Chapter One
John Doe

In what passed for the modern world, there was no place that epitomised it more than New York City.

The twentieth century in all its grandeur, its mechanized momentum and dynamically driven pulse lived and breathed in the city that heralded Wall Street, the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. The people who walked its streets felt the power of it. It had as much to do with their identity as genetic make up. Whoever coined the term ‘urban jungle’ was undoubtedly thinking of New York, even if he did not know it. The name alone, conjured images, from people a world away, of rapidly evolving progress that quickened the breath merely thinking of it.

Even in the wake of its greatest tragedies, New York seemed to take its defeats like a punched drunk prized fighter who did not know when to quit. These days the arrogance of the typical New Yorker had bled away to a quiet strength and a sense of self worth that had risen in the face of adversity. The evidence of the destruction was everywhere, even when it was slight. It could be the gapping emptiness where so many had lost their lives in a cataclysmic expression of human madness, or a dying flower against a bitumen pavement. Inadvertently, one would find themselves at the same place, no matter what triggered their memory to begin with.

A New Yorker still walked the streets like he owned it but now it was with the knowledge that he earned the right to be there.

Doctor Aaron Stone was present at one of the first hospitals to be assailed with casualties after the hijacking and the subsequent destruction of the World Trade Centre.

He was a doctor who never quite left residency. He should have been conducting medicine from a leather wing chair in some Park Avenue address but could never bring himself to leave the frantic activity of the hospital where he had began his medical career. In truth, he had every intention of becoming a surgeon when he first enrolled in medical school but by the first year of residency, he had decided that psychiatry was what he truly wished to do. The healing of the mind became an infinitely more important field of medicine to him and until the tragedy of the World Trade Centre; he had never questioned that decision.

When the casualties were brought in with horrific injuries from debris, fire and other symptoms of the fallout following the destruction of the twin towers, he suddenly realised that he wanted to heal flesh as well as the mind. Fulfilling the necessary requirements, Aaron divided his time between the hospital emergency room and the psychiatric ward. While some might think it frivolous, Aaron felt he had achieved some form of balance at least in his own conscience, in being the doctor he wanted to be. It certainly helped him sleep better at nights, even if his dreams were rather strange.

He did not give them much thought although he wondered what Freud would think of the vague dreams that left him with the sensation that something in his existence was lacking and he could not for the life of him discern what it was. For as long as he knew, he lived with this strange void inside of him that no amount of conscience pandering decisions could fill. It was a peculiar to feel incomplete, particularly when he had unburdened himself of the limitations most people placed on their lives by fear or by circumstances. It seemed to creep at him especially at night, when he looked up into the twilight sky and found himself staring at the stars like the secret to all the questions in the world was waiting for him in their light.

There was no reason for him to feel unfilled after all, as lives went he had a pretty good one. It was beset with its own tragedies, in particular the loss of his parents and since he was an only child, it was hard not to feel alone particularly during the holidays and birthdays. He had acquaintances but only a few close friends. He seldom had a woman in his life long enough to consider it a relationship and his colleagues seemed to think he was the handsome doctor enjoying the bachelor life to the utmost. However if anyone had asked Aaron, it would have surprised them to know that it was not that at all.

He was searching for someone who did not exist.

She did somewhat in his dreams, though if he were asked to describe her or the circumstances of their encounters in the dreamscape, he would have been hard pressed to answer. Yet when he did dream of her, he impact on him was more than just the image of some ideal fantasy woman but rather being flooded with a burst of emotion. It was passion and deep abiding love combined into a rather potent mix that awoke him with that same feeling that his life was not all that it should be. Aaron wondered if he felt this way because a feeling of displacement dogged his whole life.

There were times when he was visited with flashes of insight that told him where he should be for no other reason then because it felt right. Like the day he had decided to go to the hospital because some instinct compelled him to do so and then found himself surrounded by a deluge of patients following the tragedy of the terrorists attacks. His premonition had allowed him to be on hand to help and it was an event he did not regret being thrust into. There was deep sense of satisfaction in knowing that his actions had helped to ease the burden of that terrible day.

Fortunately, there was no instinctual reason governing his presence in the hospital today, other than paperwork. Despite being one of the most respected doctors on staff, he was often on the verge of violating dress codes because his choice of his wardrobe did not extend itself beyond jeans, sneakers and a long sleeved t-shirt. When he was required to face patients, he donned on a respectable white coat but did not hold with the notion that he had to look the part when it was enough that the he was a doctor. His dark hair was not exactly long but it could not be considered short either and though he was nearing middle age, there had been many of times he had been mistaken for a first year resident.

The psychiatric ward was busy today. As he made his way towards his office, his gaze registered briefly the non-violent patients wandering through the hallways, lost completely or partially in their own psychosis, awaiting evaluation so they can be transferred to either state run or privately funded psychiatric hospitals. Orderlies remained visible while they kept a close eye on them and nurses hurried from place to place with medication. It disturbed him that there were so many patients that he had become indifferent to them but he supposed these were the calluses doctors were meant to grow over their feelings in order to ensure professional objectivity. The words sounded impressive but the practice was surprisingly hard for many.

