“Dressed like a commando?”
“I didn’t say where I was coming from.”
She nodded at Ripper. “It looks like you boys were out together. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. How about you? You’ve got blood on your sleeve.”
Maria glanced at her jacket sleeve. “I helped get a guy into an ambulance downstairs. It looks like a bomb site out there. There are two dead guys in your lobby, too.”
“Edgar’s here.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Tell me you didn’t drag him into anything.”
Jake gestured to his office. “Ask him yourself.”
Maria entered the office and Jake followed her.
“Long time no see,” Edgar said.
“You were the talk of the station.”
“Unlike Jake, I’ve always been popular. How was your first day back?”
“Same old, same old. I caught a couple of dead hoppers downtown.”
Maria looked at Jake. “I was going to offer to take you out to dinner, but how about if the three of us go out instead?”
“Count me out,” Edgar said. “I’m going home.”
“I’ve got to stay here with Carrie and Ripper,” Jake said.
“Carrie’s your secretary, right?”
“Office manager,” Carrie said from the other room.
Maria closed the door. “Who’s Ripper, that perp with her?”
“I needed an extra person today.”
“For what? Jesus, Jake, we just got back. Can’t you take some time off?”
The bedroom door opened, and Laurel stepped out wearing Jake’s robe, her hair soaking wet.
Jake stiffened and Edgar shot him a panicked look.
“I feel a lot better,” Laurel said, noting Maria.
“Who’s this?” Maria said in an icy tone.
“I’m Laurel Doniger.”
“I told you about Laurel,” Jake said.
Maria’s expression tightened. “The psychic downstairs. What are you doing up here?”
“I’ll be going now,” Edgar said.
“Wait for me,” Maria said.
“I’ll wait out front, then.” Edgar escaped to the reception area and closed the door behind him.
“Why don’t you tell Maria what you want her to know?” Laurel said to Jake.
“You know my name?”
“I’ve told Laurel all about you,” Jake said.
Maria flashed an angry look at him. “Why don’t you tell me what you want me to know?”
“I’ll just wait in the bedroom.” Laurel returned to the back room and closed the door.
“What the hell was that?” Jake said.
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“Laurel’s in trouble. I’m helping her. That’s all you need to know.”
“What kind of help are you giving her, a shampoo? She looks pretty comfortable in that robe, which looks familiar. Oh yeah, I wore it this morning.”
“She needs my help the same way Edgar did. She’s a friend, she’s helped me in the past, and I owe her.”
“Why is she in your bedroom wearing your robe?”
“She isn’t safe anywhere else.”
Maria moved closer to him. “You told me you never slept with her.”
Jake swallowed. In Miami when Maria had asked him about Laurel, confessing his brief liaison with the psychic had seemed like an unnecessary complication.
“You fucking piece of shit.” Maria stormed past him and opened the door, then stopped and turned back to him. “Just so you know, Geoghegan’s got a major bug up his ass about you.” She continued into the reception area and slammed the front door.
Laurel emerged from the bedroom again. “I’m sorry about that.”
“It was kind of unavoidable.”
“You didn’t even try to stop her.”
“I know. I’ll pay for that later. But I wanted her gone for her own safety. Edgar, too. Neither one of them would have left if they’d had any idea what kind of trouble we’re in.” Moving behind his desk, Jake gestured at the chair on the other side. “It’s time you filled in the blanks for me.”
Laurel sat down. “What a switch, me sitting in your domain, like one of your clients. Are you sure you’re ready for the truth?”
Jake lowered himself onto the leather chair. “I already know that you’re Eden, Inc., and I’m pretty sure you stole ninety million dollars from Lilian.”
17
I was born in Hicksville, Long Island, where my father owned and operated a chain of movie theaters. Mother was a voracious reader, and left paperbacks of every genre lying around our house: Erle Stanley Gardner’s Perry Mason novels, Reader’s Digest Condensed Books, Jacqueline Susann novels, and romances. I got my love of the written word from her.
