succession took a drink of the content. When all had drunk of the bowl, they began to chant in the ancient Gaelic tongue of the Scottish peasants. Each firmly clasped to her heart a wooden disk upon which the symbols of Samhain, Lord of the Dead and Prince of Darkness, were carved upon the surface. Suddenly the door burst open as though propelled by an explosive force.
In an instant, the men at arms rushed into the hut, grabbed each of the women by the hair and dragged them out into the stormy night. The men paused a moment before the Laird and his priest while the two looked contemptuously upon their captives. “Damn you all, women of the devil,” the priest shouted while shaking his fist. “Now shall you know the sting of death.” One of the women, the leader of the group, responded, her lips curled back as she snarled with hate, “Foolish little men that you are. You understand not the dark power at which you strike so feebly. You may cause delay this night, but the end of your kind is inevitable.”
Then at the Laird’s command the soldiers slaughtered each woman one by one before the terror-filled eyes of the others. To assure that death did not come too quickly, the women were hacked to pieces with swords and axes. As this was being done, two of the men ransacked the hut and removed all the meager items of value. The last woman, she that had spoken, was spared for as long as it took to set fire to the simple dwelling and produce a suitable bed of hot coals. Afterward, she was impaled on an iron shaft and roasted alive before the eyes of her captors. As the night air still carried the sounds of the wind and the echoing shrill screams of the roasting woman, one of the looters handed the Laird three volumes he had found. He in turn put them in a satchel tied to his horse. Then with pleasure, he resumed watching the wretched woman cook over the coals. The strong smell of burning flesh carried by the wind caused fear and anxiety among the waiting horses. Within each man was a wrenching mixture of emotions. Satisfaction, fear, hate, and shame tore at each of them. No man present would ever forget this night. The last night of October.
* * *
Days later, after receiving the praise of the church for his part in destroying these pagan women, the Laird scanned through the three volumes. Though he could not read the old runic symbols, he did not discard them.
* * *
1982
Glencoe, Scotland
“God, it’s cold this morning!” the tall American exclaimed, as he rubbed his hands together. “My fingers are freezing.” “Aye, Bob, Glencoe is cold indeed this time of year.” “How about a cup of hot coffee to hold on to, Angus?” Robert MacKenna asked, as he unscrewed the lid of the thermos. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll be takin’ a bit of me own cure,” Angus responded, as he pulled a small flask from his back pocket. The two looked out at the three stark hills in the distance enshrouded in mist. ‘The Three Sisters,’ they were often called by the locals.
“What do you expect we’ll find?” Angus asked, after taking a healthy swig from the flask.
“I think this could be the ruins of some ancient Roman or Pictish fort.”
“There’s a great deal of history related to this area. On the early morning of February 13, 1692, foul treachery took place on this very ground,” Angus said solemnly. “The clan Campbell came visitin’ the MacDonalds, who in turn greeted them with open arms. There was grand celebration with much food and drink. Then the accursed Campbells turned on their hosts, killing all men, women and children alike. The black deed is still remembered to this day.”
“I remember now,” MacKenna said, as he held his cup in both hands absorbing the warmth. “They missed the deadline for swearing allegiance to King William.”
“The oath could not be taken in time! The sheriff had provided the clan chief an incorrect location for the event, and then didn’t arrive in time, himself!” Angus protested. “Okay. I wasn’t defending the actions of the Campbells. They were part of the conspiracy to destroy the MacDonald clan along with the sheriff.”
“Mr. MacKenna!” Collin Fergus called out excitedly. “Mr. MacDonald! We’ve found a passageway!”
As a young student of archaeology on his first expedition, he was now experiencing the moment such scientists dream of. MacKenna was equally caught up in the drama. A multimillionaire, Robert MacKenna had financed several such expeditions. His fascination with archaeology and anthropology were limitless. As he trotted over to the excavation pit, he felt that wonderful surge of adrenaline that accompanied such moments. Now on his knees, he carefully removed the soil covering the entrance to a hidden chamber. After several hours, the entrance was cleared and the region beyond was opened to the light of day.