“Doctor Stone!” Aaron heard his name echoing down the hallway from behind him. The voice was familiar to him because he knew most of the people on staff and was able to narrow down the possibilities.

Aaron turned around and saw Warren Sheldon, one of the second year psychiatric residents on staff walking towards him. It was early morning and judging by the bleary eyed look on Warren’s face, it appeared the young man had been on call last night. Warren was an able young man but Aaron was certain as soon as he was done with his residency, the extent of his psychiatric practice was going to be listening to rich matrons telling him what was wrong with the world and why breast implants would cure all of it for them.

“You’re still here Warren?” Aaron said with some measure of surprise because someone else would have taken over Warren’s shift by now and he really did look like he needed the sleep. The young man’s light blond hair was ruffled as if he had ran his fingers through it too many times and he appeared more sallow looking then usual.

“Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about a John Doe that was brought in last night,” he remarked rubbing the bridge of his nose, a gesture Aaron had come to associate with Warren preparing to refer him a case that was too much for him.

“Tell me about it on my way to my office,” Aaron retorted and resumed walking, fully expecting Warren to follow.

“Well he’s an old guy about Moses age I’m sure. Anyhow, NYPD picked him up last night for causing some kind of disturbance outside the Malcolm Building. He’s got severe hallucinations and it took both cops to get him into a squad care.”

“Pretty strong for a guy Moses’ age,” Aaron commented. “Is that his file?”

“Yeah,” Warren nodded and handed the manila folder over. “We tested him for chemical abuse and the only thing of note was the amount of nicotine in his system. The guy should have lung cancer with how much he’s smoking instead he’s in pretty good shape for someone that old.”

“What about any neurological abnormalities?” Aaron asked.

“Nothing,” Warren shook his head. “No irregularities whatsoever. It’s not the wiring.”

Aaron gave him a look, “that’ a professional opinion ‘doctor’?”

“I mean he has all the symptoms of schizophrenia,” Warren answered a little flustered. Aaron suspected the hours were catching up on him. “But it just doesn’t feel right.”

Aaron studied the file before him and could not deny that there were gaps in their knowledge of the patient that prevented them from making an accurate diagnosis at this point. The patient had no identification whatsoever, preventing them from retrieving any records regarding previous medical history. Aaron could see why Warren was reluctant to act on his own because this was a case that would require the evaluation of someone far more experienced than a first year psychiatric resident.

“You go on and get some rest,” Aaron answered after a moment. “I’ll go see Moses. Is he lucid?”

“Yeah,” Warren nodded. “When he calmed down he was pretty lucid but any discussion about where he came from did make him agitated.”

“Enough to be violent?” Aaron stared at him in question.

“I’m not sure,” Warren answered with clear uncertainty.

“Sounds interesting,” Aaron frowned, not really up for this today and sighed with resignation at the fact that he needed a secretary if he ever wanted his paper work done. “On your way out, get one of the nurses to move Moses into my office. I’ll see him as soon as he’s ready.”

*************

A short time later, Aaron found himself staring across the floor at the man designated John Doe.

Warren’s estimation of his age was understandable now that Aaron came face to face with him. The man was clearly in his late sixties with a long flowing beard and an equally long hair that sometimes appeared white instead of grey. Even his eyebrows were grey and bushy and seemed to curl outward from his brow. His blue green eyes seemed a little dazed but this was to be expected since he had been dosed heavily with Thorazine the night before. Enough time had passed to allow the full brunt of the drug’s effects on the patient to wan a little so Aaron could conduct a somewhat productive first evaluation without fear of Moses/ John Doe becoming violent.

Doctor and patient stared across the space between them for a few minutes as if a mutual evaluation was being undertaken. Aaron sat in his chair with a note pad in hand, watching the man react to being observed. He tried to picture this old man causing a disturbance outside the Malcolm building and could not deny being sceptical at the fact that this person would try to harm anyone. Something deeper than instinct told Aaron that the patient was ill, not dangerous.

“May I have a glass of water?” The old man spoke first, his voice beginning as a croak but then evolved into clear, and erudite with a trace of accent that could have been English.

“Certainly,” Aaron poured a glass of water from the jug resting on the side table next to his chair before handing the receptacle to his patient.

“I feel uncommonly parched,” John Doe commented before taking the glass and adding his thanks to the end of his statement.

“Thorazine can do that,” Aaron answered in understanding.

“I do not like the concoctions you put in my veins,” John Doe replied giving him a look after he drained the contents of the glass.

“You were dangerous,” Aaron said not about to apologise for anything. The best way to gain a patient’s trust was simple honestly He found nothing worked better. No psychiatric buzzwords that made little sense to them or patronizing tones of empathy, just plain sincerity. “We had to give you something to calm you down.”

