Baron Orgaz Read online

  Annotation

  Doctor Orient: Fiction series. Occult Esoteric Mystical NOVEL

  When Dr. Owen Orient is asked to investigate a young man’s sudden disappearance, he reluctantly agrees. What begins as a missing-person case quickly morphs into murder, and before long, Orient is thrust into an international manhunt that takes him from Manhattan’s sado-maso (BDSM) underground to the heart of Egypt’s Great Pyramid of Giza and... into horrible occult mysteries.

  After years of dedicated study in Tibet, Dr. Orient has honed his telepathic skills to become a formidable psychic investigator. But he finds himself the target of a powerful Nazi cult and becomes involved with a beautiful woman whose concept of sexual loyalty is slippery at best.

  With the help of his assistant, Sordi, Dr. Orient faces hostile cops, psycho Nazis wielding massive occult powers, and a hot war in Egypt in a case that races from drug and sex parties at a fabulous Hamptons mansion to the secrets of the ancient world. But will this adventure of a lifetime steal his soul?

  * * *

  Frank Lauria

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  * * *

  Frank Lauria

  Baron Orgaz

  (A Doctor Orient Occult Novel)

  [Doctor Orient - 4]

  Copyright (c) 1974 by Frank Lauria

  For Magi who shares her dreams with me...

  ...Somewhere in the sands of the desert

  A shape with lion body and the head of a

  A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

  Is moving its slow thighs...

  -- W.B.Yeats

  'The Second Coming'

  Chapter 1

  The bikers handled their machines like a crack drill team.

  All three were identically outfitted in leather jumpsuits, and the stark black uniforms, emphasized their symmetry as they improvised swift patterns through the clumsy Saturday-night traffic. At midtown they cut away from a herd of cars milling around the exits and leaned into a series of screaming curves with precisely timed bursts of reflex and power.

  When they hit an open stretch, they veered into a crisp V formation and sat upright on their black BMW motorcycles, as if reviewing the looming assembly of light-studded ocean liners docked along the West Side Drive.

  The point machine accelerated as they neared the Eighteenth Street exit, allowing the two trailing bikes to fall into line just before they howled down the ramp to the street.

  A staccato chorus of booming echoes marked the trio's progress along the deserted waterfront. They gunned their throttles as they sped through the vacant streets below the elevated highway, ignoring one-way signs and traffic lights.

  The metallic thundering stopped abruptly at Washington Street. The bikers cut their motors and coasted silently through the shadows until they came to a wide space between two parked freight vans. Without word or signal all three of them halted, backed their motorcycles into a perfect rank, and dismounted.

  One of the bikers removed his helmet and started walking slowly across the street. The other two followed a few paces behind, falling into the same V formation they'd held while riding. Both of them still wore their crash helmets, and the shiny black globes with rounded face masks gave them a menacing, alien appearance, as if they were hunters from a distant world, stalking the still streets for a trophy of the planet.

  The trio stopped when they reached a darkened building near the end of the block that was nestled between two larger warehouses. A storefront bar and grill occupied the ground floor. Its dingy windows were boarded over, but dim slivers of light leaking through the cracks hinted that it was open.

  A flash of noise pierced the silence when the lead biker pushed open the door. As he entered, the two figures behind him dropped back and stood in the shadow of the warehouse. They waited there in the darkness as the door closed and the quiet dropped over the street like a blanket of invisible snow.

  Arnold was bored.

  He surveyed the crowd of studs in the room with arch indifference and wondered if he could call a taxi.

  Preening slightly, he examined his reflection in the mirror over the bar. He was wearing something new tonight -- a black leather tunic with a silver-studded collar. He'd had it made up especially. He might have saved himself the trouble.

  His eyes roved contemptuously over the posturing males in their clubby S/M outfits. With the exception of the few dressed like cowboys, the rest were wearing the stock black-leather-motorcycle-jacket/Brando-cap/engineer-boot uniform. There wasn't one man in the place with any real imagination or flair.

  He winced inwardly as he remembered how excited he'd been when he first discovered the Panther's Lair. Everything about the place had seemed so mysterious and authentic -- the waterfront location, the boarded-up exterior, the thick chains hanging over the bar, the beautifully sinister young men dressed in leather and boots. It had both fascinated and frightened him. For years he'd entertained wild sexual fantasies of being whipped, raped, and dominated by brutish butch types wearing black leather; but when he finally found a place that promised to make his fantasy a reality, he became as nervous as a new bride.

  Much to his disappointment, all his fears had proven to be groundless. The marriage was never consummated.

  Every so-called sadist he'd encountered at the Panther's Lair had been more obsessed with acting out a role than inflicting real pain. They were just fabulous when it came to their little psychodramas. They loved to play commandants of prison camps, or policemen, or stern schoolmasters. But they had no concept of pain beyond the token spanking or whipping. One strutting S had actually become faint when he accidentally drew blood during a fumbling torture scene.

