Dark Star Read online

  DARK STAR

  By

  Paul D. Alexander

  Copyright© 2010 by Paul D. Alexander

  All Rights Reserved

  CONTENTS

  EPIGRAPH

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  SECOND CORINTHIANS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  EPIGRAPH

  If the semi-diameter of a sphere of the same density as the Sun were to exceed that of the Sun in the proportion of 500 to 1, a body falling from an infinite height towards it would have acquired at its surface greater velocity than that of light, and consequently supposing light to be attracted by the same force in proportion to its vis inertiae (inertial mass), with other bodies, all light emitted from such a body would be made to return towards it by its own proper gravity.

  -John Michell

  November 1783

  Michell, a geologist, speculated: When the escape velocity, at the surface of a star, is equal to or greater than light-speed, the star’s gravity will trap the generated light. Some proportion of any double-star system should contain at least one dark star.

  Within the tenants of Newtonian Mechanics, a dark star’s own gravity traps any light emitted from its surface and renders the star dark.

  The Star’s gravitational pull devours its own light.

  PROLOGUE

  “Dear God,” down on his knees, James David Deacon Jones prayed in a loud, clear voice to the eerie, black Missouri sky. “Please forgive me my sins and for the life I have led. Lord, if you cannot absolve me, please take from me this wretched existence.” Inside his jacket pocket, he clinched the cold pistol, his instrument of salvation. His cries for help were loud, but his voice made not a sound. No one was there to hear. Perhaps, he thought, not even God. Deacon, at nearly thirty years old, was a tortured, suicidal, self-ruined man.

  The promise he made to Doc Edwards, only hours before, reverberated in his mind; all thoughts of self-sacrifice were overshadowed by honor. If I can’t keep my word to Doc, I’m truly worthless; this is a coward’s way out. He relaxed his grip on the pistol, clasped his hands together, and continued to pray.

  He had not always been this way, but his life had changed. Circumstances altered; the past caught up with him. His destiny became his reality. It was time for Deacon to pay for his sins.

  *****

  James David Jones dropped out of High School in April of his senior year. He could easily have finished. However, rebellion was sweeter than the ceremony.

  The same month, his father the Reverend attempted to summon him to his study; James David flatly refused. The Reverend searched for James David and found him on the street. A cruel and un-Christian verbal tirade ensued. James David had not expected it to go easy. After all, he later thought; if it were going to be easy, it wouldn’t have happened. He was surprised to learn from his father’s rant that he was two-months old before they named him. Against her husband’s wishes, his mother insisted on naming him for the Reverend’s brother. The news was a distressing confirmation of the fact he was an unwanted addition to the Reverend’s life.

  This night, down on his knees, alone in the dark, struggling with thoughts of suicide Deacon remembered that day in the street, and suddenly understood why he had spent his nearly thirty years trying to make his life an exact opposite of his reluctant father.

  This night he found himself at the vortex of a frenzied death-spiral that surreptitiously began months before. Oddly enough, the genesis of his demise was not the Reverend; it was innocuous junk mail. Unsolicited religious propaganda which was delivered by the postman with alarming frequency. Because of the excessive quantity, Deacon speculated that every right-wing religious faction, on the planet, had his name.

  He should not have opened it, but he did. The graphic images leaped from every page and burned a hole in his mind. The pamphlets contained watercolors of Jesus and his disciples fishing and ministering, serpents, crosses and vibrant interpretations of Bible stories like those, which his father, the Reverend, verbally and physically beat into him throughout his childhood. The words and pastel-laced depictions awakened memories of an existence he despised. A life he thought he had left far behind, long ago, forever.

  Next, the dreams came; they rapidly mutated into unspeakable nightmares. Eventually, overcome by insufferable desperation, Deacon crawled inside a bottle of Jack Daniels; the booze became his best friend. Prostrate inside his dank, self-imposed distillation of an existence, he subsisted for nearly a year before the true, physical horror began.

  *****

  The first night of the flesh-based maelstrom occurred behind a bar on the St. Louis riverfront. It was early evening, and Deacon was long since inebriated. The Bartender mentioned that a gorgeous, brown-haired woman was asking about him. Horny and drunk, he unsuccessfully searched every corner of the converted factory building. After last-call, he staggered outside. While fumbling to put the key in his motorcycle ignition, a compelling voice urgently called to him. Check behind the building. She’s waiting. If you want to fuck her, look behind the bar. Although it came from inside his head, the insistent chatter was not Deacon’s voice.

  In the pitch-black alley, he stumbled over of an eviscerated corpse, and fell face down in a pile of rancid garbage. An acrid stench, of drying blood and putrid food, overpowered him. He turned his stomach, repeatedly, until he lay unconscious in a shallow pool of his own vomit.

  Rapidly, following that unforgettable night, he saw his father’s prophecy begin to come true. He plummeted, tumbling, cascading over his own frailties into a personal apocalypse.