“Yes, yes,” the man rumbled impatiently, shifting in his seat, “so they tell me.”

“You don’t remember?” Aaron asked gently taking note of it on the pad.

“No,” he said shortly.

“Do you often have memory problems?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, his lips began to quiver slightly; as if he were nearing a place he did not wish to be. Aaron made a mental note to pull back to safer ground for the moment. “The benefit of having memory problems is not remembering that you have a memory problem.”

A small smile cracked Aaron’s lips, “good point. What do you remember?”

“Walking up in this place,” his gaze shifted away from Aaron’s, as he replied, “nothing more.”

“You don’t know what you did yesterday?”

“No,” the patient said sourly.

Aaron could tell that he was just as unhappy about this as everyone else. The response sparked a wave of curiosity within the doctor about his patient who was dressed in hospital pyjamas in a blue sterile colour that seemed out of place on the rest of him. There was something about the man that Aaron could not put his finger on, something that convinced the doctor he was not dealing with any run of the mill schizophrenic, if indeed that was what he was. The patient’s eyes seemed a little glazed but that was more due to the medication he had been given to subdue his violent outburst during admittance. Deciding he did not want to push the patient in the first session, Aaron decided to move onto a new subject of discussion.

“You weren’t in any condition to give us your name last night,” Aaron remarked. ‘Care to tell us what it is? I don’t really want to be calling you John Doe during our sessions.”

A furrow appeared on those bushy eyebrows and the blue eyes stared at him with hesitation, “I don’t know what I am called. I told you I don’t remember anything more than what I’ve said. Is badgering me with foolish questions your way to help me Thorongil?”

Aaron blinked and stared at the man. “Excuse me?”

John Doe looked back at him just as perplexed, “what?”

“You just called me by a name,” Aaron pointed out.

“I did?” The old man regarded Aaron sceptically.

“You called me Thorongil,” the doctor reminded his patient.

“I don’t know why,” Moses met his eyes and Aaron could see the sincerity in his answer, not to mention the genuine puzzlement, “it just slipped out. It felt…appropriate.”

Aaron arched a brow at that statement and made a note of it. The patient did not seem violent but then he was not about to underestimate the effects of 500 cc of Thorazine on a person either. He did want to see what the man was like without the medication because at this time, Aaron was finding it difficult to make a diagnosis from this session alone.

“We have to think of something to call you,” Aaron remarked offhandedly. “If we’re going to continue talking to each other, I think I would prefer to call you something other than John Doe.”

“How many of these talks are we likely to have?” John Doe looked at him pointedly, a trace of urgency in his voice.

“I’m not sure,” Aaron confessed. “Until we find out what your name is and why being outside the Malcolm Building upset you so much.”

Suddenly, Aaron noticed his patient tensing visibly in his chair. Relaxed hands were soon clenched into fists, his back straightened and the muscles of his jaw flexed involuntarily. He was angry and barely able to restrain it, Aaron deduced.

“You seemed disturbed,” Aaron probed gently, doubtful if he would get an answer that made any sense. “Is there something about the Malcolm Building that upsets you?”

“It is a place of darkness!” John Doe snapped rising to his feet and seemed to tower over the doctor as his voice altered, becoming deeper and more forceful. It was a voice that made Aaron beware, not for his life but because for a brief insane moment, he was almost ready to believe the old man.

“Sit down,” Aaron said calmly, determined to maintain control of the session. “Please,” he added to make it easier for the man to obey.

He looked at Aaron with a start, as if he suddenly remembered where he was and the burst of anger subsided, once again replaced by confusion.

“Why do you think it’s a place of darkness?” Aaron could not believe he was using such a melodramatic term. This is the kind of conversation one had when one was describing the plot to the latest George Lucas epic, not a psychiatric session.

“I don’t know,” John Doe replied once more, his expressions strained. “I don’t know anything. I just feel.”

“It’s alright John,” Aaron replied gently, feeling a surge of pity for this old man who was so displaced in the world. Who was he in the world, when he was far away from this place? Did he have a wife or children, or even grandchildren since his age allowed for the possibility. “You don’t have to tell me until you’re ready.”

“I want to tell you,” he said softly, “I think I need to tell you. I think I’ve been away for a long time and it’s important that I come back.”

“Admitting you have a problem is always a good step,” Aaron said offering him more assurance then was customary. However, John appeared to need it. “We’ll find the answers together, I promise you. In the meantime, I hope you don’t mind if I won’t keep calling you John Doe. You’re not a person who doesn’t exists, you’re here and you’re my patient. How does Moses sound to you?”

“Moses?” One bushy eyebrow flew up. “You’re going to name me after a man with a bad sense of direction where mountains are concerned and masonry skills?”

“A bad sense of direction?” Aaron almost laughed.