  The sinister young men who looked so butch in their motorcycle jackets had all turned out to be nothing more than ordinary nelly queens in weekend drag. And the Panther's Lair was just another gay bar, despite the heavy atmosphere the management tried to maintain.

  Arnold sighed and reached for a mentholated cigarette. He'd never realized his fantasies, and he doubted if he ever would. Not tonight, anyway. It was Saturday, and every ribbon clerk in the city had crawled out of his closet. The noise, smoke, and blaring music were giving him a headache. The only thing preventing him from going home to bed and the Late Show was the fact that it would be hell finding a cab in the waterfront neighborhood. Not only was it phony atmosphere, it was downright inconvenient. He swore and struck a match.

  It never reached his cigarette.

  Arnold's eyes had automatically wandered to the door as it opened, and when they focused on the man who entered, every muscle in his body froze.

  The man's skin was very fair, almost as white as the wide area framing his pale blue eyes. His hair too was white, and cropped close to his high, dome-shaped skull.

  A tightly cut leather jumpsuit covered his body, and his hands were encased in black gloves, accentuating the stark beauty of his face. Each of his features was magnificently defined, as if carved by a Renaissance master. But it was the animal energy in those eyes that held Arnold's breath. They flashed through the s
moke like luminous knives and embedded themselves in his brain.

  A sudden flare of pain spurred his reflexes.

  Arnold dropped the burning match he'd been holding in midair and dunked his thumb into his drink. Instinctively he looked up and rechecked his own image in the mirror. Attractive enough, he decided. He was glad now that he'd worn the new tunic. True, there was a trace of puffiness around his chin that came from too many expensive lunches and not enough exercise. His skin was flushed, however, and his eyes were bright with excitement, giving his face a youthful, almost boyish glow. He struck another match and inhaled deeply on his cigarette, savoring the lingering hurt on his finger and the strange sense of anticipation generated by the man in the doorway. His presence had already seared away Arnold's boredom and charged him with a sensation that was halfway between ardor and fear. He could feel the intensity of the man's eyes smoldering in his memory, but he couldn't summon up the courage to turn his head and confront them again. He started to reach for his drink, then hesitated.

  The man was standing just behind his stool, watching him intently in the mirror.

  In the midst of his panic Arnold was able to grasp two unrelated facts; one was that the room had suddenly become stiflingly hot, and the other was that the man was waiting for him to speak.

  On impulse he swiveled around, arching his back seductively, as he'd once seen Jean Harlow do in a movie, and smiled brightly.

  Arnold's smile withered under the cold scorn in the man's eyes. Up close, he could see that the pupils were a light, almost transparent shade of blue, flecked with metallic fragments that gave them a silvery tint. Arnold felt a chill crawl up the back of his neck as he realized there was no reflection in those pupils. They were like disks of blue ice.

  "Would you... like a drink?"

  "No thanks." The man smiled slightly, making him seem very young. Arnold floundered for something clever to say, still unable to wrench his gaze from the man's face.

  "Stuffy, isn't it?" the man remarked, as if sensing his discomfort. Arnold managed a weak grin.

  "Awful. I hate Saturday nights."

  The fact that he was able to speak intelligibly encouraged him to try something more direct.

  "Haven't seen you here before. I'm Arnold. What's your name?"

  The man ignored the question.

  "You've been waiting a long time, haven't you?" he asked softly. Arnold's chin dropped. "You mean tonight?"

  "I mean every night. You've been waiting a long time for the right person. Someone who knows exactly what you need." His bloodless lips curled up slightly. "Isn't that true?"

  "Yes." Arnold blinked and took a deep breath.

  "Uh... what's your name?" he repeated, trying to gain some time to recover his composure.

  The man leaned over until his mouth was close to his ear. "I'm called Christian."

  The name created a vacuum inside Arnold's skull that sucked his thoughts away from their moorings and sent them whirling in confusion.

  "Why don't you take a little ride in the fresh air?" Christian was saying. "With me."

  It wasn't a question.

  "I, uh, don't know... I mean, I... was waiting for someone." To his annoyance, Arnold heard his voice rising, like the squeal of a coy queen.

  "Uh... do you have a car here?" he added quickly, making an effort to control his agitation.

  "Motorcycle." Christian's voice was still soft, but edged with impatience. "Perhaps it's too primitive for you."

  "Oh, no. It's not that at all, I love motorcycles." Arnold wondered why he felt so distressed. He'd been approached by beautiful men before. Of course, Christian was something special.

  Even beyond his looks, his arrogant, assured manner promised that he could satisfy that long-unfulfilled craving for ecstatic cruelty.

  "You see, I'm meeting this, uh, friend," he repeated lamely. Christian shook his head.

  "I can't wait."

  Arnold's confusion suddenly vanished. He looked across the room at the crowd of costumed men acting out their limp perversions while they glanced longingly at Christian, and he made up his mind. He'd be a fool to play the shrinking violet now. He wouldn't let a schoolgirl qualm ruin his first opportunity for real sex. He picked up his cigarettes from the bar, checked himself in the mirror once more, then stood up.

