The Devils of China Lake is a captivating narrative of the search for Kenneth Thomas (missing fourteen years) by lawyer Jack Matthews and his companion, Emily Holly. Their search commences when Jack agrees to look into the matter on behalf of Kenneth's wife (who might now be Kenneth's widow). Seemingly it was a simple, low risk assignment. Jack questions that conclusion upon learning that Ken's facial features are almost too similar to his own - especially when he discovers that Kenneth had been secretly involved in obscure, high risk projects for the FBI and that the repercussions are being passed on to Jack. Matthew's quest leads to a strange cavern search on a naval weapons test range, the interrogation of a paranoid and angry book vendor, the murder of one of Jack's associates and the apparent kidnapping of another, deadly altercations with MS 13 gang members followed by an episode in a Navy chopper in actual combat, and a treacherous meeting with the gang's revenging kingpin. Although a man of ordinary capabilities, Matthews rises to extraordinary challenges. He's an amiable, down-to-earth lawyer who somehow has a knack for slipping in and out of the most severe difficulties. The novel's good characters are people you'd like to know. Cate's style provides an easy, intriguing read for his readers. The story's ending and its epilogue leave readers more than satisfied and eagerly awaiting Cate's next novel.

The Devils of China Lake

By Clifford C. Cate

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Clifford C. Cate
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-0921-2

Chapter One

Emily Holly is the special lady in my life. She's five and a half feet tall, endowed with an ideal figure and a delightful little girl face. I think we're soul mates if we'd ever admit it. She just bubbles at times, finding excitement in almost everything life has to offer. Emily majored in Anthropology at Cal-Berkeley and qualifies as an enthusiastic "archeological nut".

I doubt if I would have readily given up one of my valuable Saturdays doing this for anyone else. Waiting in a crowd to hear a lecture on petroglyphs isn't really my cup of tea. Emily would have been here but for a serious conflict in her calendar. This was to be a pivotal lecture however-the keynote address at the annual Archeological Convention. The organizers had secured a special speaker, a Dr. Samuel Hopper. Emily had described Hopper's remarks as critical. His talk was touted as appealing equally to association members and laypeople. The only note taking she wanted for the entire conference was on this particular address. She also requested that I bring back all of Hopper's handouts, assuming there would be several.

To justify a write-off of my jaunt to San Francisco I had enrolled in a Trust Seminar for lawyers. That lecture had taken place earlier this same morning, same venue. When it concluded it was to be just a short wait for Hopper's talk.

Most of the crowd appeared to be eagerly awaiting the commencement of the seminar. The gathering was composed of a variety of contrasting personalities which, Emily had mentioned, would be commonplace for such meetings. Unfortunately, the decibel level of voices had escalated sufficiently to produce an unacceptable confusion. However, a crisp bullhorn announcement resonated throughout the crowd. It was bad news for most of those who were set on hearing the keynote address.

"Dr. Hopper, our opening speaker, cannot be present with us today." the voice related. "His lecture has been unavoidably cancelled. He extends his deepest regrets to all of you."

A groan emanated from many of the attendees standing in my vicinity. Apparently, this had happened before. The volume of their combined discontent was growing.

Indecisive on my remaining obligation, if any, I looked up to discover I was face to face with an attractive brunette lady. She stood with her back to the auditorium entry. Almost everyone else faced those doors, including myself. This pretty lady's face was stunning-and then came a "plus". She was smiling at me. She seemed to have a fascination with my appearance. It might have been something more than that. I shrugged it off as complimentary but only of fleeting interest. Turning away, I thought she had done the same.

Nobody seemed to be moving in the crowd, at least not yet. It was apparent that there was no future for me here. I made the decision to edge my way out. Some others were seemingly doing the same. Glancing around to appraise the crowd status, I discovered "my pretty-faced admirer" was still there, staring at me! I was undecided on how to deal with this crowd, and on how to handle this Venus who remained steadfast in my path. As the crowd remained motionless, and with nothing better to do I continued to analyze this lovely in-my-face female for another few moments. I estimated her age at thirty-five, possibly forty, her height at five-seven and her weight at a hundred twenty-five. Primarily, I was attracted to her facial features. They were quite unique. It was a look that could have been molded by a chic glamour artist. Her blue dress was ideally tailored, and she wore accessories to match.

A moment later this very attractive woman conveyed the clear impression that she was going to speak to me. Now this was scary! I responded with a half-smile invitation, urging her to speak her thoughts.

"So, you're still playing the clever 'archeologist', darling?" she softly inquired.

It wasn't what I expected to hear. It certainly was NOT what I wanted to hear. Her comment left me puzzled. Her words called for a witty response, but none came forth. How does a man answer an out-of-the-blue assertion like that?

"So where have you been these last fourteen years?" she continued.

Another riddle! Her words seemed bold and disconnected. Regardless of her good looks, the situation was making me uncomfortable. I wondered for a moment if she were coming on to me. There must be something deeper here.

