Where strange fact and stranger fiction collide
This was originally be the flash back scene for Part VI of my project Dreamlands. Due to time constraints an other real life issues I am going to publish it here as a stand alone story which is appropriate because that what it was when I originally thought it up over ten years ago. The main character can be seen in Dreamlands and will again as I finish that up. It also shows that just how much the Morpheus Foundation has had it hand in the events of history.
I can do it in the water
I can do on dry land
I can do it with instruments
I can do it with my own bare hands
But either way
Either way, you know where it stands
I wanna kill you
I wanna blow you…
Angry Johnny – Poe
On a beach in Bertioga, Brazil, February seventh 1979, the flow of the course of history was altered. Though like many historic events this one was overlooked by most of the world, at the time. A few years latter when the event was brought to public light it warranted a ninety second rundown on the national news, and a twenty-four point type headline on page two. A shameful stain on the history of mankind was quietly and officially was swept under the rug. But like so many turning points in the human species, even now only a select few knew more than just the surface details.
Rachel Sondheim pulled the keys out of the steering column of the rented Mercedes and looked across the beach to the dark and capricious Atlantic Ocean. Fear rose in her chest. Her hands began to shake, somewhere out there on the sand was evil incarnate. The man who was responsible for the death of her grandparents, her uncle, her aunt, and thousands of more innocent souls.
He was just a man she reminded herself over and over, and like all men he could die. He would die, by Rachel Sondheim’s hand or rather by her mind. Still after all these years, her physical reaction to being so close to the Angel of Death, was to become ill. With the car’s lighter she lit a cigarette The woman only took a few puffs, the smoke from the cigarettes tip filled the car’s interior like a gas chamber. It was a stalling tactic, the actions of a frighten child before she confronted the bogeyman, hiding under her bed.
She steeled her nerves then snuffed out the cigarette in the car’s ashtray. Rachel grabbed her travel bag and exited the car. A brisk cold on shore breeze buffeted her tan body as she made her way towards the shoreline. On her feet she wore a pair of cheep rubber flip-flops, a knitted shawl covered hers shoulders to protect her form the chilling wind. She wore a brown almost bronze colored bikini, in the style that they wore in South America that year, it didn’t quite cover her ample breasts. What would her father the rabbi say if he saw his only daughter dressed like this? What would her mother the concentration camp survivor say if she knew what Rachel was about to do? With a slight internal smile, Rachel knew her mom would approve and a million other ghost would approve.
It was 5:30 in the afternoon on a gloomy day, so there wasn’t many people on the beach. Mainly kids and a few couples. On a sand spit, to her right, there was a family. All of them were of European ancestry. There was no visible signs of indigenous blood in any of them them. A father and mother, two boys and a older man. His pale skin despite the breeze was covered only by a Speedo, he had a mustache and thinning black-gray hair and a sunken chest. If she didn’t know exactly who and what he was, maybe Rachel would have thought he was a family friend, or a visiting uncle, but there was no confusion who the two men between Rachel and the others were. Security.
The older of the hired muscle had a shaved head, and despite being on the beach wore dark slacks, a polo shirt and a tweed jacket. She gave the younger man a second glance, Rachel thought that he was pretty good looking, to bad he was her sworn enemy. Tall, and blond, he wore shorts and a white tee-shirt under his black windbreaker. Protruding out from his jacket was the distinctive handle of a Luger. Both men watched her as walked towards the berm of the beach. The younger one followed her with lustful eyes, the older had a more suspicious leer to him.
She had to steady her nerves not to rabbit and run away, so close to the reason that she had become the person whom she had become, no longer Rachel Sondheim, more, someone better summed up by her codename JEZEBEL, not quite human, something between an avenging angel and penitent demon. She turned away from the family and their guards, and bent over as she pulled out a beach blanket from her travel bag. She hoped that the sight the fabric on her bikini bottom stretching over her butt would distract the guards.
Sitting on the blanket she began to feel through her bag. He fingers touched the barrel of her Beretta .25. She could just pull the gun now and shoot the old man. She just wanted it all to end, for the man to die, to pay for his sins. She didn’t want to become as intimate with him as she knew she had to be with the fiend, to kill him otherwise.. But she also aware that she wasn’t that good a shot, and his sentries would pick her off before she even got a chance to fire.
