A Peek Behind The Veil (c)
Chapter One
By Fiction Writer #13
Editors and Consultants - Red Barron, Tajod & TeNderLoiN
(nosex, paranormal)

The 1966 beat up and rusted blue Chevy Chevelle hadn't moved an inch 
in over a week.  It didn't even remotely belong in the neighborhood.  It 
stuck out like a sore thumb among the upper middle class homes that 
lined the street.  Had anyone been living in the homes during this time of 
the year, the police would have had it towed away.  But it was late 
December in the seaside community of Monmouth, NJ.  Residents of the 
neighborhood had long since flown off to sunnier locales, escaping the 
stinging winds blowing off the pitiless ocean.

The city wasn't empty, though the population dropped severely during 
the holidays.  To add to the seasonal depopulation, the normally bustling 
University nearby had sent its students away for Christmas break.  By 
now those young adults were receiving the results of all their hard work 
in the mail, or finding out the hard way that partying without studying was 
a sure way to lose a scholarship.

Those few residents who remained behind often simply could not afford 
to travel as some of the more affluent had done on the heels of the first 
flurry.  They were the gardeners, the maids, the small shop owners, and 
others who actually kept the city running.  But then, they didn't live in this 
section of town.  Moreover, while their employers were off enjoying the 
sun and sands of Florida, they had little or no reason to come here.  So, 
the offending blue automobile sat unmolested and undisturbed as the 
bitter winds of the gray ocean roared on by.

If anyone had driven down the street and peered into the old muscle car, 
they would have noticed that it wasn't empty. Behind the wheel sat the 
car's owner, his appearance matching that of his ride; worn out and tired.

Nicolas Stone looked much older than his forty-nine years of life should 
have made him.  His face, covered by a month's growth of facial hair, 
was stern and emotionless as he stared vacantly out through the grimy 
windshield at the house numbered 527.  His steely gray eyes matched 
that of the sea and the sky, the latter about to let fall the first of many 
white flakes of snow.

His dark hair, still thick and full despite a genetic predisposition for male 
pattern baldness, was wild and unkempt.  The clothing wrapped around 
him kept him warm, but wouldn't be getting him onto the pages of GQ 
magazine anytime soon... not that he cared.  His current outfit made him 
look like a cross between an Eskimo and a burned out Hell's Angel, 
bereft of his chopper.  Fur and leather, denim and down, it did what it 
was supposed to do, keeping him safe and warm.

Despite the odd choice of fashion, he was still able to move freely when 
he chose.  An old friend had put together this particularly unappealing 
tangle of fabrics with great skill.  The seams would not tear, the fabric 
could not be pierced, and the garment offered a special secret protection 
that no other New York designers could have incorporated into their 
fashion lines.  A defense against the darker powers of the world had 
been sewn by expert hands into the patchwork lining.  But then, that 
degree of protection did nothing to alleviate the smell, a blend of days 
old dried sweat and not a little fear.  The fear was born of apprehension; 
it was a good fear, if fear can ever be called good.  It was often his edge, 
the only one he had.  That fear meant the razor thin difference between 
life, if that's what one would call this current existence of his, and death.

The passenger seat was piled high with the remains of the meager 
meals he had brought with him.  That supply of food was running low, 
too low for Nick's comfort, if he had even thought about comfort.  The 
case of water that had once been under a stack piled high in the 
backseat was now reduced to just three somewhat frozen bottles.  
Something had better happen soon or he would have to leave and re-
supply his stock.

That was something Nick hoped he wouldn't need to do.  He hadn't left 
the car since he set out from his office in New York days ago.  He hadn't 
left it even to relieve himself, choosing instead to fill empty water bottles 
with his liquids and old food containers with his solid waste.  In the 
beginning those items had remained inside the car with him, but after 
two days of an increasingly foul stench he deposited them 
unceremoniously by the curb next to the car.