“It does not take an inordinate amount of sense to discern that he was wandering on that mountain for 40 days because he was lost,” he rumbled, sounding very much like the cantankerous old men who waved canes at young children from their porch. “Certainly not enough to dedicate an entire testament to his affairs.”

“Alright then,” the doctor replied deciding he was not even going to bother arguing with him on this, “you tell me what to call you.”

A loud harrumphed followed before the patient retorted grumpily, “Moses will do. I suppose under the circumstances I am in no position to take the high ground when it comes to sanity.”

*************

The ship appeared out of the mists in the middle of the North Sea almost three months before Doctor Aaron Stone was confronted with the patient he had temporarily named Moses. Its arrival was understandably unnoticed because people tended to avoid travelling through the North Sea during the winter months. It was icy cold on a good day, let alone during winter. Sheets of ice drifted hazardously above the dark water, pieces of flotsam jettisoned by the artic pole and sure to spell death to any ship unfortunate enough to encounter them. Icebergs, mists and usually turbulent waters made the North Sea a most inhospitable place, even for those who spent most their lives on the sea.

If anyone had been present, they would have seen a ship not unlike a Roman trireme, with a trio of large white sails as grey as the mists it had just escaped. The ship was made of wood but was the carpentry that crafted it was beyond anything that had been seen anywhere in the world. It was a thing of beauty, crafted not by ship makers but rather the life’s work of an artist. It moved across the choppy water as if it was gliding upon the waves, trailing a bed of foam as it surged towards its destination. Amidst the singing voices of humpback whales, the ship did not seem quite real and anyone who saw it would most likely wonder whether or not they were dreaming.

There were only three passengers on the craft that would seem big enough to accommodate more. Three was all that was needed for this was a journey that they had each thought about making for so long. The galley was stocked with food and water to reach their destination and back again and thus far, the trip had been without incident. If anything it had been somewhat dull until they pierced through the veil and stole secretly into the world they had left behind them so long ago. Once they left it, their trip became a little more exciting as it had been smooth sailing until that point. Where they had been the sun shone brightly and the water was still. There was enough breeze to power their sails and keep them cool. It was idyllic.

Now they were trust into a place where the waves could rise almost as high as their masts, where it was grey and gloomy even though they could see the sun was above their heads. Winds lashed at the travellers with sheet of rain and the air was charged with the periodic rumble of thunder and lighting. It was a stark reminder indeed of how truly far away from home they had chosen to venture. Those left behind had advised against the journey, calling it foolishness to venture from place of safety into the unknown, undoubtedly grown more barbaric since their departure.

Legolas Greenleaf stood at the bow of his ship and saw nothing ahead but horizon of a grey sea, against an equally grey sky. The wind was so cold that his pale skin was almost frozen but the notion of leaving the open space for the shelter of the craft’s innards did not occur to him. It was too long since he felt anything as adverse as weather and he was rather enjoying it. Valinor’s perfect weather was so constant that he no longer knew how to appreciate it. A few months of this, he thought, and he would be happy to return home again.

“You should come inside,” a voice advised him.

Looking over his shoulder, Legolas cast his gaze on Elladan who was wrapped in a thick warm cloak and had been good enough to bring him his own.

“Thank you but I prefer to remain out here for a little longer,” Legolas said gratefully as he took the garment and slung it over his shoulders, before facing front again.

“How long do you think it will take us to cross this sea?” Elladan asked as he sat down on the deck behind Legolas.

“I do not know,” Legolas, answered truthfully, “a hundred millennia can change the shape of the world considerably. We sail what was once the western sea but we do not bear east to Mithlond but farther west then even where Valinor used to be when it still existed in this realm. We are most likely bound for what was once the eastern coast of the Sunlands.”

“Are you sure that is where we must go?” Elladan asked with concerned, aware that more than just their quest fired the passion of the Prince of Mirkwood.

“It is the only clue we have to begin,” Legolas shrugged, unable to deny that the quest they had set themselves was difficult indeed for the scant information they had and the fact that they had emerged into a world that most likely remembered nothing of their kind.

“He could be dead,” Elladan pointed out, knowing that this was a volatile subject to discuss with the prince, especially now that they had embarked upon this mission. However, Elladan and his brother had placed themselves at risk just as Legolas had when they chose to accompany him on this journey. That earned them both the right to speak their mind as far as Elladan was concerned, the right to make Legolas aware of the reality of the situation as well.

“If he were dead, his soul would have returned to Mandos,” Legolas said tautly. “It has not so he must still live.”

“Legolas,” Elladan said gently, “no one wishes to think the worst but you must prepare yourself for the possibility. Much has changed in this world that we are unaware. We may find that the reason there has been no word from Mithrandir could well be something has befallen him equal to death.”

“I refuse to believe that,” Legolas said firmly, his eyes staring out into the gloomy horizon.