“God! It’s times like this that make all the work and expense worth it! I’m taking the land rover, Angus. I must go get Jennifer. She has to be among the first to enter.”
Jennifer was Robert’s sixteen year old daughter, and absolutely the center of his life. Though he doted on her lavishly, she did not appear to be spoiled. Everyone who met her, in spite of her age, marveled at her beauty and engaging personality. She was like her mother Diana, a fact Robert was well aware of.
Since her mother’s death two years earlier, Brigit Sullivan had been Jennifer’s constant companion. Brigit had been with the MacKenna household for many years. She had been Diana’s personal attendant since childhood, and had come with her after she married Robert. Now that Diana was gone, Brigit had become Jennifer’s most trusted companion. After completing the short drive to the village, Robert raced into the Scottia Inn where he, Jennifer, and Brigit were staying. “Jennifer! Brigit! You must come with me right now! We’ve found a hidden chamber at the site. I want you two to be the first to see what we find inside.”
There was no doubt that Jennifer shared her father’s interests, particularly those related to ancient religions and mythology. She and Brigit were particularly keen in matters of the occult, just as her mother had been. Robert saw nothing ominous about this fascination from a scholarly viewpoint. He did not, however, realize that the enthusiasm the women shared was motivated by much more than just inquiring minds pursuing an academic interest. When they returned to the site, the three quickly proceeded to the entrance of the chamber. Everyone stood in silence as though hesitant to move into the interior. The desolate, brooding hills of Glencoe seemed to be sending a foreboding message to the assembled group. After several moments, Brigit broke the silence. As she looked out towards the hills, she spoke with unmistakable solemnity.
“There is much evil in this place—”
“Not that tale of the Campbells and the MacDonalds again,” Robert said, wincing at her statement.
“This evil is much older. There is a presence of sorrow here that goes back to the dawn of time. We should leave this place as it was.”
“No way!” Robert protested. “We must see what’s down there.” Robert, Jennifer, Angus and Collin then proceeded directly into the cold dark cavity. There was only one chamber filled with weapons, jewelry and other items of value. From the arrangement of the items, it was clear they had been hastily placed in storage for safe keeping.
“Why were these things put here, Dad?” Jennifer asked, as she examined an old helmet.
“During the period of almost continual warfare, from about the ninth through the eighteenth centuries, it wasn’t uncommon for the wealthy to hide some of their treasures and weapons in secret caches. This appears to have been one of them.”
There was a look of disappointment on Robert’s face. Although they had found some valuable artifacts, he’d hoped to find something older and more spectacular than just a storage vault. This part of Scotland was rich in fascinating folklore, much of which was based on pre-historic facts. Robert had hoped this site would increase his understanding of the culture that existed here before the advent of recorded history.
As they began recording the items, Jennifer found a plain alabaster box. Within the box were coins, some jewels, and three small volumes that appeared to be in impeccable condition. “Dad, can I show these to Brigit? She knows the old Gaelic language. Perhaps she can translate them.”
“Let me see those. After all these years I can’t believe this. This parchment, or whatever it is, is in perfect condition. You can show them to Brigit if you like, honey. Lord knows you’ll never get her in here,” he said, as he handed them back to her.
* * *
As the others inventoried the content of the vault, Jennifer took the books outside where Brigit was waiting.
“These are written in old runic symbols similar to those used by the Celts and Norsemen,” Brigit said, as she thumbed through the books. “They appear to be written in riddles. It tells of the God of the Dead . . . .” Brigit’s expression suddenly changed to one of fear and apprehension. “You must put these back, child! Return them to that place and cover them up! Leave no trace to show that they ever existed!”
“Why are you so frightened?”
“Since your mother and I initiated you into the Craft, you’ve experienced only the loving and healing powers of the old religion. You’ve never been exposed to the dark side. It’s a dangerous and black side. Why do you think these books have remained undamaged after so many years? It’s because of the protection they’ve received from the dark forces they can call forth. They are a mortal danger to anyone who should fall under their influence for they will take total control of one’s will. In the name of your mother, I ask you, put these back where you found them.”
“Why? What is so terrible about them?”
