Genesis of Evil Read online

  Ferenc hesitated. He knew she was telling the truth, but he was unwilling to be a party to such obscenity. Finally he made a decision.

  “This is how it will be,” he said with a tear in his eye. “You and the boy will stay here. I will not. I won’t tell the authorities, but I cannot live a lie.”

  He knelt and reached gently for his son and held him close for a moment.

  “I know you don’t understand any of this,” he said to the puzzled lad, “but, in time, you will come to see the reason for what I must do. Never forget that I am your father and that I love you.”

  Ferenc Lugoj stood and wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands. He smiled down at Zoltan.

  “God be with you, my son,” he said. Then he swung his gaze up to meet that of his wife. “And may you rot in hell, Bertuska Malesciu. May you rot in hell!”

  He spun on his heel and stalked from the cabin for the last time.

  The Malesciu Clan could be traced to a village in the Transylvanian Alps. It had been situated near the Rosul Pass between Sibiu and Ramnicu-Valcea but had disappeared into oblivion sometime during the 15th century. No one remembered what it was called, but the Malesciu descendants, now with many names, could be found in every corner of the Balkans, Europe and central Asia. Most of them didn’t know they were of the Malesciu blood, nor did they care. But those who did were proud people who took care of themselves and their own, and refused charity regardless of the circumstances. Bertuska Malesciu Lugoj was no exception. After Ferenc left, she did whatever was necessary to guarantee that Zoltan remained healthy.

  When Zoltan reached the age of thirteen, Bertuska knew that something was eating her from the inside out. Medical help of any magnitude was only for the Party faithful, therefore out of the question. She needed to make certain that Zoltan could survive after she was gone. That would require a healthy sum of money. As a prosperous Romanian peasant was an oxymoron, Bertuska knew that she and Zoltan would have to leave the country in order to secure his future. The Iron Curtain, however, was very much a reality. The flight would take careful planning.

  On a bleak February night, in the dark of the moon, Bertuska and Zoltan crept through the forest toward the Yugoslavian border. They carried only a few family heirlooms and the clothes on their backs. Bertuska knew that the guard would be changed in twenty minutes and felt that the sentries on duty in the tower would be half asleep from boredom and cold. She cautioned Zoltan to keep perfectly silent. Then she took him by the hand and stepped from the woods onto the dirt road.

  As soon as his mother took his hand Zoltan felt a strange sensation. The sound of the wind and the night creatures faded as if he was enclosed in a transparent bubble of some sort. When he tried to ask his mother about it, she shushed him and pointed silently toward the barrier beneath the guard tower. He was certain that the guards would see or hear them when they approached. But they passed safely within ten feet of the tower without being challenged. Zoltan heard the guards’ muted chatter as if it was a kilometer away. When mother and son were safely clear of the bleak strip of plowed ground and barbed wire, Zoltan’s feeling of being shrouded in something dissipated and he soon forgot about it.

  Three days later they boarded a rusty freighter in Dubrovnik and sailed across the Adriatic to Brindisi, Italy. The hard part was over.

  Chapter Three

  Europe — 1972

  Zoltan Lugoj laid his diploma on the kitchen table and stood looking through the grimy, rain streaked window at the courtyard behind his one-room flat. Above the rooftops the flashing lights on the Eiffel Tower were barely visible through the gloom of the evening. He raised his eyes to see his mother smiling faintly at him from the picture frame above the table. Zoltan waved a hand dispiritedly in the air.

  “I did it, Mama,” he said as a tear ran down one cheek. “I got that diploma you said I would need.” A sob escaped him. “But, it wasn’t any good without you there to see me receive it. I’m sorry, Mama. I wanted you there so much.”

  Zoltan Lugoj cradled his head in his arms and wept quietly for the woman who had borne him and loved him so much.

  When Zoltan and his mother climbed from the freighter onto the dock at Brindisi, Italy, Bertuska turned to Zoltan and said, “Now, my son, you will get an education. That is the most important thing. Education. With education, you can become whatever you wish to be. I will provide for this education, don’t worry.”