“You may not wish to but you must at least entertain the possibility,” Elladan insisted.

“I will speak of this to you no more,” Legolas declared, standing up abruptly to leave.

“Legolas,” Elladan stopped him before he could leave with a hand on his shoulder. “People die. It is an unfortunate reality of being what we are. We must accept it.”

Legolas turned to his old friend, his features softening a little because he could not deny that this truth was at the heart of the pain driving him to find Mithrandir. “I have done nothing but accept the fact that the price for immortality is to see all that I love die. I held Melia’s hand when her life slipped beyond my reach and I sat at Aragorn’s bedside when he passed on. I thought if Gimli were to journey with me to Valinor it would stave off the inevitable but I was wrong, he too left me in time. I will not be the last member of the Fellowship that still lives, Elladan. I refuse to be left behind again. Mithrandir is alive and I will find him.”

Elladan could appreciate Legolas’ grief for he too, knew all too well what it was like to care for mortals and be helpless to prevent their eventual demise. He had loved Aragorn and Gimli as well and Legolas was not the only one who lost someone close to his heart. “I understand your fear to be the last of the Nine Walkers but we have all lost. Do you think the pain was any less for me when I learnt of Arwen’s passing? There was no reason for her to die but she allowed herself to do so anyway. Her grief killed her Legolas, it killed her because she could not envision a life without Aragorn.”

Legolas saw the sorrow in Elladan’s eyes and felt his own heartache knowing that the Evenstar was gone from their lives. So many of her words remained with him, even after so many thousands of years since her passing. To this day, her family still mourned her passing. Elrond would light a candle on day her life began as he had done so every year since Legolas had returned to Valinor and told him that his daughter was finally at rest with her king.

“This does not have to be this way for you Legolas,” Elladan continued. “You have not lost as much as you think. Melia passed on but we all know that her soul lives within Ariel and Ariel loves you.”

Legolas could not refute that and he did love the elven lady he had married shortly after returning to Valinor. When he had lost Melia, Legolas had believed it was forever but the souls of humans did not go to Halls of Mandos in death. Mithrandir had once told him that Eru had a different plan for the race of men and while they were not immortal, as the elves knew it, they did possess it in a way because their souls would always return to lead new lives. When Legolas had met Ariel for the first time, he knew that Melia had come back to him. It was not the wife he knew and loved but his heart recognised her and since then they were seldom apart.

If he had allowed her, she would have accompanied him on this journey but Legolas was not about to risk her life for anything, especially when what lay beyond Valinor was such a mystery. However, he could not relinquish the idea that somewhere in the world, Mithrandir was in trouble and needed assistance. The Valar would send no one else and Legolas suspected they were reluctant to send another in Olorin’s place when they knew not what had became of him. For four centuries, Legolas had waited patiently for his old friend to return but with the passing of another millennia, he knew it was time to act. Convincing Elladan and Elrohir to accompany him, Legolas was determined to find Mithrandir almost as much as he was determined not to be the last living member of the Fellowship.

“I know she does,” he turned to Elladan after a moment, “I ache that she is not here with me and I will ache every day that we are apart but this task must be done.”

“I know,” Elladan answered with a nod, admiring the prince of Mirkwood’s determination if not his sheer stubbornness. “I cannot say I understand the bond between you Walkers but I wish to see Mithrandir too if he is alive.”

“It is more than bond,” Legolas met Elladan’s eyes, “it is knowing that in my place, he would do no less for me. If it were I that were lost, Mithrandir would find me.”

Elladan hoped it would be as simple as all that, to simply find Mithrandir and hope that he was alive. However, as their ship sailed further and further away from the comforting mists that kept them safely anonymous in this new world, Elladan could not help but thinking that it could be impossible to ever find the Istar again.

**************

Detective Eve McCaughley stared at the body.

It had been floating in the river for some time now. She could tell by the deterioration of the skin and the location against the embankment that it had been brought here by the currents. It was probably dumped further upstream and had been slowly making its way down the river over the past few days. Rotting leaves and various other materials like twigs and insects had attached itself to the corpse during its journey downstream and upon coming to a halt at the embankment had provided a natural obstacle for the materials that usually floated down river. It had remained in place until a family of three taking a morning walk through the park through which the river ran, had stumbled across the body.

Eve slipped on the latex glove over her hands as she knelt at the body exactly where it was found. She had ordered the patrolmen to keep the area clean and to keep a distance themselves to maintain the integrity of the crime scene for the forensics team and the medical examiner when they arrived. Meanwhile, she prepared to make a preliminary exam of her own. Lifting a small tape recorder to her lips she began speaking. Eve had fallen into the tradition of making voice notes as she went along. It helped considerably when it came time to type the report.

