CHAPTER THREE
The queue for the Heaven’s Gate presentation at the Plaza Hotel had built up early. The audience was made up, predominantly, of well heeled, middle aged women. Some had already had extensive experience of nips, tucks and liposuction techniques; others were looking at the whole business of plastic surgery, or body remodelling, for the first time. All, including the sprinkling of paunchy, sun dried, men in the queue, had one thing in common.
They had all bought the message that they could be made to look more beautiful, more lithe, more attractive and youthful by paying the exorbitant fees charged by the practitioners of this new age art. To live forever seemed to be the insatiable need and desire of the times.
No practitioner had achieved more insider fame and notoriety than Thomas Startz. He had become the Svengali of plastic surgeons and his well marketed clinic, Heaven’s Gate, was the chicest place to go, and be seen to go, to find the miracle all his customers desired; beauty created by the sharp blade of technology. Startz had accomplished this by a combination of technical skill; an understated but penetrative and effective marketing campaign; his own personal charisma and the good fortune to have as a sister one of the most beautiful women in America.
But there was another ingredient that made all the difference between Startz’s business success and every other competent plastic surgeon in California. There was the mystery of his past and of his relationship with his much younger sister, Holly.
There were rumours that they were not even brother and sister, but something much more intimate. Their public appearances gave all the indications of a relationship based on an attraction, which was more erotic than that of mere siblings. Startz would only say that he was born in Zurich and had spent the majority of his life in Europe before emigrating to the U.S. Holly’s personal history was even harder to pin down. She claimed to have been born in France but there was no evidence of this. As far as the public was concerned, the first anyone heard about either Startz was when the suave and persuasive Thomas bought an exclusive property in Bel Air and converted it into the most advanced body sculpture clinic in the world. No one knew where he or the money had come from but they soon knew where he was going. When he introduced the transcendentally beautiful Holly to the world after showing photographs of her before surgery, it catapulted Thomas into the super league and turned Holly into the most photographed model in America.
Holly Startz was the American dream made flesh. A pretty but unpretentious looking girl had been transformed into male America’s wettest dream and had turned women into wrecks of physical envy.
At the height of her fame, a well-publicised drugs problem cut short Holly’s front page career. By the time she had recovered and was clean, she had been superseded by a new wave of nubile beauties. Still, she remained a symbol of the American dream despite the years that had passed. She was the single most cited female American icon as far as women in their early thirties and upwards were concerned. And Thomas Startz played her to the hilt. Both led very private existences interspersed with carefully orchestrated bursts of publicity. Thomas Startz had never married and was at least twelve years older than Holly, probably more. No trace of their backgrounds had ever been found by the curious journalists for whom they exercised a continual fascination.
Right now, Startz was gazing out of the window of his private suite in the Plaza, preparing to meet the faithful. Behind him, Holly was putting the final touches to her make up. She was tall, as tall as her brother, with a figure shaped by surgery and exercise. Her face was still alluring, with the large limpid eyes that jumped out of magazine covers and she still had the figure of a Barbie doll.
Thomas Startz turned away from his bout of self-absorption and looked at her admiringly. He was tall with a good physique. His hair was thick and wiry, tinged with grey at the edges and behind the ears. He had the eyes of a professional hypnotist and a strong mouth. He looked about late forties but was probably older.
‘Ready?’ he smiled.
She turned and smiled back.
‘As ready as I ever will be. Really, don’t you ever tire of this kind of hype?’
‘It’s this kind of hype that keeps the wolf from the door. I’m like a priest to them, or a father confessor. Only, I can do more than just listen. I can make their dreams come true. I really believe it.’
‘That’s what makes you so dangerous, do you know that?’
‘I’ve never seen myself as dangerous, darling, except at moments of intense spiritual experience. But then that’s danger of a different kind.’
‘You’re not making sense. Don’t tell me you’re going into one of your metaphysical phases.’
‘I’m just feeling God-like, you know? When all those eager faces stare up at you believing your every word, it’s quite a responsibility.’
She came over and took his arm. Together they left the hotel suite and made their way down to the presentation rooms. From the top of the stairs they paused, looking out over a sea of rinsed hair and waves of gentle, subdued but eager chatter. When they made their entrance they were treated like visiting royalty. Startz waved and smiled, shook hands and spoke softly to the many he knew. Holly just smiled, content in her own beauty and her restrained but expensive elegance.
Holly was how they should all look. She was their role model. She had no need to speak. She could rest easy in beauty, it was all she needed; it was all they needed. For some, the pursuit of beauty conjured its own particular terror. For others beauty was nothing but the beginning of terror. For Holly Startz it was all there was and all there would ever need to be. Her terror would come when the nightmare of her fading looks became a reality. Until then she could always rely on Thomas to keep her painting in the attic looking young.