  “Mama,” Zoltan said, “I don’t need education. I want to work so I can take care of you.”

  Bertuska picked up their small suitcase and led him away from the dock. “Hush, boy. First we must find somewhere to stay. Then we will start on the education. It will be fun. You will see. Come now.” She coughed a little in the chilly night air. Then she took his hand gently as they walked along the cobblestones.

  Coughing. Always coughing. As time went on, it seemed that she coughed more than she breathed. But, no matter how much Zoltan protested, Bertuska wouldn’t visit a doctor. No money, she said, no time. But, somehow, there was enough money for school, food and what little clothing they needed.

  They spent the first winter in Brindisi, where Zoltan went to the school and struggled with the strange language and customs. But when spring came he could speak enough Italian to make himself understood, even if the other children laughed at his crude accent and funny mannerisms. When the term was over, Bertuska packed their worn suitcase once more and they headed north along the Adriatic coast through the tiny fishing villages. They hitchhiked the entire way, stopping only when night came. They got a room if the weather was bad. Otherwise they slept in haystacks or under trees. At Riccione, Bertuska led Zoltan away from the coast at last. They passed through the bustling metropolis of Bologna. Although Zoltan didn’t understand why, they continued inland. As the first icy blasts of winter rocketed toward them from across the Alps, they reached the outskirts of Milan. They spent the winter there, Zoltan once again in school while Bertuska passed more and more time in the tiny room they rented.

  Zoltan couldn’t understand how his mother could stay inside day after day without a breath of fresh air, but that was exactly what she did. Although she didn’t seem to work, there was always food on the table. Zoltan wondered if she had somehow managed to steal a great deal of money before they left home. If she had, he wondered where she hid it. Certainly, he reasoned, it would be heavy. When he asked about these things Bertuska would only shush him, smile and point to his schoolwork.

  “Study, my son. Learn. What has already happened has happened, and nothing can change that. What you can change is how you live your future. Study. Learn.” Then she would lie back in the chair or bed and close her eyes as if exhausted.

  When spring arrived once more, it was back to the dusty road. Milan was left behind to swelter in the summer heat. Before he knew it, Zoltan was looking across the border into France. There was some difficulty with their passports, but after two days, Zoltan and Bertuska were allowed to pass.

  France was more difficult than Italy. The farther away they got from the border, the less the French tried to understand Zoltan’s rudimentary Italian. Once more he and Bertuska were reduced to waving hands, shrugging shoulders and pointing fingers in order to get their point across.

  “Zoltan,” Bertuska said one evening as they sat in a field eating some bread and sausage they had bought in the last village. “Now you must begin all over. You must learn French.”

  “Mama, why could we not have stayed in Italy? It was warm there, and the people were nice. Why do we have to come to France? They don’t seem to like us, and they certainly don’t go out of their way to understand us. Why?”

  “The reason we do everything, Zoltan. Education. The Italians are intellectual cretins. But the French! Ah, the French. They have culture. Breeding. But most of all, they have wonderful universities.”

  “Mama,” Zoltan sighed, “we don’t have enough money for me to go to a university. Do we?”

  “Hush. I am your
mother. I shall provide. Eat your supper. We must leave early tomorrow.”

  The French put Zoltan back a year because of his ignorance of their language. But, as with Italian, he picked French up quickly and soon was absorbing the regular lessons right along with the rest of his class. As Zoltan’s knowledge grew, Bertuska’s strength waned. When they reached the outskirts of Paris the following autumn, Zoltan thought he would have to carry his mother the rest of the way into the city.

  During the few days that remained before the start of the new term, Zoltan wandered the streets and alleys of Paris and drank in the sights of the grand old buildings of the ancient city. Their design was different from that of his home, and the spires and minarets thrilled him with their grace and beauty. He spent his last free day walking slowly around the Notre Dame Cathedral. When he returned home he found Bertuska barely able to lift her head to drink water. He dropped to his knees next to her and cradled her fragile body in his arms.

  “Mama, let me find a doctor! Please!”

  She waved a wizened hand in the air. “Hush, boy. Give me that leather coffer there.” She pointed weakly at a chest of drawers that stood in one corner of the tiny room.