  *****

  “You’re a whore!” Estrella del Rio screamed at the reflection of Star in the mirror. Against her own will, she shifted her wrath from the striking blonde image with perfect make-up, to a newly printed photograph taped to the glass. A handsome young man, in a leather jacket, leaned innocently against a motorcycle.

  She shouted at the man in the photo. “You made her a whore; you made me this!” Her hysterical rants grew louder with every word. “You, and your fucking family, made us what we are!” She gasped trying to refill her lungs. Her knees buckled; she sank to the black marble floor.

  At almost twenty-nine years old, for the first time in her adult life, Estrella cried authentic tears. “Help me,” her ruptured voice echoed against the cold, expansive walls of the bathroom. “Help me find my revenge.” She pleaded with the lone woman in the looking glass.

  The polished gold fixtures, in the otherwise empty room, remained silent.

  *****

  Bridget Luna was Star’s idea. Estrella resisted at first, but Star argued that a third was necessary. We need the help, she insisted. In the end, she had her way; Star always got her way.

  The child, Estrella, was fourteen years old, alone and desperate. She sensed Star’s presence, and discovered an ally in grief. Together, they lay on Estrella’s mother’s bed, their legs spread beneath the crushing weight of the man who took their flower. Estrella might have died that night if Star had not come. Instead, they lay there together protecting each other against the stench of the john having his way. The paunch of his belly, pressed hard against their stomach, repulsed them. A morsel of dark chocolate, melting beneath their tongue, comforted them. Together they survived.

  Beginning that night, Star took control. She made it clea
r, first to Estrella and later to Bridget that she was in charge. Regardless of whose turn it was to lead, meaning whomever Star chose to represent the physical presence of the three, Star reigned supreme. Estrella, if it weren’t for me… Star continually reminded her. If it weren’t for me, we would still be sleeping in the bitch’s closet.

  Gradually, as the years passed, the childlike Estrella, who merely wanted to feel loved, came to appreciate Bridget, a professional woman who preferred a feminine touch. Star, in immeasurable contrast to the other two, became a whore because she was enamored with the power it gave her over people.

  Estrella wanted to confide in Bridget, but Star heard her thoughts and said no. There was no such thing as privacy in their world. Star knew everything, and bent Estrella and Bridget to her will. They were three, yet one. Star influenced every thought and every action. Only she decided who should lead, when and why.

  In the outside world, each of the three had her own friends, clients, and acquaintances. Very few of those people ever learned the truth. The three were obsessively protective of their separate identities. Star insisted they could only appear one at a time as only one person. No one, outside, was to know that hiding inside the one physical being were two others, watching, listening, and waiting.

  *****

  When the equally chubby, middle-aged couple from Jehovah’s Witnesses came to her door, Star took it as a sign. They gave her the idea for the inundation of religious mailings. It was simple enough to execute; she merely sent a note to each religious organization using his name and address.

  *****

  Star began the execution phase of her grand plan. After years of waiting, she contrived their first meeting. Her prediction proved to be correct; Deacon believed her to be perfect. With her guidance, he experienced heart-stopping love at first sight. All of his life, he had known something was missing. Without warning, out of nowhere, she appeared. She made sure he knew, from the first touch of her lips, she would fulfill his destiny.

  It was always part of her scheme to tell him about Star when the time was right, when she was ready, and when everything aligned in her favor.

  *****

  Deacon kept no record of their time together or the extraordinary, unrelated events, which swirled about them. Not surprisingly, she was camera-shy. Lots of people don’t like to have their picture taken, he reasoned. He gave a second thought to nothing that transpired. However, in the end so much occurred, he had no choice. He had to put it all in order. He forced himself to remember. Much later, he was able to conjure it all back up; he began to remember things he never knew.

  *****

  When James David Jones first met Estrella del Rio, after eighteen years of fanatical, bible-based oppression, nine years of joy, and one year of nightmares, he sensed the potency of their consolidated magic, their tangible connection. From their first moment together, he knew she was what he needed. She was exactly for whom he had been searching.

  Unquestionably, she was his cure.

  ONE

  On the day that James David turned two years old, already a skilled toddler for thirteen months, Reverend John Jones sat solemnly at the kitchen table, and observed his dark-haired son’s activities. Only two guests attended the birthday party: a little boy, whose mother was the church secretary, and a little girl, whose father was the choir director. James David’s chocolate birthday cake, made painstakingly from scratch by Mrs. Jones in the course of an entire afternoon, sat waiting on the table while the children played on the floor. Their parents sat at the table with the Reverend.

  When the little boy guest reached over to play with James David’s new toy truck, James David grabbed it away, and let out a scream. Shocked, the boy scooted himself back and stared with wide, frightened eyes.

  The Reverend felt his blood boil at his son’s unruliness, but he believed that birthday parties were a mother’s work. In addition, he wanted to maintain his stature, especially in front of the two members of his staff.

