21 Tattoos

Chapter 1

Daylight seeped from the dreary, overcast sky. As night descended, black clouds drew a veil across the stars. At last, they parted, and the darkness gave birth to a full moon surrounded by a shimmering halo.

A beam of soft lunar light pierced the glass patio doors of the motel room, illuminating dingy walls. An old shaman woman squatted in the middle of the room, preparing herself for a ritual that had been practiced by her tribe for the past ten thousand years. It would transport her to another world, a spiritual realm where the spirits of both good and evil dwelt.

Sitting back on the heels of her bare feet, knees drawn tightly to her chest, she reached for a large tibia bone adorned with beads. The other hand delved into her skirt pocket for a small chicken bone she had salvaged from the motel dumpster the night before. Grinding it slowly in a tiny stone bowl, she began a soft chant.

Next, she pulled out a pouch filled with powder and emptied its herbal contents. Using the jagged edge of the sharp tibia bone, she made a small cut in her finger and waited patiently for the droplet of blood to splash onto the pile of powder. She placed the bone against her thin brown lips. A whistle quavered across the room. Alternating between rhythmic chanting and clicking of her beads, the old woman stood up and made a slow circle around the bowl. The ceremonial dance would redefine the spiritual properties of her body, mind, and soul.

As she passed the dresser, she grabbed a water bottle and took a sip, then spat the liquid into the powder. The tibia bone that had once connected flesh and sinew, and which contained the essence of physical life, was now used to stir the roux of her potion. Dipping her first two fingers into the concoction, she scooped up a dab of paste and smeared it along her tattooed forehead. It would disguise her face from the evil spirits.

Her finger proceeded down the bridge of her nose, sweeping to the outside perimeter, then down to the chin. She did this first to one side, then to the other. Dipping her fingers in the paste once again, she crossed her arms. Starting at her shoulders, she ran the tips of her two fingers down her arms, all the while continuing her chanting.

The shaman woman had been designated the keeper of sacred knowledge, accumulated over thousands of years. Her role was to restore harmony in the world by dispelling toxic, negative energy and restoring it with healthy, constructive energy to keep the balance between man and nature through ritual laws of wisdom that extended beyond time and space.

In this place, and at this time, the shaman’s goal was to manifest the reunion of a particular man’s soul back to his body.

Powerful forces gathered, swirling around her. At the moment she pierced the veil of earthly reality, it forged an electromagnetic field that surrounded the old woman’s body. In an altered state of consciousness, she became unaware of the external world. Eyes closed, she entered a dark trance. Spirits collided. Lightning flashed, followed by a deep clap of thunder.

It shattered her trance. She collapsed to the floor. In the instant before her head struck the corner of the dresser, she saw the man’s face that would save her granddaughter.

Chapter 2

Dr. Derek Hollinger stepped out the front door of his West Los Angeles penthouse into the stark, elegant hallway. He checked the time on his cell phone, stuffed it into his workout jacket, then entered the waiting private elevator and jabbed the button.

The elevator descended; seconds later, the doors opened to an oasis of private cabanas framing a swimming pool with a full moon shimmering in the water. A solitary swimmer stroked through the specks of reflected light floating across the surface.

Hollinger quietly passed two empty massage tables, heading for a set of double glass doors that threw his own reflection back—a tall, sandy-haired man with vivid blue eyes and serious, unsmiling features. He flipped the wall switch of the darkened chamber beyond. LED lights bloomed across an array of exercise machines. Walking to the first, he began his rigorous daily circuit. Then he returned to his penthouse, showered, and headed out on his Harley.

The weekend ride down the Santa Monica coastline rewarded him with a view of surfers dotting the seascape like seals as he rode past the barren beaches. He could smell the salt air filtering up through his helmet. The cool, damp mist saturated his jeans and felt soothing after his morning workout.

Hollinger needed to put the world behind him, just for a little while. It was the first anniversary of the passing of his mentor and adoptive father, Dr. Christopher Casey. He had battled grief and loneliness all morning, but he had an important event to attend that evening and needed to clear his head.

As a teenager, Hollinger had almost been beaten to death by a gang. Dr. Casey performed multiple reconstructive surgeries on him and they’d grown very close. In later years, Casey had taken the aspiring young medical student under his wing. Hollinger knew that his own career as a world-class plastic surgeon owed a huge debt to the kindly older physician.