"I'm sorry. Do we know each other?" I countered, after reflecting another moment. It seemed to be a fair response. I could swear I had never seen this lady before. And there were other aspects to "pretty face". Her beauty and poise classified her as "striking". She was more than that. She was sophisticated in spite of her boldness. One thing was for certain, I knew we'd never met one another. Under different circumstances, I would most likely want to meet her. I was rather amazed that she was still standing fast, pleasantly challenging me. These were perplexing moments. Darker aspects of the encounter were creeping into my whirling thoughts. She may be a "Looney". She's probably just that.

"You are so clever. You always were," she now contended. Her tone was neither angry nor demeaning, but she was persistent.

My intrigue now soared. I was not prepared to respond to this. At least one of us must be nutty. Perhaps she's just appallingly mistaken. But there were no indications of incompetence in her composure. Perhaps I was the one with the problems here.

I realized I wasn't interested in the luncheon or the other speakers. I hadn't even purchased a ticket yet. With these additional considerations surfacing, I asked, "Would you be interested in talking about this, perhaps at that small caf at the end of the hall?"

"You know I would. Fourteen years is a long time," she responded.

Lord, she's repeated that fourteen year assertion. A flash review of my memory banks on fourteen years produced nothing. While mulling that over I realized I'd become impressed with her voice. It was soft and feminine and conveyed overtones of affection.

Again I nodded my confirmation, and she nodded back.

The archeology crowd commenced moving in many directions as we edged our way out. We walked together to the caf. En route I still puzzled over her fourteen years assertions. I was even relaxing and beginning to enjoy the intrigue of this unexpected liaison.

The caf itself provided a welcoming atmosphere that momentarily was being enjoyed by but a few patrons. Sizing us up mistakenly as intimates, the maitre d' seated us at a small table toward the rear.

Settling into my seat I led off with, "I really think you've mistaken me for somebody else."

"You know I wouldn't make that mistake, Ken. You've changed, but not too much. I did think you might look a bit younger than you do, though. You're still the handsome, long missing Kenneth Milton Thomas."

I am who? I mused silently. Her insistence troubled me. I maintained a smile while politely countering, "No, I'm sorry, I am not. We're starting out with a misidentification here. My name is Jack Matthews. I'm a lawyer and I reside in La Canada-Flintridge. That's a foothill community on the outskirts of Los Angeles."

Her facial expression made it clear she didn't believe me. A strange paradox existed here. For the moment I wanted to be Kenneth Milton Thomas to please her, if for no other reason. We ordered coffee.

"My name, and I think you remember it quite well, is Alexa Jean Thomas," she announced. "Has your memory become a little foggy, Ken?"

"No. I've never really had that problem, but I've never had the greatest recollection for names either. In any event, I'm very happy to meet you, Alexa. Is it Mrs. or Miss?"

"You ought to know. I think I'm still your wife! We were quite happily married for more than five years, before you just disappeared, Ken!"

Good grief. I was not just taken aback but staggered by this contention. It must have shown on my face, but I held tight and continued listening.

"At least I thought we were quite happily married," she continued. "And I believe we may still be married. But you may have done something to change that." Her position had been clarified. She was still proceeding on a misapprehension of my identity. It was providing momentary sensations as well as chills for me.

"I am not 'your Ken', although that might not be an unpleasant experience," I said. "And you think I've been gone for fourteen years?"

"Yes. I think that's quite definitely true."

I handed her my professional card. "May I continue calling you Alexa?"

"Of course. That is my name."

"Thank you. If you have lawyers or detectives, you might check my background, and possibly my residences for the past twenty years or so. I really am Jack Matthews. I am satisfied that we have never met before today," I reaffirmed, straining to retain a semblance of poise.

"Oh I have the detectives and lawyers. I think they'll verify my conclusions. You're still very clever, you always were! You seem like you could be even be more fun now than on the last day I saw you."

Our eyes met hard again. I asked, "What do you and your experts think happened to your husband during these last fourteen years?"

"Until today, my family had concluded there was foul play of some sort, that you had been done away with. The police came to that conclusion too, but they were really of little help. I had you declared dead and your estate, what we knew of it, was distributed primarily to me," she replied.

"I think you did the right thing, Alexa, but I am not Kenneth."

"Would you stop saying that. We found your car parked at LAX. You had withdrawn all but a hundred dollars from your largest bank account. Your estate was settled. It was almost all in joint tenancy with me. I was paid the life insurance proceeds and we had a small memorial service for the family. I'm really not angry any more. In actual fact I'm thrilled to have found you, except for your damned denials."

I realized that Alexa must be suffering from a lingering grief anxiety. Still, I held a momentary wish that I were Ken to relieve her anguish-a stupid fleeting thought.

"Alexa, do you have a card, or a piece of paper to write your phone and address on for me? Possibly I might find a way to assist you with this problem, maybe partially extricate you from this dilemma. That's one of the things I do in my practice."

"Of course," she responded, reaching into her purse for a card. She then added, "Why don't you drop by home this evening. I'd like you to chat with Mother. Say at six. There's a light supper in it for you. The address is on that card. You must remember it."

I smiled and made the wild and impetuous decision to accept her invitation.

Then she added, "Please don't worry. It won't be a setup. I'd never sue you."

Sue me? Sue me for what? I pondered. I realized she meant nothing hostile, but she might have selected a more acceptable expression.