  Zoltan stood and did as she requested. As he picked up the small box he wondered why he hadn’t seen it before. He took it to her and placed it on the bed near her right hand.

  “Now, my son, listen carefully. There will be enough money in this coffer to see you through university. Don’t squander one centime of it or all will be lost.” Her head fell back to the pillow and she coughed and gasped for breath. After a few moments she looked at Zoltan again. “Now, give your mother a kiss and go for a walk. Look at the buildings you love. Return in two hours, no sooner. There is something I must do this evening.” She took his right hand in both of hers and smiled up at him. It looked to Zoltan as if her face glowed golden for a moment, and then returned to the ashen gray that he had come to accept as her natural coloring. He smiled, bent and kissed Bertuska on the cheek. A tear rolled from her eye and she waved him away. “I love you more than life itself, my Zoltan. Now go!”

  Zoltan left the room and stepped into the darkening street.

  When he returned two hours later Bertuska lay on her back, arms at her sides, a gentle smile on her withered face. The room smelled faintly of herbs and smoke and a half burned candle stood on the stand next to the bed. Near the candle was the coffer. Zoltan picked it up. There was soot on the bottom of the container and a note beneath it, written in the shaky hand of the dying woman.

  My dear Zoltan, do as I have instructed regarding this coffer and the money in it. Take only what you need at the time, no more. Spend only on education, food, clothing, shelter or medical expenses when you must. If you spend recklessly there will not be enough to see you through. You have been my one bright light in a life of darkness. Everything I have done was done because I love you. Live well, my son, live well.

  The note had been in a drawer for almost four years now. He could recite it by heart. Zoltan drew away from the window and looked down at the diploma. He stepped to the dresser, picked up the small leather coffer and hesitated for a moment. Then he gently lifted the lid.

  The coffer was empty.

  Chapter Four

  Europe — 1974

  Zoltan Lugoj was born to design buildings. That was what his professors told him in Paris, and the thought was echoed by his supervisors at every firm where he worked. He could picture, in his mind’s eye, exactly how a building should look before setting pencil to paper. When he started to draw, the lines seemed to flow from his hand like milk from a pitcher. Had he stayed in his native Romania this talent would never have matured. There was no inspiration in the simple huts of his homeland. But the magnificent buildings of Europe left him spellbound and jump-started his imagination. His designs were totally devoid of the frills that would have hidden the elegance of line characterizing his work. Had he been the type to blow his own horn, he could have become internationally acclaimed. But Zoltan was happy simply creating and, later, admiring the fruits of his labor. As the employee of a large and faceless architectural firm, his work was also admired by many others but the name they put on it was the name of the company for which he worked.

  Zoltan spent the first few years after graduation with a firm in Paris. It specialized in office complexes and commercial buildings, only occasionally taking on the design of a private home. Jean-Louis Petard, the owner of a firm supplying electronic switching devices to the motor companies of Europe, commissioned one of these homes. Price was not a consideration.

  When the house was completed it was the talk of the neighborhood. M. Petard was ecstatic. When his brother, Felix, came to visit from Canada he, too, was flabbergasted and wanted to know the name of the designer. Jean-Louis could only name the firm and had never considered the possibility that one man held responsibility for the flowing lines. Felix, who was a builder of luxury homes, knew that no committee could generate such a bold statement. He finally convinced Jean-Louis to take him to the offices of the architects in question, where he was introduced to Zoltan. Felix inspected a half dozen of Zoltan’s designs under the pretext of desiring a home for himself. He met with Zoltan several times after hours. When he returned to Canada, he had Zoltan’s promise to follow as soon as arrangements could be made.

  Zoltan Lugoj entered the New World on the 13th of August 1974. As he worked his magic in Montreal, he labored to learn yet another language: English. Tired of the snow and cold, Zoltan was determined to live somewhere that didn’t require fifteen pounds of clothing in order to survive the winter. With this in mind, he secured a position with a firm in Buffalo, New York and moved once more in 1981. New York was still cold, but a step in the right direction. Zoltan’s English improved rapidly, no doubt aided by his ability to speak Italian and French almost as fluently as his native Romanian. He now viewed each position as merely a stepping stone and combed newspapers and called headhunters in his efforts to move even farther south.