  Mrs. Jones, glancing nervously at her husband, tried to coax James David to play. She pushed back her sandy-colored hair, with the backs of her hands, and announced in her whispery voice. “Let’s cut the cake, shall we?” After herding the children to the table, she lit the candles on the cake and put James David in his chair. “Now, James David, blow. Make a wish and blow out the candles.” She moved the cake closer to him.

  He stiffened his arms and held himself back, away from the pastry.

  Her face turned red with embarrassment; she coaxed him again, softly. “Please, darling, it’s tradition. Mommy will help you. Be a big boy and blow out your candles.”

  The Reverend felt his own face redden, but not from embarrassment. As the candles burned down, he waited silently with fury as his son resisted his mother’s promptings. Just before the tiny fires reached the rich chocolate icing, James David leaned forward stiffly, and blew out the two candles.

  *****

  Candles extinguished, Grace Jones let out a sigh of relief. “Wonderful, darling, now let’s cut the cake together and serve our guests.” Her shy voice was nervous and tentative. Her son was unpredictable; she could only imagine how this might end. She placed the cake knife in James David’s right hand, wrapping her fingers around his, and gently tried to guide him through the first cut.

  She winced as she felt him resist. Even though she had expected the worst, Grace was startled when, without warning, he screamed, “no.” The scene at the table exploded in chaos; the other children began to cry. Their parents corralled them and raced for safety, away from the table and the out-of-control child with a knife.

  James David stretched his upper body, as far as he could reach, across the table. He freed his hand and the knife from his mother, issued another ear shattering “no,” and hurled the utensil across the room, splattering cake on the wall. As the creamy icing oozed and slid down the faded blue wall, it gave the appearance of a house bleeding chocolate.

  *****

  Well before the cake knife came to a complete stop on the yellowing tile floor, any self-control that the Reverend Jones had maintained was gone. With one highly exaggerated, uncoordinated movement, he ensnared his son with his arm around the child’s waist.

  He plucked the baby from the chair and carried him into the living room. John Jones was incensed. Too angry to utter even a single word, he violently shook the child like an oversized rag doll.

  The Reverend could not think clearly. The banal creature, trapped in his arms, seemed surreal. We have guests in the house, he thought as his mind began to clear, and I must compose myself. I am the Pastor.

  Holding James David at arms length, he looked deep into his eyes. “What kind of a child are you?” He whispered as he put the boy on the sofa and released him. It felt like an electric connection severed; he sighed. Reluctantly, he took the boy up again; embarrassed, he returned to the kitchen.

  Only Mrs. Jones remained.

  *****

  In the few minutes that the Reverend and James David were out of the kitchen, the guests hastily scooped up their children, made quick nonsensical excuses, and left through the carport. Grace anxiously cleaned the chocolate from the wall and floor. Without knowing the reason, she left the knife where it lay.

  What am I going to do? She thought worried most about the Reverend’s reaction. The child had always been a point of contention. Grace dreaded the day when James David would commit one infraction over the limit. Many rebellions and tantrums occurred of which the Reverend knew nothing, nor would he ever.

  When father and son reentered the room, they looked like two aliens with absolutely nothing in common, like water and oil. With all of her being, Grace feared they would never mix. “Reverend, please let him go,” she implored, “he’s just a child.”

  He cleared his throat, “Woman, baby or adolescent, birthday or not, he must learn right from wrong.” His stern tone was devoid of emotion. “It’s our job to teach him. If we ignore his actions, they will only get wo
rse. You remember, as well as me, what happened with David. We have a reason to never forget.”

  Grace was surprised. Her husband had uttered his brother’s name for the first time in more than two years. Will he ever forgive me and accept this child? she wondered. A question she often asked herself.

  “I will raise this child in the path of Jesus. I’m going to teach him right from wrong; it starts now, today. ‘Do not withhold discipline from a child; if you beat him with a rod, he will not die.’”

  Grace recognized the scripture from Proverbs.

  He continued reciting the passage; his voice took on a certain cadence as though the timing of the delivery was as important as the words themselves. “‘If you beat him with the rod you will save his life from Sheol.’” He pushed past her, and carried the rigid child to where the cake knife lay on the cold floor.

  The Reverend knelt down. “James David, pick up the knife,” he said without inflection. “Pick it up now.”

  The child did not budge. Grace gasped, fervently hoping her son would do what his father asked.

  The Reverend took control of the boy’s clinched fist, pried his fingers open one at a time, and positioned the unwilling hand on the plastic handle. James David remained frozen.

  Using both hands, the father wrapped tiny fingers around the utensil, and squeezed the child’s hand until it closed around the knife. He carried the boy to the kitchen counter, held him above the sink, and dropped the knife.

  He placed James David in his mother’s arms, and wordlessly, went straight to his study. There he stayed until the house slept.