I got good grades in school, thanks to what was later determined to be a photographic memory. I related well to others, especially to my parents. I didn’t have any siblings so we were a close trio. I felt the beating of their hearts and the regulation of their breathing. I felt their vibrations when they were nearby and experienced separation anxiety when they weren’t. I had no idea that other children didn’t share the same connection.
One winter when I was in third grade I was playing in our backyard when I had the mischievous urge to throw a snowball at a sparrow chirping in our oak tree. I was terrible at sports and a pathetic shot, so it never occurred to me that I might actually strike it. My heart froze when the poor creature plummeted to the ground. I ran to where it had fallen and dug it from the snow with my mittens. The small bird quivered in my hands, its clawed feet moving in slow circles.
I raced to the back door of our house and banged on it, and when my mother opened it I showed her what I had done. Her expression told me the sparrow would not survive. Tears streamed down my cheeks and the sparrow turned still. I don’t remember sinking to my knees, but that’s where I found myself, still clinging to the sparrow, my teardrops spattering its feathers. Then a wave of nausea spread through my small body, and the bird kicked again. I sniffled, my eyes widening. The bird managed to right itself.
Sensing my mother’s astonishment, I rose. In the blink of an eye the sparrow took off. I watched it soar away, and the motion increased my nausea. The world spun around me and I tasted blood. I felt a weight crushing me into the snow, a sickness pinning me down. My mother crouched beside me and helped me to my feet, and I threw up in the snow.
Inside, my mother wiped my face with a tissue and got me out of my clothes, a peculiar look on her face. The sparrow hadn’t been dead but it had been dying. And it had flown away.
Two years later when I was twelve, our dog Bogie, a mutt with champagne-colored fur, slowed down. A tumor developed on his left side, and he walked with a limp, the tumor swinging from side to side. My father explained that Bogie would have to be put to sleep soon.
Bogie slept in my bed on what was supposed to be his last night, and I clung to him, weeping. I stayed up well into the night and awoke to Bogie licking my face. His newfound energy excited me, but when I sat up to embrace him my stomach lurched. I leapt out of bed and ran to the toilet just in time to vomit.
My mother kept me home from school, and I continued to vomit. At some point it occurred to me that I had thrown up more food than I could possibly have had in my stomach. I felt better by dinnertime, which was when we realized that Bogie’s tumor had disappeared and he had regained his former spunk. My father chose not to take him to the vet’s. Why spend the money? Bogie lived another three years and died of natural causes.
My period came when I was thirteen. A big deal in every young woman’s life, right? For me it was more like taking a step forward in evolution. I became sensitive to my parents’ presence and moods, even when I was alone in my room. I remember the first time I woke up because one of them had a nightmare; I didn’t wake because I heard my mother screaming but because her thoughts and mental images intruded on my sleep. They almost suffocated
me, and I awoke in a confused panic. I was even more disturbed the first time I experienced one of my father’s dreams.
Over the next five years my senses developed. When I touched someone, their thoughts and emotions overwhelmed me, which made dating difficult; there’s such a thing as knowing too much about a person. This all could have taken a toll on me. The temptation to drink or drug my awareness into submission was great, but I had a passion for learning, which dictated that I take care of myself and deal with my growing abilities. I researched psychic phenomena and spiritual healing and visited psychics to see what I could learn from them.
Most were frauds, but one, a psychic healer in Brooklyn, was the real deal. “You absorb the sickness and injuries of others like poison,” Madam Selena said. “But then it’s inside you like poison. That’s why you throw up. It’s important that you expel this poison because if you don’t you can die. Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking you can heal yourself. That’s for physicians, not healers.”
