Warning:  Unconsummated incestuous m/m interest.  If you're easily grossed out, do not read this story.   If you've seen "Time Lock" with Jeff Meek playing Villum, you have some idea where Cousin Caleb erupted from.   If you enjoyed it, read on.  If not, "turn back now!  For to continue will lead you to your dooooooooom."  <thanks guys.   Dragon sends the doomsayers back to the Labyrinth with a gift for Jarreth, the Goblin King>  If you haven't seen it, the character is disquieting when taken in conjunction with the estimable Raven-san.

You Have Been Warned!   Dragon will not accept flames of sexuality issues if you read on and are annoyed.

And if you didn't read the Warning, go back and read it Now!

Disclaimer:  Jonathan Raven and Herman "Ski" Jablonski and Big Kahuna (BK) are the brainchildren of Frank Lupo and his production company.   Hawaii and New Orleans are semi natural phenomena and may be used without permission.   Aaron Acton is dragon's and belongs in a class by himself.

Time:    The Present
Place:    Mythical, mystical NOLA
Spoilers:  Doubtful

The Acton Legacy

© 2000, dragon

Part One

Aaron Beauregard Acton had died in the prison at Angola, Louisiana.  He had been in and out of prisons most of his life.  His had been a violent life, punctuated by periods of loneliness, self doubt and deep depression.  It was over.  He left behind very little for a life that had spanned 60 years.  He had no grieving widow, no woman who had cared for him and no child of his creation.  His life had touched very few who had survived him.

He had made out a will the last time he had been free.  He knew his sister's child was still alive, although he did not know exactly where he was.  He knew the young man had left Japan, that he had made a life for himself and that he was a man of intriguing talents.  He felt there was a tie between them.  He wanted to leave the man something to tie him to his family, even if it was a very tenuous attachment.

Aaron Acton had very little to show for his life.  He had won and lost several fortunes.  He had been in and out of prison.  He could kill with ease and had an explosive temper for a man of slender and breakable build.  He had learned martial arts skills from a dozen styles, creating his own fluid and deadly style from what he had learned.  And he knew about the family that the boy had lost.

He rented a lock box at a local bank and put his treasures away in it.  He chose each one carefully, with an eye toward knowledge and emotional impact.  Then he closed the deep, long box, locked it and requested that the guard take it and put it away.  He paid for ten years of rental with crisp, new one hundred dollar bills.

"Just family things," he told the woman who gave him the receipt for his rent.  "But things I want someone to have.  And it may take a while to locate him."  He'd smiled at her, yet his eyes never seemed to warm.

Six years later, she saw his picture in the newspaper.  An obituary for a hardened criminal.  Died in prison, stabbed 16 times by a fellow inmate.  How horrible.  And then she got to thinking about where she'd seen him.  Should she contact the prison and let them know about the box?  No.  Best just to let things go.  Four more years and, if she was still at the bank, she could find out what was in his box.

Four months before the rent was due to run out on Aaron Acton's lock box, a letter was delivered to his sole heir.  Jonathan Raven, recovering from a virulent bout of influenza, received a letter from a fine old law firm in New Orleans advising him of his inheritance.  With the letter came a lock box key, with a number on it and a bank name.

New Orleans.  Hot, steamy, muggy.  Not unlike Hawaii in mid summer.  Jonathan stood up, stretched and retrieved his carry on bag from the overhead compartment before exiting the plane.  He hadn't been out of Hawaii in years.  He put on his sunglasses, and walked out of the terminal looking for a cab.  There were several to chose from.  He hailed one, got in, requested transport to the Marriott Hotel and sat back to endure the drive.

Half an hour later, he was deposited at the front of the towering hotel.  He looked up at the glass tower and shook his head.  He walked to the front desk, removing his sunglasses and inquired about his room.  If the look the woman on the front desk gave him was surprising, he didn't show it.  She confirmed his reservation, requested that he sign in and handed him a key.