He didn't like leaving the disgusting surprise for the residents to discover 
when they returned, but it was his only alternative.  He couldn't leave, 
not now, not when the once cold trail had finally led him to this very spot.

Hidden from view, deep beneath the layers of clothing, Nick's tattoo's 
itched terribly.  To a layman, Nick's ink-work would have appeared as 
nothing more than a series of tribal designs and foreign characters.  Few 
would recognize them for what they really were; fewer still would believe 
that they were of any real use.

Nick, however, had trusted the wild claims of the artist who created 
them, and in the years following their painful application he grew to trust 
the magic worked into their spidery designs.  The itching only added to 
the proof behind the artist's bravado, something in this neighborhood 
wasn't right.  The current residents of house number 527 were not whom 
they claimed to be.

Over the years Nick had accumulated quite a collection of trinkets and 
talismans.  A good portion had been gifts presented to him as a thank 
you or as payment for his work, others were given by the few friends he 
still trusted in dark arts underground.

Some worked, but most fell far short of the hype that accompanied them.  
Nick found out the hard way that if you really needed something to live 
up to its claims, it would come at a high price.  Sometimes that price was 
too high, requiring things more valuable than cash, or crossing a line that 
he was as yet unwilling to cross.

Resisting the overpowering urge to claw at his inflamed skin, Nick thrust 
his gloved hand into his pocket and retrieved a mini tape recorder.  It 
was digital, requiring no actual cassette, but this device and any of its ilk 
would always be a mini tape recorder in Nick's mind.  This was also the 
most advanced piece of technology that he owned since his computer 
had been stolen.

He hadn't missed that evil electronic box very much.  He and the 
infamous 'Blue Screen of Death' had been enemies since the day he first 
booted it up.  Still, the internet had its uses; so whenever he needed to 
look something up, or visit a particular forum, it had to be done from a 
library or an upscale cafe, two places he didn't really fit in.  Looking like a 
homeless man had its advantages, but not in any of those places.

The tiny chrome recorder glinted dully in the muted daylight grown 
ominously dim with the approaching nor'easter.  He'd been carrying it in 
his pocket for about a year, still unused.  One of his inner circle of 
friends, a psychic named Lena, had given it to him, and made him 
promise that he'd record his story so that it wouldn't be lost to the world.

She'd had a vision of dark times ahead for Nick, his future uncertain.  
She told him he was coming to a crossroad in his life.  A decision would 
have to be made, his eventual outcome, good or bad, determined by the 
path he chose.  That was as detailed as she was willing to give him.  
Nick joked that all psychics seemed to leave the future conveniently 
open, just to make sure their clients kept paying.  Lena hadn't laughed.

So here he was, sitting alone in his car, wondering if this was the 
crossroad that she had mentioned so long ago.  She had made him 
promise to record his life's journey for those who wanted to know how it 
all began.  She said he was important, that he was going to do great 
things, things that would have long lasting effects in the world he found 
himself investigating.  He had the power to change things, to bring some 
light into the darkness, but only if he chose to do so.

Psychics say a lot of things, though, and he ignored her wishes, even 
after he found her murdered body lying on the floor of his office.  That 
was nearly four months ago, but the stark image of her corpse, splayed 
open, organs removed and placed neatly around her head, still caused 
him to wake up at night in a cold sweat.

He'd been on the run since then, avoiding the accusations of the police, 
and dodging those who had torn his friend's body into pieces as a 
warning to him.  They were powerful... they were many... and the world, 
the 'go to work everyday to provide for my family' world, had no idea that 
others were conspiring against them.  No, Nick was alone in all of this, 
really alone... more so than at any previous time in his increasingly 
desolate life.

Still, something big was about to happen.  He could sense it.  Something 
Nick had been investigating for a long time with few answers.  He wasn't 
sure what he would do if he ever found those answers, but he had to try.  
Too many good people were dying, dying like Lena had.  All to protect a 
secret that those who walked the dark path wanted kept hidden from 
prying eyes.