Brigit’s face clearly showed her enormous agitation barely constrained within. Then she turned abruptly, and walked over to the land rover. Jennifer had never witnessed such a reaction from her companion.
“Okay. I’ll put them back.”
To appease Brigit, Jennifer returned to the chamber as if she were going to return the three volumes, but once out of view, she hid the little books within a compartment of her knapsack. When Robert later emerged from the vault, Jennifer and Brigit were together again, seated in the land rover. As it was getting late, he drove them back to the inn for the evening. He made no reference to the books, and Jennifer decided to say no more about them either. Brigit’s only comment was that the site with all its contents should be completely reburied and all signs of its existence obliterated.
Jennifer, realizing no help was forthcoming from Brigit, decided to drop the subject of the books. Even so, she was determined to learn their hidden secrets. It would be a project she would pursue in private.
* * *
Within six weeks, Brigit and Jennifer were back home in San Francisco. Prior to leaving, Robert had given Jennifer permission to keep the books, and encouraged her with her translation project. Both had felt Brigit’s reaction was the result of silly superstition, but they agreed to placate her. He felt happy that his daughter took so keen an interest in a subject he loved so well. Later, when Brigit discovered that Jennifer had not only kept the books, but was actively trying to translate them, she left the house without a trace. Although Jennifer was sure that the books were the reason for her sudden departure, Robert was convinced her disappearance had been the result of foul play. An exhaustive investigation, however, came up with nothing.
After Brigit’s disappearances, Jennifer’s interest in the occult, and particularly the content of the three books, turned into an obsession. Though she kept this preoccupation concealed from her father, it grew even stronger over the years. The key to the riddles had been extremely difficult to find, but it was clear that they contained strong references to the rituals and practices of Black Magic. Finally, the major obstacle was overcome through document translations Jennifer obtained from the University of Dublin, fourteen years later. By that time, Jennifer’s pursuit of the powers of darkness had blinded her to the witch’s primary rule: “An it harm none, do what ye will.” To Jennifer, harming others was no longer a concern provided she obtained the power she sought.
She had also recruited others in this quest. Her coven, composed entirely of women, shared fully in her determination. Particularly devoted was a tall, blond Scottish woman as attractive as she was evil. It was upon Heather Buchanan that Jennifer had come to depend so much.
Jennifer was taking an extended vacation in Alberta, Canada, reviewing the latest and most important documents from Dublin, when she was informed that her father had been killed in an aircraft accident over the North Sea. He had been en route to another of his archaeological expeditions in Norway at the time of the incident. As her friends consoled her, Jennifer came to a sensational realization. As sole heiress to the MacKenna estate, she was now one of the wealthiest women in California.
CHAPTER 1
As the faint light of day penetrated the heavy curtains of the bedroom, Jim MacGregor’s mind and body felt the stir of life that had been oblivious for hours in the deep tranquility of sleep. He had slept well and awoke refreshed and satisfied. It was Saturday morning. No pressing reason to get up. He enjoyed laying back in the comfort of his warm bed as he thought about having a good breakfast and enjoying a relaxing day. There were a few errands to run, but nothing to get excited about. As he closed his eyes he felt the sudden thump of Gertrude as she jumped upon the foot of the bed. She gingerly advanced forward and stared down into Jim’s now half open eyes.
“Meow,” she announced, her whiskers tickled his face.
“Good morning,” Jim said, scratching her head. She rubbed her nose against his as he scratched her back. Jim could hear the soft sound of a little motor running in his ear as she purred.
“You’re not going to let me sleep this morning are you?” She took his index finger in her mouth and chewed it lightly. “No food in your bowl, huh Gertrude?” Jim recognized her usual signal. “Well, I guess I should get up anyway.” Jim put on his robe and headed for the kitchen. He turned on the stove to heat the kettle and took Gertrude’s bowl from the floor.
“How about some fresh water, too?”
After washing out the bowl, he filled it half full with water and set it back down. The second bowl he filled with her favorite, Tender Vitals, the ambrosia of Gertrude.
“There you go, kid.”
Jim turned on the radio, more to end the silence than for any other reason. After a series of commercials he recognized the voice of Tom Guthry and the morning news. Suddenly the kettle whistled and he poured himself a cup of instant coffee.