"Enjoy your stay, Mr . . . Raven."

The pause before his name brought his dark gaze back to rest on the pleasant faced blonde behind the counter, but she was engaged with the next customer and didn't seem to notice.  With a frown, he entered the elevator.  He checked the number on the key.  Odd, the woman had not confirmed his room number to him.  The key was unnumbered.  He turned it over.  Penthouse.  That was all it said.  He looked at the number pad in front of him and pushed the top floor button.  That was usually where they kept the penthouse if there was one.

The elevator filled and emptied on the way up, leaving him alone when he reached the top floor.  The doors opened onto a nicely appointed foyer.  He stepped out.  There had to be a mistake.  The key opened the doors to the penthouse suite.  Enough was enough.

He picked up the phone and called the desk.

"Desk?  Yes, this is Jonathan Raven.  I seem to have gotten the penthouse suite by mistake. . . .  What?  . . . No mistake?  . . . I did not . . .  This is the only room available. . . .  At regular rates . . .  Thank you."

He replaced the receiver in its cradle with a thoughtful look.  Somehow, he doubted that a hotel as large and busy as the Marriott in New Orleans would be over booked.  Something was wrong here.  Very wrong.  He sensed a mystery.  He sat on his instant reaction.  No.  He was here to open a box, get the contents and go home.  And that was all he was going to do.  All.

He felt tired after the long plane ride.  He chose one of the bedrooms off the main living area and lay down for a few moments.  It was dark when he opened his eyes again.  He cursed himself for being a fool.  He'd wasted the afternoon when he should have been opening the lock box so he could go home.  Damn.

He called the front desk and asked about the restaurant.  Then he asked about Japanese restaurants in the area and got a response that pleased him.  He would go out.  He washed and changed into his other shirt and pants.  He'd have to pick up something off the rack tomorrow to look presentable.

There was a knock at the door.  Jonathan froze for a moment, regarding the door with suspicion.  Dammit, no one knew he was here.  Except Ski, of course.  He opened the door, expecting anything . . . except the busboy delivering a suit.  The clean cut, scrubbed looking young man breezed in, hung the suit up and breezed out again with a cheery nod.  He'd apparently left the elevator waiting since he sped into it and was soon out of site behind its closing doors.

Jonathan closed the door and walked over to examine the suit.  Evening tux.  His size.  Apparently freshly pressed and ready to wear.  Since he was already wearing a silk button down shirt, the suit slid on with ease.  It was exactly right.  The thought disturbed him.  He looked for a card.  A maker's tag.  Anything.  Nothing.

He loaded the usual items into his pockets and went downstairs.  Maybe someone with an explanation would present him or her self.  Instead, the mystery deepened.  The doorman opened the door for him and the valet handed him a set of car keys, apparently to the little red Porsche demon parked directly out front.  Neither seemed inclined to request a gratuity for the service.  He stepped into the car and inserted the key in the ignition.  The engine growled to life.  Well, best not to disappoint any onlookers.  He put the car in gear and pulled into traffic.

Instead of going to eat, he headed for the lake front where he could park and think.  He pulled off Lakeshore Drive into an unoccupied parking area and searched the Porsche.  The car was registered to the Marriott Hotel.  The insurance was in the name of the hotel.  The gun in the glove compartment didn't have a registration with it.  He closed the glove compartment.  The rest of the car was spotless.  The trunk was as anonymous as the interior.

What the hell?

He called the restaurant and got directions on how to get there.  The place was popular, but not so popular he couldn't get in.  He parked the Porsche, walked in and waited to be seated.  It was more Americanized than his tastes usually appreciated, but the food smelled right, and from what he could see, he would not be disappointed.

"Good evening," a petite woman in a black gown greeted him.  Her accent hinted of the orient, her skin was flawless, her dark eyes rimmed in black to accentuate their elongated shape.  She smiled at him, her teeth pale pearls behind carmined lips.  Not quite geisha, but close.  There was a flicker of recognition in her eyes, then it was gone.  "One?"

