CARLOS & KATRINA

A Novel by Charles Adrian Trevino
Copyright 2006, 2018

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Chapter 1

Jacob Rosenberg sat on a large, smooth boulder at the top of Viewpoint Hill and surveyed his domain, the town of Westview stretching out below him. From where he sat on on his hilltop perch he could view the panorama for miles around. The opulent upper class neighborhoods sprawled lazily in the afternoon sunlight from the base of Viewpoint Hill to the ocean a few miles beyond, their large green lawns, blue swimming pools and white tennis courts boasting of the prosperity that resided in that fortunate part of the city. Birds sang in the pine–needled trees that shaded the top of the hill; common jays, finches and pigeons, and also bigger, more colorful and exotic birds that had escaped or been released from the houses surrounding Viewpoint Hill. It was a typical, crystal clear Westview day under a cloudless blue sky, a day that could have inspired a poet to write a masterpiece celebrating the joys of life on earth. But Jacob Rosenberg was not happy.

Jacob had sauntered out of his father's mansion that Saturday morning as he always had before, with a proud and arrogant expression fixed on his face. He had strolled down the stone steps over the beautifully manicured lawn, not even glancing at the large marble fountain with it's ornate jets shooting arcs of water in every direction. The only thing he even noticed was his newest prize, the large, expensive emerald green car sitting proudly in the wide, white driveway that curved down to the street below. It was his father's latest gift to his spoiled son, another attempt to make up for the time Henry Rosenberg could not spend with his only child.

Jacob didn't have a driver's license; he had repeatedly failed to obtain one after many tries, but it hardly mattered. Any problems that might arise from this deficiency could easily be fixed by Jacob's father. After all, the Rosenbergs were highly–placed Ushers, and Ushers were not like ordinary people. They were more conscious of the important things in life, more aware; they had an inherent genius for bonding together as a working unit to defeat their enemies, a solidarity that linked the highest with the lowest, and the best with the worst. Although the Ushers were split into many conflicting, disagreeing factions, their various paranoid groups could all agree on one thing; they were being persecuted by non–Ushers. And why should they be? Their financiers were the secret leaders and shepherds of society, manipulating many different country's currencies, governments, military, media, and other facets through which they influenced and controlled their fleeceable, unsuspecting subjects. Their people were the ones that had obviously been favored by God and were now poised to take control of the entire world. And Jacob's father, Henry Rosenberg, was a respected diplomat, an important and highly regarded associate of some of the richest and most influential Usher financiers residing in Westview and other parts of the country. Jacob didn't worry about trifling matters like driver's licenses.

Jacob had needed to kill a few hours before he met his best friend, the famous rock star Waffle Shimmerman, who was busy that morning recording his newest album. It wasn't safe for Jacob to be driving around alone in the crime–ridden city that surrounded the protected enclave of Westview, so he had cruised around the neighborhood for awhile listening to Waffle's music on his car stereo, before finally ending up at Viewpoint Hill. Jacob normally didn't like to hike, not even a little ways, but on this day something had prompted him to climb the winding dirt road to the summit with it's magnificent 360 degree views of the city and ocean. Something was bothering Jacob, something that had haunted him for months and wouldn't go away, not even when he drank and smoked the expensive, imported flowertops that Waffle's special dealer Mike Sakack regularly provided to him.

Sitting on his large smooth boulder, Jacob glanced down to the street below. He could see his new car parked there, shining in the sun like a symbol of everything excellent that could be had through the magic of money, but now the sight of it did not bring on the heady rush of euphoria that it always had before. The giddy feeling of elation he always felt at the sight of an expensive new possession was no longer forthcoming. Carlos Fontana had ruined it for him.

Jacob cursed out loud and kicked the dirt under his feet. Just thinking about Carlos Fontana brought out a wave of detestation in him that made him suddenly jump up and pace the ground in anger. He felt the blood rush to his head as he stalked back and forth, thinking about the harm that this heretofore seemingly powerless, politically insignificant member of the hapless lower classes had caused him. Jacob was consumed with dark, evil thoughts of murderous revenge, and his newly–born hatred of God. Why had God, this marvelous and beneficient God who had given him everything beautiful and bright, everything expensive and rare and off–limits to ordinary people, suddenly turned on him and brought him to a lowly state of shame and humiliation? What could possibly have caused Him to do this? He walked in circles around the hilltop for several minutes furiously clenching and unclenching his fists, hardly aware of his own actions.

Slowly, as the minutes ticked by, Jacob began to regain his composure. He sat back down on the smooth boulder and began to think more calmly. "When someone causes you this much harm…" he said out loud, letting the sentence trail off. His brow wrinkled in concentration as he racked his mind desperately for a plan, a way of retrieving the upper hand he had always enjoyed. Then his thoughts gradually drifted away again. As he looked up at the sky through the branches of a nearby tree, a bluebird suddenly alighted on one of the limbs. Jacob stared at it absent–mindedly at first, then with increasing interest. It was the most beautiful shade of blue he had ever seen.

The bluebird sat on the branch and looked about in every direction, its head turning comically this way and that. It looked at Jacob, studying him for a moment, then abruptly spewed out a disgusting turd and flew away.

Jacob recoiled on his boulder. He was unnerved by the sight; it seemed as if God and nature were laughing at him. He began to burn in smoldering fury again. Once more he asked himself how and why this thing could have happened. He had never felt this powerless before, not in his entire life. As he turned the question over again and again, a steely resolve begin to grow within him.

"If someone causes you this much pain…" Jacob stood up and began to pace about once again, but more slowly this time. A terrible plan was beginning to take form, something he had never considered before. Something dark. Something that must be kept secret. Someone had hurt and humiliated him, badly. Someone far below his station; someone who should not have been able to do such a thing. And this offense could not go unpunished.

Jacob stared out over the city of Westview to the glassy blue ocean in the distance for a long time, turning the events of the past few months over and over again in his mind. He thought of Stephen Schidtberger and Katrina Fury, and the brilliant plan he had contrived and had assumed was foolproof. He thought of Carlos Fontana, the dirt–poor musician, drug–using surfer and political rabble rouser who was the sole cause of all his present troubles. He thought of the privileged life he had enjoyed up until then. But mostly he thought of revenge.

By and by Jacob's thoughts returned to the present, and his plans for the day. He glanced down at the expensive, jeweled watch wrapped around his wrist; it was already 2:30 in the afternoon. He had been absorbed at Viewpoint Hill for several hours, lost in thought. It was time for him to meet Waffle at The Spot, an expensive and trendy restaurant/bar in the middle of Westview Village. Jacob turned and began to walk down the dirt path to the street below, where his expensive but now unappreciated new car awaited him. He walked quickly and purposefully down the winding path, and as he neared the bottom he began to feel better. No longer was he tormented by irresolution and hesitancy; he had made up his mind.

Carlos Fontana must die.

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