“Detective Eve McCaughley – homicide,” she began her narration. “Victim appears to be a caucasion male, 5 foot seven, 170 pounds, medium built with brown hair and blue eyes. His age appears to be anywhere from between the mid twenties to thirties. Cause of death appears to be from a gunshot wound to the head. The manner of the skull damage seemed to indicate that it could have been fired at point blank range. The bullet entered the bridge of the nose, blowing out the back of the skull. Ballistics cannot be confirmed at this stage but I’m guessing its a higher calibre gun, possibly a 45. Victim is fully clothed wearing a suit, losing except one shoe but whether or not this because of the river or during the incident is difficult to say. The one that has remained on his foot is laced. The suit looks expensive, possibly Armani so I’d say that he was a professional of some sort.”

“Detective McCaughley!” She heard a patrolman calling out to her and immediately turned off the recorder as he approached. It was standard procedure to send out a few officers to canvass the area, particularly at the embankment of the river since it was possible that items on the body might have become dislodged.

Eve gazed across the green before her, covered in falling leaves and framed by trees along the river. It was a nice area to go for a walk and the path for visitors ran only a few feet away, giving them a pleasant view of water. It was the kind of place where you sailed model boats with your kids and had picnics. It was much too pretty for the macabre discovery at the water’s edge. The patrolman, an officer named Scavelli, approached her with something inside a zip lock bag. Judging from the outline of it, Eve guessed Scavelli or one of his officers had found a wallet.

“What have you found Sergeant?” She asked as he approached.

“One of my men found this,” he handed her the bag.

“By the river?” Eve questioned because the contents did not look as if it spent any time in the water. In fact it was in remarkably good condition.

“No,” Scavelli shook his head. “It was found in a garbage bin near one of the paths. It has a New York driver’s license and a Manhattan address.”

Eve did not answer for a moment as she examined the wallet herself and found that there were no credit cards or money. The only thing that remained inside it had little monetary value, like the driver’s license in question. She stared at the face on the plastic and knew that the person in the photo and the one who met such an abrupt demise was one and the same. The face staring back at her was nothing extraordinary; he could have been anyone she saw down the street, a bystander really.

“His name is Robert Falstead,” Eve noted, “lives at 94th Street, Manhattan.”

“I think that’s off Columbus Avenue,” Scavelli nodded in recognition. “Wonder how he ended up as fish food on the other side of the river?”

“I don’t know,” Eve remarked and fell silent for a moment as she thought deeply. The few pieces of the puzzle were coming together to form an incomplete picture at this stage but something was clear and she was certain the rest of the investigation would prove it. “This was not a robbery.”

“No?” Scavelli looked at the homicide detective and knew her track record enough to respect her determinations.

Most of the officers knew Lieutenant Eve McCaughley. She was one of the youngest women to make detective and she did so because she had an amazing eye for detail and mind that seemed to be gifted with criminal insight. It also helped that she could hold her own against a perp in hand to hand or with a gun and was not one those detectives who sent patrolmen out to do the hard work while she presided over reports at a desk. Eve liked getting her hands dirty and she was not squeamish. She was from a family of cops, her father had been one and her brother, who had been killed some years ago, had died a patrolman’s death when he intervened at a liquor store robbery.

It was hard to picture her as a cop sometimes because she a beautiful woman. She went to considerable lengths to hide it so that she would be taken seriously, wearing little make up and keeping her long mahogany hair in a braid. Sapphire coloured eyes were hidden behind steel framed glasses, though she only used them when she was typing reports. Most of the time she looked like some kid that just walked off a college campus for she liked dressing casually and on first impressions, she did not inspire the confidence needed in a detective. However, she had proven herself over time with her expert handling of cases and those who knew her, was aware of her ability.

“No,” she shook her head. “This was made to look like a robbery but it isn’t. The victim’s jewellery was removed. He’s married incidentally. I saw the tan lines on the index finger of his left hand. There are no credit cards or money in this wallet and this guy looks like an accountant, not the kind to put up a fight if a mugger came up to him. There’s no reason to shoot him at point blank range through the face no less and dump the body in the river.”

“Then why leave the wallet behind?” Scavelli asked, seeing the sense in what she said though this one point left him at a loss to explain. “I mean if the shooter was doing it for an ulterior motive, why remove it from the body?”

“Just in case we did find the body and didn’t look to the obvious,” she pointed. “You see this wallet? It’s genuine calf leather. Something like this you buy in Manhattan if you can afford it. Take it to a hockshop anywhere else and you’ll get a hundred bucks for it, easy. A mugger wouldn’t leave this behind. He’d dump whatever isn’t valuable to him and keep going.”

“Maybe the mugger ain’t that smart,” Scavelli pointed out.

“Maybe,” Eve said with a little smile, “but I doubt it.”

************

It was sheer impulse that made Aaron drive to the Malcolm Building on his way home that evening.