Now, Hollinger enjoyed the good life. He owned an apartment in one of the most prestigious buildings in West Los Angeles. From his 6,000-square-foot penthouse on the thirty-eighth floor, he enjoyed an unobstructed view of the city. The expansive floor-to-ceiling windows exposed every angle of the sweeping metropolis, the mountain vistas, and the Pacific Ocean beyond. At night, it became a magical panorama of twinkling lights.

It was an apartment made for entertaining guests—something Hollinger rarely did. Polished hardwood floors with natural stone accents swept into an unused massive kitchen with stainless steel appliances and quartz countertops. A Jacuzzi on the outside balcony of the master bedroom was mainly for exhausted, solitary soaks after long hours of surgery. The wraparound terraces had almost no furniture.

The penthouse’s location on the far west side of Los Angeles, near the beaches, was touted by the real estate agent as one of the best places to live in California. Downtown L.A., with its wonderful eateries, hip cafés, charming restaurants, and numerous social venues, invited Derek to step out on the town anytime he felt the urge.

That urge never came. His only ventures out were occasional short rides on his Harley Davidson. The first time he sat on his motorcycle, it was love at first sight; legs stretched out to the pegs and arms extended to the bars, the fit was just right. He savored the feeling of freedom it gave him while gliding along the highway.

To an outsider, his life might look lonely. But the doctor relished his luxurious apartment and expensive toys—earned by two decades of perseverance, dedication, and suffering.

The cathartic ride along the coast restored his faith as he returned home to prepare for the evening. After a few hours of careful grooming and prepping, he climbed into his Bentley and dropped the Plastic Surgeons’ Association Award dinner invitation on the passenger seat.

Derek drove down his neighborhood’s palm-lined street, rounded the first corner and braked. A group of teenagers hovered in the intersection he needed to cross. He stiffened as he watched them through his aviator sunglasses. He slowly rolled closer. They would pause every other step to roughhouse and shove each other.

Hands gripped the mahogany steering wheel as the thirty-nine-year-old plastic surgeon felt a stab of anxiety. While he sat in refined luxury, observing the outside world through the barrier of a windshield, this ragtag group crossing the road represented what he feared most: the city’s out-of-control youth.

Derek had grown weary of the glorification of violence and drugs. It suddenly became apparent to him that the young men’s outward appearance reflected their inner state of mind. Like a scene from Lord of the Flies.

The doctor quickly reached for the button to raise the windows. A split second later, the group was upon him. They yanked the Bentley door handles from both sides. A leering face pressed up against the rising glass of the driver’s side window.

An adrenaline rush shot through Derek’s body. He flashed back twenty-five years to a day when he was just fourteen and a group of heavily tattooed men with shaved heads had suddenly surrounded him. The memory of being punched, kicked, and beaten reactivated the shock and pain of the attack. He could hear the loud cracks of his bones breaking. The men’s derisive laughter played like a background soundtrack in his head until the thud of a fist slamming down on the hood of his Bentley yanked him back to the present. The doctor floored the accelerator. The Bentley lurched forward, sending the teens jumping out of the way, arms and legs flailing.

Small beads of sweat formed on his upper lip as he glanced into the rearview mirror. The group was still stumbling around and shouting after the Bentley. Tires screeched as he turned the corner, knees vibrating. He tried to relax his leg and eased off the gas. Loosening his clammy grip on the wheel, he turned the AC vent for a blast of cool air. Derek circled the hotel city block a couple of times, allowing his pulse to slow, before pulling into the driveway of the New Century Hotel for the evening’s event.

He dragged himself out from behind the wheel, still weak-kneed and shaking, one hand braced against the top of the car door.

The uniformed valet waited patiently while he straightened his tie and smoothed down the lapels of his Hugo Boss tuxedo jacket. A quick glance at the bright, serene full moon provided the doctor with a small flicker of self-composure.

Derek stepped onto the sidewalk and started for the hotel entrance. An old woman approached. Her mouth was moving, but he couldn’t understand what she was saying. Devoid of emotion, he looked down into her strangely painted face just as an explosion of pain went off in his head. It felt like an ice pick being driven into his brain. A viselike grip tugged on his arm.