  In the fall of 1990 Zoltan accepted a position in Tampa, Florida with a firm called Southeast Commercial Design. The last thing he did before formally accepting the position was to change his name to something that didn’t stick to the roof of an American mouth.

  Zoltan Lugoj became Joseph Lucas.

  Florida was everything Zoltan had dreamed it would be. The weather was constantly warm, the atmosphere was casual, the Gulf of Mexico never ceased to captivate him. The work at Southeast Commercial Design was challenging and satisfying. He plunged into it wholeheartedly. After he was with the firm for two years he bought a small house in the suburb of Dunedin. The house was only minutes from the Gulf and he wished his mother had lived to be able to enjoy the balmy beaches.

  Southeast Commercial Design was founded by a civil engineer named Arthur Konig. Konig was born with a congenital heart condition that kept him out of the military during World War II. Like a lot of men who stayed at home during that time, Konig made a great deal of money. After the war he looked around for ways to make even more and traveled to Florida to look over the prospects. Tampa, in particular, seemed as if it was going to take off. There was a real shortage of engineering and architectural firms in the city, so Konig poured everything he had into a small office in Safety Harbor and was able to staff it with an architect, two more civil engineers and a mechanical engineer, all talented men. Konig had no flair for architectural design but he knew a great deal about sales and bidding. He left the technical end of the business to his staff and went out to pound on doors and grease palms. His timing was perfect. Tampa would see no end of building, as would most of Florida, and Konig became well to do in a relatively short time. His son, Winston, was born in 1954, and two daughters, Penny and Rachel, put in an appearance a few years later. Arthur Konig was a happy man.

  Winston graduated from college in 1976 with a degree in Industrial Engineering after washing out in the more technical subjects. The civil, mechanical, electrical and chemical engi
neering students were universal in their scorn of those who studied Industrial Engineering. They dubbed them Imaginary Engineers and dismissed them out of hand.

  Winston Konig was worthy of the title. He would have been hard pressed to design a doghouse with four vertical walls that would stand up to a stiff breeze. He could not have cared less. He entered the family business at the age of twenty-two, firmly convinced that the old man was too easy on the help and probably squandered millions on trifles such as medical insurance, paid holidays and bonuses. He vowed that when the time came for him to take over the company, he would make certain that such trifles were eliminated. But he would have to bide his time and try to look busy in the interim.

  When Arthur Konig hired Joseph Lucas, he welcomed him with open arms. Konig had traveled north to witness the designs of the talented Romanian and was more than overwhelmed at the purity of line and the imagination displayed in the structures. Arthur Konig might not have been a technical person, but he knew talent when he saw it. The two became as close as employer and employee could become and settled down to seek a mutually rewarding future.

  Norbert Hicks spent a lot of time talking to architectural firms before deciding on one to design his super mall. When he finally settled on Southeast Commercial Design he went home convinced he had picked the best firm for the job. Arthur Konig was amiable, knowledgeable and had a solid background of success in the design and construction of commercial buildings. When Konig realized that Hicks really wanted something spectacular, he mentally tagged Zoltan for the job of aesthetic design.

  Konig, however, wasn’t stupid. When the contract was signed, he put a memo on the bulletin board asking for anyone who was interested to sketch their ideas for a mall project and turn them over to the boss. They had two weeks to prepare a proposal. Of the forty-seven employees, only nine of them were architects. Twelve were engineers, nineteen were draftsmen and seven were clerical. Of the nine architects only four were interested in commercial designs and Zoltan stood head and shoulders above the other three. Arthur knew all of this, of course, but his “contest” gave the idea of an open competition, thus quelling any complaints of bias toward the new kid on the block. Zoltan made a watercolor presentation that absolutely blew away the competition. Even Winston, who had trouble telling the difference between French Provincial and Early American Log Cabin, was impressed. So impressed that he decided to do something positive. But the trouble didn’t really start until Arthur suffered his first stroke.