Putting the recorder close to his weather chapped lips he spoke with a 
voice full of gravel.

"This is for you Lena... better late than never, I guess..." He took a swig 
of water from one of the half frozen bottles of water. "My name is Nicolas 
Stone, and this is my story..."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

I guess I should keep this honest... I wasn't born with the name Nicolas 
Stone... I was born Nicolas Stone Eddings.  Stone was my mother's 
maiden name and was included as part of a parental compromise, 
Nicolas being my grandfather's name on my dad's side.

I grew up in Dover, Delaware, just outside the air base where my father 
worked.  He always wanted to be a pilot, but a birth defect, a heart 
murmur, kept him from ever leaving the ground.  I knew even back then 
that it killed him inside, not being able to fly like his father had during 
WWII.  But sometimes you just have to play with the cards that are dealt 
to you.  Life can be cruel like that.

Dad was a mechanic; his job was to keep the planes he so desperately 
wanted to fly, in the air where they belonged.  He mostly worked on C-5 
Galaxy transports, a big beast of a plane.  You'd recognize them if you 
saw them.  Whenever we go to war, and it seems we always are, these 
are the planes that the local news channels love to show in the 
background as brave men and women say their private good-byes to 
friends and family on the tarmac.  Later on, they're the same planes that 
bring the lucky ones back home.  You can see close-ups of their families 
crying tears of joy as the news cameras scramble to catch every 
heartfelt reunion.

Those behemoths have other duties besides the ferrying of soldiers to 
and from the battlefront, though the news doesn't normally report them.  
Each day they carry the brunt of an airbase that handles more freight 
than FedEx and UPS combined.  When the chips are down, they carry 
much needed supplies and machinery out to which ever country we 
have a grudge going with, and return forlornly with the flag draped 
caskets of the fallen warriors, those who would not have the happy 
reunion with family as everyone hoped.

I could always tell when one of those shipments came in from Vietnam.  
My dad would come home white as a sheet and remain silent until his 
head hit his pillow.  One time I caught him talking in his sleep after one 
such silent evening. 'So many... ' he had whispered, tears running down 
his cheeks, '... so many... all gone.'

That was the first time I ever saw my father cry, and I remember hoping 
it would be the last.  Cancer made sure that it wasn't.  My mom was 
diagnosed with the 'Big C' when I was in the sixth grade.  She was gone 
by the time I was in the seventh.  Sometimes, at night, I sit up trying to 
remember what she was like.  I know that I should remember, but for 
some reason that part of my life is locked away.  Perhaps it's my mind's 
way of keeping me from breaking down during these dark times; 
Keeping thoughts of my once beautiful and happy mother safe behind a 
wall so high that the images of her wasting away can't hurt me.

My family struggled on without her.  Dad kept the planes in the air and 
food on the table, and I stepped up to help raise my little sister Karen.  
She was only a few years younger than I was, but mom's passing really 
affected her.  She withdrew into herself, losing friends because she no 
longer cared about the same things they did.  Karen lost herself in 
schoolwork, becoming something of a nerd, though back then the term 
was bookworm.  I was doing pretty well, I thought at the time, and right 
up until the last several years.  These days, as I look back over the 
intervening years since Mom died, I'm not so sure.

It was during high school that I got the name that I still use today.  Jeff 
Collins, that little prick, thought he was going to bully me during my 
freshman year.  Somehow he found out that my middle name was 
Stone, and I guess he thought it was funny, because for some reason he 
began to call me Nick Stoned.  Is that funny?  I didn't think so, but then 
again, I didn't think much of anything was funny after my mom died.