In a panic, Derek made a violent push-pull motion. The whipping force sent the old woman catapulting away. He tried to regain his composure. His eyes blurred from the searing pain. He took a deep breath to slowly regain his vision only to find the old woman lying on the ground. Astonished and embarrassed, he bent down to examine her for injuries. The blood rushed back to his head. The old woman quickly reached into her bag and pulled out a rattle. She started shaking it in his face and chanting. Startled, he backed away. She must have a mental disorder.

The uniformed doorman stood watching the scene, his eyes wide in amazement. Desperate to escape the bizarre encounter, Derek impulsively strode up to him.

Please make sure the old woman is all right, he muttered, slipping a crisp hundred-dollar bill into the white-gloved hand.

The doorman nodded. Yes, sir. Thank you!

Derek couldn’t believe his bad luck. The most prestigious award of the year was being handed out—to him!—and he was being plagued by unstable panhandlers.

Once inside the lavish lobby, he made a beeline for the men’s room. After splashing water on his face and combing his hair, the doctor examined himself in the mirror. He needed to reflect composure and poise despite the unnerving events of the last hour. With a last tug on his tuxedo jacket, he turned to exit.

The muffled sound of voices reverberated through the polished marbled lobby. He found the award dinner venue sign posted next to the directory on the map.

Outside the monstrous banquet room, he approached a table staffed with people who were there to welcome the doctors and to hand out name badges. Derek struggled with trembling fingers to peel the plastic backing off his name tag and press it on his lapel. His anxiety rose while scanning the impressive ten-thousand-square-foot ballroom, filled with what seemed to be hundreds of tables and chairs, for his assigned seat. Shortness of breath gave way to light-headedness and mounting pressure in his chest. The doctor loosened his tie. He exercised every day and prided himself on being fit, but now he felt on the verge of a heart attack.

He sat down, trying to maintain an air of dignity. With a trembling hand, he took a sip of water to help swallow his nausea. The surrounding tables began to fill with guests. Their bright smiles and too-loud chatter only made him feel worse. A choking sensation propelled him up from the chair. As he stood to leave, he heard someone call his name. Soaked in sweat, Derek ignored the greeting. Lost in a dark chasm, he barely remembered driving home and parking his car.

A head popped up from behind the security desk to check who had entered the lobby.

Good evening, Dr. Hollinger, the security guard called out.

The doctor waved a hand and hit the button for the penthouse on the thirty-eighth floor. The elevator’s sudden acceleration forced him to grab the handrail. He rested his head between his arms and tried to breathe deeply. When the elevator door opened, he stumbled out into the vestibule to the threshold of a solitary door.

His key found its mark. With a weak push, the door opened. The Hugo Boss tuxedo jacket slipped from his hand and dropped in a heap on the floor. He struggled to peel off the sweat-drenched shirt, irritated and disappointed that he’d missed the award ceremony because of a flu. He made his way to the bathroom just in time to vomit. Dizzy and disoriented, he stumbled over to his California King and collapsed into a fitful nightmare.

Trapped in a gigantic web, the doctor struggled to free his lassoed hands and feet from the silky glue. He could feel the perfectly woven silk threads vibrate, creating ripples in every direction. Derek instinctively knew that these vibrational waves would signal the lurking predator.

Terrified, he struggled like an ill-fated fly. With limited eyesight, the Goliath spider navigated toward its prey through the vibrations felt in its eight legs. With cunning dexterity, the creature mounted his victim, wrapping the doctor in silk, turning him round and round as if toying with its food. Then the spider lunged. Fangs sank into the doctor’s thigh, causing waves of excruciating pain. It dragged him to the center of the web to be fed upon at its leisure. The doctor lay there as if left for dead.

He tried unsuccessfully to wake from the nightmare. Derek’s heart jackhammered in his chest. He tossed and turned, consumed with confusion, pain, and fear. Each new nightmare filled him with mounting anxiety. The conviction that these were his last hours of life exposed a barren landscape of misery, fueling even more vivid dreams.

The dread caused by the premonition of a painful death gave way to a sense of hopelessness. Dark thoughts of vulnerability and despair echoed through his mind. Lost and alone, he struggled for sanity.

His eyes opened for a moment of lucidity. The soft light of the full moon illuminated his bedroom. He stared up