‘Heaven can be found right here on Earth,’ Startz’s deep voice rolled over the converted like subdued thunder. ‘Beauty is your inheritance, your right and your desire. Beauty can take many forms. Each of us is unique and special. At Heaven’s Gate we have the technology to locate and enhance that uniqueness, that special look that is just you and No one else. That look that is quite simply the best you can be.’
There was a spontaneous burst of applause as Heaven’s Gate guides circulated with iced water, champagne, truffles and personalised CDs. Diffused sunlight filtered through the metallized curtains, softening harsh shadows while even softer music and gentle perfumes permeated the room and the minds of the watching audience.
‘Now for our fashion parade,’ Startz continued with a winning smile. ‘I’d like you to meet some heavenly people. Say hello to some men and women who have taken the brave decision to transform themselves. As I have said before, I have a mission. My dream, my undying and unerring desire, is to transform a world of ugliness into a world of beauty; to heal the scars of life and the legacy of our genetic inheritance. As you know I intend to set up a world foundation and endow clinics around the globe with the equipment, expertise and training to carry out my mission for the rich and for the poor. And who better to be my emissaries than those who are about to come before you today?
‘You may have recognised some of the faces and figures you are about to see in their previous existences. They are the new immortals. Longevity is now a reality. Technology will soon extend the life spans of those who join the new world of light and beauty. You may not recognise them now.’ He paused for effect as the music began to rise to a climax.
‘The first person you are about to welcome needs little introduction from me. She is, quite simply, the finest example of body remodelling in America. She was the most glamorous and successful model in the world and she will remain beautiful forever, believe me. Will you please welcome, my kid sister, on whom the sun will never set, Miss Holly Startz, followed by, the heavenly people.’
With this final burst of schmaltz, Startz stepped back as the frantic crowd of hopeful beauties gasped and cheered, waved and smiled at the parade that catwalked across the podium. Holly paused centre stage, milking the applause, blowing kisses then bowing low before moving off stage right. A troupe of women and a couple of men, all clients of Thomas Startz, followed her. They beamed from sun stretched and tightly pinned cheeks. They swung their butts, paraded their bosoms, slinked and shimmied across the stage with a mixture of over-the-top elegance and showbiz frenzy. Each one yelled out their name as they reached the centre of the podium then took their places at the back for the finale.
Later, as the Heaven’s Gate sales staff made appointments with potential clients and Thomas Startz had spoken personally to nearly everyone in the room, he left with Holly. They slipped away in a chauffeured Lincoln Continental.
As they settled down inside the air-conditioned interior Startz turned to his sister.
‘Alone at last,’ he said.
Holly just smiled and said nothing.
••••
The academic stillness of the cultural history museum echoed to the sound of shuffling feet. Doctor Bradley held up his hands then swept them through his lank hair. His assistant, Molly, watched him impatiently. She had other things on her mind besides looking after a bunch of juveniles.
‘Settle down,’ urged Bradley to the mixed group from Winfield. ‘This is a rare opportunity to experience as near first hand as you will ever get, an exhibit which is directly relevant to your current cultural history course. The Aztecs were a remarkable people, with some particularly gory ritual practices. I thought that might appeal to you, Scott. This is the only chance we’ll have to visit here this semester unless you make it under your own steam. Okay, use the VR cassettes and laptops. We’ll meet back here at noon for a debrief. Okay, let’s go, enjoy, learn.’
‘Are you going to show us round, sir?’ Casey asked innocently.
‘Er, no,’ Bradley stammered with an embarrassed glance at Molly, ‘I’ve got one or two things to do.’
A ripple of laughter ran through the group. Even Ella had to smile. She looked at Ed and smiled again. Around them the group started to disperse. Scott and Wayne slouched off following a couple of girls in shorts. The rest moved off through the other exhibits towards a gateway to a permanent exhibit proclaiming, “The Aztecs”. Beyond the gateway the dark interior had been constructed to replicate an Aztec village and temple. The air was cool as Ella and Ed entered the make believe jungle setting with its artificially high humidity. Centre point of the exhibit was a scaled down version of an Aztec temple complete with parallel steps running up to a flattened area with life size mechatronic models enacting a typical Aztec ceremony. Around the base of the temple were displays of Aztec regalia and ornaments. Inside one case, Ella and Ed stopped to examine a huge obsidian sacrificial knife. Beside this display was a glorious, golden ceremonial headdress and mask.
Both of them stared at the mask for almost a minute, listening to the commentary. Then Ed looked up at the temple and reached out for Ella’s hand. Without thinking she held his hand and walked with him up the mock stone steps, the way of sacrifice.