I had no intention of using these powers if I could avoid it, although I knew my experiences had already had an impact on my writing. My teachers said I had a superior grasp of character development and insight into human behavior, and I graduated high school with honors and won a scholarship to Vassar, where I majored in creative writing and minored in business at my father’s insistence. I sold my first romance novel to Harlequin under a pseudonym during my freshman year and sold several more by the time I graduated. I had a number of relationships and learned to ignore the energies I read from my companions, at least short term.
One day during my senior year a sophomore boy
collapsed in the cafeteria. His energy had been compromised, and I knew he had suffered a drug overdose. Someone called 911, but everyone basically stood around doing nothing, and I felt his energy fading. I had no choice but to help, so I kneeled beside him and put my hands on his chest.
He had been snorting heroin all night and then crashed, missing his morning class. He awoke for lunch, snorted some more, then wandered over to the cafeteria, a rich boy with a golden future as long as I intervened. But I could scarcely sit there and meditate, chanting while I sucked the poison out of his body. With all my fingertips pressed against his chest, I leaned forward and blew into his mouth. I drew the heroin out of his body through my fingers, but as far as the witnesses knew, I was giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
I heard his heartbeat and felt his blood streaming through his veins. I also felt my fingers sinking through his flesh and into his body, and a dreamy rainbow spread through me. Then I threw my head back and projectile vomited at the lunch lady, and it was my turn to collapse. I hadn’t absorbed all the drug, but I saved that brat’s life. His family pulled him out of school, and none of them even bothered to thank me. Bogie had showed more appreciation. That’s what makes animals beautiful, isn’t it? I guess that’s why I felt so protective of Edgar when you brought him to me.
I went to Random House right out of college as an assistant editor. There’s nothing like reading books for a living to take the fun out of reading. After six months in the corporate world, I decided to get back to doing what I loved. I wanted to write more than disposable romance novels; I wanted to remain in that genre but at a more prestigious level. I kept up my twelve-hour days, then wrote at night and somehow managed to find time to query agents. That’s a fun process: send out twenty letters and wait for those self-addressed stamped envelopes to come back in the mail like homing pigeons.
Finally I got a nibble. A man named James Spider from a major agency invited me out for drinks and told me he planned to start his own agency and wanted to represent me. The only catch was that he also wanted to sleep with me. I declined his offer, and he became verbally abusive and told me I would never amount to more than I already was. It was the most humiliating experience of my life. That man broke my spirit.
One of my duties for Random House was to attend World Book Expo, and that’s where I met Lilian. I waited in line to have her sign her latest novel for my mother. I sputtered like any overenthusiastic fan, and somehow she understood my babbling about who I was and what I did. Harla Soto, the president of the company, said she knew my work and thought it was good. Lilian invited me to come see them when I had something new. I was so elated that I didn’t even realize I had sensed nothing when I shook Lilian’s hand; I got no reading from her at all.
I spent every free minute writing Love Never Sleeps, then submitted it to Lillian and waited, which is such a big part of the process.
I didn’t have to wait long: Harla called one week later and asked me to come in for a meeting at the Flatiron Building. Eternity Books occupies the top floor. Lilian had held on to the electronic rights to all her books, and she released the e-books through Eternity and produced her own audio books. The money rolled in, along with fresh TV and movie interest. She and Harla also took on the best talent they could, hiring established authors from the other houses.
Walking into the Eternity offices was like stepping into high society for artists. Lilian had hired top designers to transform the odd-shaped office space of the Flatiron into a luxurious gallery, museum, and lounge all rolled into one. The receptionist knew my name, and Harla greeted me and took me into her office. She said my novel had great potential, and they wanted to sign me to a multi-book contract with a larger advance than I had ever dreamed of. I quit my job the next day.
I worked closely with Lilian and her editors, who made my writing better than it had ever been. Lilian mentored me herself; she said my characterization was top-notch, but my historical details needed greater attention. It amazed me how much she knew about the Middle Ages. We reshaped the book’s structure, adding subplots and increasing suspense.