One day that miserable puke thought it would be hilarious to knock the 
books I was holding to the floor, while making some crack about my 
being so stoned that I couldn't even hold them.  Now, I'd never been one 
to resort to violence to solve my problems, but I was never a pussy, 
either.  I hit that kid so hard that his nose gave him breathing problems 
for years to come. One punch, one perfectly placed and timed punch, 
turned my joke of a middle name into one that kept the bullies and 
assholes out of my way until graduation.  When Jeff Collins hit the tiled 
floor, blood pouring from his face and an agonizing cry escaping his 
lungs, I became the man I am today.  Funny thing is, since I'm the only 
one who gets to laugh, I still don't know where that punch came from.  I 
think I may have been more surprised than Jeff.

Tyrell Bennice, the biggest black kid in my school, star quarterback and 
the most popular senior in my town and the next, witnessed my right 
hook.

'Damn, kid!' he said while putting his arm around my shoulders, 'They 
oughta call you Nicky Stones, 'cause you sure as shit got a pair!'  This 
got a laugh from everyone but Jeff, who was still moaning and dripping 
blood everywhere, and from that day on I was Nicky Stones.  Definitely 
an upgrade as far as nicknames go and well worth the shit I got from my 
dad when he heard that I was expelled for fighting.  Oh, he was pissed, 
all right, but I could tell that he was also proud of me for standing up for 
myself.

The rest of high school went by uneventfully, nothing out of the norm.  
After graduation my dad had always assumed I'd join the Air Force like 
he and his father had done.  I think I broke his heart when I didn't.  
Instead, I went and studied criminal justice at a community college, then 
went to the Dover police academy.  For years I felt like I had let him 
down by not becoming a pilot.  I couldn't tell him that I was afraid to fly.  
That would have killed him, I think.  Instead, I struggled through police 
training, and on the day of graduation my father told me how proud he 
was of me.  That, I think, was the happiest moment of my entire life.

I worked my way up through the ranks of the Dover police department 
fairly quickly.  My dream was to be a detective by the age of twenty-
eight, a tough goal since I chose to start at the bottom and work my way 
up the ranks, but one I knew I could achieve if I worked hard enough.  
By then Karen had used her book smarts to get herself a full scholarship 
at NYU; she wanted to be a journalist.  The month before her 
graduation, we got word that dad had suffered a stroke.  The doctors did 
all they could to make him comfortable, but it was only a matter of time 
before he would pass away.  Karen believed he was trying to hold on 
until she graduated; he'd wanted to be there for her so badly.

He didn't make it, though.  He wasn't there to see his little girl receive 
her diploma, nor to hear her make her valedictory speech as Summa 
Cum Laude.  Karen had a nervous break down after losing him; she was 
always daddy's little girl - like she'd had a choice? - and now she wasn't.  
She withdrew into herself even further than she had when mom died.  To 
me, it was almost as if I had lost her along with Dad.

She didn't come back to Dover, nor did she stay in New York for very 
long after her graduation.  The East Coast apparently had too many 
ghosts for her to bear.  She caught a direct flight to LAX and never 
looked back.  At first she called me nearly every day to tell me how 
different it was out on the 'left' coast.  But in time the calls dwindled 
down to once a month, if I was lucky.

Maybe, if I hadn't been so distracted with my own life, I would have 
noticed the change in Karen.  But, as I said, I had my own problems to 
deal with back then.  I don't like to talk about it... but I was married... 
briefly.  I met her during a city fund-raiser, a softball game between the 
police and fire departments.  I've never been much of a sports guy; too 
much testosterone and stupid bullshit.  So I volunteered to take 
donations from the crowd.  One girl caught my eye right away, and we 
spent the rest of the afternoon together.  We seemed to click and began 
dating off and on for about a year.

She was a cute little thing, blonde hair and big tits, but little else as far as 
intelligence goes.  She truly was a fun girl to hang out with.  We often 
talked nonstop for hours at a time, drank with the other officers at the 
unofficial cop bar, and fucked like there was no tomorrow.  At that point 
in my life I thought that meant we were in love.  Boy was I ever wrong!