The Aztec exhibit held more than a fascination for Scott. Wayne was surprised to find his buddy taking a particular interest in the sacrificial knives and ceremonial garb. Scott chewed mechanically as he climbed the steps behind Ella and Ed. He didn’t notice them. Wayne shook his head, shrugged and switched on his presenter then followed Scott.
The Aztec high priest raised the sacrificial knife high above his head and plunged it towards his victim’s heart. The mechatronic hand was programmed to stop just before it reached the chest. The museum had one eye on public taste and was wary of the outcry that would have resulted from a full frontal assault on the senses. It was really a question of modern day Californian morality limiting the historical experience. Scott, however, saw more than the tame re-enactment of an Aztec sacrifice. It triggered in his mind images, which he had buried, spaced out images of a mural and of living, beating hearts offered to the sun.
Ella and Ed listened intently as the cool, matter-of-fact voice talking to them over the interactive virtual display. It described in detail the gruesome sacrificial rites of the Aztecs as the models in the tableau stiffly moved through their sanitised routine. Scott, too, was riveted by the scene and appeared oblivious of his surroundings.
‘The sun,’ crooned the disembodied commentary, ‘was central to the Aztec way of life. It represented life and death, pain and suffering, joy and survival. The Aztecs worshipped the sun and believed that to ensure it remained in the sky as their protector and saviour, sacrifices had to be made. Some of you of a more delicate disposition, or younger listeners may wish to move on at this point.’ The voice paused. ‘In one of their more bizarre rituals, the Aztec priests would cut the living hearts from their victims to consecrate their temples.
‘The construction of a temple was the focal point of the Aztec way of life and religion. Sometimes, it has been said, over one hundred hearts would be ripped from their living victims each day. Remarkably, when the temple of Huitzilo Potcali was built, records indicate that a phenomenal eighty thousand living hearts were sacrificed in a four-day period. This was sacrifice on a genocidal level. The priests, working in shifts, were said to have been standing up to their waists in blood from the bodies of their victims piled high around them. The victims were nearly always captured enemy slaves...’
Back at ground level, Ella released Ed’s hand. ‘That was gruesome. I’m glad you were with me,’ she said.
‘We’ve come a long way since those days,’ he replied.
‘I’m not so sure.’
Scott and Wayne slouched by with Wayne complaining he needed a drink. For the rest of the visit, Scott was noticeably quiet.
The weather was perfect on graduation day as the expensive automobiles crunched along the gravel drive to park in a designated corner of the grounds. Mercedes and BMWs, Rolls Royces, Porsches and Lincoln Continentals were well in evidence that year. The Fallon family arrived in a modest coupe and were directed by nominated attendants to park in the deepest shadow.
On the lawns in front of the school gates, parents, staff and students mingled, sipping sherry, posing for photographs and loudly declaring how wonderful it all was. Ella found her parents, Joseph and Ruth, walking stiffly away from the parking area. Her father in his best dark suit and her mother, in the best dress she could afford for the occasion, still looked shabby and self-conscious in comparison with the expensively draped majority. Ella noticed the glances, smirks and stares as her parents walked towards her, their faces breaking into relieved smiles as they saw her and quickened their pace.
Elsewhere, Ed was with his mother, tall dignified, slightly bizarre and old world hippie. She hugged Ed enthusiastically, embarrassing the hell out of him.
‘Hey, mom, come on, I have to get ready for the race,’ he wriggled out of her embrace.
She looked around and sniffed. ‘What, you’re running in this race? That’s absurd. You can’t. How can you?’
‘It’s okay. I’ve been training. It’s traditional.’
‘I never liked the idea of you coming to this place. It feels all wrong. The vibrations are not good. There is too much greed here. You’re too sensitive to be at a place like this. Thank God I don’t have to pay the fees. Well, I couldn’t. If you weren’t so clever, eh? Your father would have been proud of you.’ She brushed away a tear.
‘Mom, don’t,’ Ed looked at his mother with concern. ‘I admit, I’m a duck out of water here. But things are getting better. Winfield is a passport to better things. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted for me?’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Leeming sounded doubtful. ‘You’re a sensitive soul, my cherub. You have your father’s delicacy. I’m just worried that you’ll get eaten alive by these wolves.’
‘I’m tougher than I look, mother,’ Ed responded, ‘and mother, please don’t call me cherub so everyone can hear. That’s guaranteed to get me eaten alive.’
Ed took his mother’s arm and led her in the direction of the marquee. She would be happy once she had a glass of sherry in her hand. In the meantime he had to get ready for the race, which was due to start in twenty minutes. Ed was not looking forward to the race. The training he had put in had improved his fitness but had also convinced him of one unassailable fact. He was no athlete. He also despised himself for being so weak that he had capitulated to Stockton’s challenge. Well, whatever the outcome, no one could say he didn’t take part. He looked out over the course, which circled the grounds and disappeared behind trees in the hazy distance. He popped a couple of glucose pills into his mouth and began to make his way back towards the locker room.