Eternity unveiled Love Never Sleeps at World Book Expo and treated me like a celebrity. Harla took out full-page ads in Publishers Weekly and hung giant banners in the convention center. Radio spots ran on stations across the country, and their in-house publicist booked interviews for me in every imaginable media outlet. Lilian made sure my book became a best seller, and within a year I was close to a household name.
I moved into a one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan, and Lilian shuttled me to the best and most exclusive parties, where I rubbed elbows with the rich and famous. Lilian thrived on glitz and glamour, and for the first time in my life, I was the object of attention from the media, the paparazzi, and men. Lilian encouraged me to date actors and musicians but to maintain an aura of mystery, playing coy when asked about my liaisons. Our publicist fed the information to the gossip columnists, and I was surprised anyone gave a damn.
I wrote every weekday, and every other weekend I went to Lilian’s mansion. The Roman architecture is intentional, because debauchery was always on the menu. Lilian invited everyone from her staff on these retreats, but I was the only author besides herself. She considered the authors she had hired away from the other houses old hat. She had used them to help build the foundation for her success, to slap the other publishers in the face and send a signal that she had no intention of playing nice. She was ruthless in business and enjoyed twisting the knife with a smile.
We each got our own room when we stayed at the mansion. At first we imbibed expensive alcohol, imported from around the world. Later Lilian introduced us to exotic narcotic drinks, encouraging us to let down our guard and free our inhibitions. These drinks had powerful hallucinatory effects that stimulated my body in ways I had never known.
Marathons of sex followed, sometimes with men Lilian
arranged for us and sometimes with each other. I had never been interested in drugs or women as sexual partners before, but under Lilian’s careful orchestration both were impossible to resist; we held orgies that would have made Caligula
envious. The pleasure was intense, mind-boggling, and
exhausting.
After a weekend in Eastchester, I needed days to recuperate. The excursions had an unexpected side effect on me: I became mor
e aware of my surroundings, more sensitive to the energies of the people around me. My mild psychic abilities blossomed, and I found myself looking forward to Lilian’s concoctions and surprises. I evolved, and there was nothing I wouldn’t do for Lilian, whose physical attention proved overwhelming. She encouraged us to explore each other in any manner of combinations, but she had one rule: we were never to engage each other beyond her walls.
In private we addressed each other as “sister,” and Lilian referred to us as a “sisterhood,” a secret, superior society. I grew to view our sisterhood as a cult, with myself as a willing participant. A year passed before I caught the first whiff of witchcraft. When I was high and Lilian had her legs wrapped around me, pushing God knows what inside me, she whispered obscenities into my ear, which, in my intoxicated state, drove me wild. But as time progressed, I realized Lilian’s boastful proclamations had nothing to do with fantasy. Her goal wasn’t to turn me on but to indoctrinate me into her coven, and she succeeded.
We didn’t wear cloaks, we didn’t worship Satan, and we didn’t follow the order of Wicca. There were no Ouija boards in the house, no books of spells. Lilian never invoked the name of any deity; if anything, she set herself on a pedestal for us to kneel before. She dismissed any notion of an afterlife and pushed us to live for ourselves in the moment, to be brave enough to take what we wanted and feel no remorse.
The deeper I sank into her self-aggrandizing world, the more I came to realize that my sisters had been collaborators with Lilian the whole time, playing the roles of neophytes for my benefit to make me believe we were all falling under her spell at the same time. This should have made me angry but it didn’t. I felt welcomed. Loved. And I knew that with the possible exception of Lilian, none of them shared my ability, which made me Lilian’s favorite acolyte. At the time, nothing mattered more.
We practiced spells that increased our narcotized state and heightened our pleasure. It occurred to me that Lilian placed love spells on all of us each weekend. Then there were the cats, black and shiny. Lilian kept so many of them in the house that I questioned her common sense. I realized that she owned one for herself and one for each of my sisters. Every feline was a neutered male and wore a jeweled collar. I wondered when Lilian would present me with my own pet and whether or not I was hers.
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