Despite himself, Moses’ case occupied his thoughts for the rest of the day. For the rest of their session, Aaron had allowed Moses to do the talking and found the man to be surprisingly insightful about his perceptions of the world, what of it he could remember. There were moments when he tried to remember his past that he would become agitated and Aaron was certain that if it was not for the Thorazine, Moses might have become violent. However, the doctor was starting to wonder if this violence was borne out of a need to hurt or as a result of his own frustrations at not knowing reaching uncontrollable levels. In any case, Aaron ordered Moses’ transfer to be delayed for a few days.

Aaron was convinced that some trauma had locked Moses’ memory away from him that he held some terrible knowledge or act in his past that his mind was unable to accept. Unfortunately, there appeared to be no record of the man’s existence anyway thought understandably it was hard to glean information when they did not even have a name to search. Aaron knew the key to helping Moses was to unlock the reason for this trauma but how he was to discern this was another thing entirely. Aaron had continued the day following his session with Moses, trying to get his paperwork completed but invariably his mind would return to one point.

Thorongil.

What did that word mean?

As the Malcolm Building loomed overhead, he used the speed dial on his cell phone to contact the only person he knew that might have access to the information. For all he knew it could be a gibberish produced by Moses’ damaged psyche but Aaron was working in the dark and he had to use whatever clue he could find, even if it was as slight as this. It did not take long before the connection was made following the dial tone and Aaron found himself speaking out loud using the hands free function of his cell phone.

“Hey Stuart, its Aaron,” Aaron announced himself to his friend, the college professor who taught at NYU.

“Hi Aaron,” Stuart returned. Aaron could hear the clicking of a keyboard in the background and surmised that Stuart Farmer was still in his office at the English Lit department.

“You still working?” Aaron teased aware that Stuart often spent too much time at work that he forgot to have a life.

“Yeah, not all of us like to waste time driving around in our expensive cars harassing friends who do real work,” Stuart returned dryly.

Aaron grinned inside his car and replied, “we still up for the game on Saturday?”

“I’m bringing the beer,” the crackling voice returned.

“Great,” Aaron nodded looking forward to seeing the game and his old college buddy, “listen, I’ve got a question for you. You ever heard of a word called Thorongil?”

“Excuse me?” Stuart returned automatically.

“Thorongil,” the doctor repeated rolling his eyes as he turned into the street whose end would see him in front of the Malcolm Building.

“Not off hand,” Stuart confessed, “but I can look it up in my database. Give me a minute.”

“Thanks,” Aaron replied as he came to a halt at the kerb and put the car into park.

Beyond the windscreen of his car, he could see the towering glass structure that was known officially as the Malcolm Building. Though not as tall as the Empire State Building, it was certainly more imposing and had earned the nickname of the ‘Monolith’. This was due to the fact that the façade of the building was covered in black glass and built with equally dark marble. At night when it stood against the dark sky, it almost appeared as if it was a void where the stars could not exist. As Aaron stared at it, he could not deny that it lookrf somewhat ominous to a mind already fragile with psychosis. If Moses was already plagued by hallucinations of imposing evil then it was understandable why the Malcolm Building might provoke the fiery outburst that saw Moses brought into the psychiatric ward.

“Aaron?” He heard Stuart’s voice a moment later, snapping his out of his ruminations.

“I’m here,” Aaron replied, still looking at the building.

“There is a record of the word but its extremely obscure,” Stuart replied. “Only someone who was an expert at medieval folklore might have knowledge of it and even then I wouldn’t count on it.”

That made Aaron sit up and pay attention, “what do you mean?”

“Well it’s small reference noted in the field of study regarding the theories about the Arthur legend.”

“The Arthur legend?” Aaron exclaimed undeniably astonished, “as in the knights of the round table, that Arthur?”

“Yeah,” Stuart’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “That Arthur.”

“Okay,” Aaron eased back into the car seat looking rather perplexed. “What’s the reference?

“Well according to popular theory, the Arthur legends are meant to be a composite of stories, not about one individual. Before Mallory made it into what it was, there were these legends floating around the place and one of them apparently had to do with someone named Thorongil who was a king that started out as something else, hiding his identity until he was needed, that sort of thing. It’s believed that this element of Thorongil’s story was incorporated into the Arthur legend.”

“So Moses is some kind of medieval history professor…” Aaron mused.

“Who?”

“This patient I have,” Aaron replied deciding that Stuart deserved an explanation though he was not at liberty to discuss too much about Moses’ condition. “He’s a John Doe with no identification whatsoever. He sounds like he could be English but I can’t be sure of that. I think he’s suffering from severe amnesia brought on by a traumatic event and while we were in session, he called me Thorongil.”

“So you think he might be an expert in medieval folklore?” Stuart surmised.

“That’s the best lead I have,” Aaron shrugged. “So this Thorongil legend is being studied somewhere?”

“No,” Stuart shook his head. “What I told you is all there is to know about it. I’m not kidding Aaron; this is an extremely remote reference. There isn’t even a record of where it might have originated. Your man would have to be an expert in obscure legends to have even heard of it. Unless he knew the guy himself,” Stuart chuckled.