  "All right, I'm ready," he announced.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Uptown." Christian watched his face carefully. "But understand one thing. If you decide to take a ride with me, there's no getting off until I say it's over."

  Arnold swallowed, more with anticipation than from apprehension. "I understand."

  A vivid flurry of disconnected impressions fed his growing excitement as he followed Christian through the crush of customers -- the pinched envy on the faces of the posing studs, the surge of warmth when the music pounded higher, the cool, crisp quiet of the street outside. The fresh air made him giddy, and he started to giggle.

  Christian stopped and looked at him. His face was impassive, but the fury in his eyes crackled through the darkness. Their icy intensity chilled the laughter in Arnold's throat, and he stood very still, not daring to move.

  "From now on," Christian said calmly, "you will not speak or act unless ordered to do so. Your only function is total obedience."

  He turned and walked away.

  Arnold felt a delicious thrill shiver through his spine as he hurried across the street after his new master.

  He was startled when the two helmeted figures appeared out of the shadows, but he didn't react. He saw at once that they were also under Christian's domination by the way they waited motionlessly until he was seated before mounting their own machines.

  Arnold accepted their presence without question or regret. He'd surrendered every responsibility for his existence to Christian, and there was nothing left except the blissful security of his enslavement.

  When he beckoned Arnold got on the bike. He pressed his face against Christian's back and closed his eyes as the metal beast between his legs shuddered to life, shattering the darkness with its triumphant cry.

  Its roar exploded into a windswept howl that filled Arnold's dreams for a long time before fading away, leaving him suspended in a soundless void.

  He lifted his head.

  They were on a deserted street on the far West Side, somewhere near midtown. The other two men had already dismounted and were coming toward them. Like mute robots, they waited until he got off and then escorted him to the sidewalk. Except for a natural twinge of jealousy, Arnold was unconcerned with their presence. His entire attention was concentrated on Christian.

  He watched in rapt silence, reveling in every graceful movement Christian made as he wheeled the bike into place. Even the massive machine responded instantly to his touch. Though his features were obscured by the darkness, his slightest gesture was a figure in an erotic ballet.

  Arnold was completely in the thrall of that dance as he followed Christian to a loft building. Once inside the dimly lit hallway, his heart began to pound frantic counterpoint to the deliberate rhythm of Christian's footsteps on the stairs above. A sudden chorus of sexual fantasies drowned out everything except his impatience for his initiation of pain to begin.

  He was perspiring heavily when he reached the third landing, and his mouth was dry. The door was open, but he waited until the two men behind him reached the top of the stairs. They ushered him into a long, wide room. Except for the fact that the walls and ceilings were covered with white soundproofing board, there was nothing remarkable about the place. A magazine modern kitchen had been installed at the rear of the room. A few plants, some small tables, and several low chairs were scattered through the rest of the large space. A thick black rug extended from the kitchen tiles to a white partition that cut off part of the loft. The only decoration on the walls was a large black X painted on a narrow door in the partition.

  Christian was standing in the center of the room removing his gloves. The other two
went across the room to join him. When they removed their helmets, Arnold saw that they were very young. Both of them had the same freckle-faced, rawboned good looks of the classic American high-school hero. The looks he usually associated with apple-pie heterosexuality.

  Arnold watched them, knowing instinctively that he had to conduct himself very carefully. He didn't want to make some amateur blunder and ruin the performance.

  Christian's eyes interrupted his preoccupations.

  Their pale blue incandescence seared away Arnold's trivial thoughts like jets from an acetylene torch, and set fire to his senses.

  "Take off your clothing and put it in there." Christian spoke casually, pointing to a cardboard carton on the floor.

  Arnold unlaced his tunic, slipped it over his head, and placed it in the box. His nerves tingled as he finished undressing, and when he finally stood naked before Christian, his skin crawled with pleasure.

  To his disappointment, Christian turned his back and said something to the two men.

  Their innocent, homespun faces were blank as they pulled off their boots and socks and then removed their leather jumpsuits. They folded the suits carefully and placed them in a pile next to their high black boots, military fashion. Then, clad only in black trunks, they came over to Arnold and motioned him across the room. They escorted him to the door marked with the black X. One of them pulled it open, and he stepped inside.

  The windows, walls, and ceilings were covered with the same soundproof partitioning used in the outside room. The only piece of furniture was a very large marble-topped table in the center of the room. The table was lined up directly in front of a large black box standing against the far wall. The place was lit by a single lamp in the ceiling.

  Arnold's bare feet were uncomfortably cold against the white tiles that covered the floor. One of the men waved him over to the table. He sat gingerly on the marble and waited.

  Without warning or emotion, the two men pushed him face-down on the table and spun him around roughly so that his feet were pointing toward the door and his head was facing the black box.