"Yes."

He was promptly seated at what he surmised was a recognized table.  She was sharp, efficient and gone.  The waiter appeared almost immediately.  He took the order without offering comment or guidance.  He reappeared with a wine list.  There were several items on it popular with the American public and a small number with appeal to the connoisseur.  He chose one of the latter and green tea.

Dinner was excellent.  It took a little longer than other orders, but was well worth the wait.  He observed as he savored a taste of . . . childhood.  There were several Japanese families, and quite a number of well dressed middle class families, a couple of "cool" younger couples and a sprinkling of military or retired military types.  He got a feeling he was being observed himself and realized it was the serving crew of the restaurant.  He smiled at the hostess and was surprised when she dropped her eyes and turned away.  What was going on here?

He decided to indulge in the nightlife offered by the famous French Quarter and found it much tamer than he had thought.  There were a lot of people out on Bourbon Street.  There were the highly advertised strip clubs and bars, but the gaiety seemed forced and innocent at the same time.  He walked down to the French Market and was disappointed to find it had been renovated since he had last been there.  The Café du Monde still served French style donuts and coffee, but the Morning Call with its intriguing décor of cypress knees and mirrors had disappeared . . . or maybe had never been more than a figment of Ski's liquor soaked imagination.

He walked along the river front and then reclaimed his car and went back to the hotel.  He found he still tired easily after his bout of flu.  He retired for the night.

After an hours meditation and a quick work out to remove any kinks, he washed, dressed, ate breakfast in the restaurant and took the Porsche for a quick spin over to the offices of the lawyers to see what he could find out.  He presented his contact letter and asked to see the man who had signed it.

The secretary seemed flustered and asked him to sit and wait.  She walked back into the wood paneled halls and returned with a small, very red haired young woman in wire rimmed glasses.

"Mr. Raven?"

"Yes?

"I'm Court Merriwether.  I understand you have a question about your inheritance."

It had not occurred to him that Court might not be male.  He rose to his feet with a smile, towering over the diminutive woman.  She shook his hand firmly and led him back to her office.  The office was cluttered, but not offensively so.  Most of the items were books, files and one photograph.  She gestured for him to sit down.

"What can I do for you?"

"You sent this letter?  With the key?"

"Yes.  I believe it was pretty much self explanatory.  Mr. Acton's will was very specific.  The contents of the Lock Box a the Hibernia National Bank was to be given to Jonathan Raven.  It took a while to locate you.  But the box is still there.  I believe it's paid up through --- " she referred to a slender file.  "The end of this year."

"Any idea what's in it?"

"No.  Mr. Acton did not bring the box in, or the items it contains."

"How did he die?"

"You don't know?  As next of kin . . ."

"Next of kin?"

She sat back in the leather covered chair and regarded him solemnly.  The chair creaked.  "You weren't aware of the relationship?"

"I was orphaned, out of the country.  I was not aware of any family left."

"Oh.  Dear.  I am sorry."

"It's all right.  I just don't know anything about this Mr. Acton."

"Well.  Aaron Beauregard Acton was . . . well, he was a career criminal . . . of sorts.  He spent more time in prison between his 21st birthday and his death than he did out."

"How old --?"

She referred to the file again.  "Mr. Acton was 52 when he made this will.  He was 60 when he died."

"How?"

"He was stabbed in the kidneys and back, multiple times, during a prison confrontation."  She frowned at the file.  "Odd."

"What is?"

"Oh, nothing, really . . . just . . ."  She looked at Jonathan for a few moments as though struggling against her judgment.  "Somehow, he didn't strike me as the sort of man to get caught . . . off guard?"

"No.  That would seem odd for a man who had spent so much time in prison.  Maybe he had enemies."

"Probably.  He certainly didn't seem to lack for them outside of prison.  Three murder convictions."

"Murder?"