“How about some fresh hot brew?”
He took a saucer from the cabinet, spooned in some of the hot liquid and set it on the floor.
“Meow,” Gertrude replied. Then, after inspecting the contents, she daintily lapped the warm coffee.
“What a great morning,” Jim said, aloud as he looked out on the world from the window of his kitchen.
He scratched his head, then ran his fingers through his copper colored hair in a feeble attempt to put it in place. Even though he had just gotten up, his wide set blue eyes were as clear and sharp as ever. The well defined jaw and pronounced lines about the mouth and eyes rendered it impossible to underestimate the determination in this man. His six foot four inch frame, in the peak of physical condition, added all the more to the message that this was a man very capable of imposing his will. All these features were so classically characteristic of his Scottish-Viking ancestry. But for all of this, Jim MacGregor was not a brute in any sense of the word. His forceful abilities only came into play when stopping the aggression of others. He was a warrior of defense rather than conquest.
In his face, faint traces of loneliness could be detected by the discerning eye. It had been almost three years since he and Tracey had divorced, and it had not been easy for him. He hadn’t wanted things to work out that way, but as time passed, things began to slowly improve. He liked his new job, loved the town and had met a lot of nice people. Half Moon Bay might not have been the big exciting community other people liked, but for Jim it had everything that he ever wanted. San Jose and San Francisco weren’t far away. One could get to either in about an hour at most, but he never really found that he wanted much more than the little town had to offer.
He finished his coffee and rinsed the cup in the sink.
“Time for breakfast,” he told Gertrude.
After a quick shower and shave, Jim came out of his front door and checked the sky. The morning was overcast and the air clean and cool. He knew that by noon the sun would be out, and a warm afternoon would appear for all. Jim checked his wallet and found that he had more than enough cash for breakfast. Pinned securely to the wallet was his badge: Chief of Police, Half Moon Bay, engraved on the surface.
Jim’s house was one block from the town’s main street. Everything was so close that he rarely needed to use his car. He stopped at the news stand outside the Main Street Inn and bought the morning paper. As he entered the Inn, the smell of fresh coffee and bacon greeted him heartily.
“Hi, Chief!”
“Morning, Marge.”
“What ya havin’ this fine mornin’?” asked Marge, with an heavy Irish brogue.
“Two over easy, sausage, hash browns and some good hot coffee.”
“As if I had to ask.”
Jim settled into the booth and started reading his paper. Two men were seated in the booth next to him. He recognized them both. Sam Hathaway and George Claudino, both local farmers. “Morning, Chief,” they both said, simultaneously.
“George, Sam, how’re things going?”
“Busy as hell. With the Pumpkin Festival in three weeks, it’ll be awhile before things’ll be normal again,” George replied. “You know how it is, half the world’ll be coming over here for the festivities.” “Well, you guys shouldn’t mind. After you sell all those pumpkins, you’ll both be millionaires by November first, right?” Jim said, as he lifted his cup to his lips.
Jim could see Henry Martinez approaching from two booths away.
“How’re you, Henry? You gonna retire with these fellas after the festival?”
Though always a serious man, Henry’s complete lack of any response showed Jim there was something very serious on his mind.
“Chief, it’s starting again, goddamn it!”
“What’s starting again, Henry?”
“Somebody’s mutilating live stock again, that’s what!” Henry took a seat directly across from Jim. “I found a spot down by the creek on my property.” Henry was now leaning forward, speaking in a low voice. “There was blood on the ground, lots of it, like someone slaughtered a cow, only none of mine are missing.”
“Are any of the other farmers missing stock?”
“No one I know of, but that blood had to come from something!”
“Did you call the sheriff and report this, Henry?”
“Hell, yes, for all the good it does, but nobody does anything about it. All they ever do is tell ya to keep your eyes open, and report any strangers or anything unusual. Anything unusual! What the hell did they think I was reporting in the first place?”
“Was there anyway to tell what kind of animal was there? Any footprints, fur, hair?” Henry lived outside Jim’s jurisdiction, but to tell him that would only aggravate him further.