We were wed a week after I got my first promotion.  No more footwork 
for me, I got a car of my own for patrolling.  I thought things were going 
well, but I guess she had another view.  They say that life with a cop can 
be hard.  I don't think she even tried, though.  Nine months into our 
marriage I caught her having an affair with some guy she had met at the 
bar.

The bitch had filed for divorce a week before, it turned out.  I was served 
the papers the next day.  I should have killed her and the fuckhead that 
was banging her, but I didn't, I just walked away. I didn't have the energy 
left in me to do much of anything.  Catching her drained me of all 
feelings for a long time.  I was so numb that I didn't even put up a fight in 
court.  She got everything that she wanted out of me: the house, the car, 
even my dog.  Fuck that mutt... he always liked her more anyway.

I stopped trusting people because of her.  That might be the worst thing 
of all, not being able to trust.  It made me bitter; gave me a 'fuck 
everyone' mentality that still persists even to this day.  Men might use 
their fists to fuck someone up, but bruises and broken bones heal.  The 
hurt a woman can inflict is far more damaging.  Those emotional scars 
never seem to heal.

Eventually I did make detective... but not until I was thirty.  Those were 
heady times.  The eighties brought the so-called war on drugs, and I was 
in a forward position on the front lines.  My hard work led to several 
successful busts, one of which stopped a shipment of nearly a million 
dollars worth of heroin from hitting the streets.  I made quite the name 
for myself in the local community, meaning that I was something of a 
hero even.

But, as good as everyone thought I was, I couldn't see what was 
happening right under my nose.  The phone calls from Karen started 
coming more erratically.  Then she began asking if I could loan her some 
cash, just until she got back on her feet.  Being the good brother that I 
am, I wired her the cash without another word about when it would be 
paid back.  After that, it was as if a dam had broken.

Every call was another request for cash.  She gave one excuse after 
another: rent was due, car broke down, can't pay the electric bill, no 
cash until payday, lost her job, the water heater broke and flooded her 
apartment, she needed to see a dentist but didn't have insurance.  One 
after another those warning bells came, in the form of increasingly 
bizarre phone calls.  Yet the great detective didn't put two and two 
together until those phone calls suddenly stopped.

I made a few phone calls to the LAPD, but they were in no mood to help 
some guy on the east coast find his lost sister.  I tried a few PI's as well, 
but got similar results.  No one had seen hide nor hair of Karen for 
months.

At that point I finally knew what I had to do.  I took a leave of absence 
from the force and headed out to LA to find her myself.  I even flew out 
there, too scared about Karen to worry about the plane dropping out of 
the sky.

Los Angeles has all the charm of a head cold.  When people say that 
everyone in LA is fake they only get it part right, everything is fake, bar 
none.  The place is supposed to be a desert, so they pump in water and 
plant trees that don't belong.  Even the buildings seem out of place 
somehow, a mismatch of style with location.

It's a city without a long enough history to give it a personality, since it 
was only in the '30's that it got a stable enough water supply to 
mushroom.  So, its residents have invented their own for it.  I can't really 
say for sure whether its layout was over or under-planned.  I just know 
that the whole magilla feels out of place, and that feeling is eerily 
conveyed to all who live and breathe the choking air.  Sorry, but I'd take 
the cold, gray concrete and steel of New York over that place any day.

Finding Karen wasn't as difficult as I was led to believe.  Once I tracked 
down her apartment, the pieces all seemed to fall into place.  Her place 
was a hodge-podge of garbage and dirty needles, but hadn't been lived 
in for some time.  However, I did find some phone numbers to call.  Her 
junky friends were quick to give up a tidbit of info in exchange for 
enough dough to buy a fix.

Shortly thereafter I found her turning tricks outside of a motel, her arms 
clearly displaying the pain she had inflicted upon herself.  I barely 
recognized her anymore, the drugs had stripped away everything that 
resembled the bookworm sister I had once known and loved.

