My New-Old Book
The Harlot’s Cup feels like a life long journey for me. I started this book in 1981 give or take a year. It was originally to be published by Random House but the editor that said she loved it suddenly retired while I was working on a re-write she asked for. When I called her to let her know I was shipping it in her phone rang to another woman who knew nothing about this project.
Girl Friday has convinced me that I should start letting my friends and fans and total strangers read it in segments. I think that’s a great idea so here it is and please feel free to send me any comments on the mystery as time goes by.
PROLOGUE
OCALA, FLA., JULY 2007
Marion McClellan gave an anguished glance at the bloodstained satchel between his knees and knew that unobtainable revenge was an unhealthy obsession. He leaned forward in the cockpit of his beloved World War II Corsair as aging eyes strained to see the lights of the airstrip through the black, rain-laden sky. He was wet. God, how he wished it was just good old sweat from hard labor or the Florida heat. But this wasn't the kind of sweat you can shed with a cold shower. This clammy wet ooze was what came out of a man when fear and anger seeped through his skin.
Combat vets knew it well and had it been another flashback of war, he could handle it with a walk in the rain, maybe once around the old airfield. The chalk-white faces and terror-drained voices of dead Marines would pass through his mind like some morbid photo album, but he could fight that off with a couple of shots of Tullamore Dew. War was not what haunted him, not this night. This never-buried ghost had stabbed at his futile efforts to sleep for years like the gleaming memory of a slender golden dagger sticking in a man's bloody temple.
Solving the sixty-year-old murder of his best friend had left him with no satisfaction. This inevitable evil wrapped in a profound biblical mystery seemed to make everything else insignificant. “The Harlot’s Cup,” McClellan mumbled and remembered laughing at the foolishness. Who in their right mind would believe this crap? A lifetime chasing this nightmare and he still had doubts. But he knew now that he was the fool in this unfulfilled prophecy.
He flinched as a long angry flash of white lightning streaked across the black sky beyond the gull-winged Corsair. He wiped at the cockpit glass with the sleeve of his old leather flight jacket and knew in his gut his time was short. A dim string of lights below brought out an audible sigh as he began his descent to the small, rural Ocala airstrip snuggled in the midst of acres of Florida orange groves. The radio crackled with static.
"This is Orange Field...Over."
"This is COR-1942...Over."
"Marion! What the blazes are you doin' up there in this weather, you fool!"
"Thanks for the welcome home, Charlie…Good to hear you.
"I thought the FAA took your license."
"Vicious rumors, Charlie."
"You're cleared to land, you old maniac. Don't kill yourself!"
"Roger-that, Charlie."
Five minutes later the dark blue Corsair touched down in a driving rain that would have frightened any flyer on earth. With barely a bump, McClellan rolled to the end of the strip, then taxied left, past a row of parked Cessnas, two hangars and a bright red 12-passenger commuter plane. He braked to a stop in front of an aluminum Quonset hut-style hangar, shut the old Corsair down and took a deep breath as the propeller choked out.
McClellan leaned his head back and watched the rain pelt the cockpit glass. His shoulders ached with fatigue and his eyes blurred with stress. He searched the stormy sky. No incoming lights. Thank God, he thought as he unstrapped himself. He opened the satchel, removed a file and a cell phone then shoved them under a small passenger seat behind the cockpit. He slid the cockpit glass back, grabbed the satchel and climbed out onto the wing. Cold rain struck his face like pins but it felt good. He shut the cockpit and climbed carefully down to the cement. He paused for a moment to get the feeling back in his legs and then looked up again, cocking his good left ear toward the lightning-filled sky. No engine sounds.
He rushed with an old age limp toward the hangar. To the left of the large hangar door was a smaller door with a light over it, illuminating a weathered red- and-yellow sign, "Flying Eye Detective Agency and Flight School." A small yellow aviation-fuel tanker truck was parked in front.
McClellan fumbled for his keys then nervously worked the deadbolt until it slid back with a solid click. A white burst of light was followed by a vicious crack from a nearby lightning strike. He jumped from the scare then pushed open the door and flipped on a light switch. A slobbering old chocolate Labrador greeted Marion with welcoming barks.
“Hey, Gunner! How’s my ol’ pal?” He knelt down to hug the dog and receive his customary slobbering. The cluttered, one-bedroom combination office and apartment was a tiny museum. A propeller fan whirred quietly over an old military trunk coffee table. He glanced at a large black-and-white framed photo hanging on the far wall. It showed two handsome young pilots standing beside an ancient Jenny bi-plane. So long ago, he sighed inwardly.
McClellan locked the door, moved to the cluttered coffee table, pushed aside a stack of week-old mail and magazines to make room for the satchel. He turned on a lamp precariously balanced on a nightstand by his claw-foot couch. He had fashioned it from the empty shell casing of a 105 Howitzer. He plopped down on the couch. A partly chewed cigar, like a pacifier for old pilots, beckoned to him from a pink ashtray in the shape of a naked woman. He grabbed the crusty cigar and stuck it in one corner of his mouth. He laid both hands on the satchel and wondered if a man ever got too old to care or too old to lust. His heartbeat was slowing now.
McClellan pushed nervous fingers through his disheveled silver hair and took a few deep breaths. The dog jumped up beside him as he opened the satchel and pulled out a folder. He took reading glasses from the inside pocket of his flight jacket, put them on and laid the folder open on the table. It was filled with old photos of two young pilots standing in front of two beautiful old biplanes holding a banner that read, The Springfield Flying Circus.
Gunner suddenly barked three times and jumped from the couch.
“Hear something, Gunner?”
The dog barked at the ceiling and ran to the front door. McClellan cocked an ear but could only hear the rumbling thunder from the growing storm. He dropped the file into the satchel, turned and rushed to the framed photo of the young pilots hanging on the wall. He lifted it off a nail to expose the hidden safe.
There was a sudden pause in the rolling thunder and the sound of a single-engine aircraft was clear. He glanced at the ceiling, then at the front door. McClellan worked the combination, opened the safe, pulled out a shoe box and hurried back to the satchel.
He crammed the photos into the shoe box on top of an old leather-bound diary and a DVD. He grabbed up a small recorder and hit record: “P.S. I’m being watched so take real care.” He hit the stop button and placed the recorder in the box then began sealing the box with masking tape. He tied it with string enough for Gunner to hold in his teeth.
Marion McClellan snatched up a black marker and scribbled an address on the box. He moved to a window and looked into the dark sky. For a moment, he could only stare, torn between an old man’s fear and a young pilot’s courage. A ferocious lightning strike shook the hangar and jerked his aging senses into gear.
“Here, Gunner!” He leaned over and placed the string handle in the dog’s mouth. “Take this to Charlie, boy. Take it to Charlie. Go!” The Labrador trotted to his doggy door leading out the back of the apartment and pushed through into the rainy night.
With his right hand, McClellan drew a military .45 caliber pistol from his shoulder holster and moved to the door, opened it and looked outside.
This title was written on her forehead:
“MYSTERY
BABYLON THE GREAT
THE MOTHER OF PROSTITUTES
AND OF THE ABOMINATIONS
OF THE EARTH."