“There was nothin there I could see. Besides, that’s why I called the sheriff. They’re supposed to be the experts aren’t they?” “I’ll tell you what, I’ll call the sheriff ’s office and find out what’s going on. I can’t guarantee I’ll have any word before Monday, but I’ll try to get what I can, and let you know as soon as possible.”
“I know it’s not your fault, Chief, it’s out of the city limits, but something’s got to be done this time. A lot of us lost livestock last year, and we can’t just keep lettin’ it go on.”
“I understand why you’re frustrated, but they did try. The trouble was the responsible parties just didn’t leave anything for the deputies to go on. Like I said, I’ll call the department and find out what’s going on and let you know, all right?”
“Thanks, Chief. But you can bet I’m keeping my old Winchester loaded with buckshot until these guys are caught!”
Jim was a little concerned about this last remark, but he could fully understand the reason for Henry’s frustration. He pulled at Henry’s arm as he got up to leave.
“Promise me something? Call me if you see or find anything, okay?”
“Fair enough.”
Henry got up and left the Inn as Marge returned with a plate of hot breakfast equal to Jim’s specifications. “There you go, Chief.”
Jim wanted to say something clever, but he just didn’t feel in the mood.
For the last two years someone had been mutilating livestock out in the rural areas. It would start around the first of October, and end on the 31st. Various parts or organs of the animals were removed and taken away while the rest was left to rot. Jim knew from a discussion he had with Sheriff Lowenfeld two weeks before that the department expected the animal mutilations to start again. The sheriff ’s coverage of the rural areas was to be increased by the use of reserve deputies in unmarked cars patrolling the back roads. As Jim ate his breakfast, he kept thinking about Henry and his loaded shotgun. Henry was known to have a quick temper. If anyone should go out on his property for whatever reason, there could be serious trouble.
“About that cup,” Marge said, bringing Jim back to reality.
“Don’t you think you could stand another round?”
“You twisted my arm, Marge.”
“You know, you probably hear more about what goes on around here than anyone else in town. Has anyone said anything about missing livestock?”
Marge thought a moment, her large green eyes squinting as she concentrated. “No, not since last year, but I guess it’s about that time of year again, isn’t it?”
“If you do hear anything, let me know?”
“That I will, Chief.” Marge said, as she gave him a wink.
CHAPTER II
About seven miles south of Half Moon Bay, and a mile east of Highway 1, was the Nunez farm. Tucked away behind a solid line of eucalyptus trees, Adolfo Carranza was checking out the irrigation system for a large broccoli field. He had been busy connecting several lengths of pipe and had just finished the final hookup to the main water supply. He stood erect bending his back totally upright for the first time in several minutes. Although the sky was still overcast, the cool morning air had faded away. Carranza took off his jacket and walked over to the pickup truck to put it inside. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a green Ford LTD barely visible behind the stand of trees.
What’s that car doing out here? Carranza thought to himself. He knew this road led only to the Nunez farmhouse, and the car wasn’t one of theirs. He decided to check it out. As he walked over to the vehicle, he could see what appeared to be the back of someone’s head on the driver’s side. It looked like a man sleeping as the head was resting on the back of the seat. Carranza approached the driver’s side and was about to speak when he was cut short by an involuntary gasp. The man’s throat had been cut deeply and blood had sprayed all about the interior of the vehicle. Both the hands had been severed at the wrists, but were nowhere in sight. Next to the man was a woman. She was slumped forward with her head pressed against the dashboard.
“Mother of God,” Adolfo muttered aloud.
He walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. As he pulled it open, the woman’s body slid out landing face up on the ground. Nude from the waist up, he could see that both of her breasts had been cleanly sliced off and like the man’s hands, were nowhere to be seen. Her throat had been cut in the same manner as her companion’s. The palms of her hands were slashed deeply. The look of horror and shock on the woman’s face was a vision he would remember for the rest of his life. Carranza crossed himself and whispered a short prayer. Then he went back to his pickup and sped off to report what he had found to Manuel Nunez. Within the hour, Deputy Phil Thomas, Adolfo and Manuel were together at the grisly scene.