Marshall Stockton was a large man with a large voice. He was a self-made millionaire and was fond of telling the world about it. The company he started in his garage when he was twenty had blossomed into a multi-faceted consortium with interests in packaging, engineering, medical equipment and computing. It had been a Fortune magazine favourite for many years and its latest development promised to be a world-beater. Privately, Marshall Stockton would have admitted that it had now got beyond his control. It needed new blood at the helm, someone who could keep an eye on these razor sharp young corporate tigers with calculators for brains.
Marshall was a hands-on chairman. He understood manufacturing and the skills that were invested in his work force. He liked to think he could outsmart the new breed of executives who had never been in touch with the sharp end where things got made and ideas turned into reality. But the truth was, it was bluff. He was too powerful a figure to be toppled that easily and too big a personality. No, he knew when his time would be up and it would not be long. His hopes rested in his only son, Scott, and so far he liked what he’d seen of the boy. They had never been close; the Rockports weren’t that kind of family. Scott adored his younger sister Susie but otherwise the family was somewhat sterile or just unwilling to demonstrate its affections. Scott and Susie were children by his second wife, Karen, much his junior and about whom he was passionately jealous. He saw, or imagined he saw, lovers crawling out of the woodwork. His jealousy was such that he had Karen watched more or less permanently. She was still unaware of this as far as he knew. Marshall did not like to lose, at anything.
Right now he was beaming as he gazed over the scene before him, redolent of money and success. His family was close by. Karen looked beautiful in a dress designed for the occasion. Susie, at fifteen, was turning into a beauty like her mother and Scott, already in his running strip, looked and acted like the heir to a multi-million dollar conglomerate. Nearby also, not far away from his elbow, hovered Winfield’s principal, Oliver Harper. He was rubbing his hands in an unconscious display of self-esteem, keeping an eye on the podium, the band and the time.
‘A wonderful day for a wonderful occasion, eh, Marshall?’ he remarked.
‘It certainly is, Oliver. You’ve done wonders for this school, do you know that?’
Harper flushed slightly with pleasure. The hand rubbing increased.
Marshall continued. ‘How is our new sports coach settling in? I’d like to talk to him sometime. I’ve got some ideas for the football team I’d like to discuss with him.’
‘John Jackson will be tied up right now, Marshall. He’s supervising the race. I’ll make sure you get to talk to him later.’
‘Sure, later’s fine. Looks like the race is about to start.’
The social chatter had altered tone into a buzz of anticipation. A big field had assembled at the start, nearly all the graduates were running, whether or not they were willing athletes. For some, the next twenty or thirty minutes would be sheer hell, the public price Winfield was exacting for the privilege of a graduation scroll. For others it would be exhilarating and challenging, a real race.
Marshall Stockton’s eyes narrowed as he spotted John Jackson down by the start, poised to get the race underway following a signal from Harper. For a brief moment Jackson and Stockton stared at each other, the former squinting in the strong sunlight. An almost tangible fuse burned between them. Jackson just smiled and turned away.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Harper’s voice crackled from the speakers. ‘parents, students and staff of Winfield College. It gives me the greatest pleasure to welcome you all here today for this, our annual graduation day ceremony. I will have a great deal more to say about our academic year this afternoon during the ceremony itself but now is the time for an event which has become part of the tradition of this fine school - our annual cross country. I can see the runners are keen and eager to be off so I shall not keep them waiting much longer.
‘I would just like to thank sincerely our chairman of governors, Mr Marshall Stockton, for once again kindly agreeing to present the Stockton shield to this year’s winner, and for his continued generosity. Winfield salutes him.’ There was a burst of applause and a responsive wave. Harper continued. ‘So now, let’s get this show on the road. Over to you Mr Starter.’
The tension was tangible amongst the runners. Scott, Wayne and a bunch of running partners were huddled together jogging nervously on their toes just behind the front group. MacIntyre and his pacemakers were close to the tape. Ed had edged close behind MacIntyre in the hope that he would get away quickly. The further back he was the more likely it became that he would be overtaken sooner rather than later.
Ed looked around nervously and caught Scott’s eye. Scott was mouthing something through a knot of runners. Ed couldn’t make it out at first then a shiver of fear ran through him. In the shadowy, noisy, adrenaline-busting throng, Ed focused on Scott’s lips.
‘Dead meat,’ said the lips. ‘Dead fucking meat!’
Ed’s sudden burst of nausea was interrupted by the distorted roar of coach Jackson’s voice through the megaphone, sharpened by a sudden hush, which descended upon the crowd. It was another of those time warp moments. Ed’s life was about to change. But he had no idea how, or when or what the devastating effects were going to be.
‘On your marks, get ready, get set...go!’
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