"I'll be quite happy to come by," I responded. "What part of the city is this in?" I inquired, looking at her card.

"Same old Greek Revival in Pacific Heights. We haven't moved."

I could look the address up in the Thomas guide that came with my rental, no sense further pursuing a disagreement. I checked my watch, then nodded, "I'll come by at six." The novelty here had become quite entertaining. But it could be risky. She was taking a chance with me too. She hardly knew me, in spite of what she thought. And when the truth is accepted it would create an emotional setback for Alexa. Regardless, I accepted.

"You are quick, and still a bit cheeky. I think that's why I fell in love with you, Ken."

Cheeky? What does she mean, "cheeky"? I pondered.

"Please come by, and please don't just fade out of my life again," she pleaded.

Chapter Two

Departing the hotel I heard Alexa's parting words play over again in my mind. In the parking structure I glanced again at her business card. Both her home and business particulars were imprinted on it. Her profession was titled dramatic performer. This meant "actress" to me.

Had she been acting out a part with me? So what was her real business at that hotel? She did seem to be a possible fit in that archeology crowd.

It was several minutes after six when I parked in front of Alexa's home in Pacific Heights. It was a large, beautiful structure-almost palatial. It reflected affluence. The view in front overlooked the city. The gardens were beautifully manicured and reflected both care and taste.

I was hesitant in pressing the bell. It took renewed nerve to push, but I found the courage and pressed. Alexa responded in person at the door. She had changed into an attractive, yellow knit. In this altered image, she remained every bit the sensation that she'd appeared to be earlier, at the hotel.

"Hi, Mister," she greeted, as she swung open the door. "I'm so glad you came. I don't know whether to call you Ken, or Jack. I really want to please you though, so I think I'll call you Jack for now. That's what you seem to want."

"I'll welcome that," I replied.

"Mother," she called, turning her head. "Our guest is here." She then turned back to me saying, "Mother will be with us in a minute or two. She's really looking forward to seeing you. Please come in, Jack. Supper may be delayed ten minutes or so. Our cook is delightful, but she's never been too punctual."

Alexa was working at making me comfortable. I was grateful for that but was still not at ease. Her "actress" talents remained a concern and her affluence was unexpected. My initial appraisals of her anguish and of her genuineness might be erroneous. She could fool me. I still wondered if she had psychiatric hang-ups of some nature. She could be a genuine fraud. If she is, why? What's her game?

I next met Mother, a lady probably in her middle sixties, equally as attractive as Alexa. Mother turned out to be a tallish, stately woman in pink. Her high cheek bones and sparkling eyes were totally captivating.

Mother was unexpectedly congenial, anything but distant. Her smile alone radiated sincere warmth. She was introduced to me by Alexa with the words, "This is my mother, Naomi Dramler, and Mother, this is our gentleman guest who calls himself Jack Matthews."

The supper, when it came, was both light and tasty. While dining, I learned that Alexa is, indeed, a film actress, but hasn't enjoyed an impressive role for a number of years. Although the conversation was continuous, it never lapsed into reviewing my identity or other particulars that might determine if I were the missing Kenneth Milton Thomas.

When supper concluded, Naomi turned to Alexa. With a most sincere and pained expression on her face, she cautiously rendered her verdict, "Darling, this man is NOT Kenneth, although his features are remarkably similar." Naomi's eyes conveyed deep emotions. She was selecting words carefully to minimize Alexa's pain.

"His appearance is amazingly similar to Kenneth's, but that was a Kenneth of fourteen years ago. Darling, I am personally satisfied that he cannot be Kenneth. I have to believe he is who he says he is, Mr. Jack Matthews. I'm so terribly sorry, darling."

It was an unusually disarming conversation between a mother and daughter about me, in my presence. Alexa's eyes commenced to tear. Mother's pronouncement had brought on an anguish which Alexa had managed to control until distress overwhelmed her. It led to an awkward silence.

Moments later, with her eyes averted, Alexa responded softly, scarcely above a whisper, "I began to have my own doubts maybe ten minutes ago," she confessed. She pressed her fist to her mouth to conceal a twitching lip. "I'm not sure of anything right now except that I'm very embarrassed. I don't know what else to say." She arose from her chair. I lightly caught her elbow. I think my own face reflected tender feelings, more than my words could convey. Naomi motioned gently with both hands for Alexa to be seated. Alexa dutifully sat, now blotting both eyes with tissues.

"Mother ...," Alexa delicately protested, using only the one word, but pleading with her eyes.

"He is not Kenneth, darling. You must believe me."

"I think I know that now," whispered Alexa, looking away. "I feel like such an idiot. I guess I just wanted so much for him to be Ken."

"If it isn't too painful, would you be willing to tell me about Kenneth and what you think happened?" I probed.

Both Naomi and Alexa became silent as they turned my way. Their responses were jumbled. The setting had become sensitive and momentarily too emotional. After a minute their reluctances dissolved. The two of them began recalling the circumstances in logical sequences. It wasn't a long story.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Devils of China Lakeby Clifford C. Cate Copyright © 2010 by Clifford C. Cate. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.