"Yes.  He couldn't seem  not to take umbrage at people.  And the law takes a very dim view of that sort of thing."

"Yes, it does.  Children?"

"None.  No family aside from you."

"Well, I suppose I should go check out the box."

"Yes.  Why don't I take you over.  I can vouch for your reality and legal claim to the box."

He stopped in the doorway on the way out.  "How long ago did he make this will?"

"Ten years ago.  We've been looking for you for a while."

He turned back to look into he greenish eyes.  Ten years.  Ten years ago this stranger had known they were related.  Why hadn't he made himself known?  Because he was a jailbird?  Because he assumed that Jonathan would not want to know him?  Was he truly that hard to an outsider?

They took his car, with Court giving directions.  Miraculously, a parking space opened up for them.  She took him in, introduced him to the bank officer he needed to deal with and did a fast fade.  After about half an hour, he was alone, in the lock box room, with the box.  He opened it with a feeling of trepidation.  What would he find in here?

For a large box, it was not very full.  A family album.  A package of loose photos.  An old fashioned, leather bound diary.  A thick sheaf of envelopes, sealed, held by an ancient, dried out rubber band that broke immediately.  He picked up the few he dropped and realized they were addressed to him.  Jonathan Raven was written in elegant script on the front of each of them.  There was a space for the address and then Japan written below.  He checked the rest of them.  Half a dozen had Japan written on them.  A dozen or so just had his name.  The rest had his address in Hawaii.  Why had they languished here?  Why had he not sent them?

He set the envelopes aside and pulled out a pass book.  He opened it.  A Swiss numbered account, with password.  And a balance 10 years ago of ten million dollars.  The man had that kind of money, yet went to prison for murder.  Jonathan frowned at that.  He knew money could buy a man out of things.  He set the passbook aside.

A velvet bag held a gold pocket watch.  He opened it.  The faded picture of a handsome, dark haired woman gazed out at him.  There was an inscription: Jonas Acton, Always Beloved, Jenny.  The date was 1894.  Carefully, he twisted the stem of the watch three times.  It ticked.  He stood and stared at it for a long time.  He held a piece of history in his hands.  He held a piece of his family, his bloodline.  He was warmed and chilled at the same time.  He slid the timepiece back into the bag and into his pocket.

There were half a dozen newspaper clippings from Japanese newspapers about the murder of his parents.  Most were small and downplayed the crime scene, but they rolled in the memories.  He started to drop the clippings into a waste can and stopped.  He had nothing but memories of his parents.  There were no tangible remains, nothing to keep his memories green, nothing to share with Hikari when he found him.  He laid the newspapers on top of the small pile next to the box.

It seemed empty then.  He put his hand in and checked the very back of the box.  There was a box.  It was about the size of a hand gun.  He pulled it out.  It was about the heft of a hand gun also.  He opened it.  There was a swatch of velvet inside, black velvet.  He pulled a corner back.  It was a gun.  An old .38 automatic.  He looked at it curiously, and decided against picking it up.  He put the top back on the box.  That was everything.

He put the items retrieved into his carry on bag and returned the box and key to the woman who handled the lock box desk.  He smiled at her.  She smiled back, but thought he would look nicer if the smile reached his eyes.  He looked troubled.

Court was waiting for him outside.  "Hi."

"I'm sorry.  I wouldn't have taken so long if I'd realized you were waiting."

"Well, I wasn't going to wait, but I hate to pass up another ride in your Porsche," she told him with a laugh.  "A weakness for fast cars . . ."

"And loose men?"

She laughed again, whole heartedly.  "Wild, wild men," she countered.  "And I already have one of those."

"Married?"  He didn't recall a ring on her hand.

"Very.  10 years."  She caught his glance at her bare left hand.  "No rings.  We eschewed the commonality."

"Makes life interesting."

"Very.  Sometimes.  May I?"  She hesitated before opening the passenger side door.

"Yes."

Continued

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