“You’re a real comedian Stuart,” Aaron retorted with a disappointed sigh. He had hoped there would be more but at least Stuart had given him somewhere to begin in searching for his patient’s identity.

Without knowing why, Aaron was certain that finding out the truth about Moses was the key to understanding everything.

************

The man stood by the glass and watched the world below him with a little smile of satisfaction.

Even though the building was not the tallest in the city, it was sufficient to provide him with a panoramic view of New York. Personally he thought it lost a little without the familiar sight of the two towers but so much in mortal existence was fleeting. Buildings like humans being had little staying power. When he had first ordered the construction of his own, he wanted to build something that had presence without needing to be aesthetically pleasing. The architects seemed to think that buildings should be high but he preferred to remain grounded, as far as he was concerned, the heavens were extremely overrated.

While the building was tall enough for him to enjoy this view, he had happier at its dark façade then he was at its height. Within the walls of the building he knew was called the ‘Monolith’ after the alien object in the Kubrick film, John Malcolm Iran his corporation like a god ruling his empire. The Monolith was the centre of his kingdom and from here he kept watch over everything. Leaving behind the view of New York by twilight, Malcolm returned to his desk. He lived in the penthouse suite attached to this room, below the swimming pool and gardens that took up the space on the roof.

Fortune 500 had called him one of the most powerful men in the world but the appellations did not concern him. Power was subjective and he knew perfectly well how much of it he had, which was to say quite a great deal. It was not the kind of power possessed by any of the men in Fortune 500 hundred though Malcolm was certain they dreamed of it. The tendrils of his power reached not merely the boardroom but in realms that most would never even dream. Man’s potential was limitless and Malcolm spent his entire existence on this earth exploiting that boundless potential.

Most of the time they did not know he was behind the scenes, working things with the expertise of a puppet master. Secrecy was something Malcolm did well and he had prided himself in how far his influence extended. His agents were far and wide and they were worked for him with unswerving loyalty because they knew the price of failure. However, they were also well rewarded for their efforts and because of this, his reach extended into the highest echelons of power. There were heads of state that would be grateful for his attentions.

Of course the public knew nothing of this and that was exactly how Malcolm preferred it.

Malcolm knew who was at his office before the door opened. He and lowered himself into leather chair before the marble desk. He liked the cool of the dark stone and endeavoured to furnish his office with as much of it as possible. The office had a stygian feel about it with smooth dark surfaces and had a Spartan air by the lack of personal items. Malcolm had as much use for these as he did people, which was to say very little. They served and then they died. It was all so simple. Why complicate things by developing unnecessary attachments to them?

“Sandra,” John greeted when the woman walked in. “I don’t remember sending for you.”

“I am sorry Mr Malcolm,” the woman who was his personal aide and confidant apologised in her dark suit with the high collar. In her youth, she had been a stunning woman with flaxen gold hair, now worn in a bun and the glimmer of emerald fire in her eyes had lost its lustre as the world took its toll upon her. At the age of fifty, Sandra Collins was still a handsome woman but it was clear that she could no longer trade on her looks to get by as she once had. “However, I did not think this could wait.”

“I am intrigued,” Malcolm, gestured her forward.

She had sense enough to pause before coming any closer, aware that permission was required beforehand. She had to wait for the Emperor granted her an audience. Sandra had been holding a manila folder under her arm when she entered the room. However, upon being asked to approach, she reached into it to remove the appropriate intelligence it contained.

“This was caught on security cameras last night,” she replied placing the photographs on the desk before him.

The pictures were grainy but held enough definition for him to be able to make out what had caused her such concern.

“He isn’t dead,” she pointed out. “He’s alive and he was outside the building last night.”

“Indeed,” Malcolm nodded, feeling less anxiety than she did. “I did not expect him to be dead Sandra. I knew he was alive somewhere but he’s hardly in any position to be a threat to me.”

“I think we should resolve this matter once and for all,” Sandra stared at him. “We have people working for us that could make it look like an accident. He was taken to a psychiatric ward after the NYPD picked him up. It would be a simple matter to just…”

“I have told you once and I will tell you again,” Malcolm rose to his feet and glared at her. His voice sent icicles of fear through her skin and for an instant, she saw everything that was vile and unholy surface in his eyes “He is not to be killed under any circumstances. The minute his blood is spilled will be closely followed by your own. Do you understand?”

Sandra felt herself shudder at the blackness of his eyes and nodded quickly, “yes sir.”

“Good,” Malcolm lowered himself back into his chair. “What you will do is find out who in that hospital has the power to commit my old friend to a nice little asylum where he can be forgotten for another four hundred years and that will be the extent of action on this matter, is that clear?”

“Yes Sir,” Sandra nodded. “What if they won’t do it?”

Malcolm blinked as if she had asked him something ludicrous, “they’ll do it if they want to live.”