She moved her fingers to a small silver Japanese transistor radio. Pulling it out of the bag, she flicked it on and laid it on the blanket next to her. The sounds of a Brazilian disco song lingered in the air. Rachel didn’t speak Portuguese, but she fluent in French and knew a smattering of Spanish, so she could have made out the meaning of the song if she really wanted too. But it was just camouflage.
The old man made some overly dramatic gesture, drawing attention to himself. It always about you isn’t it Herr Doctor? Rachel thought to herself. The man then flexed, as the woman and children laughed, and proceeded into the ocean. This was Rachel’s signal to strike, like a shark drawn to the blood on his hands.
Rachel pulled out a crystal ashtray with a hotel logo on its bottom, and a package of cigarettes. She had been twenty when she smoked for the first time. She thought it was a disgusting habit, she hated the way it left a smell in her long brown hair and knew it would probably kill her. But they had taught her how to use it as a focus, how to direct her power.
The man was just close enough for Rachel to kill him. Her powers had the range equivalent to the that of a good sniper. She lowered her cigarette and watching it as hovered point down over the ashtray. Closing her eyes, she erased view of the shore from her mind, a vision replaced the darkness, and she now could see old man swinging in the ocean, as if she were a bird of prey flying above her. He looked up as if he could feel her presence, maybe he could. Not that it mattered now. She focused her internal energy on the cigarette and then through it into the man.
She pushed the cigarette in to the glass ashtray with all her might. An ethereal force struck the swimmer from above. Pushing him under the waves Forcing water down his throat, Exploding the blood vessel’s in his skull. Vainly the man fought back at the ghost attacking him. Opening his spirit more to hers. . He began to transmit. Rachel could see his son, and feel how the insensitive killer loved his child so dearly, the dark barbed wired walls of the camps, of what he felt the first time in medical school he opened up a chest and saw a beating human heart. She knew of his fanatical loyalty to the crazy dictator in mustache. She began to force her past on him, Though she didn’t want it to happen, she was helpless to prevent part of herself that rushed into his body. For a moment their souls became one. He saw her growing up, her bah mitzvah, her first time when she was sixteen with a skinny and shy boy named Galil. Her first dream where she realized she could somehow make her spirit leave her body. The night they approached her telling her that her powers could be used to avenge her family. He could see her training in Tel Aviv and Rome. And how she hated at first with a passion, then with a cold controlled precession that allowed her to kill him in the most intimate of ways. . It was a deeper connection than physical love making.
Eventually the man went limp. The other man and the two guards rushed out into the ocean to try to help him, but by the time they got him to the shore he was dead. His body would lie on the beach for nearly six hours before the coroner removed.. His identity would remain in doubt until thirteen years latter when it would be confirmed by comparing his DNA to his son’s.
Rachel Sondheim opened her eyes and gasped for air. She looked like a guilty bride caught in the bed of a man other than her husband. She felt sick for having been so close to such an evil man. She looked to see the guards retrieving the body. The few other witness on the beach began to gather around and gawk at what was happening. She quickly through her possession in the travel bag and headed back towards the Mercedes
In the car she was shaking so hard she almost couldn’t drive. Eventually stealing her nerves enough, she pulled out sown the road that lead away form the beach. She pulled in to the parking lot of a market still only wearing the shawl and bikini she rushed to a pay phone and deposited a few coins, she then franticly dialed a number she had memorized that morning..
“Is the mistake rectified?” And American voice with a slight southern drawl asked.
“He’s dead.” She panted into the phone.
“Good, proceed to the airport, I will be waiting with a ticket and papers, you will fly to France first then return to Rome.” The phone hung up abruptly. Still breathing heavily Rachel hung up receiver and turned back to the rental car.
It had only been minutes and a few kilometers away, but to Rachel Sondheim the events on beach already seemed to be far away and had happened long ago. The beach, where now laid the dead body of Josef Mengele, the Angel of Death of Auschwitz.