I watched dumbfounded as she stumbled down the street in high-heeled 
shoes.  I couldn't think of how to approach her.  At one point she passed 
under a streetlight, and I could see her face plainly.  I shivered.  She was 
so much as Mom looked, just before Mom left us.  Her eyes were dark 
and sunk into her skull, giving her the appearance of the walking dead.  
Her hair had degenerated into a greasy tangled mess.  Her skin 
stretched across her bones far too tightly.

When I finally pulled the rental car up beside her I was crying.  She 
stumbled over to the window, and she didn't even know who I was.  She 
propositioned me with a blowjob for $20.  God, I felt sick.  The bile rose 
up into my throat, but I held it in check.  I told her to get in the car and 
she did so without another question.

We were halfway to LAX before recognition of who I was finally struck 
her.  I had to pull over and hold her as she cried.  She was aware 
enough to be ashamed of what she had become, of what she had been 
doing.  I told her that I was going to help her.  I told her that I was taking 
her back to Dover so that she could get her life back together.  She 
didn't complain or try to stop me, life as an addict had drained the fight 
from her.  She slept the whole flight back, slept while I held her tight.

Things were good for a few months when I got back home.  Karen 
seemed to be doing much better.  The combination of rehab and 
counseling had brought back some semblance of the sister that I once 
knew.  That didn't last long, though.

Things started to turn up missing from my home.  Small things at first: a 
few albums, some cash, maybe a carton of cigarettes.  Most of it went 
unnoticed by me, but when my checks started to bounce, I knew 
instantly she had fallen back into her old habits.  Confrontations 
escalated, her lies persisted.  She was heavily in denial.  Then, one day 
she crossed a line.

My grandfather had fought in WWII, had been a fighter pilot who flew 
escort missions over Europe for our bombers.  He was shot down over 
France, but had managed to bail out at the last minute.  He always 
carried an old and tarnished silver flask with him, said it was for luck.  
Turns out that flask had stopped a bullet from reaching his heart when 
his plane was shot down.  He passed that flask down to my father when 
he joined the Air Force.  My father passed it on to me when I graduated 
from the police academy.  My sister hocked it for measly twenty bucks.

For two years I had taken care of her.  Fed her.  Kept a roof over her 
head.  Paid for her methadone.  Kept her from being put behind bars.  
She could have sold my TV, my car, my stereo, but she chose to sell 
that flask.  She knew what it meant to me, and still she did it.  Something 
inside me tore. Karen was lost to me.  There was nothing that I, or 
anyone else, could have done to protect her from herself.  You can't help 
someone who doesn't want to be helped.

I kicked her out, telling her not to come back, but of course, she did.  Her 
stock line was always saying that she was sorry, and that she really 
wanted to get help.  At first, though my heart was no longer in it, I took 
her back.  But then, more things would just turn up missing, so she'd be 
out again.  Another year of broken promises and lies passed before I 
finally had had enough.  The woman I had been helping was definitely 
no longer my sister.  She was nothing more than a shell.  She was 
heroin's slave, nothing more.

I couldn't watch while another member of my family wasted away, so I 
ran.  I ran away from everyone and everything that I had tried so hard to 
keep.  I sold my home, my belongings, and left the police force.

You see... I had a dream... a silly dream begun when I was just a little 
kid.  I grew up reading about Sherlock Holmes, Dick Tracy, and watched 
all of those black and white film noir movies about private detectives... 
and I thought... that's really what I want to do with my life... I want to be 
just like them.  Real life had kept me in Dover catching drug dealers and 
thugs, but my fantasy had a much grander plan.  Or, so it seemed at the 
time.  I had to leave everything and everyone behind.  I had to start off 
brand new, with a clean slate for writing my new story.

My childhood dream took me to New York City, and that's where Nick 
Stone, Private Eye, was born.

Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?



Continued in Chapter Two....


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