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An Excerpt from The Paragon

 

    It was a dark night. Shadows from gnarled oak trees, shaking and dancing as the wind blew through the forest, fell across the ground, along the surface of the old country road. Samuel Wallis pulled the collar of his brown greatcoat tighter. More chilling than the eerie, moonlit oaks and the snaking shadows, something in the world unseen caused Sam to cringe. His cold hands trembled. Claw-like, emaciated fingers, sprouting from nearby trees overhead, groped through the air as if seeking some kind of prey. 
   Smooth and cold, the leather seats in the horse-drawn carriage, or coach, kept Sam keenly alert in the protective darkness of the cab. He clicked his pocket watch open to glance at the time: something he had been doing for the past forty-five minutes. He snapped the lid shut with an exhalation of displeasure. A deep feeling of dread manifested itself in the knot in his throat. He was to meet with a man who had invited him to his house to discuss a matter of prime importance. The nature of the matter was highly confidential. The stranger had seen to it that Sam was picked up by a private coach shortly after he had finished supper. 
   Some of the horses on the team neighed as the coach slowed to a sudden stop. There was a brief vibration as the driver climbed off his seat. A moment later, the driver, a strange man who was as silent as a tomb, approached Sam’s door. Two, beady eyes peered from the shadows under the low brim of a bowler hat just before a black curtain was lowered across the window and fastened onto the outside of the coach. Sam turned toward the other window and found it likewise sealed off from the moonlit night. 
   “What is the meaning of this?” Sam exclaimed as he reached for the door handle. It didn’t budge. He was locked in! Frantic, Sam pounded on the window, trying to reach the driver, but nothing happened. He was being kidnapped!

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(A few pages later)...

   

  Alopecia areata. Two words that spelled out rejection. The bald businessman had a name on his business card: Adrian Cart. For nearly three decades Adrian had watched as his hair slowly left. It started when he was three and had continued since. Having a very severe form of alopecia areata, he had lost all his hair on his entire body. An orphan, Adrian had to deal with ostracism. He had been shunned by classmates and tormented by bullies. His life had been one of darkness and sorrow, but no more. Adrian was a man with power and purpose. The President of the United States, senators, and representatives knew nothing about him. It was not political power that Adrian liked. Anyone could become a politician. No, the power he craved was something much deeper than what the common man on the street could understand.

  Adrian found the restroom and changed into a disguise. He removed his large greatcoat. Reaching into a pocket, he slid out a furry, brown object. Moments later, a man in a fine suit jacket, with a mustache and thick, brown hair had just emerged. He carried his greatcoat over to a waste basket and dropped it in. His employers wouldn’t care if a four dollar jacket went missing. At a time when the average wage of a hard-working man was a dollar a day, a coat that price would have been worth almost a week’s wages to any working-class man.

  Patting the slight bulge in his left trousers’ pocket, Adrian let a small smile play across his lips. Someone was going to die soon and he would gladly see that one to his grave.

 

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 (Later in the story)...

 

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   Sam sucked in as much air as he could and broke into a stealthy run. Chalk-white stones with solemn inscriptions rushed past on either side like buildings racing past a charging steam train. Snap. Snap. Snap. Sam had hit a section of fallen twigs and branches. Snap. Snap. Snap. He winced and began to slow down, hoping that the sounds would not reach the lantern-bearing man.

   The lantern was set down near a tree and the man bent down to read a gravestone that seemed to draw his attention. Sam slowed to a quiet walk as he slipped from the shadowy cover of one tree to the next. He was getting closer. He could now see that the man had a derby hat and a long, black trench coat. The derby-hat-man was squinting at an inscription on a tombstone and muttering to himself in low tones. Suddenly, he stood to his feet and chuckled—a rich, throaty laugh. To Sam, it sounded devilish and disturbing. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t a graveyard caretaker. That’s for sure.

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